Page 219 of Eldritch
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
ZEVANDER
The scent of sulfur burned in Zevander’s nose, and he opened his eyes to a wall of shimmering, black stone, its skinny purple fissures telling him he stood in a sleeping vein. He’d only ever seen one in his life, as a boy, when his nursery tutor had taken him to visit one for study. With the veins considered to be royal property, it was typically forbidden for anyone to approach, but Master Gannick had been given clearance by the guards.
A tapping sound drew his attention to his right, where a cloaked figure crouched, chipping away at the stone with a small hammer and chisel. “I’ll show them. All of them,” the stranger muttered to himself.
There was a vague familiarity to his voice, and Zevander quietly approached the toiling man.
“Even a spindling can wield power.” He grunted as he brought the hammer down hard against the flat end of the chisel. “Even a spindling can rise to be a high mage.”
Zevander glanced around, noting two guards off in the distance, but something about them seemed troubling. One held a sword in his hand, the angle of it too burdensome for whatit must’ve weighed. Surely, his arm should’ve trembled with weakness. Instead, he remained far too still, while the other reached for the hilt of his weapon, but never withdrew it.
As if both had been frozen in time.
An outcry had Zevander swinging his attention back to the cloaked figure, who must’ve brought the hammer down upon his thumb, the way he rocked on his heels and cradled it.
The stone he’d been chipping had crumbled away, lying in a heap at his feet. Within the cavity of the rock, Zevander spotted an object deeply embedded. As if noticing himself, the cloaked stranger reached inside and tugged at the object. When it didn’t give, he grabbed his chisel and hammer, seemingly no longer bothered by his injury, and chipped away the surrounding rock. The object popped loose and fell onto the rock below. Black and round, about the size of a small ampulla, it was covered in rock dust that concealed any notable characteristics about it, but the stranger lifted it from the ground and ran his thumb over its surface as if there was something mystical hidden there.
A black spider, the size of a keltzig coin, scampered down the stranger’s arm, and he let out a yelp, dropping the object onto the stone. The hood of his cloak fell back, revealing the face of the man Zevander had seen many times before.
Alastor, or Cadavros as he’d come to realize, but significantly younger.
With a full head of dark hair and bright blue eyes, he’d have surely caught the eye of many women his age. He shivered and brushed at his arm. “Cursed spiders. I hate them.” Once again, he lifted his find, but paused as if spying something else inside that cavity. He fished through his satchel, yanking out a wax tablet and its small metal stylus, and began drawing.
Zevander crouched beside him, silently watching him fervently drag the stylus over the wax, etching the design into thetablet. As he scribbled away, Zevander peered in on the cavity, himself, and caught sight of what had captivated him.
Embedded in the wall, like it had been inked in silver, shone a symbol Zevander had never seen in his life. A glyph, perhaps, but one so intricately detailed, he wondered if that was even a possibility. Zevander couldn’t help but stare at it, mesmerized by its complexity as the image slowly burned itself in his mind.
“Zevander!” The feminine voice that called out to him was so out of place, it broke his concentration. “Zevander, please!”
Frowning, he turned toward the angelic sound that sent a blossom of warmth through his chest.
Had he heard it before?
An ethereal glow to the left of him shimmered across his eyes, so blinding in its brightness, he winced and raised his hand to shield it. In the center of that light, he could just make out the willowy shape of a woman, her hair dancing about her shoulders, her legs and arms outstretched, as if she were chained to something.
His feet carried him toward her by their own command.
“Zevander! Please! Wake up!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
MAEVYTH
Zevander gasped awake and shot upright, startling me back a step.
The priestess drew back her hand where she knelt beside him. Her finger carried the remnants of vivicantem dust she’d placed at his nose for him to inhale.
Pupils wide and round, he glanced around, undoubtedly surveying his unfamiliar surroundings, then his wild gaze landed on me. His hand lashed out as he jolted out of bed, and letting out a grunt, he pulled me close, backing me to the wall with his hand outstretched. The way his arm shook told me he was both in pain and alarmed.
I placed a gentle hand on his arm, encouraging him to lower it. “It’s all right. We’re safe.”
He spun me around in front of him, his eyes frantically assessing me, hands gentle but brisk, brushing over my arms and neck.
“I’m okay,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “Just a few bruises from the rubble, is all. A little bit of a headache.”
He scanned over the room again, no doubt taking stock of how many guards he’d have to fight off, if I was wrong. “How did we get here?” His voice carried the harsh rasp of little water.
