Page 89 of Anathema

“Yes, Your Grace,” all three answered in unison.

“Good. I’ll ask you to give me the room.”

The three of them stood and bowed respectfully toward the king, Zevander bracing his hand on the table to keep from toppling over as he joined them.

“Not you, Zevander. I’d like you to stay a moment.”

“As you wish.” The thought of a longer meeting would’ve ordinarily left the Letalisz inwardly groaning, but Zevander was grateful to sit and breathe a moment more.

When the others finally filed out of the room, the king shook his head. “My sincere apologies. I did not mean to offend your loyalty. I simply wanted to establish your integrity, particularly with this new apprentice. As I understand, she’s to take over as Magelord at some point.”

“Where does she come from?”

“The north, apparently. I’d never be inclined to allow a woman to attend my council meetings, as you know, but Akmyrios speaks very highly of her. Though, I must say, I’m not impressed,” the king said, running his finger over the rim of the goblet, before taking another sip.

Zevander swallowed back another round of acids and cleared his throat.

Waving his hand in dismissal, King Sagaerin rose up from his chair. “Princess Calisza’s Becoming Ceremony is a fortnight away and I will be expected to open the castle to a number of guests. I do loathe these social affairs, but what kind of king would I be, to deny my daughter her Becoming?”

When girls reached the age of fertility, roughly seventeen years old, or so, a Becoming Ceremony was thrown, and young men would fight for the right to claim her virginity. At times, the coupling resulted in marriage, but most often, it was simply a rite of passage to celebrate the fertility goddess, who’d ironically been raped and plundered at a young age. Zevander had long thought it a vicious custom, particularly when Rykaia had gone through it. She’d cried for days after, but it was believed that a virgin was bad luck and would result in the decline of a bloodline.

“I’d like all of the Letalisz in attendance. The Solassions are expected. Such a brutal lot, all of them.”

The very mention of them ground at his nerves. “You’re inviting the Solassions?”

“Not by choice. I find them repulsive, but it is a matter of social graces.” He waved the cup bearer over, and when the boy placed a second cup down in front of Zevander, he politely declined. “I attended their princess’s Becoming years ago, and it would serve as an insult if I were to deny King Jeret a returned invitation. I would like you and your men to watch over both Dorjan and Calisza. Ensure that there are no complications.” He leveled his gaze on Zevander. “But watch Dorjan closest of all.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve appreciated your loyalty. As I hope you’ve appreciated my hospitality. When I heard those ruthless Solassions were holding such a brilliantly talented young boy all those years ago, I knew I needed to bring you back here to Costelwick. My hope is, when General Loyce sets eyes on you again, she’ll be reminded of their foolish attempt to murder a highly skilled Lunasier.”

A pulsing tension hammered at his muscles. “Loyce is expected to attend, as well?”

“Yes, she is Jeret’s highest in command. She’ll be heading the Solassion guards that accompany the king. Will that be difficult for you?”

The very name sent a bolt of rage through Zevander’s blood.

“On your knees, Boy.”

“Now, swallow.”

“Not at all,” he answered, and let out a quiet grunt when a cramping ache writhed in his stomach. Fucking Nilmirth.

“Good. Your sister is welcome to attend, as well, if you’d like.”

The king’s words were nothing but a distant sound to the thoughts clamoring through his mind. “I’m afraid Rykaia has not been feeling herself lately.”

“Of course.” The king pushed up from his chair, stealing another sip of wine. “If you wouldn’t mind removing your mask so that I might see the progression.”

Swallowing back his reluctance, Zevander lowered the mask from his face and allowed the king to examine him, as he sometimes requested.

A look of concern furrowed the king’s brow. “It’s gotten worse.”

“Every day.”

“What is this beast that longs to consume?” King Sagaerin strode toward a box set out on a chest and, with a small key, opened it. He retrieved a bag of coin and something else from inside, and locked it again before returning to the table. “I’ve consulted with every mage and priestess from every corner of Aethyria. Not one of them have offered any insight for a cure.” As kind as the gesture was, Zevander was already well aware. For centuries, he’d searched every corner of Nyxteros–the deserts of Eremicia, and the farthest reaches of Solassia, consulting with priestesses, healers, and holy men. It wasn’t until Dolion had suggested the bloodstones that Zevander had felt even the slightest shred of hope for a cure.

Placing one hand on Zevander’s shoulder, he handed him the coin and a small vial of white liquid. “The vivicantem slows it a bit?”

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