House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1)

by K. L. Kolarich

  “Well, Deirdre uses a variety of techniques…”

  With a satisfied smirk, Luscia trotted her horse past the successfully mortified Boreali captaen.

  Humidity pressed against her skin like an unwanted kiss. It must have been the hottest day of spring thus far, and Luscia had long since done away with the magnificent fox fur she’d received upon her departure from Roüwen. Her northern brethren refused to waste any aspect of a kill, viewing each as a sacrificial gift from above, and Luscia was usually more than happy to be a recipient of their resourcefulness. Furs were often worn throughout the cool, damp springs of Boreal’s highlands, but the climate had progressively shifted as they descended into Orynthia’s lower elevations.

  Jerking his coat off each arm, Böwen seemed to share her disgust for the weather. In a huff, he shoved the Boreali jacket into a saddle bag and pulled most his chin-length hair away from where it had begun to stick to his cheeks.

  “I don’t understand how the Unitarians endure this soggy, sweltering pit every year,” he grumbled.

  “Ana’Sere, will it be like this the entire summer?” Creyvan asked from behind.

  “Wem,” she confirmed, “though worse, if I recall. However, my only visit was during autumn, to celebrate the prince’s Ascension.”

  Unlike her predecessors, Orien Darragh had shielded his daughter from court life in Bastiion, relying entirely on Alora, the clan elders, and the Isle of Viridis to shape Luscia into their next al’Haidren. During her entire seclusion, there was one sole event in Bastiion that had demanded her attendance: the eighteenth birthday of Dmitri Thoarne, Crown Prince of Orynthia.

  “Do you remember him much, Lady Luscia? Prince Dmitri?” Noxolo inquired, turning in his seat to glance back from the head of the party.

  In truth, her recollection of the experience was vague and admittedly useless. At twelve years of age, Luscia had hardly been politically savvy or socially fluent. Faint memories painted Dmitri Thoarne as being a kind and considerate, if somewhat frail, young man. But he was no longer eighteen, just as she was no longer twelve. Luscia grinned at that. Six years could change a person exponentially.

  “He was very gracious host,” Luscia said, aware of her ambiguity, but it wasn’t as if they’d been royal bunkmates at the time.

  Clearly dissatisfied, Nox reluctantly faced forward, drooping his shoulders dramatically.

  “What of the other al’Haidrens?” Böwen asked. “You must have met them during his Ascension ceremonies.”

  “Introductions were made, though more for formality’s sake than the purpose of actual acquaintance,” Luscia began, attempting to answer their curiosity as accurately as possible. Like her, they too had lived in seclusion most of their lives. “The al’Haidren to Bastiion was pleasant, though often inebriated. Or missing altogether, allegedly seeking company in noble skirts.”

  “Typical,” Declan retorted dryly, riding up alongside Luscia as the trail began to widen.

  She nodded, because it was true. While the Unitarian provinces provided the realm with various goods and reliable crops, Bastiion’s nobility rarely contributed anything besides excessive legislature and needless finery. In their quest for personal fulfillment, Unitarians occupied the remainder of their time in pursuit of the next pleasure, often on a daily basis.

  “What about Pilar?” Creyvan yelled excitedly from the other side. “The Pilarese Beauty is famous, but I heard she has a tongue like a Tavish horsewhip!”

  “Though not as lovely as you, Ana’Sere, of course,” Böwen rushed to counter his twin’s enthusiasm.

  “Tadöm. I’m well aware of my reflection, Böwen, but I do appreciate your reassurance.” Grinning in his direction, she found Böwen blushing behind his short, golden beard, barely longer than a day’s stubble.

  Throughout her youth, Luscia had heard her physical beauty affirmed enough to accept the claims. Her fair eyes, one nearly the translucent hue of the kuerre, were prismatic like the warmed waters of the Dönumn, where the Najjan tempered their sacred luxiron. Tiergan lineage was always self-evident to any who knew to look for it in the eyes. Accented by thick, distinct brows and crisp cheekbones, hers was a fearsome beauty. Glancing down, Luscia noted how the sun highlighted the pale tresses that framed her face like ribbons of bone, a stark contrast against her ferocious mane the color of driftwood.

  Even from afar, the daughter of Orien Darragh was unmistakable.

  The Najjan favored women who bore sparks of Boreal’s otherness, so they celebrated a woman who appeared as hauntingly beautiful as their homeland. Yet Luscia was no longer in Boreal, and she wouldn’t blame the eastern Unitarians if they didn’t share that same appreciation. At best, she imagined they might classify her northern features as striking. At worst, rather unsettling.

  “I can’t attest to the rumors, Creyvan,” she said at last. “Frankly, the al’Haidren to Pilar avoided me like war-taint.”

  Which was probably a blessing, Luscia added silently.

  From their brief encounter, she had surmised the western al’Haidren to be a perfect reflection of Pilar; cultured and steeped in snobbery. The House of Pilar operated as Orynthia’s center of learning. Devoting their lives to discovery and advancement, their shotos spent years studying and debating topics most in the realm couldn’t begin to comprehend. While Bastiion’s Peerage of Nobility functioned as Orynthia’s political network in the foreground, Pilar’s Shoto Collective supported it from behind a curtain of bribery and deceit. Backed by an economy stocked with rich mariners and continual profit from naval contracts, Pilar had become the wealthiest of the outer Houses, second only to Bastiion.

  “Well, Darakai, then. Surely you remember that barbarian,” Declan rumbled.

  It was true—Luscia would never forget the Darakaian boy, though she’d certainly like to. She could still hear his melodic laugh at her expense, one that crinkled a pair of eyes the shade of fresh sage. She recalled thinking they were lovely one night, while admiring the way the older boy’s glance caught a flare from fireworks shot across the water. Incredibly lovely, in fact. That is, until he deliberately pushed her overboard into Thoarne Bay. With Luscia’s transition through puberty unfinished, her bones hadn’t yet achieved their unearthly resilience. Her right arm had broken in the fall.

  It had rapidly healed, of course, but that was hardly the point.

  “Briefly and unflatteringly,” Luscia managed. “Ana’Mere swears he apologized, but I doubt there was any conviction behind it. The House of Darakai doesn’t apologize for what they’re proud of—like inbred brutality.”

  The House of Boreal’s opposition to the House of Darakai was expected, and had been constant for many centuries. While both territories prided themselves on strength and their capability in battle, Darakaians reveled in the violence it required. Orynthia’s House of war craved bloodshed like a pack of rabid dogs, and their barbaric doctrine taught Darakai to misjudge Boreal’s self-restraint as weakness, and their ability to heal as mystic witchery.

  “If Darakai is wise, that House will muzzle their ambassador.” Declan’s thumb stroked the exposed hilt of his dagger. “Ana’Mere is more merciful than the Najjan. Unlike your aunt, we won’t hesitate to strike an animal when he refuses to heel.” The promise pinched fissures in his ginger brow, deepening as he stared into the distance.

  A weighted emptiness resettled in her abdomen. Luscia had been trained for this honor, but the partnering burden became heavier with the surrounding air. The House of Boreal needed Luscia, their newly Ascended al’Haidren, to shift a generational bias by navigating a nest of vipers. The Quadren, consisting of one Haidren from each House, operated as the most intimate set of advisors for each Orynthian ruler. The House of Bastiion provided the fourth Haidren in order to offset an inherent bias. Though the royal descendants of Thoarne were also of Unitarian nobility, Orynthian regents could not personally represent Bastiion and still mai
ntain an impartial posture toward the outer Houses.

  Therefore, serving as both the legal and public representative on Boreal’s behalf, Luscia’s seat on Prince Dmitri Thoarne’s Quadren offered her unmitigated influence, as well as unavoidable expectations.

  Being firstborn in line behind their predecessors, ties had already formed in her absence between the other al’Haidrens and the prince himself. She had always respected her father’s choice to seclude her from court life, yet found herself increasingly disagreeing with it of late as she faced the ramifications. Her upbringing had been enriched by isolation but with great consequence. Luscia would be entering the walls of Bastiion essentially blindfolded, unaware of any preexisting dynamics within Dmitri’s Quadren.

  Alora often alluded to hidden alliances between the active Haidrens to Pilar and Darakai, but she couldn’t assume those had been adopted by their successors. All Luscia knew for certain was that the voice of Boreal had become discredited over the years, especially during Alora’s seat. Not a difficult task, if the opposing Haidrens wished to achieve a mutual goal. And so, with the House of Boreal’s reputation now plagued by jealousy, distrust, and wariness, the political road before her would be riddled with unending hurdles.

  Yet that had not always been the case. Though the regents seated on the Orynthian throne had begun to forget their shared history, the bloodlines of Thoarne and Tiergan were as intertwined as the mossy vines encircling the nearest pines. Luscia would have to find a way to remind Orynthia’s prince what had been forgotten, what remained, and what would always be.

  “Ana’Sere.” Böwen gestured forward to a steep, rocky trailhead, where Noxolo halted the line. “Are you ready?”

  She regarded the winding trail that plummeted into the Valley of Fahime, steeling herself for the task ahead.

  “By Aurynth, Brödre.” Luscia squinted against the sun’s glare and adjusted the sheathed kuerre. “Nearly.”

  FOUR

  Zaethan

  Climbing the stairs to the royal apartments, Zaethan gathered his thoughts, the gravity of the coming threat magnifying with each step he took. The lingering voice of the Khan River faded with his memories of hunting boar and quail, replaced by the haunted corners of Marketown.

  Kumo had said it best; the emerging procession of slain children paved the way for the y’siti’s arrival like an offering of blood. Her party was due to arrive in Bastiion within the week, and Zaethan didn’t believe in coincidences. He needed to convince Orynthia’s prince of the same.

  The years of merciless training and discipline hummed in agreement, though he knew Dmitri would have difficulty accepting the witch as a threat to the crown. Despite the laughable accords holding the Ethnicam together, Zaethan would not fail his House, or his king.

  He’d just rounded an ornate landing that opened to a wing of guest suites when a string of girlish giggles reached his ears. The nauseatingly familiar sound echoed off the walls, breaking his concentration.

  Shtàka! Not now, Zaethan thought furiously. With difficulty, he mastered his scowl into a dashing grin, bracing himself for another tiresome exchange.

  A flurry of lavender skirts rustled in his periphery. The heap of fabric belonged to a young Unitarian woman, recognizable by her tan, glossy skin and shinning auburn hair, which tonight sat pinned atop her bobbing head. Fluttering lashes drew his attention—albeit reluctantly—to her large amber eyes.

  “Oh! Lord Zaethan, I didn’t see you! How silly of me. I was just returning from dining. Such a lovely spread!” she announced in her tinkling voice. “You were missed by many, of course!”

  “Ah, Flourette. I’m sure your practiced allure was too preoccupied with your usual victims to register my absence,” was his best attempt at pleasantry.

  He didn’t have time to flatter Flourette Hastings. Nor did he care to.

  “Lord Zaethan! Stop it, you are too charming!” she exclaimed as her palm brushed his arm flirtatiously, too obtuse to hear the barb in his bland tone.

  Removing her hand, which had begun trailing patterns across his tunic, Zaethan reminded himself that insulting the Haidren to Bastiion’s only daughter was not the smartest venture, even when she clearly required it. Zaethan thanked the figurative Fates that her brother, Ira, was Gregor Hasting’s firstborn, as opposed to Flourette. Otherwise, Dmitri would’ve had to draft strict rules regarding physical contact between his al’Haidrens.

  “As much as I’d enjoy discussing all of your colorful thoughts, Flourette—for I’m sure there are many—I must be on my way,” he managed, as Flourette’s face lit up at some compliment only she could find. “Please give my regards to Lord Hastings.”

  Zaethan bounded up the stairwell in escape, only stilling floors higher at his destination. Flourette was an attractive girl, but a vapid one, and he half expected her to come skipping after to assault him with further courtier babble. The last time she’d successfully cornered him was during her own Ascension earlier that winter. She’d pulled him into an alcove and barraged him with intermittent kisses, while simultaneously recounting the latest innovations in embroidery.

  It had been torture.

  Zaethan briskly passed the guards on duty and made his way into Dmitri’s apartments, pressing his back against the door in relief. This was one of few places he alone was permitted, and no one else—including Flourette Hastings.

  “Lord Zaethan, how pleasant of you to drop by.” Eugenio, Dmitri’s valet of twenty years, surveyed him critically as he added, “Unexpectedly.”

  The old crow never managed to hide his displeasure over the prince’s friendship with Zaethan. Regardless of his station, evidence of it leaked into even their simplest exchanges.

  “Eugenio, always such chipper reception! Tell me, have you gotten into our prince’s southern bwoloa again?” Zaethan cheerfully provoked. “One sip too many this time, my friend?”

  “I would never lower myself to the thievery and drunkenness of the outer Houses,” Eugenio muttered with indignant pride as he gathered Zaethan’s riding coat to hang, clearly horrified by the state of it.

  “That’s the spirit,” Zaethan called over his shoulder, leaving the valet standing in Dmitri’s lavish foyer, still muttering to himself.

  Striding through a slightly open set of doors, a wave of heat met his face. A fire so large wasn’t needed this time of year, even in the late evening, but his friend always preferred the apartment remain oppressively hot.

  “Must you make a habit of tormenting my staff?” came a tired voice from behind a collection of papers. “If Eugenio spat in your growing collection of liqueurs, I wouldn’t hold it against him.”

  Dmitri lounged on a plush emerald sofa, his untidy carob hair floating above the document he studied. He must have been waiting there a while, Zaethan surmised. An array of essays and reports cluttered the floor underneath Dmiri’s costly boots, which were propped contently upon the serving table in the middle of the large receiving room.

  “I don’t expect you to understand the bond Eugenio and I share. It’s the truest of friendships, founded on a mutual disrespect,” Zaethan said airily, crossing the room to a small bar cart beside the crackling inferno. He poured himself a glass of Darakai’s favored bwoloa, knowing well enough not to offer a second to the prince, for he’d only decline.

  “You’re later than expected. Trouble, or another productive hunt?” Dmitri inquired curiously, not bothering to look up.

  “Business in Marketown, sentry replacements, Flourette Hastings,” Zaethan listed casually, taking residence on the matching sofa.

  “A reprise of your stolen moment in an alcove, I suspect?” his friend jested, still engrossed in the same document.

  “Depths, no!” Zaethan shuddered at the thought. “I barely escaped her the first time—I’d rather stab myself in the spleen than endure a second round of that scourge.”

  At that, the parchm
ent lowered to reveal a dubious expression distorting Dmitri’s refined features. The blazing fire ignited flints of gold in his hazel eyes, giving them more life than the intermittent pallor of his olive skin. A single brow lifted in doubtful amusement.

  “I’m not exaggerating—you endure that prattling menace for an hour, and we’ll see how well you fare,” Zaethan challenged dramatically, inciting genuine laughter from his friend.

  He sat back, content to hear Dmitri laugh, for he didn’t do it often enough. It was the reason Zaethan hassled Eugenio so intently—well, one of them, anyway. The sound reminded Zaethan of their many nights spent in this scorching room. In their formative years, Dmitri had insisted all his lessons be held in these very apartments, where they would sit like this, debating and unraveling the great mysteries with his Pilarese tutors. By accompanying Dmitri to nearly every lesson, Zaethan’s childhood became rooted in Bastiion, breaking from the balanced upbringing expected of an al’Haidren. Yet where Zaethan’s deviation had been educational, hers had been dangerous, secluded as she’d been in that y’siti cult they dared call a House.

  The realm had only rumors to speculate what truly existed inside the House of Boreal, as few who ventured into their highlands returned to speak of it. Archaic occultists, the y’siti were their own breed—colorless, lifeless soul-eaters. Many whispered that their cadaverous appearance was the result of ritual bloodletting and sacrifice, that they drained their humanity away in hope of the moon’s favor. Some suggested the y’siti carved the hearts from their offspring and traded with the Fates for something cold and savage instead. Something unnatural. The other members of the Ethnicam usually disregarded the stories, but Zaethan had witnessed their validity firsthand.

  Simmering at the thought of Luscia Darragh Tiargen, and the danger she was about to bring into the palace, he downed the golden liqueur in his glass and savored its bitter sting.