Page 202 of Anathema

“My history tells me they never existed,” Zevander countered. “I’ve been to Corvus Keep. I’ve seen the writing on the wall.”

Her brow lifted, and she twisted around in her chair. “Then, you know the truth. Those words were my own. Written in blood ink.” She stared off, lost in thought. “They were forced from their home and marched to the Crussurian Trench.”

“That’s where the Grymswood lies, isn’t it?” I asked, recalling the story Allura had told me.

“It is.” Her eyes narrowed on me. “The priestess. Made to watch her people die, before she was turned into a tree in the middle of hell. Consumed by the horrible creatures that dwell at the bottom of that trench.”

“By whom?” Zevander’s question seemed to repulse her, as her lips twisted with disgust.

“The ones in the golden armor. Greedy beasts who longed to claim the vein that ran alongside Corvus Keep.”

“Solassions. And how did you survive the attack?” he prodded.

“I fled. The priestess gave me the last rose of Morsana. The gift of the goddess herself.” She sailed a smile at me. “They only bloom in Nethyria. The priestess told me to flee to the mortal lands. That she had seen a vision of a child who would one day avenge our people and lead a new generation of Corvikae.”

A cold sensation moved through me as I listened to her story, wondering if she was referring to me. If I had somehow been the vision of a thousand years ago.

“I didn’t believe her, but I fled, anyway. Passed through the Umbravale, where I waited for this child. And waited. Centuries, I watched the mortals in their banal lives, warring with each other and fighting for their single god, waiting for the day I might return home.” A sadness claimed her expression. “Oh, I longed for it.” The wistfulness in her voice sharpened to gravity when she said, “Then another creature crossed over. This one, vicious and vengeful.”

“The creature in the woods,” I clarified.

“Cadavros, he calls himself, former mage to the king.” She snorted and shook her head. “A ruse for what lies within him.”

“And what is that?” Zevander intoned, clearly unimpressed with the woman and her cryptic words.

“Pestilios, the God of Disease and Famine. Uncle to the goddess, Morsana.”

Zevander frowned. “It is a masochistic god who would choose to reside inside a mere mage.”

With a long, overgrown nail, she crudely dug at something lodged in her teeth. “The belief in the gods is not what it was, you know. Belief is power. Without it, the gods do not truly exist. Therefore, some have chosen a more corporeal presence.”

“If he’s a god, how were mere Aethyrians able to banish him?” Voice thick with skepticism, Zevander shook his head. “Not even the septomir possesses the power to rival a god.”

“Even a god is only as powerful as the body it inhabits.” She leaned forward, grabbing the poker from beside the hearth, and stoked the flames. “Once he’s acquired enough power, there’s little your ward can do to keep him from crossing back to Aethyria.”

In all of her explanations, there was a detail, an inconsistency, that nagged at me. “You told me that you had a brother. That the two of you ventured into the woods together for food.”

“I did tell you that, didn’t I?” She smiled, rubbing her hands together, then held them out for the heat. “Not entirely true, dear.” Brow raised, she sighed. “As I said, I longed to return home. So, I plucked that boy from the village in exchange for free passage to the archway.”

As I absorbed what she was saying, an unsettling horror crept over me. “You sacrificed a child?”

“Oh, fret not. The gods have seen fit to punish me well for it.” She lifted her arm to show a strange marking that appeared to be the scar of a horrific burn. “I offered that boy to Cadavros, and he allowed me passage. Unharmed. Except, when I arrived at the archway, I had a terrible feeling that I was no longer worthy to cross back. I’m sure you know what happens to those who are unworthy.”

Dolion had once told me that Aleysia wouldn’t have been permitted to pass through the archway. That she would’ve fallen to her death because we didn’t share the same blood.

“When I pushed my hand through, something gripped my arm to pull me in with hands that burned like fire. So, I returned here. And I waited to fulfill my promise.”

“You left me the rose.” It wasn’t a question at that point. “I’ll ask again, did you see my mother that night?”

“No.” She pushed up from her chair and gathered up our bowls, but mine was only half eaten, and she seemed to take notice, staring down at the remains. “What I saw was the sign the priestess had promised. A babe in a basket. Ravens in a flock. Eyes of silver.” After collecting Zevander’s bowl, she hobbled back over to the pot on the hearth and scraped the bits from each bowl into it.

I’d have been disgusted, if not for the distraction of her comment. “My eyes are gray.”

“Couldn’t have a silver-eyed child walking around these parts, could we? Imagine what vicious rumors such a thing would stir.” Twisting to face me, she seemed to stare at the corner of my eye, presumably to the small crescent there. “My attempt to mask your true nature wasn’t entirely foolproof. Then again, I’ve always been shit at spells. Had I known they’d make such a fuss over you, anyway, I’d have left them be.”

I raised my hand toward my eye, imagining them silver. “Can I see them? How they look?”

She shrugged. “Spell’s binding. Only death will reveal their true form. I don’t suppose you want to see them that bad, hmmm?” At the shake of my head, she sighed and nodded toward Zevander. “Perhaps I should show you to your bed.”

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