Anathema (The Eating Woods, #1)

by Keri Lake

Sablefyre. An ancient element of the gods, forged eons ago in Aethyria’s fiery heart. A single touch could turn a body to ash, and blood to stone.

His appearance was the result of having performed the Emberforge ritual on himself, the same ritual he intended for her son. A rite that only young children were believed to tolerate without any permanent disfigurement, seeing as they hadn’t yet gone through their Ascendency.

And while his resulting deformities weren’t as pronounced as those of Cadavros, they ensured her poor child would never know his true power—because once the black flame entered the body, it destroyed all natural blood magic.

He reached for Zevander, running his finger over the marking on his chest, a curious black swirl that’d seemed to anger Cadavros. On closer examination, there seemed to be words written in ancient Primyrian embedded in the swirl in a way that reminded Lady Rydainn of a wax seal across his heart. Branimir’s lips twisted to a snarl as he whispered the words that stabbed her conscience. “Il captris nith reviris.” What is taken will never return.

I was no more than a few days old when I’d been found abandoned before that cursed arch in a wicker basket, a single black rose upon my chest. No one knew who’d left me there, but every villager speculated that, whoever they were, they must have hoped the woods would eat me, as well.

Emotions I was forced to keep hidden for fear of looking possessed by evil, as girls were often perceived when they felt too much.

I’d learned at too early an age that the sound of a girl’s scream drew nothing more than apathy.

God is Death.

The faint sound of a child’s giggle rose up through the trees in a ghostly reverberation. “Maevyth,” the voice whispered in whimsy, the sound of my name casting a chill across my skin. I swept my gaze over the shadowy tree trunks, recalling a cardinal rule of the forest: never answer to your own name. “God is death,” it said, echoing the words on the paper.

Fucking terrifying

Muscles stiff, I couldn’t move, my breathing hard and erratic as I stared back at him. On his hand, just below the metal shackle, I spied a five stars and moon, the symbol of the old gods, inked onto his skin. His eyes rolled back to terrifying white orbs, which emphasized the dark circles where he must’ve been punched. “God is Death,” the man rasped, and in the next breath, he was ripped away by the Vonkovyan guards.

“The prisoner. When he grabbed you, he spoke strangely. Some are calling it the devil’s tongue.” “He spoke … Vonkovyan. What do you mean? He said–” I paused, not daring to say the words aloud, for fear that she might’ve thought me crazy. I’d heard those words clear as day, though. “Unless he was talking in reverse, that was not Vonkovyan. It was entirely unsettling.”

How tragic that a woman’s worth equated to the depth of a man’s pockets.

What he possessed was nothing incredible. Sablefyre consumed. It drew cravings out of him that he didn’t care to entertain. It was madness in the making. An unfortunate fate. One he’d hoped to spare himself from by collecting the stones that would fuel the most powerful scepter in existence. The septomir–an impressive weapon that Dolion had advised was powerful enough to banish the dangerous black flame from his body.

“A new vision came to me.” Dolion’s words interrupted Zevander’s thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see the man across from him marveling his stones, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Zevander unclenched his hands, noting the deep bloody crescents in his palm. “A forest.” Dolion prattled on, slipping the case of stones into his pocket. “One of thick mist and shimmer. A stone with silver markings.”

“The forest you speak of is Hagsmist. Need I remind you, crossing the boundary is forbidden.” At the end of Hagsmist Forest, just before the land fell into the sea, stood The Umbravale–the imperceptible ward that’d been weaved by the great mages centuries ago. The only portal into the mortal world, guarded by the king’s calvary.

“In order to break your curse, I require the full complement of stones. All seven bloodlines.”

“In my vision, I can see a forest from a bedroom window. An archway made of bones.”

“I’ll caution again, you attempt trickery, and I’ll personally see to it that you know exactly what it feels like to burn from the inside out.”

Angry red flesh surrounded the gash, and the veins branching out pulsed a distressing silver with each beat of my heart. Silver?

I pressed on the corner of the wound, and a thick, black substance, swirled through with what looked like whorls of molten silver, oozed out of it.

Behind the man, I watched Aleysia pad toward her bed, not sparing him a single glance. On passing, she smiled at me. “Oh. I thought you were asleep.” Trembling, I turned only slightly, to see the man still standing there, while my sister approached him from behind. Not an ounce of hesitation in her step. As if she couldn’t see him, at all, she practically waltzed right up alongside him.

“Go, my Darling, unto that place Where magic still exists Beyond the confines of this cruel world As you will not be missed Instead, I’ll find you in a dream Or a wistful plea on stars Hours of suffering no more redeemed For eternity is ours.”

“I also know that the delicate black rose doesn’t grow well in these parts. Our winters are far too cold for its fragile roots.”

This girl is the anathema, a witch, and deserves banishment to The Eating Woods!”

“Adorrifying. And chaotic. I think I’ll name you Raivox.”

“You got sick,” she said, swapping one tin bucket for the next to feed her animals. “For a bit. Fever. It passed after a few days.” “It didn’t pass.” Chickens clustered inside the coop where she tossed cracked corn. “It became a part of you.” “Part of me? What does that mean?” Resting her hand atop the fence, she paused, watching them peck at the ground. “Your blood is their blood now.” “Whose blood?” Nothing she said was making sense. “The dead, Girl.” Huffing, she swapped the cracked corn for a bucket of water and filled a trough. “Blood given for blood taken. Can’t be undone now.” Blood taken. It was then I knew she’d seen me kill and bury the raven. “Your ties with the dead were eternal the moment you pricked yourself on the bone and sealed it with the blood.”

“What do the dead have to do with the raven?” “They guide the soul to the after, and you share its blood now,” she explained, shoving barley straw into a netted bag. “You walk between realms of the dead and living. The world you’ve known, and the one that has remained hidden from you.”

“You want to know what wicked diablerie lies beyond The Eating Woods?” The wood creaked as she slowly rocked in her chair, holding the bowl of the pipe in her palm. “A gateway to another world. I was no more than your age when I ventured into that dark forest.” Eyes wide, I lowered myself to one of the steps to her porch. “You breached the archway?” “Had no choice. Winter was cold, and food was scarce.” Another puff of her pipe, and she upped the pace of her rocking. “My brother and I had chased a rabbit deep into the trees before we came upon the beast. His skin like the bark of a tree. Eyes soulless pools of black.” She stared off as if she were looking at the beast right then. “You see the dead, Girl. But have you ever stared death in the face yourself?”

“If my vision is correct, the mortal I sent you after may be the first, or the last, of the Corvikae bloodline. She may carry the blood of the death goddess. And while I may be many things to many people, I am not the vehicle for mortalicide.”

“You are disgusting. What you’ve done to those poor women … is unspeakable evil. And I’d sooner face death than go anywhere with you.”

Then, as it stood upright, swallowing the last of him, its form changed, its skin and bones shifting like marbles in a satchel. Until, at last, by some twisted evil, it had taken the appearance of Moros.

“She was chased in the woods by a figure. The same one I saw when I ventured to the mortal lands. A man that looked more beast, with his antlers and hooves.” “In the mortal lands, you say?” Dolion looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if it’s possible …” The pensive expression on his face had Zevander’s mind spinning. “You believe it’s Cadavros.” It wasn’t a question. “In my visions, I imagined him returning from the very flame said to have consumed him. Summoned from death. But what if he hasn’t been consumed? What if he was simply denied his power? Stripped of it and banished to the lands where no vivicantem exists? What if he’s been slumbering there all this time?”

“You’re six-hundred-thirty years old.” I couldn’t hide the air of disbelief coloring my tone. “Give, or take, yes.” “How?” Brows raised, he shrugged. “Well, I’d like to think that I take good care of myself.

“I wouldn’t consider reading books in solitary the worst scenario.”

The ashes of our dead protect us in battle, the goddess, in death.

The men with yellow hair and steel weapons came upon us in the night. They sought the vein. But we did not relent. For this land is ours. By the strength of Morsana, we defend it.

From death, we rose. A new generation was born.

“Do you know how the scorpion chooses his mate?” Rykaia whispered in my ear. “Promenade à deux. By asking her to dance.”

“If preventing this plague means sacrificing your life, then I’ve no interest in saving everyone else. The whole world could perish of disease and famine, for all I care.”