Page 236 of Eldritch
The woman emerged from the water, her face soaked as she leaned into the other woman and whispered.
Tears wavering in his eyes, Zevander ground his teeth and pressed the blade against his ribs.
The heavy pounding of approaching boots didn’t break his determination, until rough hands gripped his arms and the blade fell into the water.
Zevander’s muscles tensed as he was hoisted out of the bath and forced to his feet. Cold air rushed over him, his body naked and shivering as he stood on display before two Solassion soldiers.
“You’ve been summoned by King Jeret.”
His head still trapped in a state of resignation, their words failed to penetrate his mind, and with little reaction, Zevander twisted around to search for his fallen blade in the bath.
When his body was yanked backward, he swung out at the soldier who kept him from the silent void he so desperately craved. He landed the punch in a powerful blow to the soldier’s nose and a spray of blood splashed across his face. Three soldiers wrangled him to the floor and held his arms behind his back.
“You will dress and prepare to stand before your king as you’ve been summoned.”
“He is not my king. He will never be my king!”
A fist shot toward his face and smashed into his cheek. Growling, Zevander kicked and wriggled, fighting for one split-second when he might retrieve that blade and end it.
Another brutal strike to his cheek and a flash of light dimmed to blackness.
Acold, dead sensation claimed Zevander’s limbs as he stood before King Jeret, the man’s voice nothing more than a scratchy noise that hummed in his ears. The summons of the king was nothing new. Zevander had been called upon numerous times over the last few years with inquiries of new glyphs. Each time, he’d been sent back to the same miserable observatory.
His eyes remained fixed on the guard no more than two steps in front of him who stood with his back to Zevander. A new face Zevander couldn’t recall having seen before. Young.
And foolish, given that he wore his blade on the right side of his thigh.
All guards knew to wear their weapons away from the prisoners they escorted or cross-draw—all except this one, it seemed.
“What news do you have for me?” Jeret asked Loyce who stood alongside Zevander.
Split seconds.
That’s all it would’ve taken to swipe that blade up and sever her precious vitaelis vein.
Swipe, slice. Swipe, slice. Swipe, slice.
The words toyed with him as he stood wedged between her and Theron to his left, slightly behind the guard. The other slave had become nothing more than a stranger to him in the last two decades
Perhaps he wouldn’t try to stop him.
“Your Grace, I can assure you, we’re getting closer to knowing the truth about his visits to Caligorya.”
Swipe, slice. Swipe, slice.
“I’ll ask again. What is thenewsyou bring today?” The words arrived as a threat, but Zevander had listened to her excuses every time before. Had heard the cunning way she spoke to the king, convincing him of her lies.
The truth was, Zevander hadn’t successfully slipped into Caligorya in decades. Not since the first night Theron had fed him the elixir while he’d lay bound.
“I’m not interested in the same boring news you bring every time you’re summoned.” He pounded his fist against the throne. “What has changed?”
Bound in chains in front of him, Zevander’s hands shook. What more did he have to lose?
Swipe, slice. Swipe, slice.
Before his mind could register the movement, he’d lurched for the guard and snatched up the dagger at his hip. In one fluid move, he leveled the blade against that precious vein, could feelthe shaky breath that passed her lips as she fought to hold her composure.
“Back down, boy!” King Jeret shot to his feet. “Now!”
