Page 212 of Eldritch
My gaze shot to Zevander and back. “And him?”
“His injuries required sedation, but he lives. He also bears the mark of infection, though I cannot detect it inside of him. His blood is warm and his scar is telling, but nothing moves within.”
Bones still aching, I hobbled around Aleysia to the Zevander’s bed, and as I knelt on the floor alongside him, I noted the gashes and bruises on his face, and the gouge at his shoulder where his tunic was torn from what looked like a bite. The wound had been packed with a green substance, a salve, I presumed. He breathed, though. His chest moved up and down, and that was all that mattered to me right then. “What do you mean bymoves?” I asked, gently brushing the hair matted to his forehead.
“The infection moves in the blood. A curse that lives inside the body. He is not like us, though. His blood burns.”
I hesitated to tell her what he was, but in the event he might wake and set his scorpions loose, I thought a friendly warning might be in order. “He’s not from these parts.”
A knowing smile spread across her face. “Of course not. He is Aethyrian. I would guess Nyxterosi, but his skin tone is a bit darker than most.”
“How do you know this?”
“As I said. In time. Let us attend your sister first.” As the priestess sauntered toward my sister, I remained at Zevander’s side, watching her lift Aleysia’s dress from the black gash at herribs. To my horror, it seemed to have grown since the last time I’d seen it.
Father stood over me, keeping his gaze cast toward the floor.
“Do you remember anything? Our travels here?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not much. Only that I woke to Corwin shouting at the Lyverians, who of course, couldn’t understand him. It seems they didn’t realize you and Zevander had gotten trapped under all that rubble when the church collapsed. The pain in my leg was unbearable, though, so I don’t recall having been lucid for long. I can’t bring myself to look beneath the bandages. Whatever remains isn’t much of a leg.”
“I arrived later, then?”
“You and Zevander, yes. Somewhere along the way, Corwin apparently found a way to convey his worry, and they sent two of their men after you.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see Corwin smiling back at the woman who’d mended him, the two of them laughing at something. “I’m grateful he didn’t give up on us.”
“And I’m grateful, too. To you. To him.” Twisting back around showed him nodding toward Zevander. “I’ve never seen someone so brave. He fought valiantly against those creatures.”
He’d fought them up until his magic had grown weak, and still, he’d continued to fight until the church had collapsed on top of him.
Threading my fingers in his hand, I gently ran my thumb across Zevander’s brow, where the usual furrowed lines there had disappeared. A grip of panic squeezed my chest as that horrific outcry of pain echoed in my mind, and I glanced around, desperate to banish it from my head. “These people…they’re Lyverian.”
“Yes. They occupy small villages throughout the mountain. They must’ve sedated us. That journey would’ve taken quite a few days.”
Two Lyverian men carefully lifted Aleysia up from the wooden bed, and I shot to my feet, following after them as they carried her into a domed room that reminded me of a cave.
I glanced up toward the black ceiling, where ravens perched on rafters. All around the room, pieces of bones hung from leather strings, and symbols had been carved into the stone walls. Candles stood about the floor, flickering as the guards lay Aleysia over a strange symbol etched into the floor.
The priestess approached, carrying an ornate vial and the jar she’d fetched earlier. She poured the jar of silvery fluid into the vial, where it shimmered in the candlelight. “Nihilisroot.” After handing the vial to Father, she swiped up my arm.
I wriggled in her grasp, but she gripped tighter, digging her nails into my bones.
The moment she yanked back my sleeve, she drew in a sharp breath and ran her thumb along the feather-like scar at my arm. A flicker of recognition flashed over her face, and her mouth tightened as she lowered her gaze.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she answered, but the unfocused look in her eyes, as if her mind had slipped into unsettling thoughts, said otherwise. Before I could question it, she pressed her nail into my forearm, and I flinched, recoiling as she broke the skin.
“Ouch!” I growled.
Keeping a tight hold on my arm, she squeezed the blood until it dripped down my arm, and flicked her fingers toward Father, who handed off the vial to her. The delicate glass glided up the length of my forearm as she caught the blood inside. Once satisfied, she released me and carried the vial to Aleysia.
I thumbed away the fresh bulb of blood that gathered at the cut but frowned to find there was nothing there beneath. Not so much as a puncture left behind.
At Aleysia’s side, the priestess nicked her own skin, adding her blood to the vial with mine.
A cold sensation slithered beneath my skin as she stood over my sister, holding the vial toward the watchful birds. A quiet chant filled the room as she spoke in a language I recognized as old Lyverian. Rustling drew my attention to the ravens, who seemed restless, shifting on their perches and flapping their wings. The more she chanted, the more unsettled they seemed.
