Page 106 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

MAEVYTH

Z evander gasped awake and shot upright, startling me back a step.

The priestess drew back her hand where she knelt beside him. Her finger carried the remnants of vivicantem dust she’d placed at his nose for him to inhale.

Pupils wide and round, he glanced around, undoubtedly surveying his unfamiliar surroundings, then his wild gaze landed on me.

His hand lashed out as he jolted out of bed, and letting out a grunt, he pulled me close, backing me to the wall with his hand outstretched.

The way his arm shook told me he was both in pain and alarmed.

I placed a gentle hand on his arm, encouraging him to lower it. “It’s all right. We’re safe.”

He spun me around in front of him, his eyes frantically assessing me, hands gentle but brisk, brushing over my arms and neck.

“I’m okay,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “Just a few bruises from the rubble, is all. A little bit of a headache.”

He scanned over the room again, no doubt taking stock of how many guards he’d have to fight off, if I was wrong. “How did we get here?” His voice carried the harsh rasp of little water.

“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. A dead language.”

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’t want the gods to know their thoughts. A secret language.” 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 smiled up 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.”

I gave his hand a small squeeze and smiled. “The priestess is showing us to our sleeping quarters.”

“Oh, um …” Corwin glanced back toward the Lyverian woman who smiled and lowered her gaze. “Zelaia is going to show me to mine. But thank you.”

Nodding, I hurried back to where Zevander and Erithanya stood waiting for me.

The priestess led the two of us out of the temple, back down the stone stairs to the main stony path that stretched through the village.

Following after her, I sensed eyes watching us and turned to see children hiding amongst the trees.

The path split around a tall, stone sculpture of a woman holding a scythe that appeared to be made of smooth bone. Silver eyes left no doubt as to whom she was—Morsana.

While the village wasn’t as sophisticated as Foxglove, with its shops and roads, it wasn’t entirely primitive, either.

Certainly not what I’d been told, of women running naked and homes no more than small huts.

The houses, built from wood and stone with thatched roofs, looked to be as sturdy as any well-crafted home in Foxglove.

Zevander gripped my arm, slowing our pace to allow distance between us and the priestess. “You’re not telling me something,” he said in a low voice, as we made our way through the village, greeted by the stares of the Lyverians we passed.

“You don’t always have to be astute, you know. Sometimes, it’s okay to be oblivious to things.”

“I trust you’ll tell me eventually.”

“I will.”

“Just let me know now if I’ll be killing anyone before night’s end. I may need one more dose of vivicantem.”

“No, I suspect not.” Smiling, I trailed my gaze over the curious faces that watched us, not detecting an ounce of hostility in them. An older woman we passed bowed and gently brushed her hand against mine.

He made a sound of disapproval in his throat. “Perhaps I’ll wait and be the judge. You’re a bit too kind when it comes to these things.”

I chuckled. “And you’re a bit too quick to judge.”

Erithanya smiled over her shoulder as we approached a row of cottages. “Shall I separate the two of you? There are some who’ve eagerly expressed wanting to share a bed with each of you.”

“No,” Zevander growled.

The priestess chuckled and waved us toward one of the small dwellings.

“The rest of your family were placed together.” She pointed to a home two down from ours.

“They are there. You will be given fresh clothing, and there’s a fresh basin of lavender water to wash, along with some food inside.

” She leaned to catch Zevander’s attention.

“For you, I’ve provided a small bit of vivicantem.

I estimated your weight for it. Hopefully, I wasn’t too far off the mark. ”

Zevander gave absolutely no reaction, confirming that he still didn’t trust the woman.

“You’re very kind, Priestess. Thank you,” I said on his behalf.

“My pleasure. Someone will come to fetch you for this evening’s festivities. Rest and eat.”

Like that of the temple, the door leading into the cottage held warding spells etched into the wood.

I pushed inside to a small but warm room with roughly-carved stone walls, arched wooden beams that made up a domed ceiling covered in thatch, and a crooked cobblestone floor.

A fireplace blazed on the other side of a small table and two chairs, where a bowl of fruit, a slab of smoked meat, and a pitcher of water had been set.

At the opposite side of the room stood a wooden bed covered in thick pelts and a knitted blanket, alongside a separate table that held the basin, a pitcher, and cloths.

Sachets and small bones hung from the ceiling, one of which Zevander gathered in his palm and studied. “Charming,” he said, and stepped deeper into the room.

I slipped my aching feet out of my boots, flexing my toes to ease the ache in them. A wooden foot bucket filled with water waited on the floor beside the fireplace, and I dipped my toes to find it was already warmed. I stepped into it, delighted by the heat, as I warmed myself by the flames.

Glancing over my shoulder showed Zevander assessing the weapons that’d been left out beside the bed, and he yanked his sword from the scabbard, checking it over.

Once warm enough, I dried my feet off and made my way toward the bed, swiping up a frostfig from the fruit bowl on the way.

Two piles of clothes sat on the bed, and I lifted one to find a long, sleek, black dress with a feather collar.

From the waist, hung a chain of red jewels and blanched, white bones.

Zevander strode up, running a rag over one of his daggers, and I turned to see him admiring the dress. “I look forward to seeing you in that one. But first, how about you tell me what in seven hells is going on?”