Page 46 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

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 the counter-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. ”

Kazhimyr exchanged a confused glance with Torryn.

“I believe this glyph is precisely what Cadavros has wanted for centuries. It makes sense now, why one as power hungry as he never seemed to take an interest in the stones, or the septomir. He sought something more powerful. More destructive.”

“Are we talking about the dead Magelord?” Torryn asked, scratching the back of his head.

“He isn’t dead.” Kazhimyr crossed his arms over his chest, attempting to absorb Dolion’s explanation. “He was banished to the mortal lands.”

“Little chance of him tracking down a glyph in the deadlands.” Ravezio stroked his jaw, also confused, judging by the crease in his brow as he stared back at the wall.

“He’s known of this glyph for quite some time. I suspect it’s the reason he subjected Zevander and Branimir to the black flame.”

“All that in one glyph?” Torryn blew out a breath. “Sounds like a lot of power for one person.”

Dolion ran his finger across the page of his book and jotted another note on the wall. “Wielding this glyph requires the ability to summon sablefyre. And if my estimates are correct, it is powerful enough to bring down the Umbravale.”

“If the Umbravale falls, whatever lives in the deadlands can cross freely.” The concern in Ravezio’s voice trembled with the same dread that had Kazhimyr’s chest clenching.

“Yes.”

“What about the chasm?” Torryn asked. “How would those in the deadlands cross it? I thought the Umbravale bridged both worlds”

Shadows gathered in the hollows of Dolion’s face as a grim veil darkened his expression.

“There would be no chasm. The trench that separates both worlds is a construct of the Umbravale. Without the Umbravale, there’s no barrier to prevent their crossing.

This is precisely why the mages, even myself, sought out the bloodstones.

To keep that barrier intact. Unfortunately, King Sagaerin destroyed the old septomir, the only means to strengthen it. ”

“That never made sense to me.” Torryn scratched at his jaw, the look of confusion still clinging to his face.

“It never made sense to me, either. But for centuries, mages have been taught that the very tool used to construct the Umbravale could also destroy it. We were wrong, though. It’s capable of weaving a very powerful and protective barrier.

But this glyph?” Dolion pointed back to the symbol on the wall.

“It would cause irreparable damage. Imagine a power capable of destroying entire races of Aethyrians.” Dolion paced, scratching at the back of his head.

“ Competent mages have wielded sablefyre for centuries, but no mage in existence could possibly master this glyph. Not without undergoing the Emberforge ritual.”

“Has anyone ever tried?” Torryn ran his finger down scratches carved in the wall and frowned.

“Yes. Cadavros himself has tried. The only person who has ever survived such a thing unscathed? Is Zevander.”

“Zevander possesses this glyph that has all these strange counter-magics you’ve scribbled across the walls?” Kazhimyr trailed his gaze over them again, his eyeballs damned near bouncing between all the details written in tiny lettering.

“He doesn’t possess it yet. And thank the gods for that.”

“Where is he now?” Kazhimyr asked.

“Right where Cadavros has wanted him all along. In the mortal lands.”

“Perfect.” Kazhimyr rubbed the back of his head.

“Sablefyre infused by the essence of these destructive forces would wreak havoc on the delicate threads that hold that barrier together.”

“Sounds to me like Zevander would have the upper hand in this case.” Torryn snorted, crossing his arms again. “Have you seen his scorpions? Felt the flame? I don’t even like standing near the bastard when he’s casting.”

“Cadavros is not a foolish man. He ensured that he cannot be killed without consequence, by blood-binding himself and our own Prince Dorjan to a deadly plague. One not seen in over two millennia.” He pointed to a rotting tree symbol. “The black pestilence. Brought about by the god, Pestilios.”

Kazhimyr froze. “Dorjan? Are you aware that Dorjan was taken prisoner by King Jeret?”

Dolion’s eyes squeezed shut, and all the steam powering his frantic movements seemed to fizzle out, as he slumped in the chair closest to him. “If Jeret kills the prince, then we are, as they say, truly fucked.”

Once again, Kazhimyr’s eyes drifted over the mess of scribbles and images on the wall.

While Dolion had a reputation of being mad and a bit fanatical about his visions, he was respected by Allura, which gave him a small bit of credibility, as far as Kazhimyr was concerned.

“Can this god, Pestilios, get through the Umbravale?”

“I don’t know. Pestilios is a lesser god. It’s possible the Umbravale is strong enough. So long as he doesn’t turn Zevander onto his cause.”

Torryn shook his head. “See, I never understood gods. You kill off everything, you’re left ruling over nothing.”

Dolion scoffed. “He doesn’t intend to kill off anything. Death is merciful, after all. He wants to build an army and enslave anyone who opposes him. The annals have always described Pestilios as craving immense power. And I believe he’s chosen Cadavros as his corporeal vessel.”

Torryn groaned and crossed his arms. “In layman’s terms, old man.”

“The gods cannot take physical form. So, they choose a vessel. Or, as the case may be with Cadavros, the vessel chooses them.”

Kazhimyr huffed, bracing his hands on his hips. “If Zevander gains possession of this glyph, he could destroy Cadavros’s blood magic, right? Doesn’t have to kill him and unleash a plague, he can just wipe out his bloodline?”

Dolion flipped through the book in his hands, running his finger down the page, until he stopped. “No.” He turned the book to face Kazhimyr, pointing at a name on the page.

Alastor Calzareth - spindling.

“Who is this?”

“The name given to Cadavros at birth. Took a bit of digging on my part. The mage certainly didn’t make it easy to track down.”

“A spindling?” Kazhimyr scoffed. “Balls of Castero, how did he manage to become Magelord?”

“That is a question I’m afraid I cannot answer.”

Kazhimyr trailed his gaze to the next line reserved for siblings, to find Melisara Calzareth - unknown . He knew that name. As rare as it was, he wondered if it might be the disfigured woman who’d hired him to track down the mortucrux all those years ago. “That’s his sister?”

“So it seems. Whether she’s alive, or not, is another question.”

Kazhimyr shifted his attention to the enormous drawing on the wall, wondering how anyone could possibly master all those details. It seemed the mind could never possibly capture its intricacies. “A glyph that powerful would require quite a bit of vivicantem, it seems.”

“It would.” Dolion shuffled over to his calculations, nothing more than erratic scribbles that Kazhimyr couldn’t begin to decipher.

“It’s a crude calculation, but the energy required to eliminate a ward the size of the Umbravale is beyond what our bodies are capable of producing.

Zevander has the advantage of the flame, but even when I factor in temperature and force, and all the coefficients, the result is the same.

The amount of vivicantem he would need to ingest is extraordinary.

It would require a delicate balance to the energy he expends.

Too much, and he would suffer toxicity.”

“And become a Carnifican?”

“Or worse. Too little, and the power of that flame would consume him entirely.”

“Death?”

“Annihilation. I imagine, the longer he stays in Mortasia, the more his vivicantem is depleting.” Dolion sighed and snapped the book closed, setting it on the table beside him.

“Perhaps he might return on his own, but he won’t leave without Maevyth.

I’ve not said anything to Rykaia, or Allura, yet, but I’m setting off for the mortal lands in the morning.

I feel the need to atone for my grievous lack in judgment. ”

“I’m going with you.” Rykaia stepped into the room, the dark circles beneath her eyes not quite as pronounced as Dolion’s.

“Respectfully, no. I promised your brother I’d keep you safe. If he happens to acquire that glyph, I suspect I’ll be his first victim, should he find out I placed you in peril.”

“I don’t care. He’s my brother.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Kazhimyr battled back. “Neither is Dolion. You’re both going to Calyxar, as planned. Ravezio and I will go after Zevander. He’s the reason we’re here and not rotting in the Solassion mines.”

A look of conflict crept over Dolion’s face. “The state of Mortasia is unknown. The journey could be incredibly dangerous.”

Kazhimyr sighed. “That’s essentially every day of my life.”

“I’m not weak.” Rykaia scowled, her voice carrying a steel edge of defiance. “I can help.”

Torryn shrugged. “I’m not weak, either, but you couldn’t pay me enough coin to set foot in the mortal lands.”

Dolion gave a sharp nod. “Very well. It’s settled, then. The two of you will travel to Mortasia. Torryn and I will accompany Rykaia and Allura to Calyxar. My hope is that he’s found Maevyth. She’s a critical piece in all of this.”

“How so?”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, “I believe she’s the only one who can keep him from slipping into madness.”