Page 37 of Vasmora

Ignoring her, he strapped another blade in its holster at his chest, before unwrapping the bandaging at his forearm where he’d busted the bone. Smooth, healed skin met his fingertips as he ran them over what had been a nauseating wound only days ago. The vivicantem Dolion had given him seemed to have sped his healing twice as fast.

He inhaled a deep breath, no longer stifled by the agony of his broken ribs, either. He felt good again. Whole. A thought that quickly faded as soon as an image of Maevyth flashed through his mind.

Rykaia lifted a hatchet from the table where he’d laid all of his weapons and plucked her thumb across its edge. “How do you suppose you’ll kill her, this general? Bleed her out slowly? Chop her head off? Or do something utterly boring like stab her in the heart?”

Zevander smoothed the black, leather gloves over his hands. “Stabbing her in the heart would do nothing. She’s enchanted. She can’t be killed easily.”

Fully strapped with weapons, he spun around and headed toward the door.

His sister trailed on his heels, as usual. “Then, how in the gods do you plan to do it?” she asked after him, as he made his way down the corridor, his swift pace a measure of his impatience. “Please tell me it’ll be slow and painful.”

“Effectively,” he said, reaching the staircase to find Dolion and Allura standing in the foyer.

“Effectively,” Rykaia mocked. “You’re absolutely no fun when you’re singularly focused. This is therapeutic, Brother.”

Zevander didn’t bother to respond as he silently shook his head, his mind too focused on how best to infiltrate the general’s lair. One of the weapons at his hip clicked against its hard leather sheath as he descended the stairs and he tightened the strap with a rough yank.

“Feeling well?” Dolion asked.

Zevander gave a terse nod, every question an irritating distraction from his thoughts. “How far north can you cleave me?”

“Corvus Keep. Unless you’d like to chance the Veritian Mountains.”

Proper cleaving required having been to the destination at some point, to be able to visualize the location clearly enough in the mind. “Have you never been to Luximos?”

Dolion sighed and shook his head. “King Sagaerin had a very skilled haemsect remove my ability to cleave anywhere in Solassios. He worried I’d share secrets with King Jeret.”

Zevander rubbed a hand down his face. “There’s a small village north of the keep. Think you can cleave me there?”

“That one’s a bit vague.” The old mage stroked his long, white beard. “Haven’t visited Stonetide in centuries. Not since I was a young man. But! What’s the worst that could happen? You’d end up at Corvus Keep and have to fight off a few Carnificans, yes?”

“Let’s try to avoid that, if possible.”

“Yes, of course.” He chuckled, patting Zevander on the back as the two of them crossed the foyer for the door. “Once in Stonetide, you’ll find a cabin where an old healer lives. He cured me of a blood disease I had as a young man–very skilled mancer. Used to be King Jeret’s personal healer and a good friend of my father’s. Mention the Gervarys name and he should be able to help you find passage across the Australius. From there, it’s about a five-day journey across the channel to Luximos.”

Urgency pulled at Zevander’s ribs. A lot could happen in five days.

“Don’t you worry about Maevyth,” Allura chimed in. “She has strength in her bones. Magic, or not.”

Zevander tucked that thought in his head, as he swung open the entry door to Eidolon’s vast property and found Obsidyen tacked and ready, Torryn grappling with the reins as the stubborn horse tugged and whickered.

“Thought you might want to head out quickly. Found the infernal bastard devouring a rabbit in the stables.”

The blood of his kill still dripped from the horse’s exceptionally long incisors and he settled, as Zevander strode up to him.

“Thought he’d abandoned me, as long as it’s been since I’ve seen him.” Zevander ran a hand down the horse’s sleek coat, noting a restless trembling in his arm. A thrum of tension that Obsidyen must’ve picked up on when the horse whickered again, nodding his head with excitement.

“Didn’t much like being saddled. Ornery cunt tried to kick me.”

“Wouldn’t want your hands on me, either.” Zevander adjusted the buckles of the cavesson, which felt a bit too snug. “Probably rougher than a whetstone,” he said and Obsidyen whinnied, as if laughing at the jab.

“These are working hands. Man’s hands.”

Reeling his mind back into focus, Zevander gave a light pat to the horse’s neck. “I’m afraid I’ll be journeying alone, this time, friend.” He turned to Torryn. “Take care of him for me.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Torryn raised a brow. “So long as you promise to return.”

“He’ll return.” Rykaia pressed the broad end of the hatchet she still carried against Zevander’s chest. “Or I’ll hunt him down myself.”