Page 20 of Anathema

“Please? Your voice always settled my mind.”

If only my voice had the power to make her realize how foolish she was for falling in love with our uncle. “I don’t want to sing.”

“Vayr mu dahlje?” It was a song written in the old language, roughly translated to ‘Go, my Darling.’

The first time I’d ever heard the song was the night I’d stumbled upon my father tucked away in grandfather’s cellar, sobbing. I’d come to realize, after everyone had gone to bed, he’d sometimes retired there, in the depths of the cottage, singing the song as he drank morumberry wine. Mourning his dead wife.

I’d learned the words to the song in the common tongue, in hopes that I’d work up the courage to sing with him some night, but I never had the opportunity between his deployments to Lyveria and his eventual disappearance.

With reluctance, I sang the song she loved. For her. Fingers gripping my shoulders, she nuzzled close, as I reached the chorus and stared out the window beside me, up toward the stars.

“Go, my Darling, unto that place

Where magic still exists

Beyond the confines of this cruel world

As you will not be missed

Instead, I’ll find you in a dream

Or a wistful plea on stars

Hours of suffering no more redeemed

For eternity is ours.”

At the end of the mournful dirge, Aleysia kissed my cheek, then padded back to her bed. I tucked my burning arm beneath the blankets, mentally willing myself to ignore the pain. In the silence of my thoughts, I drifted deeper and deeper into the abyss.

CHAPTER NINE

ZEVANDER

Just outside the Black Salt Tavern, Zevander paused, listening. Only the rustle of dried leaves drifting over the cobblestones. Eyes and ears perked, he scanned over his surroundings, not bothering to call on his horse quite yet. He clicked his tongue, the sound bouncing off nearby objects. A number of Lunasier possessed the ability to echo locate as a hunting technique, but Zevander had honed the skill over the years. The image in his mind showed only the spindling boy from earlier, who’d watched him from the shadows. Zevander lifted a finger to his masked lips to ensure the boy remained quiet, to which the boy nodded and returned the gesture. The child then pointed in the opposite direction.

The mark of the scorpion that’d been branded into Zevander’s flesh stirred a quiet hum, as he strode down the empty street in the direction the boy had sent him. He could sense the stranger. Near.

Zevander slowed his steps a few buildings down from the tavern and turned into an alley. He paused again to listen, and his keen hearing picked up on the slightest tremble of breath. The stink of ale beneath the rot that carried on the air.

Prickling vibrations of fear radiated from a shadow beside him.

In as subtle a movement as he could muster, he unlatched the scorpion dagger beneath his cloak and set his hand on the hilt.

The shadow shifted like black smoke and took form, winding into the shape of the hooded man from the tavern. A black tendril lashed out at Zevander, but before it could wrap around his throat as intended, Zevander struck fast with his blade, cleaving it away. At a pained outcry, the black vapor dropped to the ground and morphed into a severed hand and forearm. The hooded stranger held up a bloody and trembling stump. Color drained from his face as he stared at the wound in shock, and Zevander struck twice more–across his mouth, the other across his throat.

Gurgling, the stranger fell to his knees and hit the pavement face-first, where he stilled.

Zevander knelt beside him and pulled back the cloak to check the back of his neck. Bestowed at birth, the stranger’s sigil, the primitive symbol of the Suvary bloodline, glowed a bright blue across his nape. The same symbol worn by the man Zevander had killed a fortnight ago by order of the King. He’d been a bloodmage who ran an unauthorized business of crafting serotonics–potent poisons that held the power to taint the blood and destroy an entire bloodline. No doubt, the stranger had sought revenge for his slain kin.

Zevander tore away his glove and raised his hand, sending a blast of sablefyre that caught on the stranger’s cape, devouring him in a matter of seconds. It burned so intensely that the pile of remaining ash was small enough to kick to the wind. He plucked the resulting bloodstone from the soot and pocketed it. Not that the stone was useful, or valuable, he simply didn’t want to leave any trace of the stranger behind. And just like that, the unwitting avenger was gone. Not a shred of evidence that he’d ever existed.

Though, Zevander had grown fucking weary of the attempts on his life. The constant need to look over his shoulder. While his identity remained unknown, for the most part, an occasional few managed to find him. Unfortunately for them, they never lived to carry out their vengeance.

The sound of shouts and clanging metal reached his ear, and Zevander turned back out of the alley. Halfway between himself and the tavern, the man who bore the predator tattoo fought to shove the young spindling boy into a cage at the back of his horse-drawn wagon. The boy kicked and shouted, his skinny arms threaded through the bars of the cramped enclosure. Most would’ve looked the other way. Even the Imperial Guard wouldn’t have spared a spindling boy a second glance. In their minds, it was one less spindling on the street. The boy would feed the man’s cravings and keep him away from their own children.

Unfortunately for the heedless Rapax, a bigger predator prowled closer.

The tattoos hidden beneath Zevander’s leathers seeped through the coverings like black smoke and gathered in his palm, taking the shape of a black scorpion the size of a plum.

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