Page 114 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

ZEVANDER

Past …

B lack poison slid down the blade Zevander twisted in his grasp, one he’d been entrusted with to take the lives of Loyce’s enemies.

One he intended to use on himself as he sat in the bath across from two women, both part of General Loyce’s Gildona.

The intrigue in their eyes wasn’t for him, but what hid beneath the surface of the water.

His tenth piercing had been placed days ago, making him the only slave alive with so many. Like everyone else, they watched for a glimpse of it. To confirm whether the rumors they’d heard were true or not. They whispered to each other, giggling like children.

Zevander ignored them, turning his focus to that blade, ensuring there was enough poison to coat the entire surface. The last time, he’d only lost consciousness a few short hours. This time, he’d make sure it destroyed him entirely.

And when his empty husk of a body lay lifeless, his soul far away from this place, they could gawp all they wanted.

The blade trembled in his grasp as he held it to his chest where within that vicious organ still relentlessly pounded a rhythm of life. One nick of the flesh. Seconds. The thick layer of poison was enough to stop his heart in seconds.

He hadn’t wanted to do it for an audience, but Zevander no longer found time alone, nor peace, not since she’d turned him into a walking anomaly.

Let them watch if they’re so curious.

One of the women submerged herself under the water. There he sat, a heartbeat from death, while they sought a glimpse of his cock. He’d have laughed if the monster inside of him weren’t whispering in his ear right then.

Do it.

For years, he’d fought the voice, the hope of seeing his siblings urging him to keep going.

To keep breathing when his body was so battered and ruined, it ached to draw breath.

But that night, Loyce had professed her love for him while she took from him again, as she’d done for so many years, he lost his will. He was weary. No more than a hollow.

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.

A cold, 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 the news you 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 feel the shaky breath that passed her lips as she fought to hold her composure.

“Back down, boy!” King Jeret shot to his feet. “Now!”

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 thousand more men 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.

“I was jealous, Your Grace.” The quiver in Theron’s voice told Zevander he was terrified. “I’d heard of King Sagaerin’s prior attempts to secure his release and I sought to sabotage it.”

Jeret turned toward his mage. “They glowed under the vivicantem. Surely, false glyphs wouldn’t appear that way.”

The mage looked thoughtful for a moment. “If they are associated with his bloodline, they might.”

“How would Theron know that?” Loyce argued. “He’s lying. He did not carve those into Zevander’s flesh.”

“Whether he’s lying, or not, the fact remains—you’ve not produced a new glyph in two decades.

Sagaerin claims his only interest in this young man has to do with his mother.

Rather than rely on useless claims of magic, I’d much prefer the guarantee of men.

I will accept Sagaerin’s offer. Zevander Rydainn of Nyxteros, you are hereby released of your sentence per order of the king. ”

Zevander’s knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor. Freedom.

Freedom.

Freedom.

He raised his shackled hands and through tears, stared at the scabs and callouses where his skin had grown used to the metal.

The glance he threw at Theron was fleeting but potent the way it struck his gut like a sharp blade. The other slave stood shivering. Terrified. His face white as fresh snow.

Loyce was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully.

Zevander turned toward the general, his throat tight, begging him to remain silent, but he pushed out the words trapped in his chest. “I’ll stay. Don’t lay a hand on Theron and I’ll refuse the offer.”

“You’ve no choice in the matter.” The mage sneered. “It is already decided.”

Zevander slid closer toward the king on his knees. “I demand that my friends are released.”

King Jeret laughed and gave a dismissive wave. “You’re in no position to make demands.”

“You’re wrong,” Zevander said boldly. “I know who the squatter of Kastellia is to you. I know why you long to see him killed. It is a secret that will die with me if you grant four of my friends their freedom.”

The king’s eyes narrowed like a snake. “I could have your head for such a threat.”

“You could, yes.” Zevander’s voice trembled. “And I would welcome a swift blade. But that will not earn your twenty thousand men from King Sagaerin.”

“A very generous offering for a slave .” Disdain dripped from the mage’s voice like venom. “Perhaps you might show some humility.”

“I have paid for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Which four?” The king held out his goblet and without hesitation, his cup bearer surged forward to fill it. “What difference does four slaves make, after all? You’re all useless.”

“Well, hurry up, then.” The mage turned away, his robes dancing after him. “I’ve more important matters.”

“There are three in the mines. They go by the names Kazhimyr, Ravezio and Torryn. And then …” He only gave a fleeting glance toward him. “Theron.”

Loyce stepped forward. “Your Grace, it is my opinion that Theron should not be granted his freedom. He lied to a king.”

“Agreed,” Jeret said in a bored tone. “I’ll grant freedom for the other three. Theron must be punished.”

Zevander turned toward the other slave whose face had gone ghostly pale, his body trembling so hard, it was a wonder he managed to stay upright. “I’m begging Your Grace. General Loyce will subject him to brutality.”

“He admitted his lies.” Just as before, the king waved a dismissive hand and tipped back a drink of his wine. “He would be fortunate to breathe at all. The matter is closed. Fetch the three from the mines and prepare them for release.”

“I refuse!” Zevander jumped to his feet, his chains clattering.

“Guards! Get him out of my sight.”

As two guards gripped Zevander’s arms, Loyce strode up to him. “I’ll be sure to keep him breathing through it all,” she whispered.