Page 77 of Anathema
“In my visions, I imagined him returning from the very flame said to have consumed him. Summoned from death. But what if he hasn’t been consumed? What if he was simply denied his power? Stripped of it and banished to the lands where no vivicantem exists? What if he’s been slumbering there all this time?”
“I’d say if he were going to make trouble, he’d have done it already. Centuries without vivicantem … he’d damn near be mortal.”
“Yes, though the body can be nourished on blood and flesh.” Dolion shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. “It can’t be, though. I saw the Black Pestilence. Sablefyre and death and suffering.”
“Is it possible, in his state, to cross back to Aethyria?”
“It would take tremendous power to shatter those wards. If he resides there—and I’m not entirely convinced of that—in his current state, without vivicantem? Certainly not. The question is … why? Why would the king have spared him? Why not destroy him?”
It seemed as if he’d been destroyed. A mage without power for centuries was essentially useless. “What kind of power would shatter the wards?”
“There are only two ways to shatter that ward. The blood of the seven, and a vein. Where there’s a vein, there’s penty of vivicantem and sablefyre, and Cadavros knows how to wield it.”
“And you’re certain there’s no vein in Mortasia.”
Brows raised, Dolion shrugged. “Mortals have no need for vivicantem. I don’t see why one would exist there.”
“Then, he’s weak. I’ll cross over, track him, and kill him.”
His face pinched to a frown, and he cupped his jaw in his palm. “Yes. But if he lives, I fear there’s a reason for this. That is what is troubling me.”
“He lives because no one killed him. I’m happy to solve that problem.”
“Given the vision I had, I don’t think that’s wise. You, in particular, harbor the very power he seeks. The very power he is proficient in controlling. I’m admittedly not as versed as Cadavros in sablefyre, but what I do know about him is that he can be exceptionally manipulative. Who knows what control he could wield over you.”
Zevander sneered. “What is essentially a mortal, wielding power over me? Not likely.” As soon as he said the words, Zevander damn near choked on them. A mortal had wielded some kind of power over him. And it pissed him off. “So, we wait until he dies off? Or your vision comes to fruition?”
“There may be some … precautions we can take in the meantime.”
“Perhaps gathering the final stone for the septomir, and ending my curse, while we’re at it.”
Dolion released a frustrated huff. “You asked for proof of her power. We’ll see if she’s worth sparing. Turn her on her side, if you will.”
Reluctantly, Zevander obliged, turning her over as requested, the smooth curve of her hips not escaping his attention.
Dolion pushed her long locks of hair upward to reveal her nape, and ran his finger over her skin. “Poor girl is a bit cold. These dungeons are not the warmest.”
Hand outstretched, Zevander groaned and sent a radiant heat over her that gave her otherwise pale skin a pink glow.
Dolion set his inner wrist against the crook of her neck and nodded. “Much better.” From his coat, he yanked a quarter vial of vivicantem. “This will be the last of my supply. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” He dropped the last bits across her nape and smoothed it into her skin before it could drip on the sheets.
She let out a quiet moan, and godsblood, the sound of it strummed his muscles like the quiver of a spider’s web.
His hand curled into a fist at his side with whatever maddening effect the woman had on him. That he welcomed such sensations, when his entire bloodline hinged on breaking this curse, a curse that required her sacrifice, infuriated him.
Within seconds, a soft metallic glow appeared in the ancient death sigil he’d seen in the crucible. “Is that enough proof for you?” It was there. Her sigil. Her bloodline. “Come. Allow me to show you something.”
Zevander stood over Dolion, who sat hunched over his desk. A firelamp beside him flickered over the strangest book Zevander had ever seen. One that appeared to be made of bone and feathers, carved in wood that smelled aged, and held strange carvings in its surface.
Dolion ran his fingers over the surface, as if it were a precious treasure. “In the scrolls I read, the priestess of the Corvikae spoke of a grimoire belonging to their people. In it, she explains how the old pass along their powers to the young. Baptized by death.”
“And how are mortals baptized without blood magic?”
“In the age of the Corvugon, the blood of the raptor was used, which created a bond between the child and the beast. It served as a protector.”
Zevander stroked his jaw in thought. “The Corvugon egg I saw hadn’t hatched.”
“Perhaps there was something else. I don’t know her circumstances yet, but I look forward to picking her brain. And opening this blasted book that might offer even more insights.”