Page 7 of Vasmora

“He’ll regret it, regardless.” Torryn yanked a blade from its holster at his leg and what looked to be a small, half-carved horse from the leather satchel strapped to his chest.

A hard thump knocked a plume of dust into the air, clanking the tin bucket, as something shifted below them. Could’ve been the ballast, but it sounded shriller, as if coming from the hold. Dolion recalled back in port, where he’d observed six stone sarcophagi being loaded onto the cargo deck. Ones with ornate depictions of the gods carved into the surface, like those often used to transport kings and Magestroli to their tombs.

While nearly all Aethyrians were burned in the sablefyre after death, the bodies of those most powerful were preserved in sarcophagi, in the hopes that the gods might one day resurrect them.

It hadn’t struck him as unusual to see the boxes transported across seas, given many of the king’s mages were both Elvyniran and from Calyxar, like Dolion. It was only the number of them that troubled the mage. Immortality made natural highblood deaths rare. To see so many left him wondering if they’d died of unnatural causes.

“I’m guessing the noises below are those boxes that got loaded.” Of course Torryn had taken notice. It seemed nothing escaped the assassin.

“I suspect they’re secured. It’s what might be inside that troubles me.”

“And what’s that?”

“The sarcophagus serves as something of a reliquary for undead magic.”

“A what?”

“For gods’ sake, did you learn nothing from your tutor?” Rykaia turned onto her side until facing them, the red rims of her eyes hinting at little sleep. “A reliquary is a sacred container, like those the gods used to keep their magic safe when they passed between realms. It’s like a magic bank for the dead.”

“Precisely,” Dolion added, stretching his cramped legs where he could feel the hum of the ward vibrate against the soles of his boots. “Kings and mages are buried with a large supply of vivicantem which allows their blood magic to live on long after death. If they’re Calyxiri, then King Amari would want them returned to their rightful home where their Nexumis can be harvested and studied.”

“Why six, though?” Torryn twisted the wooden horse, scraping his blade’s edge over a rough spot. “Seems like a lot of dead mages.”

“It does,” Dolion agreed. “I can’t help but wonder if King Sagaerin has launched a bounty hunt.”

The crackle of bending timber pulled Dolion’s attention to where the rigging stretched and hissed through the clenched teeth of its capstan, like the winds consumed the sails. He imagined utter chaos on the top deck, given the way the hull rocked and sloshed. While they remained protected from the storm, the shifty looking crew, particularly the one who continued to stare at the women, his lips pulled back for a rotten-toothed grin, left him on alert.

“Distract me from carving out his eyeballs.” Running the blade along the curved line of the horse’s back, Torryn smoothed the jagged edges of his work. Despite being hidden in the depths of his hood, his gaze undoubtedly anchored on the man. “Tell me what happens when the Umbravale falls.”

The destruction of the immortal lands had been prophesied for millennia, debated by Magelords and kings, and yet, for years, Dolion had been labeled mad for his ravings about the fall of it. Had been dismissed from the Magestroli for his visions of blight and ravaging disease. Even then, as they sat apart from the ship’s crew, he felt the need to speak low.

“The prophecy will unravel. Kingdoms will fall. Aethyria will become the same hellscape as the mortal lands are said to be.” It seemed impossible to imagine such a thing, but Dolion’s visions had been so vivid, he could see it in his mind right then. “Our world will fall to famine and plague, and the destruction of every bloodline.”

“Right. And the Magestroli want to prevent this from happening by collecting all the stones?” Torryn asked, gesturing with his blade as he spoke.

“Yes and no. It sounds like an easy solution. Believe me, I once believed so, too.”

“Yeah, I’d almost be inclined to think we and the Magestroli were on the same side.”

Except that the seventh coveted stone they sought was Maevyth.

Dolion jerked his head toward Rykaia and whispered, “Could you easily sacrifice her? If it meant sparing all of us from this destruction?”

Torryn’s hand stilled mid-carve. “Nope.”

“So, you understand Zevander’s dilemma.” Keeping his eyes on the crew, despite them being well out of earshot, he leaned into Torryn and lowered his voice. “Maevyth may be the last of her kind. And the Magestroli were never so altruistic that I’d trust their intentions with the septomir. I don’t believe they care to save us all.”

Torryn nodded, still holding that damned bucket between his knees as he carved away. “Fair enough. Assuming Kaz and Ravezio found the two of them and everyone is still alive.”

“They’re alive,” Rykaia snapped. “Don’t you dare doubt that.”

“They are.” Dolion’s brows furrowed. “Though, I had the most awful dream about Ravezio last night.” The sound of tearing flesh and screams flashed through his thoughts, and he squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to banish the image of Ravezio’s scales being torn away.

“What happened?”

Dolion frantically shook his head, refusing to answer Torryn’s question. Couldn’t have articulated something so grotesque if he’d tried. “A terrible nightmare, is all.” He opened his eyes to see rain and seawater crashing against the window, as the ship rocked harder. A gurgling of unease roiled in his stomach with every rise and fall of the hull, the ocean’s swells seeming to rival the height of the majestic cinderpine trees on land.

“How do you know the difference between dreams or premonitions?” Rykaia asked.