Page 94 of Eldritch
“Why are the four of you still here?” Kazhimyr’s gaze swept over the trees, the habit ingrained in him, as he searched for any disturbances—a startled bird, or animal, shadows where they shouldn’t be, a change of scent.
“We were due to leave Wyntertide two days ago. Sometime in the evening before we were set to head out, Dolion startedacting strange. Was real quiet at supper. For a man who loves a good tankard of ale, he didn’t touch it that night. Instead, he retired early. Then, about the witching hour, he woke up shaking uncontrollably. Eyes rolled back in his head.”
The path ahead split, and Torryn pointed toward a gravelly stretch on the right. The surrounding trees darkened, as the three entered the thickest stretch of forest, and Torryn kept on with his story. “Had no idea, since we were all asleep, until the damn Golvyn ran screaming through the castle, making a clamor. Couldn’t get Dolion out of that state for the whole night. He just laid there, shaking. Only the whites of his eyes showing. Wasn’t until the next night he woke up and started speaking frantically, as if he was possessed by something.” Torryn let out a troubled sigh. “Started drawing all these symbols on the wall, rambling. Hours and hours of rambling and drawing. He locked himself in that room, and hasn’t been out since, until this morning when he asked me to fetch that damn book for him.”
That damn bookhad been in Wyntertide for millennia. It had every bloodline ever recorded.
“So, you stole an ancient book from the secure vault at the university?”
“Had to take a few down, but yeah.”
Kazhimyr snorted and shook his head. “The pride I feel is immeasurable.”
“Yeah, well, you’re in charge of returning it.”
The trees parted for the old castle Kazhimyr had read about in history lessons. The Rydainns were nobles, loyal to the king of Vespyria centuries ago, with a number of vassals at their beck and call, but their highblood lineage had thinned over the years. Morwenna and her brother, Severin, were the only two of Lady Rydainn’s siblings left. Kazhimyr had met her once, when she’d passed through Eidolon on her way to Costelwick. An odd woman, but she’d always been welcoming and kind.
Past the gates, the horses trotted up to the entrance of the castle. The three dismounted, and Kazhimyr and Ravezio followed Torryn inside the manor.
The vast foyer stood cold and mostly empty, seeing as Morwenna didn’t have much in the way of coin these days. Where tapestries would ordinarily have hung about the room, the walls stood mostly empty, save the few family portraits—including one of the Rydainns, from when Zevander must’ve been no more than ten.
Absent of Branimir, of course.
The three Letalisz made their way up the staircase, to the bed chambers down a long, curved corridor, and came to a stop at one of the many chamber doors. Symbols had been carved into the wood, and Kazhimyr frowned as he examined the way they’d been hastily scratched, like something out of a mad fit.
Torryn wiggled the lever on the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Have you tried busting it down?” Ravezio asked.
“The man is a former Magelord, with six of the seven stones required for the septomir. Believe me when I say I’ve tried.” Not bothering to turn away, he pounded his fist against the door. “Dolion! It’s Torryn. I’ve got the book you requested.”
The sound of quick footfalls bled through the thick wood, and seconds later, the door swung open into a drafty, expansive room that sent wisps of cold over them.
Dolion stood in the doorway, his long, silver locks disheveled, eyes wild but rimmed in red circles, as if he’d rubbed them too many times from too little sleep. He swiped the book out of Torryn’s hands and quickly shuffled away, too distracted, it seemed, to shut the door behind him.
As if noticing the lack of vigilance himself, Torryn shot Kazhimyr a glance and stepped inside, and Kazhimyr and Ravezio followed.
The dark, stone walls within the room held the chalked scribblings of symbols and ancient words Kazhimyr didn’t understand, centered around one massive image that contained multiple symbols inside of it. There were mathematical formulas and drawings, as if Dolion had spent days doing nothing more than hastily writing them down.
“What in seven hells is going on?” Kazhimyr asked.
Dolion thumbed through the book, his robes fluttering in his wake, as he darted back and forth, jotting more notes, more symbols. “I’ve…nearly determined all of the bloodline power. The history of every stone in my possession. It is incredibly accurate, the way each of them line up!”
“Line up to what, exactly?” Kazhimyr studied the lines drawn from one symbol to another, some of them sigils he recognized, while others were completely foreign.
“This …” Dolion stepped back, staring up at the much larger and more detailed symbol on the wall. “I had a vision. Of this very glyph.”
“What is it?”
“The Gods’ Glyph. Long believed to be nothing more than a scholarly myth.” He lurched forward, pointing to each symbol held within the much bigger one. “The Eye of Nethyria. The serpent’s tooth. Sablefyre. The splintered bone. The rotting tree. The wyrm’s scale. The blood crux.” He frantically waved his hand over them. “All ancient destructive forces.”
The furrow in Torryn’s brow deepened. “And this is a glyph?”
Dolion nodded. “A very powerful one. Powerful enough to rival the septomir.”
“How?” Kazhimyr had always known the septomir to be the most powerful weapon in the world.
Dolion tapped his finger in the air. “I’m glad you asked. As you know, the septomir is comprised of seven bloodlines, spawned by the god of creation, Magekae. Each of these is thecounter-magic to every bloodstone that powers it.” He pointed to Ravezio. “Eremician magic, for example—you are known for a very potent venom in your blood. Serpent’s tooth is the anti-venom, yet, in the case of the septomir, it’s a weakness. My own Elvyniran heritage uses Nexumis to manipulate magic. The Eye of Nethyria severs the thread that connects my people to the glyphs.”
