Page 220 of Eldritch
“Carriages. Cages, essentially, but they’re not hostile. They’ve been attending to everyone’s wounds.” I placed both hands on his cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
As though reluctant to peel his gaze from the others in the room, he offered only a quick sweep of his eyes toward me. “Fine.”
Nodding, I smiled. “She only administered a small bit of vivicantem. She said too much would be toxic.”
Head tilted downward toward me, he peered at her from beneath the mantle of his furrowed brows—gaze steady, threatening. “Who is she?”
“Erithanya,” the priestess answered for herself. “Welcome to Crovenrock Temple. My home. The village is Wraithmire.”
Zevander tipped his chin up. “You’re speaking Nyxterosi.”
“I’m speaking Lyverian. You’re speaking Lyverian with a very distinct Nyxterosi accent.” She chuckled, but Zevander’s expression remained intensely annoyed, as usual.
Once again, I found myself confused by the lack of distinction. “What is it you hear when Aleysia or Father is talking?”
“Vonkovyan,” Zevander said, never taking his eyes of Erithanya.
Still convinced I was hearing all the same language, I puzzled that over. “And you know how to speak this?”
“Yes, my mother called it a romantic language. Adeadlanguage.”
I remembered him telling me once that he was familiar with it.
“It so happens I am also fluent in Vonkovyan. A few of us are here,” the priestess added.
Strange that I hadn’t noticed myself. “Why can’t I discern the different languages? They all sound the same to me.”
“Language is arbitrary to a goddess. A clumsy human design. Or mancer, if you will. You are Vasmora and therefore, do not require interpretation from one form of a word to another.” Pipe between her lips, Erithanya took another inhale, cheeks concaved. White ribbons of smoke curled upward in an unhurried pace.
“But there was a language that I didn’t understand.” I frowned, trying to recall the name of it.
“Primyria,” Zevander answered, his gaze still flicking between the priestess and her guards.
Smiling, Erithanya nodded. “Ah yes. The ancient tongue. It was spoken by early Aethyrians when they didn’twantthe gods to know their thoughts. Asecretlanguage.” She waved her hand toward Zevander. “As he is up and on his feet, allow me to show you where you will sleep.”
“Sleep?” Zevander asked.
“Yes, it will be dark soon.” She nodded toward a window behind us, beyond where twilight had settled over the mountain. “We will be celebrating our Winter Somnial prior to taking you to the vein.”
Zevander didn’t respond to that. Perhaps he thought she meant to show us the vivicantem there. I wanted the opportunity to speak with him about her challenge to me in private, so I didn’t bother to respond either.
“Where is my sword?” he asked.
Of course, he’d notice his lack of weapons.
“What weapons we could gather were taken to your sleeping quarters.” The priestess waved us toward the door. “Shall we?”
En route to the door, I noticed Corwin gathering up a small apothecary jar from the table where the Lyverian woman smiledup at him and I brushed Zevander’s arm, bringing us to a stop. “One moment,” I said, and crossed the room toward Corwin.
On my approach, he turned around and lowered his gaze. “My sincerest apologies, Maevyth.”
Frowning, I tipped my head in confusion. “Apologies?”
Still, he kept his gaze from mine. “For abandoning your sister back at the church. She was…out of sorts and…well, she made me a bit nervous when her eyes blackened. And the strange counting and clawing at the ground was a little terrifying. She tried to bite me at one point, as well. But regardless, it was weak of me to run. I should’ve stayed.”
My expression eased to a smile. “Corwin, you saved our lives. Saved the horses. Stayed by my father’s side. You’re far from weak.” I gathered his hand in mine and he lifted his gaze. “You’re braver than you think. Thank you.”
Lips pressed together he nodded. “Thank you for your interesting…hand…” He flicked out his palm as if to demonstrate. “Bone whip thing. On the ground. That was incredible. And brave.”
