Page 215 of Eldritch
“I’m staying here with Zevander.” I reached out for Aleysia’s hand one more time, giving it a small squeeze, and once they exited the room, I exhaled a long and shaky breath. “Thank you,” I said, not bothering to look at the priestess. “For helping them.”
“Come. We’ve much to discuss.”
I glanced toward the other room, where Zevander still lay on the bed. “I’m not leaving him. Not until he wakes.”
“Then, we’ll discuss here.” She snapped her fingers, and three new Lyverian guards carried in two wooden chairs and a small table, on which one of them set a pitcher of water and two glasses. The priestess waved me toward the chair, and with hesitation, I sat, never taking my eyes off her. She poured the water into the glasses and pushed one of them closer to me. “Drink. You must be incredibly thirsty.”
“You first.”
“Very well.” She tipped back a long swill, gulping down half the glass, then set it down.
Still, I hesitated for reasons I couldn’t reconcile. She hadn’t harmed us, after all. I wanted to trust her. Snatching the drink from the table, I tipped it back, both desperate and grateful for the clean fluids.
“Your group is lucky to be alive. Vyrmish are quite vicious.” She ran her long, black fingernail over the rim of the cup in front of her. “Even for those with blood magic.”
“Are they at all related to the creatures in Foxglove? The plague?”
Lips flat, she shook her head. “The vyrmish have been here longer than our people. Attacks are rare, seeing most avoid traveling that route. They’re incredibly sensitive to vibration, so I suspect they were drawn to the noise. Your horses, specifically.”
“Are they only found there?”
“Yes. They don’t stray far from their nest. We’ve learned to live in harmony with the beasts that inhabit this land. It’s a shame what happened to the Vonkovyans who settled there.” Her eyes narrowed on me. “Tell me, are you aware of the history of Lyverians?”
I placed the glass down, eyeing the rest of the pitcher as I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “It’s a bit disjointed. Vonkovya likes to omit and paint Lyverians as something very bad.”
“Of course they do.” To my delight, she poured more water into the glass. “This land wasn’t always occupied by us. My ancestors arrived as refugees centuries ago. The indigenous here before us took them in. Gave them a home. Hope.”
“Where did your ancestors come from?”
“Aethyria. They were Corvikae who fled to the mortal lands to escape plague and slaughter. Ordered by their priestess to protect the vein here.” As my pulse ratcheted up, she turned to one of the men standing on guard. “Bring me the book.”
Tiny shards of a broken mirror pieced together, forming a distorted image of myself I’d never considered before. “I was told that my ancestry is Corvikae. Is it possible that I might be Lyverian?”
“They are the same. As I said, Corvikae came here from Aethyria.” Her brow raised as she stared back at me. “And you, child. You look very much like my sister.”
Harder, my heart pounded as I searched her face, through the kohl and aging lines, for a flicker of recognition. It was there, if I looked hard enough. Subtle features that I might’ve overlooked. “My mother was a slave.”
“Your mother was the daughter of a great priestess. She was taken many years ago by the Red Men.”
From somewhere buried in the mess of fabrics she wore, she pulled out a pipe that looked to be carved bone, along with a small sachet, setting both of them on the table. Even from where I sat, whatever herb those sachets held carried a strong scent that reminded me of spring lavender. She pinched a tiny amount into the bowl of her pipe, packing it down with her pinky nail.
A guard behind her produced one of the candles, which he tilted toward the bowl, spilling wax onto the table.
The priestess’s cheeks caved as she gave the pipe a few puffs, sending black smoke into the air.
The other guard passed off a book that looked identical to the one Dolion had given me, with its bone spine and the dragon’s eye on the cover. Only, her version didn’t require puzzles to open it. She flipped through the pages, landing on an elaborate painting. She brushed the palm of her hand over the image, and just like those in the other book, it sprang to life.
A line of men, women and children, donned in black feathers, made their way to the mountains. “We did not possess blood magic and, therefore, we did not require the veins in the same way mancers require it for vivicantem.”
“But I have blood magic.” I raised my palm, opening it to show the glyphs etched there.
She ran her thumb over my palm and lifted the sleeve of my shirt. “Do you know what the mark on your arm signifies?”
“Only that I have some strange connection with the dead.”
“Strange connection, indeed.” She sipped the water and cleared her throat. “You are Vasmora.”
“Vasmora?”
