Fixing his eyes ahead, Zaethan listened to his father’s stiff boots striking the masonry of the floor as they traversed the room. The loose fabric of the wrapped gunja pants his father wore beneath his form-fitting military tunic concealed the preserved vigor of his middle-aged physique. Standing scarcely taller than Zaethan, his leathery, corded neck came into view, the side of it riddled from past trauma and poorly healed war wounds.
Zaethan didn’t flinch when the force of his father’s hand collided with the right side of his face.
Nor the left.
“For questioning me.”
Head upright, Zaethan refused to wipe the blood off his splitting lip. His father reached out and roughly smeared it away to assess the damage. If, for an instant, Zaethan hoped it to be an act of affection or remorse, the thought died with his commander’s parting advice.
“Put camilla root on that lip and hide your weakness before the y’siti’s reception. You will not shame my name again today.”
Zaethan hid his pain and peered into the starless black pools looking back at him. The commander seemed to hesitate as his eyes traveled the panes of his son’s face, so very much like Zaethan’s mother’s, rather than his own.
After a few tense breaths, his father deliberately dropped his fingers and wiped them clean against the fabric stretching over Zaethan’s chest. Marking his defeat.
Nyack Kasim then turned abruptly and left his bloodied son behind.
TEN
Luscia
Luscia crumpled the parchment in her grasp after reading Alora’s brief message for the third time.
The courier, panting in his haste, had delivered the sealed note to Luscia’s apartments just as Mila began preparing her for Dmitri’s dreaded reception. In swift script, her aunt relayed she would not be in attendance that night. Alora’s arrival was still days away.
From a pair of sentences, Luscia had deduced three certainties. The first, an event more momentous than Luscia’s presentation to court as the Ascended al’Haidren to Boreal had occurred in Port Tadeas. Second, this event would delay Alora’s much larger party for perhaps another week. Third, and most importantly, Boreal’s anticipated Ascension offering—the next Sword of Thoarne—had been delayed with her.
Meaning Luscia would not only be attending this lofty reception without her predecessor, but also walking into it empty-handed.
Mila’s meticulous fingers weaved gemstones throughout her hair, reminding Luscia the situation could be worse. She would not be entering a room full of Unitarian nobility and partnering members of the Ethnicam in her worn, muddied traveling gear. Thank the High One that Alora thought of nearly everything and had arranged the transfer of Luscia’s possessions weeks ago, including the wardrobe her aunt had commissioned for her new role in Bastiion.
“I’m thankful for your assistance, Mila, especially in light of this news.” Luscia sighed, genuinely grateful to the girl for taking so much time to coax her tedious cloud of braids and knots, unlike the intricate styles worn by the women of the court.
“It’s my pleasure, Lady Luscia!” Mila’s timid voice brightened. The maid’s trembles always seemed to diminish while she worked. “Your requests are so simple, compared to Lady Sayuri. I’m just happy I can perform them to your liking.”
“The al’Haidren to Pilar?” Luscia clarified.
“Oh yes, I served Lady Sayuri for an entire year before your Ascension. She, well…” Mila paused. “She thought it more appropriate to gift me to you.”
“Because of your lineage, you mean?” Luscia presumed. “The al’Haidren to Pilar thought it more appropriate for a Boreali cross-caste to serve the al’Haidren to Boreal?”
Mila’s fingers ceased their efforts for a moment, then gently began to move again.
“Did Tallulah tell you?” she asked dejectedly.
“Your coloring suggests northern ancestry. Only Tavish or Boreali blood could give you those eyes…and you’re much too sweet to be from Tavaàr,” Luscia added lightly. It was true.
“Lady Luscia, I’m honored by the reassignment and—if you’ll pardon my saying so—quite relieved,” Mila said earnestly. “Lady Sayuri is a very particular woman, and I certainly won’t miss that dark, drafty stairwell!”
“Drafty stairwell?” Luscia asked, confused. “Aren’t the Pilareese suites adjacent to my own?” She’d heard the nearest domed cupola belonged to the al’Haidren in question. With a little effort, Luscia could probably throw a stone from her balcony onto the other.
“This wing—the northern wing—housed the royal apartments until the late Shield Age, forty years ago, when the entire Thoarne family was moved into the southern wing of the palace. King Aquila decided the servant stair to his private chamber was too great a risk during the wars with Razôuel and Mworra,” Mila explained. “But when Lady Sayuri learned of its existence, she ordered the stairwell reopened. She preferred to see us performing our chores as little as possible. So, we moved between her apartment and the servant levels by candlelight, if one had a free hand to hold it.”
Luscia sensed Mila shudder at the memory. What a selfish request, to make those who serve do so out of sight. Lucia did, however, agree with King Aquila’s decision to close the stairwell in the first place. One could never rely too heavily on another for protection. On her first night here, after returning from Dmitri’s summons, Luscia had hidden weapons all throughout her apartment. In the bedroom alone were six blades, and that wasn’t even counting those on her person.
“If you are satisfied, my lady?” At Luscia’s nod, Mila shifted to help Luscia step into her beaded, upturned slippers. They were beautifully useless but, alas, one did not wear battered boots to dine with a king.
A soft knock rapped against her door, followed by a respectful, “It’s time, Ana’Sere.”
Luscia stood and rested a hand upon the ancient, oversized handle of her bedroom door. Out of habit, the other felt to ensure the collar of her dress rose high enough to conceal the textured scar running the landscape of her neck. Confident it was hidden under the layer of sterling linsilk, etched in a brocade of cream and copper, Luscia strode anxiously into the common room to join her Najjan.
From the moment the enormous, ornate bronze doors opened to admit Luscia and her men into Thoarne Hall, lush fields of color filled her vision.
Though darkness hung outside the soaring windows positioned around the opulent space, the hall was flooded with warm, golden light. An overabundance of shining, metallic lanterns created an inviting ambiance for the assembly of bodies, dressed in only the most exquisite silks and satins. Their laughter melted into the rhapsodic melody being played on a dais at the center of the room, like a jewel-toned meadow full of chimes in a windstorm.
“The Lady Luscia Darragh Tiergan, al’Haidren to the House of Boreal,” a stout herald announced as Declan, Luscia, and her wary lycran stepped onto the polished floors of marbled ebony.
To her surprise, only the nearest grouping glanced up at their entrance, but those who did immediately whispered to neighboring guests. Hushed snickers emitted from a cluster of Unitarian women as they appraised Luscia, each of them wrapped in gauzy layers of sparkling taffeta. She ignored them. Through her periphery, she instead watched Marek, Noxolo, and the twins pass into the hall once another noble was announced and seamlessly disappear into the crowded space.
Her lips twitched with Boreali pride.
Within minutes her four Najjan were concealed in the shadows, just as they’d strategized. Declan, the burliest of the five, remained nearest Luscia while the others assessed the many foreign variables from a hidden distance.
Ahead, a ripple quaked through a throng of nobles. As they parted, a tall, middle-aged man strode excitedly toward her with open arms. She instantly recognized King Korbin Thoarne by the byrnnzite crown encircling his head, which integrated the same pointed, bulbous shape of the domed c
upolas adorning the palace. Though even without the crown, Luscia would’ve easily identified him by his vast, renowned smile. It stretched welcomingly across a face the summery hue of agost honey.
She and Declan both lowered themselves into a bow at his approach, bowing their heads.
“Nonsense!” the King of Orynthia exclaimed at their descent. “Up, up!”
Rising, Luscia saw he was not alone. Dmitri and two others chased the king’s path through the gathering guests.
“Just wonderful!” King Korbin joyfully declared as he clutched her wrists. “Luscia Darragh Tiergan, here at last! We’ve waited for you for some time, you know. So many years, they hid you away from us. Why, I was beginning to think Alora’s niece was one of those mystery-baubles in the market…Oh, my!” He flinched when, at his prolonged contact, Aksel’s ears drew back and exposed his oversized canines. “Is that really an Orallach wolx in my hall? Or should I say, a lycran? How extraordinary!”
Luscia collected herself when the king suddenly let go of her wrists to study the beast. Declan, also taken aback by the man’s enthusiasm, dutifully stood to the side while they conversed. She caught Declan’s tight smile. People did not usually touch Luscia so abruptly—not anymore.
“Allöh’jomn’yeh, Your Majesty.” Luscia greeted him properly, with a blessing of peace. “I, too, have impatiently awaited my own Ascension. Boreal sends her thanks and, with it, the hope that—”
“Dmitri!” The king’s thick, greying hair rustled as he tried to locate his son. His grin, seated in a trim beard more silver than not, grew even larger when he did. “Dmitri, my boy! Our guest of honor is here to celebrate with us, and she’s brought a wolx! Isn’t it splendid?” The king bellowed and forcefully clapped his son on the back, forcing Dmitri to use his cane to regain his balance.
While the ornamental walking cane was in his hand, Luscia noted the prince wasn’t actually relying on it. Her thumb rubbed the underside of her healed index finger.
Curious.
“Yes, Father, we’re all very pleased.” An identical grin emerged as Dmitri watched his father inspect the lycran’s voluminous tail. “Luscia, allow me to reintroduce your counterparts. It has been quite some time,” he said with a chuckle. “Please meet Ira Hastings, the Earl of Arune and my al’Haidren to Bastiion.”
Dmitri moved back and gestured to a slender yancy, a few years older than Luscia. Four years, if she recalled correctly. An impish, citrine gaze skimmed her form, taking an inventory of her assets. From her northern slippers to the curve of her hips, the small of her waist, over the shape of her torso and to the bow of her lips his eyes traveled, eventually lingering on her own.
“Oh, I assure you, Lady Boreal, that we are very pleased indeed,” Ira Hastings crooned, as if his visual undressing hadn’t said enough.
Luscia gathered from his overconfident smirk that the al’Haidren to Bastiion was not accustomed to unrequited flirtation. Unsurprising, considering the way his olive skin emphasized the copper undertones in his deep mahogany hair, cut just short of his chin. Yet as he tucked it behind one ear, Luscia interpreted the fresh constellation of reddening marks on the base of his neck to mean one thing.
It was highly probable that, like diseased migratory birds, Ira Hastings was carrying more than his own feathers.
“In fact, if you’d like to see the Unitarian countryside, I would be more than willing to give you a…private tour of the Province of Wendylle.” He winked.
Luscia doubted a tour with Ira Hastings would actually involve the countryside.
“I’m sure you would, and I thank you for the kind offer. But I believe Bastiion Proper is adventure enough for now,” she declined diplomatically.
Luscia was rescued from the al’Haidren’s next offer when the king tore himself away from examining Aksel and stood upright.
“Excuse me, everyone. It seems some members of the Peerage have cornered my wife again. Lourissa cannot stand those old buffoons, and if I don’t go now, I’ll never hear the end of it,” he griped. King Korbin snapped his fingers in the air and retrieved a beverage delivered by a nearby attendant. “I’ll need a drink for this endeavor,” he confessed, leaning into their makeshift circle. By the sweet tinge of his breath, Luscia could tell it was not his first of the evening.
Dmitri cleared his throat while his father stormed across the hall to a group of elderly men. The aging politicians huddled around a stunning woman, who looked remarkably like her son.
“Right. As I was saying…Luscia, I’d also like to introduce Zaethan Kasim,” Dmitri continued, motioning to the second man. “He serves as Alpha Zà over the Darakaian prydes, as well as being the al’Haidren to Darakai and one of my dearest friends.”
Unlike Ira, Zaethan Kasim did not bombard Luscia with questions. In fact, he made no attempt at social etiquette whatsoever. He kept his distance as he scrutinized her, like a hunter might a rabid animal. A hint of disgust took hold of his otherwise handsome features. Despite the softer shade of his cinnamon skin, the definition of his full mouth, and a slight depression in his chin, Kasim’s entire demeanor emulated that of his father—a man who was both Darakai’s Haidren and had been gifted command of the Orynthian forces decades past.
Their likeness even fostered the same tension in his upper lip, which showcased evidence of a recent altercation where it split. The scent of camilla root wafted in her direction.
Very recent indeed.
His sable braided locs had grown longer over the years, but his eyes were as arresting as she remembered. Tonight, the al’Haidren’s chartreuse stare seethed with an unfamiliar wrath, which explained the tautness of his jaw and the alertness of his limbs. Luscia detected his latent aggression under the clean leather pants and the plain, formal jade jacket that hugged his chest and narrowed with his hips. Nothing she couldn’t easily subdue. Much had changed in the years apart, and her bones would not break so easily again.
“The Lady Sayuri Naborū-Zou, al’Haidren to Pilar,” the herald’s voice resounded over the music.
“How timely,” Dmitri muttered in relief, glancing between his other three al’Haidrens.
A willowy young woman, draped in frothy tiers of scarlet, entered the hall dripping every bit of the rumored elegance attributed to her. Admirers rushed to surround the al’Haidren to Pilar, who was the famed daughter of not one but two Shoto Prime. With vicious, glittering eyes locked on her prey, Sayuri Naborū-Zou sauntered past and disregarded them, the train of her bloodred gown rippling in her wake, like the trail of an insatiable predator moving from one hunting ground to the next.
Slowing for only one man, she slinked toward their grouping. A manicured hand reached out and languorously descended the length of Dmitri’s arm as she greeted him alone.
“Dmitri, I do hope you can forgive my tardiness,” Sayuri purred through a round set of small, painted lips. The gilded detail of her tight bodice accentuated the richness of her western skin, revealed where the fabric fell off her bare shoulders. “Being tied into a dress this unforgiving takes time, but I hope you’ll agree it was worth the trouble.”
“Of course, Lady Pilar, you look—wonderful.” Dmitri swallowed uncomfortably. “Sayuri, if you remember from years past, finally with us is our al’Haidren to Boreal, Luscia Darragh Tiergan.”
Unhurried, Sayuri broke eye contact with the Orynthian prince. “I suppose you couldn’t stay in the woods forever,” she remarked coolly, angling her head as she beheld Luscia’s wild mane, strung with precious stones. Such a contrast to the sleek, midnight tresses descending Sayuri’s back.
Sayuri’s inky gaze, splintered with topaz, darted aside when the prince asked Kasim to step away with him. The al’Haidren slyly watched them through her lashes, the corners of her eyes lifted alluringly. Curious what had caused the men’s whispered argument, Luscia tried to listen as they wandered off, but was thwarted by the al’Haidren to Pilar and
her penchant for unwanted conversation.
“You’re much prettier than the Unitarians expected,” she stated bluntly. “They said you’d come robed in grisly furs with feathers sticking out of your head.”
“Personally, I’ve always found northern women to be quite exotic,” Ira noted smoothly, inching closer and brushing a hand against the small of Luscia’s back.
“That may not be a wise choice, Lord Bastiion,” Luscia advised, adopting the formal Quadrennal address. She’d have to work hard to discourage this one.
At her lycran’s snarl, Luscia felt Ira jerk his hand away. Even Unitarian ears could hear the low snicker from her robust Najjan, paces away.
“Amazing how the Boreali can cure nearly everything but their own complexion, isn’t it?” Sayuri’s rouged lips curled into a smirk. “I’m curious to see what Boreal presents as an offering tonight. A chest of dead rabbits, perhaps? I do hope it’s as impressive as the cart of Soairse pearls Pilar sent to my reception, though those probably weren’t as soiled as whatever you and your aunt dragged here.” Sayuri pretended to search the room for Alora. “Is that why she hasn’t joined you? Too embarrassed to show?”
Luscia wanted to punch Sayuri Naborū-Zuo in her beautiful face. Unfortunately, breaking her fellow al’Haidren’s nose would likely prove more problematic than simply refusing to respond. The vivid imagery aided Luscia’s resolve, at least.
A high-pitched squeal pierced Luscia’s ears from across the hall. From their limited view, a young courtier was seen throwing herself into Kasim’s arms in a fit of giggles.
“My, Ira, your sister is persistent,” Sayuri remarked drily.
“I’d thought you would know by now how persistent we Hastings can be.” He shared a telling look with the Pilarese beauty.
Luscia was grateful when a metal clash thundered over the crowd, the sound of a giant cymbal being struck upon the center dais, silencing the room. The king’s voice echoed from where he stood on a higher platform before the Throne of Thoarne. On either side of a plush, indigo seat, winding antlers of sculpted byrnnzite reached toward the vaulted heights of the room and sparkled in the torchlight. A magnificent illustration of Unitarian artistry.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 10