Page 41 of Anathema

An ache throbbed in my chest. How terrifying it all must’ve been for her, having no one but Uncle Riftyn to help her navigate, and an entire parish against her–a whole flock of religious fanatics who would surely denounce her. And Agatha, of course, who’d make her life hell for the humiliation. “Whatever you decide, Aleysia, know that I’m with you. I will not leave you to figure this out alone.”

She gave a tearful smile and nodded. “I love you, Sister. I love you more than any person in this world.”

“And I love you.”

With a loud groan, Lolla pushed through the kitchen door. “Girls, are you finished with those potatoes yet? Agatha is growing impatient for supper.”

“Yes, Lolla,” I answered for Aleysia, as I unspun the cloth from my wound. I stared down at the perfectly intact skin, where the slice of the blade had left a groove only moments ago. Frowning, I dabbed it with fresh water and returned to my chores.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ZEVANDER

Night had fallen, as Zevander rode up to the edge of Hagsmist forest, from where three of the king’s calvary guarding it already galloped across the open field toward him. Thanks to his half-mask and hooded cowl making him look like a thief, they’d undoubtedly draw their weapons without bothering to ask his intentions.

They probably thought him mad, or drunk. After all, no one attempted to get so near to the forest, unless they’d completely lost their senses, which was why the guard was light.

While no one had ever endeavored to enter the disease-ridden mortal lands, if anyone were to be so ambitious, they’d be punished by execution per the king’s decree.

On the mere threat of attack, the flames inked into Zevander’s flesh stirred. Had he been any other Aethyrian, the calvary could apprehended him with ease, as their powers exceeded most and could’ve easily incapacitated any other trespasser.

Unfortunately for them, Zevander wasn’t any other trespasser.

The men slowed as they approached, and before they could lift their hands to seize him with magic, his flames lashed out, winding around each of them. The searing sound of their burning flesh punctuated the awful stench of sizzling organs.

He fucking hated that smell.

Two of the men collapsed from their bucking horses that took off in the opposite direction. The guards convulsed on the ground, writhing and grunting, because the flame denied them a voice to scream. The third man tumbled from his horse, falling to the ground on a hard thunk, his body paralyzed with the pain that Zevander imagined felt like hot steel against the skin. While his comrades blackened, their bodies cooked alive from the inside out, his body merely blazed a swollen red.

Once the two had finally succumbed to the flame, Zevander picked through the soot for the bloodstones left behind. Death by magic often left a residue, an aura, easily identifiable by the most skilled forensic mage, and burning to ashes ensured no evidence. But the presence of bloodstones would hint at demutomancy, which would surely launch an extensive investigation. A potential headache if the king tasked him to assist in hunting down a culprit.

He strode back to where the third man lay squirming on the ground, attempting to cry out through clenched teeth, the flame only allowing for a quiet groan. “I’ve spared you in exchange for your silence. Do you understand?”

With what strength the guard could muster, he nodded. The flames receded, exiting through his skin, offering the man some relief. They took the form of black scorpions that circled him, hissing and clicking their pincers.

“Be very still,” Zevander warned as he checked for the dagger at his hip. “They’re not fond of fast movement.” He stalked toward the adjacent woods, leaving the scorpions to watch the guard.

A shield of white mist rolled over the floor of the forest, Zevander’s boots invisible in the thick vapor. At the back of his neck, he felt what was left of the moon sigil of his bloodline flare, when the cool silvery rays struck the marking, sending a tingle down his spine. The Solassions had attempted to cut it off during the years he’d been enslaved, in order to stunt his power, not knowing at the time that it’d already been stunted by his cursed blood. Burned away for the power of sablefyre that he hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of understanding.

They’d failed to remove it entirely, though. Even scarred and mutilated, it still absorbed the light.

Through the haze of fog, a high-pitched giggle zipped past his ear, and he turned in time to see the flutter of wings. His eyes adjusted in the darkness, and he could make out a small Spirityne–annoying little creatures often found in the woods. Small as a sparrow, they appeared harmless, but their vicious nature made them aggressive and dangerous, and their teeth carried an agonizing poison that was said to cause hallucinations. It was rare to see them when winter approached. Curiosity must’ve drawn it out of its hiding spot in the trees. Fortunately, it flew off, or he’d have skewered and charred it as a burnt snack for the catallys—nocturnal creatures that looked like a cross between a cat and a hawk and preyed on the Spiritynes.

An archway stood in the distance, its pale blue, glassy ward shimmering like liquid in its center. Only the blood of the seven, those he’d already killed for their bloodstones, could’ve passed through freely without a spell, as it was their ancestral blood magic that had crafted the Umbravale. Anyone else would’ve risked falling over the cliff that separated Hagsmist from the mortal lands. An abyssal trench between the two worlds, bridged only by the Umbravale. Some believed Nethyria resided at the bottom of the miles-deep crevice.

No one had ever been mad enough to confirm by venturing down there, though.

Zevander reached into the pocket of his leathers for the small scroll that Dolion had given him. He raised his palm to the ward and spoke the words inked on the small parchment.

“Zi da’dignio, septmiusz me liberih iteriusz.” If I am worthy, the seven will grant me free passage.

The ward hummed and flickered, and he exhaled a breath, then pushed his hand past the watery barrier. A mild vibration shook his muscles as he stepped through the arch, and to his relief, instead of falling to his death, found himself in a small clearing encircled by thorny bushes. Keen eyes scanning over his surroundings, he strode toward the bushes, unbothered by the thorn-covered branches that scratched at his impenetrable leathers and crushed beneath his boots.

On the other side stood a forest that mirrored the one from which he’d come.

A howling sound echoed around him, and he clicked his tongue to zero in on the source of it. The image of a wolf took form in his mind, though the mortal variety seemed to be far smaller than what Zevander had come to know in his world. He kept on, senses alert.

The hum of wings buzzed past his ear, and he searched the darkness for the source.

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