His beta could be impulsive and unpredictable, but Kumo had grown sensitive to Zaethan’s moods. Seeing the warning in his alpha’s eyes, Kumo altered his tone.
“Did one of the little nasties crawl up your behind during our tussle?” he teased mischievously. “Those bites can get ugly—not so good for charming court yancies.”
Zaethan shuddered. Grass-nasties were small, ugly, six-legged creatures whose bites burned like the rumored fires of the depths.
“Uni, I distinctly remember the time you dumped a handful down my breeches. I don’t recall your being so thoughtful about the aftereffects ten years ago,” he clipped back, feeling his own lips quirking.
“Eh, kàchà kocho,” Kumo said noncommittally before he winked. “You weren’t so good-looking ten years ago. But you grew into that nose eventually.”
Zaethan gathered the reins and prompted Hellion to lead them out of the clearing. It was a stretch he and the stallion knew well, for the tail end of the Khan River beckoned a variety of game to her banks. The richly scenic ride along the edge of her waters, where pebbled offshoots fed neighboring flora, was his favorite trail apart from the one home to Faraji.
Hellion snorted in acceptance of the command, exuberant to move again. Zaethan had trained dozens of their revered Andwele mountain stallions, but this beast was the most feral he’d ever handled—far more wild than his twin sister, Harmonia. Breeding a set of twin Andweles was unheard of, and he’d intended to gift the male to the crown prince five years ago as Darakai’s offering upon Zaethan’s Ascension, following tradition. But even the most experienced riders struggled to hold dominance over Hellion—hence his naming—so Zaethan decided to give Dmitri the female, as the mare was significantly easier to manage. The prince had readily preferred Harmonia to her twin after witnessing Hellion’s violent temperament firsthand.
Throughout the hours of riding, the clouds overhead rearranged to paint the evening’s backdrop. Blushing skies streaked with splashes of citrine cast a warm glow over the open landscape. Zaethan pushed Hellion to run to the stallion’s content, lowering his upper body to rest along Hellion’s impressive frame, unifying them. He felt beads of perspiration escaping from under the horse’s steely mane, a match to the sweat trickling down his own brow. It was proving a warm spring, though nothing compared to the hot, stuffy air Bastiion harbored.
He needed this. This rush, this escape. Whether natural or created by their momentum, Zaethan savored the wind beating against his skin. It would be another age before either of them could have this, and somehow, the onyx beast sensed it, too. The angry stallion, his likeness in spirit, craved the same taste of abandon.
Zaethan didn’t know when they’d be able to feel such freedom again in the coming months, especially once she came. Ensuring the crown prince’s safety against her sorcery would overrule every personal desire once the al’Haidren to Boreal crossed their city gates. When they last met, she’d been too young to wield her unnaturalness against them, but her second coming would not be the same.
Closing his eyes, Zaethan tried to forget hers.
Zaethan’s pryde reached the inner Proper as Owàa bade his farewell and conceded to Àla’maia, his lover the moon.
Familiar scents from the market filled his chest as they rode through the streets: fine jasmine and bergamot mixed in a sickening cocktail with the stale aroma of butcher slabs. The distinct odors of old produce and imported drink mingled in the clouds of smoked pipe marrow escaping from dirtier, less frequented tents. Zaethan despised these smells, which told a story of waste and addiction, cheap trade and desperation.
This was Bastiion, the heart of Orynthia. The realm’s crown city, fueled by a commerce that was equal parts luxury and rot.
Regardless of Zaethan’s disgust for Unitarian custom and livelihood, the Proper was a home of sorts. Dmitri was here, and as future king, here he would remain. Over the years, the prince had grown closer to a brother than a charge, and regardless of Zaethan’s wish to escape what—or rather who—thrived in Bastiion, he had vowed to keep his oath to never abandon his oldest friend. Two yancies—rich Unitarian noblemen—crossed the street, each towing a pair of night-callers on their arms. The young women, faces painted with immaculate artistry and bodies draped in exotic textiles, laughed sensually with their benefactors. Their feminine chatter suggested a mutual pleasure, when the transaction couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Eh, Jaha! It’s been a while, no?” a throaty voice called from a crooked alley to their left.
Zaethan twisted in his saddle toward a woman wrapped in layers of ruby velvet, tailored to exaggerate her figure to perfection. Her lips parted slightly as she encouraged the material to fall down a bronze shoulder.
“How ’bout you men come see me tonight?” she proposed, her tone sultry. “I’ll make sure my girls show you extra love…extra papyon, yeah?”
“Salma. You’re looking lovely, as always,” Zaethan offered with an easy grin. “Unfortunately, I am otherwise engaged. Perhaps you can comfort Bastiion’s lonelier souls—a pitiful yancy has more coin than my poor Darakaian pryde.”
Every man in the Proper knew Salma Nabhu and, likely, most of her staff. She’d been the matron of The Veiled Lady for over a decade, and her decadent establishment was one of the most popular in the city—as were the many darker services it had to offer
“Uni, but none of the rich yancies look like you, Jaha,” Salma taunted.
The woman was old enough to be his mother, but Zaethan welcomed the sound of home. Pretty thing, she liked to call him. It was a useless seduction, yet hearing the broken Andwele roll off her tongue was a bittersweet memento of the mountains he’d not seen in months.
“You come see me soon, yeah?” she urged as they passed. “You bring me those eyes. Even Madam Salma gets lonely sometimes…”
With a final wink, she disappeared back inside The Veiled Lady. Music floated from the windows of the night den, though their thick garnet curtains hid Salma’s patrons from the eyes of Bastiion’s penniless voyeurs.
“A veiled lady indeed.” Zaethan chuckled.
He’d always liked Salma; she was an exception to the norm among those of her profession. Granted, her success was far from surprising when one considered how Unitarian ancestry colored her dewy skin and vibrant, hazel eyes, haloed by the tightly coiled raven hair that came courtesy of her southern heritage. Even past her prime, she stood out in crowded Marketown.
Darakaian cross-castes scarcely made a decent life in the Proper. The product of two Houses, cross-castes were unrepresented by the Ethnicam and without a seat at the table of the Quadren. Those of any origin claimed little to their names and even less in their pockets. The lucky ones found a glimmer of normalcy in trade or shop work, while the unlucky were often sold to the highest bidder.
Salma’s decision to position herself as the most infamous madam in Bastiion was a sensible gamble. Even Zaethan had to admit her brash candor was like a breath of fresh air in a land of stale aftertastes. Unitarian women of the court were haughty, tight-lipped creatures who used their beauty to ensnare men as politely as they discarded them. Meanwhile, Darakaian females exhibited the opposite extreme: fierce, beautiful warriors who boldly—and, at times, combatively—voiced their wishes. Hence Salma’s universal appeal.
If her invitation had caressed his ears another night, he might have directed the men to accept—Zaethan’s reputation certainly benefited from the exposure. Connections accrued in a smoky game of chance with the city vagrants often proved just as powerful as any alliance built upon a dance card, but he’d thus far avoided personally partaking in Salma’s offerings, much to her dismay. The madam’s selection of professional night-callers was certainly inspired, but acting on a momentary impulse was never the wisest use of her business. Many a yancy found himself owing Salma Nabhu enough coin to teach Zaethan he’d rather it be the other way around. And
as Haidren, the last thing Nyack Kasim would want to learn was that his son had tainted the line by siring an heir at a popular night den.
Besides, if The Veiled Lady housed the only parties receptive to his attentions, then Zaethan wasn’t nearly as charming as he’d been led to believe.
After an hour navigating the city, the pryde finally reached the palace grounds. Zaethan urged Hellion into a large stable connected to the exterior guard house. Dismounting, he stretched out his limbs, which had become tense during the ride through the cramped streets. Then he began the rituals required to ease Hellion into his stall. Running his hands along the stallion’s stunning frame in a series of swirling motions, Zaethan soothed the animal with gentle Andwele whispers. He’d bought Hellion three stall lengths, but the beast still hated being boarded. Perhaps he should incorporate Salma’s methodology and purchase a docile mare.
As he locked the stall, Kumo placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Ahoté. We need to speak,” the beta directed quietly. He knew well that giving orders to an alpha had consequences.
Zaethan released a breath and brushed past. “Whatever it is, it can wait, cousin.”
Ignoring the command, Kumo rushed to follow. Falling in line with Zaethan’s steps, a broad, muscled arm swung out to stop him.
“Doru, Zaeth. You’re upset—what’s wrong?”
Zaethan’s gaze traveled up the heights of the palace and lingered on the small wing of apartments that would soon belong to her. Inside, where she’d do the most damage.
“Word arrived late this morning. The y’siti,” Zaethan spat vehemently, “will arrive by week’s end.”
Kumo’s face went slack, the blood fading from his cheeks.
“Shtàka,” he swore. “Now? I thought the ice-witch Ascended in the summer—”
“We don’t have much time. I need to go.”
“You’ve got bigger problems at hand, Ahoté. The Guard just found another one. This time near the docks.”
“A dead cross-caste?” Zaethan whispered. “One of ours?”
Kumo shook his wide chin. “Ano. Another y’siti mutt. A girl, only eleven years.”
The hazy image of a lifeless child hovered in Zaethan’s mind. Stepping around Kumo, he marched to the nearest entrance and paused, as the matter of the witch would have to wait. Zaethan’s pryde managed the security of the Proper, so he and his beta needed to speak with the sentries right away.
Before retreating into the guard house, he glanced back toward the southern tower. To protect his friend and someday king, Zaethan would soon lock himself inside that stone cage with his father while her threat suffocated any illusion of his independence.
Every gain had a loss.
And he already hated her for this one.
THREE
Luscia
The brilliant midday sun glinted off the lethal angles of the kuerre Luscia held. Light bounced within the luxiron core and drenched the metal in a translucent opalescence, as if awaking it from a mortal slumber.
The sword was perfect in every way.
Luscia lovingly polished it in circular motions while her men finished their meal and allowed the horses to rest. Strategically weighted and diligently sized, the kuerre’s curved blade fell just below her knee when sheathed. Her father had commissioned the piece months ago as an Ascension gift for her, and Luscia couldn’t imagine a more befitting tool to take with her into adulthood.
“It suits you,” Declan commented. His hooded, steely eyes sparkled at her for a moment before he resumed packing the uneaten pieces of meat. “It will bring him honor for you to carry it when we reach the crown city.”
Luscia agreed, smiling in quiet contentment.
She caught sight of Aksel trotting in and out of the patches of sunlight piercing the dense canopy overhead. It illuminated the lycran’s pristine coat of white fur, emphasizing the streak of ecru running from between his eyes to the base of his tail. An ache of gratitude settled in Luscia’s chest as she watched Aksel, who had been another gift from her father. The Clann Darragh knew his daughter well, and the tokens her guarded nature would need to move from one reality to the next.
“Hey!” sounded a frantic voice. Noxolo, sitting a few yards away, ceased digging his long fingers through a shallow satchel and frowned at the small grouping. “Who took my smoked muskrat?”
In answer to the distress contorting the Najjan’s delicate features, Böwen chuckled and gave Noxolo a hard pat on the back. Creyvan, the more considerate of the two, offered him a questionable alternative from his own sack.
“This is a serious offense!” Noxolo shrieked, knocking the jerky out of Crevyan’s hand. “That was fresh from home! My sister Deirdre dried that last batch right before Lady Luscia’s Ascension. Jerky made to go in this belly, for this jaunt!”
Nox marched about their makeshift circle, in hopes of detecting betrayal in their faces. His grey eyes bounced between the suspects, his silvery hair whipping with his hysteric gesturing.
“This belly!” he carried on. “For this jaunt!”
“Shut it, Noxolo!” Declan shouted beside her. “Nobody cares about your sister’s muskrat…or any other piece of game on her.” His square face grimaced at his own imagination.
Luscia laughed openly for the first time that day. It was a witty, if sadly accurate observation, she had to admit. Before that comment, she would have listed Creyvan and his genial brother as their only source of levity. What a relief they were not unaided. Though by the horror that twisted Nox’s thin lips into a sour knot, it registered that only Declan earned his mention on her private list.
“Do not jest so crudely in front of the al’Haidren.”
Luscia’s eyes snapped up to meet Marek’s across the small clearing as the men’s teasing trailed off. His admonishment was spoken to the others, but the look he pinned on Luscia implied it was she who should be dictating the definition of appropriate banter. An almost imperceptible narrowing of his bright eyes suggested that vulgarity was beneath her station.
Luscia concluded that, like Noxolo, Captaen Marek Bailefore would never make her list, either.
It was one of the many reasons she’d struggled to accept him as a potential suitor, despite her father’s urging, and another example of the High One’s unfathomable sense of humor. In Marek’s shadow, other men rarely approached to make any intention beyond friendship known. Most Boreali women, of any age, would’ve been elated to be tethered to the redheaded warrior—after all, Marek was one of the more attractive bachelors in Roüwen. However, Luscia felt that a strong jaw and piercing gaze couldn’t compensate for his domineering tactics and unwanted opinions.
Fortunately, Boreal’s Clann Darragh hadn’t assigned his protégée and favored captaen among the Najjan as Luscia’s sole escort to Bastiion. For that, she would thank Aniell. Luscia was certain that, however much Orien Darragh beamed at the image of them together, her safety must have overruled any ceremonial agenda. Still, she’d long reconciled that a union with the captaen was inescapable. Luscia’s role as future Haidren to Boreal would require she not only make a match to preserve the line of Tiergan, but a powerful one within the boundaries of their reclusive society.
Rebelliously, Luscia wondered if enough crass joking might cause Marek to reconsider just how much nonsense he’d willingly tolerate, and perhaps seek companionship elsewhere. But, as he’d already implied with his pointed look, it was her responsibility to set the standard for decorum. So, instead, she settled for staring imperiously until he lowered his eyes. He would, eventually. The dogmatic captaen might be the head of her private guard, but he held no such sway over the al’Haidren herself, and in such moments, Luscia loved to remind him of it.
“It was probably just the lycran, Noxolo,” Marek stated with finality.
“Don’t blame poor Aksel for the grabby paws of men, Marek,” Luscia inter
jected as she packed the polishing cloth into her traveling case and stood to sheath her kuerre.
As if to make her retort more believable, the menacing wolx growled from his position at her side. Even sitting, his head perched well above her waist. At nearly two hundred pounds, Aksel was massive, even for an Orallach fox-wolf hybrid. His protective instincts had only heightened since crossing Boreal’s border and now showed in the way he bared his teeth at the captaen.
With pride, she clicked her tongue and chided, “Now, Aksel, we mustn’t lower ourselves to the beastly standards of others.”
It was petty, but she was incredibly bored. During the past fortnight of travel, the only occasion Luscia exerted effort to communicate beyond necessity was to stimulate her mind or distract it. Though there’d been no other sign of a threatening presence following them, excess boredom encouraged wary curiosity to drift into speculation about the patched gash down the side of her tent, or the dreams that still haunted her. Thus, being a perplexing product of logic and whimsy, with each trait warring against the other, she could only converse with herself for so long. If one virtue wasn’t fully engaged, the other would prevail, and Luscia wasn’t yet ready for whimsy to yield to cold pragmatism. Pragmatism inevitably sought answers—answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.
Climbing into the worn leather saddle, she dipped her fingers into an inner pocket of the satchel and swiftly drank one of her aunt’s prescribed tonics while the men were distracted by their departure. Her condition having been concealed by family since puberty, she aimed to prevent her next episode as long as possible. Discreetly, Luscia dabbed a drop of the liquid from her bottom lip after the others began to move.
Watching the line of Najjan plunge into the wood, she again felt the crisp, sobering premonition each step toward the House of Bastiion incited. Lifting her chin, Luscia stared ahead, determined to ignore it.
“Noxolo!” she called with renewed cheer. “Tell us more of your sister’s muskrat. Our friend Marek here regularly enjoys game most tend to avoid.”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 3