Читать книгу Venators: Promises Forged - Devri Walls - Страница 10

KINDRED

Zio’s dress swished around her like the murmuring of moth’s wings. But beneath the elegant costume of a sorceress, a pair of well-worn leather boots laced up to her calf. The soles had once been stiff, but now they were silent. The way she liked them.

Ryker was in his room, cleaning up for dinner. Though she’d used a little magical influence to calm him, getting the Venator from the dungeon to his room without a fight had still been easier than she’d anticipated.

But then, she hadn’t expected the recognition.

Kindred spirits spoke to one another without words and without any initiation on the part of the participants. When she walked into the dungeon, her spirit had leapt out to meet Ryker’s, and his had responded. She’d felt the unexplainable familiarity and had seen the confusion of the shared experience written all over Ryker’s face. It wasn’t often that one found these spiritual kin.

Zio had experienced the phenomenon as a youth. The feeling was . . . nostalgic.

She crinkled her nose in disgust. Nostalgia. A useless emotion employed by the weak. Old women leaned on it to get them through the pain of aging. Forgotten warriors wasted time away, thinking fondly of the old days.

How could the future possibly unfold while clinging to the past?

But worse than the uselessness of it all was that nostalgia began with pleasantness and rose until consummating in pain. Memories long dulled by time would grow clear and sharp as a knife, cutting her heart again. The first twinges of that agony had already begun. She shuddered, physically shaking off that which she did not want to remember, then reached in with the skill of a seasoned veteran and pushed her mind back to the task at hand.

Zio moved through the twisted black-rock halls of the castle toward a room that had once been used for medicine and healing, though she had no need for that anymore. It was now a room where she made her own destiny.

The entrance was enchanted, so Zio held out one hand, whispering a word. The oak door, blackened with stain, swung open. Shelves lined every wall and stretched upward into the second story of an arching dome. Every inch was stacked with bottles and jars, books and scrolls. She’d learned everything from these books, but while they were valuable, she had found far more success working outside the tomes.

In the beginning, the spells had resisted her—somehow, the words themselves had known that the line of her magic wasn’t pure. Infuriated, she’d fought back the way she knew best, trying to force the spells into submission. But brute force proved useless against magic.

Until she’d stumbled upon the old ways.

Magic and creativity were a match long lost to the “purity” of the craft. Wizards were trained in spell and potion work with a religious reverence to use only that which already existed. By resurrecting the old thinking, she’d discovered that spells born of her own mind were far more willing to comply—and always perfectly what she needed.

Zio moved about the room, taking inventory while she waited for Elyria. She picked up a bottle filled with the red tips of a plant that only grew in the Sumhim Valley on the other side of the Blues. She’d been finding success using them in a potion to strip vampires of their will—turning them into very lethal slaves. Unfortunately, these tips were fading to maroon. Once they turned black, they would be of no use. Zio made a mental note to send out for some more.

Next to that was a stone box. She picked it up and gently pushed open the hinged lid. Nestled inside the blue velvet lining was a shiny piece of obsidian the Ranquin volcano had spat out. Finding appropriate obsidian was difficult. This piece had cooled so precisely there was not a single imperfection in the stone to interrupt the flow of spell work. She’d carefully split the stone in half, taking her time so as not to inadvertently splinter the interior. One half was worn by her shifter, Elyria. The other she reserved for Beltran.

The pendants were a work of genius that not even Elyria had seen coming. They prevented a great many things, including her ability to take any shape that would allow escape or to take the form of Zio within the castle confines. But most splendidly, Zio had woven a word into the stone’s makeup. All she had to do was utter it, and Elyria’s heart would stop beating.

There was a rap at the open door.

The shifter, Elyria, had taken her preferred elven form. Her skin was a rich copper, and her silky black hair flowed to the middle of her back. The tips of her ears barely poked through. The shifter’s chosen forms were always beautiful—today her eyes sparkled the unique green of sea foam—but the most breathtaking sight was always that black obsidian pendant glittering at Elyria’s throat.

Elyria caught Zio staring at her neck. She dipped her head, breaking Zio’s line of sight. “You summoned me.”

The shifter had repeatedly been instructed to bow. The minimization of that to a head dip was Elyria’s quiet and constant rebellion.

“I have an errand for you.”

“You always do . . .” Elyria waited a moment too long before adding the requisite, “Your Majesty.”

Zio took a tight breath in through her nose. As much as she was loath to admit it, Elyria was more valuable than anything Zio had owned or conquered—including the very stronghold they stood in. Elyria knew it, too, and the shifter pushed the boundaries because she could. There was a line where death would be warranted, but Elyria knew well that disrespect was not on the other side of it. So she continued with her quiet rebellion and took her nonlethal punishments as Zio dolled them out.

Perhaps, when the day finally came that Zio had rid this world of the scabs against it, she would replace the contents of this box with Elyria’s heart. Zio drummed her fingers against the box in anticipation. Or maybe her eyes—those damned unbreakable eyes.

“Your Majesty?” Elyria pressed. “What did you need me to do?”

Zio said nothing. She placed the box back on the shelf and moved toward the shifter, slowly and methodically, the rustle of her silk skirts the only sound in the room.

Having to stand there like a helpless rabbit tied to a post was one of the few things that got under Elyria’s skin.

Zio paced herself, stepping with agonizing slowness, her eyes fixed on the shifter, waiting for Elyria to squirm with delightful anticipation.

When there was no more distance to close and the shifter had not yielded, Zio slid a hand beneath Elyria’s pendant, raking her nails across Elyria’s chest as she did. Elyria finally shuddered.

Physical contact between Zio and the stone ensured that not just the shifter but the stone itself received her orders. The spell within would not allow Elyria to deviate from the mission in any way. One step to an alternative task, and Zio would be notified.

“The council’s new Venators attacked a pack under the command of a wolf named Cashel,” Zio said clearly. “They managed to kill Cashel and a majority of the pack. My spies inform me several escaped the massacre. I need you to find a witness to the event.” She smiled. “Preferably one that is young and female—the prettier the better. Find the wolf, and bring her to me.”

Elyria looked away, her lips thin and tight.

Zio laughed as she dropped the pendant. “You disapprove?”

“Young and pretty? You wish to secure the Venator through manipulation instead of proper alliance.”

“Manipulation is in your makeup, Elyria. It is what you are. It amuses me when you rise in self-righteousness. I do intend to turn the boy against his sister, but I will do so with cold, unadulterated truth.”

“Truth”—Elyria scoffed—“is but a myth.”

Zio smirked. “You only initiate word games when you want to explain. Go on, then.” She waved. “Translate.”

Elyria’s eyes blazed, and she straightened her spine. “The truth you seek isn’t truth at all. But a slanted, twisted story colored by the views of one who aligns with your purpose. You wouldn’t pull any witness here to convince the boy except one from the pack itself—one who would feel wronged regardless of the circumstances or the justifiability.”

“Reality is a construct—it is nothing but stories—we move through life choosing which ones to believe. It has been this way since the dawn of time.”

Elyria lifted her chin in defiance. “Maybe he will see through your stories, this Venator boy.”

Zio backhanded Elyria hard enough that she fell to the floor, one hand on her flaming cheek.

“You have overstepped—again.” Zio looked down at her shifter, pleased with her domination. “And you give the boy far too much credit. Silen has his scouts out. You are not to be recognized. If this task is not performed to the letter, the consequences will be devastating.”

“How many times will you threaten my death?” Elyria snarled from the floor. “Until I happily do it for you?”

“It doesn’t matter how many times I threaten.” Zio crouched, looking Elyria in the eye. “Because you don’t want to die.”

“Perhaps that is exactly what I want. You don’t know me, Your Majesty.”

Zio leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Something, or someone, drives you onward, Elyria—one day, I will discover what it is. But until then, you are going to continue to do what you need to do and say what you need to say to ensure that your heart continues to beat.”

Zio stood and reached into a small pocket that had been sewn into the folds of her dress, withdrawing a small gold key—one of six in existence. She held it out. “And that is all I need to know. Take the portal.”

Elyria gathered her feet beneath her. Her eyes swirled like storm clouds.

Zio smirked. Elyria could morph her physical form into whatever she desired . . . but her eyes always betrayed her.