Page 82 of Eldritch
The scene shifted, and all at once, Zevander stood in the stone castle he’d known his entire life.
Home.
Frost expelled from his mouth, and a chill crawled over his skin as he glanced around the dark foyer. Curious, he stepped forward in awe as he remembered every detail of the castle, every weathered stone and crack. Where the shadows hit the walls and that comforting scent of his mother’s perfumed oils that lingered in the air.
He strode away from Alastor, up the staircase to the bedrooms, in a desperate search for his mother, and found her curled up with Rykaia on her bed.
Young Rykaia, who had only turned eight years old when he’d been sent to prison, had become a young woman, nearly the size of their mother. Her face had matured in a way that hurt his heart.
He’d have thought them dead, if not for their constant shivering. “Is this real?” Zevander asked, and as he reached out to touch his mother, Alastor grabbed his arm.
“The rules still apply. You’re not to touch. As for whether, or not, it’s real, that is the gods will, not mine.”
Zevander turned to the fireplace that had long burned out and strode toward it. Kneeling, he closed his eyes, desperate to remember the glyph Alastor had shown him earlier that would call upon the flame. “Let me see it once more.”
“No. Focus.”
Grinding his teeth, Zevander clenched his eyes shut again. He brought to mind the first outer symbol—the tiny one at the top of the circle, with its strange swirls and lines. The imageglowed inside his thoughts, and he turned his mind to the second image to the right of it. Each line and circle and curve.
Rykaia shuddered a breath behind him and let out a whimper, breaking his focus.
He growled and thought back to the first symbol, starting over again. The second. Once established in his thoughts, he moved on to the third, the fourth, fifth and sixth. His hands shook with impatience, as he forced himself to remember the symbol in the center of them.
There were lines he couldn’t recall. Complicated intricacies.
“They’ll die, if you don’t give them warmth.”
“Then, show it to me!” Zevander snarled back at him.
“You must remember it yourself. It’s the only way you’ll learn.”
“And if this is real…if they die, I will find a way to kill you.”
Alastor laughed. “Have you so little confidence in yourself, boy?”
“There are too many details in this glyph. I can’t recall every one of them.”
“You can, and you will. Close your eyes.”
It was only desperation that goaded him to follow the command.
“Place your hand on your chest and trace your scar with your finger.”
Zevander had been told his whole life never to touch his cursed scar. His father had believed doing so would awaken its evil. But his father wasn’t there. He was dead, and his mother and sister might very well follow him into the afterlife.
Zevander placed his finger to the scar and traced the shape of the ruined tissue there. As if painting the image in his thoughts, he could see it then, the shape he palpated burning in his mind.
Strange, that he’d worn the glyph on his chest since he was a baby.
As he traced each of the symbols, he held the visual in his thoughts. Heat slashed across his palm like a white-hot blade, and he opened his eyes to a flickering black flame sitting on the flat of his hand. A surge of victory swam through him, and he let out a hysterical sound.
“Yes. Yes!” Alastor knelt beside him, eyes wide with fascination. He scooped some of the fire up and carefully placed it onto the kindling in the fireplace. Flames lashed out, and it exploded into a blazing heat, giving the room a violet glow.
Zevander turned to see his mother and sister shivered less, no longer expelling white mists of breath, as if the fire had instantly warmed them. “You can summon the flame, too?” he asked, mesmerized by how quickly it caught on the logs.
“I can bend it to my will, but no. Only you have the power to summon it. You are the only person in the world to achieve such a feat.” A look of pride sparkled in the older mage’s eyes, reminding him of his father. “For centuries, mages have puzzled the possibility of such a thing. When you leave the prison—and you will—promise me you will practice summoning this glyph. You will master it, until calling upon the flame is as natural as speaking your own name.”
Biting back a smile, Zevander nodded. “I will.”
