Twenty-Two #2
“Let us wash away the mirages and be as we truly are,” Zeverin said at the same time his magic erupted.
A wave of heat rushed outward from his body in a display of brilliant flecks of red and orange.
They flowed through the room, crashing into bodies and the house itself before dissipating into nothing.
Being thrust under his magic was like being raked over coals.
My skin flushed as a raging fire roared to life from somewhere deep in my bones.
Slamming my eyes shut, I bit down hard on my tongue and swallowed the scream that was trying to wrench free from my lungs.
Every inch of my skin was painfully tight, and just when I thought I’d burn from the inside out, the fire died.
A cool shiver settled over me, and I slumped back in my chair.
And that’s when I felt it. Death.
My eyes flew open, and I gasped. Gone were the pristine walls with ruby veins.
The stone was mottled with blight, with trails of yellow loam and dripping black ooze.
It slipped through the slabs and pooled along the floors, ate away at the rafters and clung to the furniture.
The scent of decay was so strong I nearly gagged.
But that was only the beginning. An Ever near him stood from her seat and raised her glass of wine in toast. “In the name of tradition,” she called, bright and clear. And then she let her glamour fall away. All of it.
One by one, the Evers followed suit, removing their glamours and revealing the true nature of their blight-ridden forms. Sloughed skin.
Pitted limbs. Pustules and wounds. Even the Waterstones and Zeverin himself complied.
He was somewhat healthier than the rest, with only a few visible pockets of infection lining the sides of his neck.
It suddenly made sense to me why the attendants had fled.
The risk for infection was far too great.
The air was so unbearably thick with the stench of rot and the promise of demise that it took everything within me to keep my healing power at bay.
But it surged through my veins regardless, begging to be released, and I grasped the edge of the table as my breath hit fast. I couldn’t fully wrangle it.
Moonlight began to blossom from my fingers, and I knew my eyes would be doused next.
“What do we do?” Seville muttered.
Rorik cursed. “We fall in line.”
Twin onyx horns had burst through his hairline, tousling his locks.
His beetle-black eyes were tight, his lips peeled back in a snarl as his sharpened fangs looked ready to tear into Zeverin.
With the slightest shift, he adjusted in his seat so his hardened black-and-gold wings could fall through the hollowed-out back of the chair—something I realized must have been a common design to accommodate the possibility of wings.
While I knew there was blight hidden beneath his clothes, there was none on display for the room to see.
And, of course, there were his threads. Healthy and vibrant and twirling around him like ribbons in the breeze.
But he wasn’t the only one. Threads upon threads unfurled before my eyes as I surveyed the room of Evers.
Some strands were sharper in color than others.
Almost all of them were drenched in the black sludge of blight.
They hung listlessly in their auras, barely twitching.
Some desiccated strands even dusted to ash.
A small cough sounded beside me, and I rounded my gaze on Dermon.
A lump hardened in my throat. His power had been ignited, too, but it was undeniably dull in comparison to the throbbing light pulsating from my limbs.
Where I was a full moon shining over an open plain, Dermon was a pale slice of light diffused by water.
Soft. Weak. My gaze immediately snapped to the space surrounding his body.
I’d never witnessed another threadmender’s life threads before.
They shared the same hue as his magic, but the number .
. . a handful. No more. He was closer to death than any Ever here.
And all at once I knew exactly why Zeverin had done this.
It wasn’t for harmony or shedding pretense—any Ever could peer beneath another’s glamour—it was for the sole purpose of showing everyone just how healthy Seville and Rorik were.
And for directly comparing my abilities with that of his own weakened threadmender.
No one else could see our threads, but they could see our outward glow.
They could see the strength of my magic that had been bolstered by Rorik’s heartbond.
“Lovely,” Zeverin said, his rolling voice echoing loudly and jolting me in place. His fiery gaze never left me. “Now, let’s eat.”
He strolled right past, effectively drawing the attention of all the guests directly to us.
Shock filled many of their expressions; others, curiosity.
But the worst? Pure, ravenous hunger. My heart thundered against my rib cage.
I sank farther into my chair, desperately trying to get a handle on my power and failing.
Tingling started in my fingers, and I balled my hands into fists as dots danced across my vision.
“It’s okay,” Rorik said beneath his breath. He grazed my knuckles with his fingers and made a show of reaching past me for a platter of roasted venison, hiding the tender moment from view. “We’ll figure out what to do later. Just play along for now.”
Nodding once, I wrangled my panic into submission and forced a round of several deep breaths while he filled my plate with food.
Conversation bubbled around us as the guests eventually went about eating and drinking, and soon the weight of their stares lessened.
Seville was engaged with a guest beside her, and Rorik was silent in the seat beside mine.
His gaze, however, never stopped moving.
Even though he wore a lax demeanor—reclined in his chair, wineglass cradled in his hand, bored expression hiding the tension building down our heartbond—I knew he was cataloging the room, assessing potential threats. For a beat, I did the same.
Despite the obvious surprise that came with Zeverin stripping everyone of their glamour, the guests seemed to accept this “tradition” at face value and were happy to simply continue with the evening.
Laughter turned boisterous with the help of alcohol, and the decanters were quickly drained as glass after glass met the peeling lips of rotting Evers.
It was bizarre to watch them eat and drink—especially the ones where blight had gnawed away at their faces.
In some cases, Evers were missing entire portions of their jaws or cheeks.
I could see bits of food between strings of sinew and tendon as yellow teeth mashed venison and greens into a pulp.
My stomach knotted at the sight, and I pushed my plate to the side.
“That was eventful,” Dermon said. He’d dished a small amount of sautéed mushrooms and asparagus onto his plate, along with a thin slice of meat.
He chased his food around with his fork, finally spearing a bite and twirling it before his eyes.
“I’m surprised you’re as healthy as you are, given you’ve mostly healed those two. ”
“Healthy is relative,” I muttered. Pain flared behind my eyes, and I pressed two fingers to my temple. Being around this much blight was like a hammer to the skull. Every fiber of my being was calling for me to heal, and I was staunchly denying it. The strain itself was enough to make me vomit.
“How did you manage it, by the way?” Dermon said with a nod. “Zeverin has gone through more threadmenders than I can count, and I even have the records. They all died just to salvage a few of his life threads.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t tell him the truth: that I’d bonded with Rorik and gained magic I’d never dreamed of. So instead, I settled with “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that same question since the day it happened.”
“I see.” Dermon’s eyes traveled around my frame before he met my stare. “Do you want to know?”
“Do you?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Me neither.” There was no sense in brooding over my shortened lifespan.
“What a life,” Dermon said with a sigh, abandoning his food and reaching for his wine. “Never thought I’d end up here with these assholes.”
“I take it you’re not fond of your employer.” A sense of ease settled some of the nausea roiling in my stomach. I wouldn’t go as far to say that I trusted Dermon—he was still employed by Zeverin—but it was rare to find another threadmender. There was solidarity in that, I hoped.
“You’re the first I’ve met, but I imagine it’s the same for any threadmender who’s ended up in Evers’ hands,” he said. “They’ll drain us dry without a second thought if it means they can live a little longer.”
My headache throbbed. If Zeverin didn’t replace the manor’s glamour soon, I’d be in a world of pain. “If only we could cheat death like the first Ever did.”
“Please,” Dermon scoffed, then took a long drink.
Sweat had begun to dampen the collar of his button-up shirt, and I spied a tremor racing through his fingers.
His power would be doing the same to him as it was to me.
“That fairy tale is like gospel in this place. But let me tell you, in all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen this famed blade the First supposedly used to bring Death to his knees. ”
Of course not. Why would they let a threadmender in their personal vault, especially one who so clearly despised them? Ignoring the wine, I reached for a glass of water and sipped lightly. My stomach revolted at the liquid, and I clenched my jaw tight.
Dermon tipped his head to the ceiling and continued when I didn’t respond. “It’s a secret she took to the grave, if the attendants’ gossip is to be believed. All I know is I’m glad there’s no cure.” He rolled his head to the side, and his pensive gaze bored into me. “Right?”