“Vicious!”
“And enticing!”
The pair of animated blondes nodded in unison. Marek grumbled something between Böwen and Creyvan, and their eyes doubled in size.
“I was going to say formidable, but I think their outburst will suffice,” Declan finished with a stiff nod, then returned to his horse.
Mounting her mare in a swinging vault, Luscia caught the grimace Marek gave the others. The captaen held his stern expression a moment longer to be certain some wordless message was understood before climbing into the saddle. Whatever it entailed, Luscia didn’t think Noxolo registered it, as he stalked in front of them and grinned at her with genuine regard.
Neither did Marek, by the way his brows merged in renewed aggravation with the alabaster Najjan. Tugging up the hood of his emerald cloak to hide the striking hue of his scarlet hair, Marek walked his horse beside Luscia’s mare. Starlight shone on his face when he leaned closer, highlighting the bristling along his jawline.
Marek’s unease was evident as he spoke in a low voice. “You dress as if we ride into battle, Luscia.”
She ignored his informality and settled her gaze on the city of Bastiion, alight in the distance below. “Aren’t we?” Luscia asked with conviction.
Marek studied her, as if he could sense the remnant pain within her skull. “Something’s changed. Ana’Sere, are you all right?”
Her stomach tightened. His al’Haidren should not be so frail, so susceptible to ordinary affliction. The lumin in her blood should have risen above the episode, especially after its awakening. Luscia’s brethren needed to see the al’Haidren they believed in: anointed, resilient, whole.
Luscia evaded the captaen’s scrutiny and shifted to address her men. “As discussed, we will hug the shoreline along the Vasil and enter the Proper at the northwest gate. Marketown does not slumber in the night, but rather wakens, so be on your guard. The streets should be quiet along the docks, which is why your captaen and I have selected this route.
“Brödre, I know you are tired, but our journey has just begun. We have spent the past two weeks sleeping in the dirt for this night. We will not waste it, like the Unitarians waste their coin. We will not misuse our potential, as the Pilarese misuse their pulpits. And we will not forget our calling, like the Darakaians have forgotten their own.” Inclining her head to them, Luscia added, “Se’lah Aurynth.”
Finishing the hallowed proverb with one voice, they professed, “Rul’Aniell.”
As their horses’ hooves trotted through the city’s streets, paved in interesting patterns of Old- and New-World stone, an anthem of mismatched notes filled the air to announce Luscia’s arrival in Bastiion. Arrival to a life where whimsy could have no reign; just the remote stillness of reason and resolution. To prevail, to protect the sacred, Luscia needed to bind whimsy away, along with her longing to run back to the land of mist and myth.
It was the smell which first met Luscia when passing into the Proper. Inhaling shallowly, she tried to rationalize that an entire civilization couldn’t possibly stink of rotting fish, and that by traveling along the west docks, they’d invited the stench. Choosing this route had been wise, considering the port was essentially unoccupied. Perhaps trade simply didn’t occur on the west side the bay.
While the other corners of Bastiion corralled her inhabitants, the inner walls appeared less guarded than Luscia remembered. However, her prior visit had been contingent upon the judgment of Emiere, the captaen of Alora’s guard. He’d brought them through the extremely fortified southern gate, which served as Bastiion’s formal entrance.
Even still, she considered, only foolish yancies would leave such a weakness in the palace’s defenses, vacant ports aside.
“Noxolo, I swear if that reek is coming from you, I’m going to shove kheflre root down your throat to finally clear you out,” Declan swore through a clamped jaw.
“We’re riding beside fishing vessels. Don’t fault me for what we all must suffer,” Nox shot over a shoulder at the ginger Najjan’s implication.
“I wasn’t sleeping next to a fishing vessel for the last two weeks!” Declan barked.
“Enough.”
Though her rebuke was but a whisper, each man immediately lowered his chin and murmured an apologetic, “Ana’Sere.”
Luscia forced her body into a posture of poise as they approached the palace gates. The evening merriment bathed the heart of Bastiion in a gluttonous glow. Tall spires threatened to pierce the underbelly of the black sky, each crowned with a shining, domed cupola and positioned at alternating heights around the exterior of the palace, like giant torches dotting a grand temple. The hazy warmth painted the structure in a shimmering polish, showcasing a glorious medley of quartz, limestone, and byrnnzite. An organic composite of petrified ash, wood, and Old-World metallics, byrnnzite was a testament of Orynthia’s recovery after the land’s immeasurable destruction.
Bastiion’s most precious jewel: the palace that had sheltered the line of Thoarne for nearly five hundred years. And Luscia’s new home.
Marek trotted ahead to speak with the handful of royal sentries grouped behind the western gate to the royal grounds. Luscia straightened to her full height as they silently weighed her features against his words. After a few hushed directions and a clipped argument over the colossal wolx tracing her steps, two high-ranking officials escorted their company to the guest stables. With seeming reluctance, a sentry expressed in rushed Unitarian that a row of stalls had already been prepared for the al’Haidren’s party.
Upon entering, a slew of stablemen dashed from the halls and began removing their gear from the pack horses. Luscia dismounted and searched for her captaen’s face in the shuffle.
“Marek, my things,” was her only directive before an emerald cloak whirled to delegate the relocation of her possessions. She spoke a faint “tadöm” without looking his way again, knowing that Marek’s northern ears would hear her thanks above the clamor.
A stable boy with stunning ocher skin guided her mare into a nearby stall. Luscia was about to relay the horse’s tendency to kick strangers when she heard a loud crash from the stables across the pathway. Another team of attendants ran in the direction of the commotion, only to result in further shouting.
When Luscia asked the boy if everything was all right, his eyes widened with genuine terror as he exclaimed, “That Andwele stallion is from the Depths! He injured two hands just this week.” In fluent Unitarian, she hurriedly offered her condolences and gave an emphatic warning about her own mare’s temperament.
Exiting the stall, Luscia froze.
At the stable entrance, her kinsmen held a defensive formation around an imposing man outfitted in Orynthian military garb. His belted navy tunic was embellished with enough bronze to discern his station was one of great significance. But it wasn’t the man’s livery, his stance, or the outfit of sentries at his back that had put her Najjan on edge. It was the expression he wore.
The man turned his sour grin toward Luscia, but his feigned pleasantry didn’t extend above the lower half of his face, battered and dark, like burnt cacao. The skin around his eyes tensed combatively as he addressed her guard.
“I am Commander Kasim, Haidren to Darakai. Your presence will be tolerated in Bastiion, but that tolerance does not extend to your weaponry. Because of Boreal’s greed, the Peerage has decided that it is unsafe to permit your witchiron on the royal grounds. Therefore, abiding by this new legislation, it will now be confiscated.”
The commander’s excuse for a smile broadened at their troubled silence. Though they held their position, Luscia could feel the Najjan watching her reaction to the Darakaian’s instruction in their periphery. Her men would mirror their al’Haidren in this initial test of her character, even if the commander refused to acknowledge her directly.
Not for the first time, Luscia wished her father hadn’t sheltered
her so thoroughly from Bastiion. For unbeknownst to her, this new legislation could be completely valid, and she was here to keep the peace between Boreal and the rest of Orynthia. So, though it chafed her to comply, Luscia reluctantly removed the sheathed kuerre from her side. As she set it on the ground, Luscia kept herself from glancing at the set of carved bone riding her knuckles, or from betraying any hint of the consort daggers hidden beneath her surcoat.
“I knew you’d understand,” the commander said smugly. “Place the witchiron in this cart, and General Lateef will see that your contraband is locked away.” He motioned to his right, where another mature Darakaian stood beside a small wagon draped in tarp.
“And to ensure the proper handling of Najjani craftsmanship, one of my men will accompany him,” Luscia interjected, keeping her voice steady and pleasant. The commander jerked at the sound, finally turning his head in her direction. “He will bear witness as the general delivers the key to the compartment into royal hands. For as you stated, Commander, taking my property is for the safety of us all, is it not?”
Commander Kasim’s eyes targeted hers. Black and unfeeling, they seemed empty before abruptly flashing with the embers of a dying fire.
“You see, men?” he scoffed mockingly. “When asked nicely, even an unbroken, feral y’siti can manage civility.”
Marek and Böwen launched to restrain Declan in his fury. Noxolo tried to soothe Aksel’s snarling, for even the lycran, a wild wolx, understood the realm’s favored slur for the Boreali.
Y’siti. Filthy ice-witch. A label both unclean and debased.
The commander’s grin morphed into a wicked sneer when Luscia’s hand flew up in a silent command, stilling her small army.
“Or maybe they can’t,” he spat before marching out the open door.
Luscia waited until the commander disappeared on his path to the palace before she broke the hush.
“Welcome, my brödre, to the House of Bastiion.”
SIX
A full year had passed since the figure stepped foot inside the Proper. During the months leading to her niece’s Ascension, most of Alora’s assignments had required he trek the outskirts of the realm, segregated from the heart of civilization. Prowling the heights of the crown city, the vapors from inhabitant waste and depravity reminded the figure he preferred it that way. As he advanced alongside the rooftops, he covered his sensitive nostrils with the hem of his cloak.
Being a woman of divine influence, Alora had planted her watchers throughout Bastiion’s inner and outer Propers, her band of eyes growing to an impressive network within the last decade. The occupants of nearly every hovel had a price, most unwilling to pass on a reliable copper crupas or two. Information procured from the low was often of the highest value to the one who knew to ask for it. And when separated from his mistress, this private transmission of intel was vital to her operation, their correspondence only made possible with the help of a mutual friend.
Tonight’s assignment was no different.
After seeing her niece safely deposited at the western gate, the figure was instructed to keep away from the palace, that shining beacon of Orynthia, and undertake the next affair. Alora had received word that a young boy had been found within Marketown’s backstreet, which meant he was obliged to return to the soiled pit of a city he’d rather have forgotten.
The figure tightened his ragged gloves, noting where the leather split. He’d have to nick a pair off a merchant cart later, before retreating to his makeshift hideaway on a docked vessel in the bay. It was just another fleeting sanctuary in a world of isolation; an isolation of his own wretched making.
Abruptly, the figure knelt within the basin of the wide eavestrough, fixed to the side of the building to catch the runoff. Spreading his cloak, he mingled with the darkness, watching the dark men moving in formation farther down the street. The Darakaian prydes must have taken over the policing of the city during his stint away—an unsurprising development, given their Haidren’s dangerous rise to power.
The Darakaian patrol encircled something of interest—a pile of trash, or something significantly graver, by the smell of it. The nimblest of the group, a young man with lengthy braids, suddenly sprang upright and stepped away from their circle. He bit his fist, as if to keep from retching off to the side of the alley. A larger man, a head taller than the first, broke off as well, though his attempt to not vomit was less successful.
Through the opening, the figure peered into the center of their huddle. Wedged in a pile of garbage, the profile of a pale little boy shone in the moonlight. The dusk of his fine hair indicated mixed lineage, confirming Alora’s suspicions. The boy was a Boreali cross-caste.
“Shtàka,” a member of their militia swore, rubbing his forehead. “Same markings as that girl we found. Did anyone else know there were so many y’siti mutts in the city? Depths, I’d never have realized it until they started turning up…this way.”
“Ano zà.” The southern giant wiped his mouth and pushed away from the wall. “But would you crawl out of hiding in Bastiion if you were them? Probably know they aren’t wanted. Uni, they be tempting Jwona, coming to this place.”
The one with the tied braids turned and bent closer to the body, stooping to his knees. “Tempting fate, indeed,” the young man muttered, braids swishing as he shook his head fervently. “Why do this to a child? Even cross-caste. He’s just a cub.”
“This is messed-up kakk, Alpha Zà.” The big Dakaraian crossed his meaty arms. “Makes a pattern now, yeah?”
“Uni, cousin. We need to have the corpse examined. Look at that.”
The braided leader pointed to the boy’s wrists. Sleek, precise slits could be seen, even from above. They explained the exaggerated pallor of his skin—the boy had been drained.
The figure chewed the peeling flesh off his blistered lip, caught up in troublesome consideration. Squinting, he scanned the rest of the body, his lids itching from the strain as he cataloged the series of lacerations to report to his mistress. It would be impossible to analyze the boy’s remains once the Darakaians took the body into custody.
The leader carefully slipped his arms around the boy’s form and lifted it out of the garbage. A tuft of mussed, chestnut hair peeked over his shoulder, where the child’s neck hung to the side, utterly limp. Then, in an unusual display of tenderness, the Darakaian alpha cradled the boy’s skull against his chest, tucking it tightly under his chin. Defensively, even.
The figure blinked twice. In both his lifetimes—one lived in the warmth of day, the other damned to chill of night—he’d never witnessed the prydes show an ounce of concern for the lower classes. Especially a northern cross-caste. Even the House of Boreal disregarded their own blended offspring. The figure leaned forward, captivated by the alpha’s surprising care for the boy. As one who excelled at navigating the realm’s degeneracy, fluent in her sins and secrets, he was not often surprised by her players.
“We’ll regroup in the guard house. Takoda, call for one of the doctors from the catacombs,” the alpha instructed. “I don’t want this becoming tomorrow’s gossip at court.”
The warrior in question pounded his chest and set off with another Darakaian, leaving the alpha and his giant to escort the corpse from the alley.
“Doru. Let me bear it, Ahoté.” Alone, the bigger Darakaian stopped walking and shifted his tone to something more informal, implying a long acquaintance between the two. “They’ll expect your beta to carry it into the guard house. Have to look impartial, yeah? You know trouble comes to those who care.” Then he inclined his head toward his alpha, as if asking permission. “Shamali, Ahoté. If you see fit.”
“Uni. Take him, cousin.”
At the alpha’s solemn nod, the larger man gently scooped the dead child from his embrace and continued down the alley.
Stalking the Darakaians, the figure crept along the gutter, keeping the duo in
range. Nearing an intersection in the backstreet, he swung down onto a crooked veranda, hugging the exterior of the building while they rounded the corner.
“By the Fates, you southern street sweeper!” Glass clunked against the cobblestone as the figure arced over the railing to see a pair of fine-dressed Unitarians, lost in their cups, cutting off the Darakaians’ advance. “That bottle cost more crupas than the militia makes in a month!”
“Take your drunken coin back to your country estates, gentleman,” the alpha warned, sidestepping in front of his beta, partially shielding the cross-caste. “Marketown has catered to enough yancies tonight.”
“Who the Depths do you think you are?” the first nobleman sputtered, spitting on the alpha’s shoe. “You can’t talk to the nobility like that—”
“Eh, well, what do you got there?” his companion slurred, rapping his ornate cane. “I spy a diamond in the drainpipe! Yannis, you could fetch…” the stumpy nobleman burped, “…fetch a few aurus for that thing.”
“The cub’s not for sale.” The alpha balled his fists, shifting to further block the boy from their sight.
“Now, now, not so hasty, friend…” Yannis splayed out his palms. “Last y’siti cross-caste I sold went out of Port Niall for three aurus and then some. Splitting the gains, you could be a mighty rich southerner by the morning.”
The figure squinted, only then recognizing the distinct bulge in the nobleman’s hooked nose. It wasn’t long ago that Alora had the figure chasing a wealthy Unitarian slaver out of Port Niall. Ire shot through him, scathing his parched throat. The number of nobles managing their own slave exchange was limited, specifically out of that port, and the figure had lost faith in coincidence. His eyes fixated on Yannis, studying him. The slaver trader, sweaty and red in the face from his earlier entertainment, licked his hand and smoothed the thin hair he had left backwards, then offered the same hand to the alpha.
“Ano zà,” the alpha snarled. “I said, he’s not for sale!”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 6