Page 41 of Vasmora

Through a door, the bird flew into what looked to be an office with a desk and war table that held a map of Aethyria. It perched itself on one of the upper shelves where the light didn’t reach and from there, Kazhimyr could see Captain Zivant pacing below, hands behind his back, hair askew from having dragged his hand through it.

His pacing came to a halt when General Loyce sauntered into the room, taking a seat across from him, behind the desk. “Why didn’t you tell me King Jeret intended to capture the prince! Do you have any idea how incompetent I looked?”

She chuckled, kicking her boots up onto the desk. “What does it matter? Telling you wouldn’t have changed the outcome.”

“I could’ve brought the news to Sagaerin instead of being informed by his petulant nephew who’s just waiting for the day he can take my position. I could’ve avoided looking foolish!” He raked his hand through his hair. “And then he sends Lord Belthane and the Magestroli to Solassios to negotiate the prince’s release. As if I’m incapable!”

Their conversations arrived as strange echoes in Kazhimyr’s head, like a dream, watching the scene as an observer.

Loyce lifted a nearby blade and pressed the tip of it to her finger, toying with it. “I’m certain he’s more upset that his Letalisz failed to do their job.”

“Speaking of which, Zevander has gone missing.”

She flicked her gaze away, the humor fading. “Zevander is dead.”

“How do you know this?”

Her jaw hardened as if she were holding back her emotions. “He fell into the Great Chasm.”

A look of satisfaction crossed the captain’s face as he sat back in his chair. “Sagaerin will be pleased to know he doesn’t have to execute the traitor, himself. His affections for the boy has always struck me odd.”

“Affection is foreign to you, isn’t it, Captain?” she jabbed.

Zivant cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “I thank you for sending the mimicrow, alerting us to Dolion’s location in Wyntertide.”

Loyce snorted, tapping the broad side of the blade against the palm of her hand. “Dravien would’ve told us anything to keep his pointed little ear from being cut off.” She jabbed the tip of the dagger into the desk and smiled. “I cut it off anyway.”

“You are exceptionally cruel.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“The bloodstones have been retrieved. Dolion and his traveling companions are dead.” The moment the words fell from the Captain’s mouth, Kazhimyr’s chest clenched. Dead?

Dolion, Rykaia, Torryn and Allura.

Pain struck his jaw as he ground his teeth, hands curled to tight fists, while the urge to bellow in rage tugged at his throat.

“They’re rotting at the bottom of the Primmian Sea as we speak,” the captain kept on. “The Magestroli have all six stones. Now they just need to find the girl. I don’t suppose you know anything of her whereabouts?”

“I can’t imagine where the little dove would’ve flown off to,” General Loyce lied, though Kazhimyr couldn’t decide which fate was worse for her. “If she’s here, in Aethyria, I suspect she won’t last long.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this mortal. She did manage to overcome Akmyrios and escape the most powerful gathering of mages.”

“And yet, she bleeds like a mortal.”

Silence lingered between them, Zivant’s suspicion obvious when he tipped his head, raising a brow. “You’re certain you’ve no idea where she is.”

“I’m certain.” She plucked the blade from her desk. “I have no use for a mortal. Diseased vermin is all they are,” she said, waving the knife around to emphasize her words. “But let’s not dwell on trivial matters. You’re here for Kazhimyr, yes?” At the captain’s nod, she continued. “And what will you trade for him?”

The news that he’d be returning to the bastard didn’t surprise Kazhimyr.

Captain Zivant snapped his fingers and an older man, with a long, graying beard, cloaked in the telling purple robes of the Magestroli hobbled into the room. He held out what looked to be a small violet ampoule of fluid, handing it off to the captain who passed it along to General Loyce.

“What is this?” she asked, examining it with a scowl.

“Wolfsbane.”

“Never heard of it.”