Page 27 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

KAZHIMYR

Present …

K azhimyr guided his horse by the reins, as he made his way through the winding streets of Susurria.

Frigid, damp air from an earlier rain clung to his skin, his eyes tracking the wary gazes that watched him.

Ravezio trailed after him, both Letalisz weary from days of travel.

They passed a line of vending carts, their canopies weathered and sagging with pools of water that trickled onto the passersby.

Browning produce, trinkets, and smoked meats sat out on display, and Kazhimyr picked up on hushed whispers over the occasional clink of coin.

A superstitious village that didn’t welcome travelers.

When they found the small tavern, they tethered the horses outside of it.

As Kazhimyr checked for the dagger at his hip, a sketch fixed to one of the building posts captured his attention.

Under WANTED was a gaunt face he recognized—one he couldn’t have forgotten after all these years, even if he’d wanted to.

And he did.

Deep scars marred the ruined and twisted landscape of her skin, which was stretched over sharp, protruding bones, as if the gods themselves had clawed her out of her mother’s womb.

One of her eyes, a deep black orb, appeared like an empty socket in the sketch, but Kazhimyr had seen it up close enough to know her eyeball had somehow blackened completely, and stared out without an eyelid to shutter it.

The other eye shimmered a pale green that almost looked white, and her lips pulled into an odd angle, as if poorly sewn with needle and thread.

The intensity of her expression still sent a chill down the back of his neck, even after so many years.

“Old lover?”

Unamused, Kazhimyr glanced over his shoulder, to see Ravezio had taken notice of the poster, as well. “She requested my services a while back. She’s the reason I was imprisoned by the Solassions.”

“Who is she?”

“Only knew her first name. Melisara.”

“What’s a sanguidin ?” Ravezio asked, drawing Kazhimyr’s attention to where the word had been scribbled beneath her sketch.

“A mystical beast Nyxterosi parents told stories about, to scare the hell out of us when we were children. She drank blood to stay young and beautiful.”

“Must’ve caught her on her off day, huh?” Ravezio snorted and leaned in closer toward the small print at the bottom of the flyer. “She’s wanted for demutomancy and stirring rumors of Cadavros’s return. What’d she have you steal? Blood?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. The Mortucrux. Said to be a mystical and highly coveted vial of blood King Jeret has buried in the bowels of his Solassion palace, in the event of plague. It supposedly offers immunity of some sort.”

“Think there’s any merit to the sanguidin accusation?”

“That would be admitting a mythical beast is real.” Kazhimyr nudged Ravezio’s arm. “C’mon. We need to meet with the captain before sundown.”

“What happens at sundown? He turns into an orgoth?”

“He gets too damned drunk.” Kazhimyr led the way into the dark tavern, trailing his gaze over the motley crowd of villagers with their hollow eyes that watched the two of them, and rough-hewn faces that snarled as they passed.

Even if Kazhimyr had visited the place before, that didn’t mean he was any more welcome.

The scent of ale, sweat, and vomit clung to the air, hitting the back of his throat.

“Godsdamn, chamber pots stink less than this place.” Ravezio held the back of his hand to his nose and cleared his throat.

“Quiet, unless you’d like a bit of sword practice.

” Eyeing the captain in one of the booths, Kazhimyr led the way across the tavern, boots crunching over broken glass and peanut shells.

The old captain’s bulbous belly barely fit between the table and the bench, where he sat with his head slightly cocked, eyelids shuttering.

Already a few drinks in, Kazhimyr guessed.

The two Letalisz sat down across from him, startling the old man awake.

He shifted in his seat, but on recognizing Kazhimyr, he let out a long exhale that stank of rot and ale. “What d’you want?”

Kazhimyr gave a furtive glance around, checking everyone had gone back to minding their own business. “Bloodmark.” The official sealed papers that listed the extent of an individual’s magic, signed by royalty. All mancers, in particular, were required to secure one for travel into Calyxar.

“Can’t help you. The old mage got arrested about a fortnight ago.

” The captain relied on a self-taught mage, who happened to be proficient in creating counterfeit and forged documents so real, they fooled even the strictest port guards, or porthounds, as they were called.

Of course, the blood magic described in the papers wouldn’t have been true.

The guards didn’t look favorably upon the kind of defensive magic that Ravezio and Kazhimyr possessed.

“We have to get to Calyxar. It’s imperative.”

“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to seek out a royal signature.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Look,” the captain said, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “I wish I could help. Could use the coin, but without him, it’s just not possible.”

“Any suggestions?”

“If you know an Elvyniran who happens to have blood ties to the island, some guards will let you pass on that alone. But good luck finding passage on the Qu’brysian Bay this time of year. Water’s too choppy. Even the most seasoned captain won’t chance it.”

“Fuck.” Kazhimyr sat back against the bench with a sigh. They did happen to know an Elvyniran with ties—two, in fact. Probably halfway to the island at that point.

“I need to get out of here before I forget my own damned name.” The captain pushed to his feet, stumbling a step before catching himself on the edge of the table, then plopped down six coins. “Good luck,” he said, giving a hard pat to Ravezio’s shoulder as he staggered off.

Ravezio groaned. “What now? If we can’t sail out of Qu’brysian, we’ll have to travel to Wyntertide.”

“That’s if we can find someone to provide a Bloodmark.”

“I can get you passage.”

A voice from the other side of the booth had Kazhimyr frowning, and he peered around the edge to find a pale-skinned man tipping back a tankard.

Clearly an Elvyniran, given the pointed ears that bore multiple ring piercings and stuck out from his medium-length hunter-green hair, though Kazhimyr couldn’t quite pinpoint his race.

The strange accent, with its sharp elegance, led him to think the stranger might’ve been Valgathyan, but Kazhimyr had never known their kind to lack horns.

Frustrated that someone had overheard them, he turned back on his seat and exchanged a guarded look with Ravezio.

Kazhimyr cleared his throat and nodded, urging Ravezio out of the booth before following him, and the two stood alongside the booth where the stranger sat sprawled over the bench, his elbow resting on his bent knee.

The left side of his lip was also pierced with a silver ring that he ran his tongue across.

Two tankards waited on the table, as if he were expecting them, and he gestured for them to sit. “Please. I insist.”

After a quick glance around the tavern, Kazhimyr slid onto the bench first, not taking his eyes off the stranger, who pushed the tankards toward them. “I order my own drinks, thanks.”

“Of course.” Without diverting his gaze from the two Letalisz, the stranger waved his hand, and seconds later, the barmaid strolled up. “My friends here would like two new tankards. If you’d be so kind as to indulge.”

The woman was nothing but a shadow in Kazhimyr’s periphery, but her unamused “Of course” told him she was troubled by the request.

“I should’ve known better.” The stranger shrugged. “My apologies.”

“Are you accustomed to listening in on private conversations?”

“Believe me when I say, I’d rather not have heard it.

” He sighed, tipping back his tankard and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Sharp hearing is a curse. I suspect finding a good counterfeit bloodmark will be difficult to come by, and should you get caught—the port guards shoot first and ask questions later. Fortunately, I have residency in Calyxar, and I happen to be traveling home.”

The barmaid slammed two tankards down in front of Kazhimyr and Ravezio, and offered a wink to the man across from them, before sauntering off. Gaze trailing after her, Kazhimyr noticed that what few women were present had their attention turned toward the stranger.

“What are your dealings in Susurria?” Ravezio asked.

“Just passing through. Never actually been this far north before.”

“We’re not looking for a traveling companion.” Kazhimyr lifted the tankard, rearing back some at the stench of sour ale, and set it back down on the table.

“You won’t find a mage in all of Nyxteros who can produce a counterfeit as believable as Maelrik. He was sought after by the king for a reason.”

Kazhimyr narrowed his eyes on the stranger. “Well, that’s quite an opinion for someone who isn’t from around here.”

“Been here three nights. Storms in the south kept me holed up here. Small village, you hear things—particularly news of an arrest.” The stranger tugged at one of his pierced, pointed ears, the gesture not escaping Kazhimyr.

He instinctively glanced around, noticing a man staggering out of the tavern.

“And how would you imagine getting us passage?” Ravezio sniffed the drink, crinkled his nose, and shrugged, before tipping back a swallow. He quickly shot forward and spat it back into the tankard—a reaction that Kazhimyr would’ve found amusing, had he not been preoccupied with that tug of the ear.

“It’s an acquired taste,” the stranger said, raising his own tankard for a sip. “In answer to your question, I’m allowed to register three subordinates.”

“Subordinates,” Kazhimyr said, tonelessly. “You’re highblood?”