Page 52 of Vasmora

“An army of the dead.” The thought mesmerized the mage, imagining a time when they walked Aethyria. What a wondrously terrifying sight it must’ve been. No wonder the Solassions sought to eliminate the Corvikae.

Allura knelt beside the leg, running her magnifying glass over it. “How perfectly they come together.” She paused on one long stretch of femur bone. “And look at this.” Through the translucent coating of tallow, the marrow of the bone thickened. “It’s become stronger.”

“Stronger? How?” Rykaia asked.

Allura stood and pointed to the odd coiling of the spinal column. “The head was completely twisted around, as if snapped that way. Perhaps the cause of death. But look here,” she said, indicating a hazy cloudy area of the bone. “This is a bone callus. A stage of healing. Bones do not heal after death, so I’ve no answer as to how. Only what is.”

Dolion lowered his hand, and the bones tumbled to the floor, clacking together to form a loose pile, just as they’d been before. He rested his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths as his muscles shook with the effort of holding the magic steady. “Apologies,” he said, rubbing the ache in his wrist. “My stamina has suffered with aging.”

“No one buries their dead anymore. How can she summon an army, if there are no bodies.” Rykaia certainly made a good point. Aside from kings and prominent mages, the dead were mostly burned in veins.

“There are a number of places where bones still exist. Unfortunately, they’re buried where no one dares to tread. I suppose the gods prefer it that way. An army that can’t die would be quite dangerous.”

Shaking her head, Rykaia crossed her arms. “Why do the gods have to be such cunts?”

“I do not know, but I can appreciate their brilliance.” He lifted one of the fallen bones, noting the callus that Allura had pointed out appeared bigger than even moments ago. “Disease cannot inhabit the dead. There’s nothing to infect. No blood. No living tissue. No brain, or thoughts to control. Nothing to anchor itself.”

Allura took the bone he held, examining it up to the light. “If Morsana raises the dead to balance the living, then what could possibly rival her, to keep her in check, as well?”

Dolion sighed. “That, I do not yet know. But it would have to be something powerful.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ZEVANDER

Blackened timber groaned, flexing with each swell of water that beat against the hull. A steady wind carried the boat at a decent clip across the Australius Channel, but not fast enough, as far as Zevander was concerned. He lay cramped in the small cabin, nothing more than an oversized burlap sack stuffed with straw beneath him, and a wool blanket that reeked of stale tobacco, spilled rum, and sweat. An oil lamp burned where it hung from a rusted hook, damned near begging to catch on the surrounding wood and straw.

The voyage to Luximos seemed endless. He should’ve been resting, preparing his body and mind for Maevyth’s rescue. Instead, his thoughts tormented him with horrific visuals, stirred by every dull thud of the rudder, the metallic rasp of hardware and clank of rigging shackles bringing to mind chains dragging across stone. He imagined her there, in a dark cell, cramped and cold, hungry and exhausted from whatever terrors Loyce sought to inflict on her.

He sat up, careful not to crack his head on the deck beams overhead, as he had a few times already. Restless and tense, he rubbed the back of his neck.

Across from him, a brass pitcher sat out on a small wooden table that’d been bolted to the floor. He poured water into the accompanying tin cup he’d used earlier and stared at the books strewn across the table. Above those, others sat stacked on one of the wall shelves, next to a jar of salted meat and olives, and a brown jug. Medical texts, mostly, with loose sketches of human anatomy tucked inside. He lifted one of the worn leather books from the stack, titled Grimoire Apotheca. Its salted edges had whitened with the damp sea air, the pages within yellowing and stiff. He carefully thumbed through, flipping to a dog-eared page that had him frowning.

A sketch of a hand that bore the same, familiar black markings as his curse had been drawn in quick strokes, with Emberforge Ritual written across the top of the page. Zevander did a quick scan of the notes, which described complete sanitation of blood. High mortality.

“Something I worked on many years ago.” Oswin’s raspy voice drew Zevander’s attention to the stairs, where the man stood holding his pipe. “Didn’t figure you for the nosy type, or I’d have stored it away.”

While his comment was meant to deter him, Zevander thumbed to the next page, which showed bark-like skin, like Branimir’s. The notes there read lichenification due to extreme hyperkeratosis and reduced loxswell enzyme.

“What do you know of the Emberforge?” Zevander asked, skimming over the page.

“Enough to avoid whatever questions you might have.”

Behind his mask, Zevander smirked. “Have you ever attempted it yourself?” he asked, ignoring the comment.

“I may be ornery, but I’m neither foolish, nor cruel.” He limped his way toward the shelves and nabbed the brown jug, popping the cork. A few sniffs, and he tipped it back, his throat bobbing with each guzzle, before he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “The Emberforge is a myth, long dreamed of by mages who feared the end of times.”

“A myth,” Zevander echoed.

“Yes. A myth. The aspirations of madfolk who seek the kind of power men were not meant to possess.” He stared down at the book, a look of resentment flashing over his face, as if it were a cursed object. “In the Agregorian Age, spindling mothers took an interest in it, thinking it was a means to purify their sick and powerless children.” Brows pulled together, he shook his head. “So many babies and children senselessly killed. Didn’t have enough vivicantem to survive the ritual, even if it were possible. Thankfully, the practice eventually ceased,” he said, lifting the jug to his mouth again.

“This is how it originated?”

He tipped back another swill, then held the jug out for Zevander, shrugging when he declined again. “Our annals would say so, but they lie. It was the mortal tribes, the Corvikae, who supposedly performed this ritual without incident.”

The Corvikae. It made sense, considering they were born without blood magic, which Zevander had come to learn was the reason Branimir’s ritual had failed. His brother had already ascended into his powers when their parents had offered him up to the flame.

“What use would the Corvi have for this ritual?” Zevander asked, skepticism slipping through his words. “And how? It requires vivicantem. An immortal vessel.”