Page 192 of Anathema

“It is not my intention to betray my king, but he is a fool to rely on the Umbravale to protect us. Anatolis has confirmed–there is a vein in Mortasia.”

“Your king brought this upon himself, when he chose not to destroy Cadavros all those centuries ago. King Jeret isn’t willing to risk the lives of his people, as Sagaerin has chosen to do.”

How many years had King Sagaerin led him to believe Cadavros had been executed like every other mage and civilian who’d followed him? Why? Why had he kept him alive?

“I warned him this would happen. Even without a vein in Mortasia, that lunatic would’ve found a way to destroy us.” Zivant rubbed a hand down his face. “And now he has access to sablefyre. Who knows how much vivicantem it holds.”

She reached a hand to his cheek. “Be patient. We will secure all seven stones and possess a power greater than any other. Including the flame.”

“And what if the annals are right about the Corvikae? What if they are immune to the pestilence? What if an elixir can be made to prevent the spread?”

“Are you willing to make the same foolish mistake your king made? To squander lives on the promise of a long-forgotten fairytale?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not.” She gave a playful slap to his cheek. “Stick to the plan.”

“And the uprising?”

“While I certainly loathe a mutiny, this may work in our favor. Sagaerin’s attention will be divided. He’ll be forced to address his people. And his son’s opposition.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Now, let us simplify Zevander’s decision by turning the girl’s blood to stone. He’ll supply the other stones for his sister’s life, and all will be well.”

“And what happens to him after?”

“I have my own plans for Zevander Rydainn.” Had he not been curious to know where they’d taken Maevyth, he’d have pissed on her plans by slicing his blade across her throat.

“You still have affections for him.”

“Affections isn’t quite the word to describe what I feel. Now, go. We’ve much to do.”

With another kiss, Captain Zivant scurried out of the alcove. While Zevander wanted nothing more than to run his blade through the general, he followed after the captain instead, keeping himself cloaked by the fog.

Three of The Imperial Guard approached en route, and Zivant signaled for them to follow after him. The soldiers fell into step behind Zevander.

Violence churned in his blood as he stared at the captain’s back. They marched down a maze of tunnels that seemed to go on forever, until they came upon an ominous door at the end of a dark, cavernous passageway. A sculpted, arched lintel above it carved a scene of a hooded mage holding a scepter. The wear and chipping over the surface made it appear centuries old.

Zivant pounded his fist against the door, the sound echoing down the hallway.

Zevander strode up close. So close he could see the tiny hairs on the back of the captain’s neck stand upright.

The captain turned his head, as though sensing him there, and once again, Zevander had to restrain himself as the urge to smash his head into the stone wall prickled his fingers.

A small wicket door swung outward, revealing a hooded figure whose face was cloaked by darkness.

“Pre dominisz nozi Magekae, da’haj mihirit liberih iteriusz.” By our lord Magekae, grant me free passage.

The wicket door slammed shut and, on a click of locks, the larger door swung open. Zivant urged his guards through first, then strode through the door after them. As the hooded figure attempted to close it, the door struck Zevander’s concealed boot. He peered up at the door, and in his distraction, Zevander slipped through as an invisible darkness following after Zivant.

In what felt like an endless trek through a dimly-lit passage, Zevander’s mind churned a violent storm of thoughts–how complicated things had gotten with Maevyth. Having to tear Rykaia from General Loyce’s clutches was bad enough, but the idea of being forced to choose between Maevyth and Rykaia enraged him. It was precisely the reason he’d longed to stay away from her. In his world, the slightest show of affection for someone served as a dangerous bargaining chip, and the less Zevander had to barter for, the better.

The high pitch of distant screams echoed down the corridor, the sound of it curdling his blood. More screams and shouts erupted.

The captain upped his pace, the soldiers jogging after him. A crowd of robed figures raced toward them, nearly trampling them as they passed. Most wore the purple and black robes of King Sagaerin’s Magestroli, but there were others in various colored robes with heraldry from all over Aethyria. A gathering of mages, it seemed.

“What’s going on!” Zivant shouted back at them.

“The flame!” someone from the crowd shouted back, without bothering to stop. “It came after them!”

“Came after them?” Zivant echoed, frowning to himself.

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