Page 237 of Eldritch
Zevander ground his teeth. Killing her would be cause for execution, particularly with her not having proven that he possessed any special power. Even so, the prospect of the cruelest death held more appeal than returning to her Gildona.
“Go on, then. Cut me open. I know you’ve salivated over it,” she taunted.
“You’re half orgoth. Cutting your vein would be certain death.” While his voice was strained, his hand remained steadier than he could have imagined, as he watched the surrounding guards close in on him.
“Perhaps you might recall what I told you the first day you arrived at the Gildona. I’ve learned to protect my vulnerabilities. You and I are both cursed in that regard.”
“How so?”
“Step away from the general at once!” Sword drawn, one of the guards approached with slow and measured steps.
“Severing that vein is useless,” General Loyce kept on. “It is enchanted to heal.”
“You’re lying,” he gritted out.
“It’s true.” It was the mage standing beside King Jeret who’d spoken that time. “I supplied the elixir she drinks every night.”
“Go ahead and cut me. It’ll hurt, but only for a moment. Not like the wounds you carry.”
Zevander’s grip slackened, and with a roar of frustration, he shoved her forward.
Two guards charged toward him, one taking hold of his arms while the other ripped the blade from his hand.
He didn’t bother to fight them. It was futile. He’d suffer the consequences later and perhaps she’d go too far the next time.Maybe her anger would get the better of her, and she’d sever his throat instead.
“Enough of these theatrics.” The king waved toward his mage. “Check his palm.”
Jeret’s high mage approached cautiously, his robes swaying at his back as he descended the dais. He lifted Zevander’s hand, turning it over for the flat of his hand. A small drop of vivicantem cooled the itch still scratching over Zevander’s palm from the longing to hold that blade again. After massaging the fluid into his skin, the mage placed a magnifier to his eye, studying the scars there, just as he had the last time Zevander had stood before the king. “I see nothing. No new patterns or glyphs.”
“Your Grace, please?—”
“Enough of this. I’ve given you plenty of time. King Sagaerin has offered ten thousandmoremen to join our army against the squatter of Kestellias in exchange for him.”
Zevander frowned and lifted his gaze from the floor.
“Twenty thousand men won’t ensure your victory. You know this. The eldritch magic that I am certain Zevander is capable of?—”
“I lied.” The voice that interrupted wasn’t Zevander’s that time.
No. The voice that spoke belonged to Theron who stood trembling at his side.
“I lied about the glyphs. Caligorya. I supplied the ampoules which made him unconscious.”
King Jeret frowned down at him. “And what of the glyphs on his palm?”
He reached into his robe and pulled out a book. “I stole it from the high mage. I carved those glyphs into his palm.”
“Theron don’t. Don’t do this,” Zevander warned.
Ignoring him, Theron kept on. “When I heard that King Sagaerin had petitioned for his release, I told General Loyce about the glyphs.”
“What motive would’ve driven you to carve useless glyphs into my palm?” I threw the question out there in hopes they’d see the gaping holes in his story.
“They’re only useless to those who perceive them as such,” he said, his words holding deeper meaning. “I’d hoped Loyce would notice them on her own, but you covered them up quite well.”
Lies, but he answered with the ease of a man who’d rehearsed the moment in his mind dozens of times before.
“Why would you do such a thing?” Jeret asked.
