Page 142 of Anathema

A larger crowd pushed toward the guard, forcing them back into a circle around the carriage. The prince’s protectors were severely outnumbered by the otherwise powerless citizens of the city.

One of the guards maintained a halo, a ward that kept the insurgent villagers back, while two other guards used Aeryz to keep those who charged forward from breaching it. Zevander climbed into the carriage after the prince, annoyed by the bulky weight of his suit. “Back to the castle! Now!” he ordered, and the carriage lurched forward.

The guard followed after, as they wound through the streets of Costelwick. At a screeching halt, Zevander peered out of the window to see another crowd of villagers blocking their path.

“Fucking godsblood!” he muttered and stepped out of the carriage.

Pig’s fat splattered across the cobblestones, the crowd keeping their distance at first, until one of them jumped forward, flinging brown clumps of what Zevander presumed was pig shit at the carriage. They closed in on them, chanting as they circled with their torches and weapons.

Frustrated and out of patience, Zevander summoned his scorpion to his palm and set it on the cobblestones. The creature grew and expanded, the crowd gasping as it towered over them, snapping its pincers. Some screamed and scattered. One bold bastard had the nerve to lift his sword and charge toward them, but before Zevander had the opportunity to swing out and lop his head off, the scorpion struck first with its metallic stinger and sliced the attacker in half.

The villagers backed away as the scorpion led the carriage along the path to the castle, until they fell back entirely, and he retracted his magic.

Returning to the carriage, he took a seat across from Dorjan, who stared out the window, shaking his head.

“This is my father’s doing.” Jaw clenched, he breathed hard through his nose, his anger apparent in the red flush of his face. “He starves them and then expects them to bow? What logic is there in such a thing?”

Zevander couldn’t argue with him. He’d always been put off by the king’s greed. How the wealthy were supplied with much needed vivicantem, while the poor withered, their bloodlines dying off like a frosted vine.

Tears formed in Dorjan’s eyes. “They hate me as much as they hate him.”

“They’ve no idea you’re not like your father.”

“I hate him for this.” Tears fell down his cheek. “I hate him.”

Zevander remained silent as the carriage rolled to a stop inside the gates, and the guards awaiting his return escorted the prince to the castle. King Sagaerin stood on the stairs of the entryway, and as he reached for his son, Dorjan knocked his hand away and kept on.

Consternation wrinkled the king’s brow, when Zevander reached him. “Attacked by my own people.” He shook his head. “How can I fix this? How can I possibly fix this mess?”

“I’m no advisor. But a gesture of charity seems wise.”

“Vivicantem.”

“They’re starving. Weak. Angry.”

“I’ve only got enough to make it to one more moon cycle, and with Calisza’s Becoming Ceremony, I’ll need my reserves.” For his wealthy guests, of course. He winced. “The humiliation. The last thing I need right now is an uprising. Dear gods, what will the Solassions think, when they see I can’t even walk through the streets of my own city!”

That his only concern was the humiliation he faced eroded what little respect Zevander had for the man.

“I thank you for being there. Again.” From his pocket, he pulled a bag of coin and vial of liquid vivicantem, a slap in the face, if Zevander thought about it. “You’re welcome to stay for the night. Eidolon is quite a journey this late at night.”

“I’ll be fine.” Without another word, he headed toward the armory to doff the suffocating and exceptionally miserable suit. Once free of it, he strode toward the outer courtyard and whistled for Obsidyen. Watchful and cautious, he rode through the gates, back out into the streets of Costelwick. Without the presence of the prince, nor the armor that identified him as an Imperial Guardsman, he slipped by unbothered. The village had settled into festivities, drinking and eating and singing. Aside from the spatters of blood on the cobblestone, there was little evidence that they’d gotten unruly at any point.

Zevander kept on, beyond the center of the village to the outskirts, where he arrived at Black Salt Tavern.

After dismounting his horse, he strode into the small and quiet hostelrie that offered rooms on the top floor, if he felt like staying for the night. Sitting at the back of the tavern was a familiar face, an old blacksmith who’d since retired from his lifelong work. Hunched over a tankard of ale, he didn’t bother to look up as Zevander approached, until the Letalisz stood alongside the booth.

The old man, with graying red hair and a silver eye where his natural one had been popped out by a hot fleck of metal, snorted. “Well, look what the wind blew in.”

Zevander removed his baldric and slid into the booth. Not a minute later, two tankards hit the table, before the barmaid who’d set them there sauntered off.

Hiking a brawny arm onto the back of the booth, Oswin tipped his head. “What brings you out of your crypt of a castle?”

“The Initios.”

His brows kicked up. “Ah, you were there, eh? Quite a spectacle.”

“I heard them chanting Cadavros’s name.” Zevander lifted the tankard, unclasping his mask for a gulp.

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