CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
VESPER
Per Arborius’ instructions, Vesper and his comrades left for the Graver’s cave when dawn first shattered the sky. Aside from Rainna and Aelita, who had stayed in Rensburrow, Vesper and the riders all gathered their mounts and set off along with Nef and Kyrith.
Vesper wasn’t surprised they hadn’t found the Graver’s cave previously since it lay tucked into a ridiculously high mountainside, best accessible by flight.
They had spent days planning, arguing, and debating whether the dragon spoke the truth.
After he had revealed the Gravers’ location, Arborius called his daughter to his side, and then flew away, as if he didn’t care whether they believed him.
Since only three days remained before Vesper returned to Ellynne, he would be immeasurably screwed if the Gravers didn’t hand him his answers on a fucking silver platter.
Though Kyrith had insisted Thorrin take her, Vesper could practically feel her gaze on the side of his face. After their encounter with Arborius and her loss of Stiggy, she’d been uncharacteristically quiet, and he feared maybe she’d glimpsed something in the interaction. Something condemning.
Because now she looked like she wanted to sink her claws into him and rip him down the middle to uncover all his rotted insides. To finally see the truth of who he really was.
Probably best she never knew.
Vesper glanced over at Nef as she clung to Dimitri, her cheek pressed into his back and arms around his waist. Gods did she look bloody happy.
He had spotted them together on walks, sharing meals, and Dimitri even taught her how to build a small wooden table, though Nef didn’t appear the least bit interested in carpentry.
But each time Vesper saw them together, dread festered inside him.
Because the sickness would inevitably take her, and it was only a matter of when.
While he had begged her to stay behind and rest, her stubborn nature rivalled Kaida’s.
She wouldn’t listen to him, not that they’d spoken much since they’d arrived at Rensburrow or fallen into bed together, though it seemed her interest in Dimitri played only a minor role in that choice.
The longer he abstained, the greater his soul revived, and he couldn’t let himself slip back into that habit. That vice.
Nef was great; she just wasn’t what he needed anymore.
As they neared the mountain peak, Vesper yanked himself from his thoughts. One by one they landed, then slid from their mounts. When Vesper called Kaida back this time, she returned with a gentle knock to his chest, rather than her usual charge like a rabid bull.
The riders left their dragons’ bones in a heap and wasted no time before they entered the cave. Vesper ripped off his mask and took the lead down the long, steep cavern into the mountain’s depths, the bottom lit by dim lantern-light. Only a few minutes into their descent, the air shifted.
Something didn’t feel right.
A chill snaked up Vesper’s spine as he reached for his sword. Kyrith eyed his fingers on the hilt, her face unreadable under her mask as her hand wandered to the pommel of her own sword. It buzzed eerily, not like the melody it sang when they first met.
Ahead lay a path of stones in red tinged water, that stank of stagnant, old blood. Vesper dared to go first, followed by Thorrin, Nef, and Kyrith. Gaelen and Dimitri took up the rear.
Near the water, Vesper’s curiosity got the better of him and he peered into the depths.
The second he spotted the bleach white of bones scattered along the bottom, voices ambushed him as if they had lain in waiting within the remains.
The strange words, not in his tongue, twined into a smattering of bloody nonsense.
Whatever the voices said, they screamed it.
The voices pressed in, circling and crushing his skull.
It appeared Thorrin, Demitri and Gaelen all suffered from the same insane affliction with their hunched shoulders and slitted eyes.
Nef and Kyrith merely glanced helplessly between them.
Vesper shoved the voices away, clenched his teeth, and willed them to leave him the fuck alone.
As Vesper yanked his sword from its sheath to prepare for gods only knew what ahead, he locked eyes with the wolf skull hilt. It always seemed to stare back and ask, Will you fight or will you flee?
Before, he was never sure.
Now, things were different.
He was different.
The cavern expanded, the ceilings grew high, and walls stretched wide.
But even in the generous new space, the lifeless air stuck in Vesper’s lungs.
Through the center were several structures, their rough, tan exteriors smeared with what appeared to be old blood and wet moss.
Damp soil lay clumped in dark patches, overturned, or perhaps freshly dug.
They looked like … graves.
With the name Gravers, it seemed obvious, but what were they burying? Or digging up?
The group tiptoed over the plots as if a hand would shoot up through the soil and snatch their ankles.
Vesper shivered. Fuck this shit.
As they approached one of the peculiar tents, Vesper studied the tanned fabric that resembled animal hide. He nearly shrieked like a little girl when a figure emerged in a red robe with a hood shadowed face. It joined its hands together, the gesture hidden under its billowy sleeves.
Vesper clutched his sword tighter.
“Ah, visitors,” the Graver said in a wet hiss. “There is no need for such violence. We welcome you.”
As it spoke, Vesper tilted his head to catch a glimpse of the face beneath the hood, and when he did, he gawked. Its flesh, the texture and pigment of aged parchment, sat oddly askew, moving off kilter with its mouth.
Vesper fumbled for words, unable to tear his eyes away. When Thorrin stepped forward, he nearly hollered in relief.
“Good day,” he said. Thorrin laid three of his fingers over his cavae in a formal gesture and bent for a stunted bow.
Vesper kicked himself. Fuck, why didn’t he think of that?
Thorrin’s hazel eyes hesitantly flitted over the Graver’s strange face. “I hope we’re not intruding. We have come for information if you are inclined to humour us.”
The Graver removed his hood and Vesper stifled a gasp as he took in its empty eye sockets that twitched as if they held phantom eyes. The Graver spun and pulled the tent flap aside. “Come.”
Kyrith’s wary eyes met Vesper’s, maybe thinking the same as him. Why did the Graver offer its help so easily? And, like everything, what was the cost?
Vesper’s stomach sank. All of his comrades shared the same helpless look. If this was how they found answers, so be it.
Dimitri clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Put your sword away. We have your back.”
Vesper nodded, and though alarm lingered at the base of his skull, he slid his sword into its sheath.
As they entered the tent, a strange sensation prickled his neck. His instinct screamed not to touch the door, wall, or anything in this fucking hut, so he stood and crossed his arms over his chest, making himself as small as possible.
Animal hides and that same yellowed paper lined the interior of the tent. Some quality about it set Vesper’s teeth on edge, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Only a few pieces of simple furniture decorated the otherwise empty room.
Vesper shifted from foot to foot as he glanced at Kyrith whose jaw was set in a grimace.
The Graver gestured to a series of benches around a square table and everyone sat except himself and Nefeli who stayed at his side.
The Graver stood across from the table from Vesper and cocked its head. Studied him.
When Vesper finally found his voice, he said, “We’ve come for information. We’ve been told you have answers for us.”
“My brothers are preoccupied, but I am of service.” The Graver’s eyes did that strange spasm again, as they examined Vesper’s face. “Lay down your requests.”
The stares of everyone in the room bore into him as he cleared his throat. “What do you know of the permanency of death for those unclaimed by the gods?” The question miraculously came out coherent, even though everything inside him melded in a party of anxiety, sweat, and bloody anarchy.
The Graver reached behind him for a cracked black cup before it strode to the opposite side of the tent and disappeared behind a flap. Vesper met Thorrin’s equally confused stare.
When the Graver returned, it extended the cup to Vesper. A flash of white peeked out under its sleeve, but he couldn’t decipher exactly what he’d seen.
“Bleed then drink,” the Graver slurred. “The remnants of your offering will provide answers.”
Hesitantly, Vesper took the cup and stared into the depths.
The liquid appeared to be plain water, but his fingers found etchings on the side of the cup in a language he’d never paid enough attention to learn; it was likely Sellidic, though it could very well be Calmalian for all he knew.
He traced them as if they would tell him what they meant if he focussed hard enough.
When he looked up, he found Kyrith’s eyes locked on the symbols.
Her lips pressed together and she gave a subtle shake of her head.
But he needed answers.
Or else his future and everything he had ever loved would be taken from him.
He swirled the liquid and grit his teeth.
Blood exchange was rarely a good idea, but if he drank it after it couldn’t be that bad, right?
It wasn’t like he had to slit his wrist and shove it into the Graver’s mouth.
And if he refused, he would let everyone down. Again.
So, Vesper removed a dagger from his belt and slid his glove from his hand with uneasy fingers. He pricked his thumb, but only deep enough to let a few beads of blood fall into the cup. Red tinged the water, then dissipated.
“Drink,” the Graver commanded. It met Vesper’s unsure stare with those empty sockets that now resembled endless, dark tombs.