Page 85 of Anathema

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ZEVANDER

Obsidyen cantered beneath Zevander, up to the fork in the road. One path led toward The Citadel’s House of Sages, an academy dedicated to science and medicine, along with history and ancestry. A number of mages taught there, as well, but most were eager young scribes, with no other ambition than to read and study.

The other path led toward Costelwick Castle.

Kazhimyr slowed his horse alongside Zevander. “What is the name of this bone scribe you’ve asked me to seek out?”

“Allura Marabe.” Zevander stared out at the long road ahead of him. “Her uncle is Odion. As I understand, he’s well known amongst scholars. You shouldn’t have trouble finding her. But it is imperative that you not draw too much attention to yourself.”

“Of course. Do I take her by force?” Kazhimyr asked, smoothing his hand over his leather glove.

“Ask her to accompany you first. If she refuses, then yes.”

“And I’m to tell her we happened upon some scrolls for her to assist in interpreting.”

“Yes, but keep it discreet. I suspect the mere mention of the castle will spark her interest.”

“I hope so. It’d be a shame to get forceful when I’m known for my charm.” Stroking his jaw, he chuckled. “As for the items Dolion requested …”

Zevander handed off a scroll to his fellow Letalisz. “He wrote a list. While he claims no one is watching his lab, I’d advise you seek the supplies out elsewhere. Perhaps from another lab.”

“Are you asking me to steal, Brother?” Amusement colored his tone. Stealing happened to have been the reason the Solassions had imprisoned Kazhimyr all those years ago. His skills in thievery had gone unmatched, up until he’d gotten caught.

“I’m asking you to borrow. I’ll see you back at Eidolon.”

“Yes, give King Sagaerin a kiss for me.”

Zevander snorted and shook his head, then kept on toward the king’s palace. As the leader of the Letalisz, he met with the king far more frequently than the other three, and had built more of a rapport with him. Still, Zevander wasn’t looking forward to what would’ve undoubtedly made for a long afternoon.

Once inside The Citadel gates, the villagers offered a wide berth, as he guided his horse over the cobblestones, past merchants, blacksmiths and taverns, up through the narrow winding streets, lined with tall buildings whose pointed spires reached toward the sky, all the way to the gates of the castle grounds. The savory scent of smoking meat, exotic spices and burning incense muted the occasional waft of damp stones and wood. Purple and forest green sails stretched across the crowded alleyways, shielding the carts overflowing with grim-looking fruits and vegetables from the overcast sky, where dark clouds swallowed the sun. Hardly ever shined bright in Nyxteros, thanks to the positioning of the moons. Unlike in Solassia, where produce required sunlight, it was the prilunar light that helped food grow in the southern continent.

Merchants shouted from their wooden stands, offering fine silks and leather, fancy pottery, smoking pipes, and jewelry. Others wearing muted cloaks and talismans, selling arcane artifacts—enchanted tomes and crystal orbs, dowsing pendulums and ritual daggers—watched him warily as he passed.

In a clearing, a large crowd gathered around a theater platform where actors and actresses put on a play. Their laughter carried over the music that weaved through the streets, adding a festive ambience, as the minstrels played their instruments and sang.

The Citadel, with its bustling alleyways and eclectic fashion allowed him to blend in easier than the outskirts where the citizens there knew his name and curse. As it was daylight, he wore a linen tunic and leathers with a hooded cloak. The mask, which he’d mostly worn to conceal his identifiable scars, provided a bit more anonymity.

Once he arrived at the palace gates, The Imperial Guards allowed him passage. Inside the walls, to them, Zevander was nothing more than a combat tutor and guard to the king’s son, Prince Dorjan. A guise that allowed him to walk freely with his weapons, without suspicion. They had no idea the miles he’d traveled, the years he’d trained in secret, honing the skills to kill in the name of their king. No one did, as the king had gone out of his way to conceal that part of Zevander’s duties. Though they loathed the Letalisz for the way the king had always favored him, the fact was, it’d never made sense to Zevander, either—particularly as King Sagaerin had never been known as a benevolent man. Even without his curse, the Rydainn name had never been noble enough to warrant his favor. It was only his mother who’d afforded him a small bit of status.

Once inside the barbican, Obsidyen trotted toward the second gatehouse, and there, Zevander dismounted his horse, handing the reins off to one of the awaiting stable boys. As at the outer gate, he was granted permission to cross the stony bridge that hovered over Blackwater Moat, and as he made his way across, he glanced over the edge, catching the scaled spine of a water serpent, the length of which measured six meters, at least. Koryn, they were called. Vicious, flesh-eating monsters that wouldn’t hesitate to devour him whole, regardless of his stature with the king.

Beyond the bridge, he passed through yet another gate, to the castle’s much smaller courtyard, that one teeming with well-groomed shrubs and gardens, weathered fountains and monstrous statues. Few had the opportunity to pass through these gardens, as entry tended to be exceptionally strict. Mostly officers, mages, and the occasional royal–the king’s most trusted.

While most kings tended to keep themselves insulated from the public for their own protection, King Sagaerin was most strict about it.

Zevander climbed the stone stairs lined with grotesques and unlit torches, up to the stately entrance of the castle that was nearly hidden by the encroaching moss and vines which covered its towering gray walls. Gargoyle waterspouts peered down between flying buttresses, drawing attention to the castle’s elaborately carved stonework. The iron doors creaked open with his approach, flanked on either side by more guards who offered him no passing gestures, or acknowledgment, which suited Zevander just fine, as he hadn’t come for niceties.

En route to Hemwell Tower, where the king often held meetings with his advisors, a familiar face strode up alongside him. Garbed in a fine silk tunic, and brocade surcoat decorated with the Sagaerin heraldry, he was only a decade, or so, younger than Zevander, but carried himself with the kind of regal grace that the Letalisz clearly lacked.

“Prince Dorjan,” Zevander said with a respectful nod, not bothering to slow his strides as the prince kept up with him.

“I understand my father called on you for a meeting.”

“Will you be in attendance?”

“I’d much prefer to pluck my own eyeballs from their sockets and toss them to the Koryn.”

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