Zaethan jerked when the Najjani guard at the foot of their table took his sheathed sword, having unbuckled it, and accompanied her rhythmic clamor. His rich baritone joined her chilling tale.
Those of North they sang, yet of East they sought,
Unaware of the terror, which Tiergan fought.
Bold Thoarne traveled far, a brotherhood sealed,
By might nor by force their lands slowly healed.
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Old hunger recalled, scarred mouths of teeth drank,
Tearing flesh from bone, their thirsty claws sank.
Monstrosity pushed and would not abide,
Brothers East and North, whose fates did collide.
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Fallen pierced and slain, the Dönumn became
Tiergan’s tomb, Thoarne dread, stolen hope remained.
On scorned knees he pled, spirit threads rebind,
Brilliant breath sprang forth, men no longer blind.
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Male voices resonated throughout the Hall, though from where they originated, Zaethan couldn’t tell. Rage flared inside his chest. The y’siti were concealed in their midst without his foreknowledge. Zaethan pivoted and beheld Dmitri, who sat forward, listening in wonder.
An unnatural breeze swept the room, lifting the y’siti’s hair like ash fanning off a fire. The raw gems knit throughout her tresses chimed as they rustled in place. Slowly, Zaethan’s hand felt for the hilt of his kopar.
History written, and history rings,
Even leaves know for whom life sings.
He mends every wound, joins feathers to fly,
When all men forget, still the Earth will cry,
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
Rul’Lothadim, On High.
Dmitri hopped out of his seat and led the crowd in applause. The witch bowed solemnly and descended the dais, returning to their table. Reaching into her skirts, she pulled out a curved dagger.
A gasp shuddered over the crowd as Zaethan’s limbs leapt into action. He pushed off the table and shot an arm across Dmitri’s torso, calling for the guards. Within moments, sentries filled the hall, eliciting shrieks from nearby noblewomen when they drew their swords, the metal screeching.
“Lateef!” Zaethan heard his father shout over the frenzy, from his place at the king’s table. “Seize that witchiron at once!”
This is why she came out of hiding, Zaethan thought, panicking as General Lateef tore through the swarm of men. She wanted an audience to her massacre.
“This is completely inappropriate!” Dmitri sputtered. “She is a member of my Quadren!”
Ignoring the crown prince, Zaethan’s father hurried down the steps of the platform. Sentries moved to surround the witch, swords pointed at her neck, shielded only by a thin layer of fabric. Despite the imminent threat, the y’siti remained calm, slowly kneeling inside the circle of men and lifting the dagger in the air for all to see.
A flutter of relief skirted through Zaethan’s gut, though his arm still hovered in front of their prince. Y’siti should never be trusted, even before a sea of witnesses. His left hand, positioned inches from Dmitri’s plate, crept toward the napkin on the table. Zaethan stared forward as his forefinger eased under the fabric and took hold of the prince’s dirtied carving knife. Flexing his hand around the hilt, he felt the cold of the iron seep into his skin.
“My offering to you, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne, Crown Prince of Orynthia, is a single dagger,” she announced in a clear, strong voice. The y’siti lowered her arm and stroked the hilt, suddenly looking wistful. “Consort daggers are never to be parted, and this pair is the last remnant of my mother that I have. Its mate remains with me, as this blade will remain with you. It is named Benevolence.”
Dmitri leaned forward, entranced. “And the mate in your possession?”
“Ferocity.”
For an instant, her glistening, smoke-rimmed eyes blazed a searing light, but no one else seemed to notice. Zaethan lifted the knife out from under the napkin, looking around disbelievingly. Not even his father appeared to be particularly alarmed. Then, to his shock, the commander nodded jerkily to his sentries, who slowly back away from the y’siti, allowing her to rise and move toward the prince once again.
“Dmitri, I don’t think—” Zaethan began.
Yet Dmitri merely brushed him aside and stepped around the table, opening his palms to receive the y’siti’s Ascension offering. Zaethan held his breath, waiting for the witch’s inevitable attack.
The y’siti smiled at Dmitri, holding out the consort dagger, looking innocent as a doe. Then, without warning, she suddenly seized her head in both hands and screamed. The jeweled blade clattered against the floor as her eyes rolled back into her skull and she collapsed.
“Niit!” a panicked voice cried.
A blur of emerald and crimson emerged from the shadows, leaping over the tabletops. A Najjan ran toward her, dropping to his knees once he’d cleared the crowd. He skidded upon them across the smooth floor, catching the unconscious al’Haidren in his arms. Cradling her head, the shadowman panted in alarm. A swarm of nobles stood in shock, gasping as three more fully armed Najjan materialized to escort their al’Haidren’s body from the hall.
“Well,” Sayuri said with a pout, “that took an interesting turn.”
Zaethan slammed his fists down, causing cutlery to fly from the table, then stormed out of the room. There was no telling how many pale faces had infiltrated the corners of this palace. He realized then that the House of Boreal had not sent a mere sorceress into the heart of Bastiion, but a cancer. A weapon who’d bewitch their prince before slitting his throat.
The pang in Zaethan’s chest foretold that this would be the night he’d always look back upon as the moment when everything changed.
TWELVE
Luscia
A spicy, floral scent struck Luscia as an invigorating breath of rhali pollen filled her sluggish lungs.
Her eyelids cracked open. Bright, hazy light forced her to blink multiple times before her vision could clear. Pressure racked the base of her skull and spread forward, like webs of pain holding her hostage. An involuntary groan escaped her parched lips. Then, with a soft click, the aggressive aroma was capped and whisked away from her nostrils.
“There we are,” said a soothing voice.
A warm palm rested lightly against her forehead. Alora withdrew her hand and began sifting through her apothic instruments, but returned it more forcefully when Luscia tried to lift herself upright.
“Ah, ah…my Boreali niece should know impatience is never prudent. Keeping your Captaen Bailefore out of this room has alone proven cumbersome, so I’d appreciate some cooperation.”
Luscia huffed and pressed her aching head into the pillow.
“Tadöm,” Alora thanked her, combing through the boxed apothecary.
“How long?”
“About forty-eight hours. You’ve broken your record, lu’lycran,” Alora answered kindly, though the use of Luscia’s childhood name betrayed her aunt’s attempt at nonchalance. She’d not uttered it in years.
Meaning “little wolx,” only Luscia’s father held onto the name his wife had favored. Luscia’s mother used to say their daughter was more lycran than al’Haidren, whenever she found Luscia covered in mud or out of bed, exploring in the moonlight. Alora embraced it for a season after her younger sister, Eoine, was taken from them, but her aunt’s parental inclinations were much more reserved than the younger, whimsical woman who’d brought Luscia into the world.
Still, Alora became an essential figure during Luscia’s formative years. True to her sober disposition, hers was a distant love—ardent, but less con
cerned with impractical sentimentality than with Luscia’s birthright and blood-calling.
“I’ve been in this bed for two days?” Luscia sputtered, startled by the time lost. “I don’t understand how this happened. My vials ran out the night we entered Bastiion. A minor episode occurred once I initiated the Sight,” she added at Alora’s inquiring look. “But even so, my last dose was taken less than a week ago.”
“You waited that long to awaken your connection? Luscia…” Alora scolded, disregarding the topic at hand. “You were instructed to begin communing with the threads the night of your Ascension. I was hoping your Sight would be second nature by now. The threads discern for us. The High One speaks through the Dönumn and thus through the lumin. It’s your most vital gift as Haidren to Boreal.”
She’d expected the lecture, but Luscia wasn’t ready to admit to the fear that she’d been vacant of the higher gifts. Or that she’d yet to commune with the threads since.
“Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere.”
“It is forgiven,” Alora dismissed. “Now, what of this minor episode you mentioned? I wasn’t aware there’d been another since your departure. Your fiery captaen only reported what transpired at your reception.”
Briefly, Luscia recounted what had taken place after initiating her Sight in the wood outside the Proper. It didn’t make any sense; Luscia had never fallen victim to an episode so quickly after taking her standard dosage. Her aunt began brewing the medicinal treatments around the time of puberty, when an unknown, splitting head pain first took hold of Luscia. Neither Boreal’s chief healer nor her Clann Darragh were able to discern what had befallen their young al’Haidren.
“Could this be because of my Ascension? The episodes used to be further apart, but they’ve intensified ever since,” Luscia posed.
“Niit. What’s more likely is, as you approached adulthood and entered into it, the occurrences are being triggered by external stressors. The episode in the wood and the reception were both evenings of extreme significance. The latter incredibly so. You attended without your Haidren and were forced to participate in that ridiculous spectacle,” her aunt noted resentfully. “The thought of that court handling you like another plaything…”
Alora moved toward the windows of Luscia’s bedroom, where multiple, glistening jars had been set out upon the window ledge. She picked up a stone bowl and started grinding a complex mix of herbs together.
“Do you think…” Luscia stared at cracks in the ceiling. “….maybe I’m like her? That I took after her somehow?”
“Heh’ta. Stop that.” The grinding paused before resuming at a calculated pace. “Assumption is not becoming on you, niece.”
Alora was truthful. Her mother’s madness hadn’t exhibited physical symptoms before…before it had suddenly worsened.
“I’ll simply increase the potency of your dosage as well as the frequency. You’ll soon find court life a continuous stressor.”
“What elements will you add to my treatment?” Luscia propped herself up on an elbow, genuinely curious.
“Many.”
Knowing Alora, the complication of its creation would likely double as well. Her aunt tended to implement herbal blends and methods most Boreali healers wouldn’t think to attempt.
“Ana’Mere, we need to discuss the nature of this elixir I’m to produce for the prince,” Luscia pressed. “He summoned for more the night I arrived and, frankly, it was dishonest to pretend I’d even known about it.”
“This is not the time for that conversation, Luscia, nor is it mine to have with you.”
Alora positioned her back to Luscia as she worked. Her aunt would not give further comment on the matter.
“Will you at least share the cause for your delay, then?”
Luscia knew she was pushing Alora’s tolerance, but she deserved an explanation. Never had another al’Haidren been presented to court devoid of their predecessor’s support. Begrudgingly, she’d sacrificed one of her mother’s consort daggers because of it. Her father had gifted Eoine with the set during their courtship, and now Luscia had forever separated the two blades. Meaning, Luscia lost two of his gifts to Bastiion, coupled with the kuerre.
Alora ceased muddling and set down the bowl of half-ground ingredients.
“You are no longer a child, so I must resist treating you as such,” she confessed, threading her slender fingers together. “I was notified of a situation in Port Tadeas shortly before your party departed Roüwen. As you know, after declining allegiance to Boreal, cross-castes are not permitted to remain within our territorial borders. Most migrate to the port towns or all the way to Bastiion Proper. It is difficult to survive without the providence of a House, and recently, some of our cross-castes have gone missing.
“I instructed Emiere to reroute us near Port Tadeas so we could investigate. With an indication of darker crimes, the only option was to go and demand answers myself. I honestly don’t believe anyone would have found the boy if we hadn’t gone looking on his behalf.”
Alora chewed her lip before continuing.
“My guard discovered his body downstream in a hidden creek bed. He looked prepubescent, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Boreali-Unitarian descent. I will spare you the specifics—no one should describe that degree of desecration—but the majority of his body had been ripped apart. The markings resembled that of an animal attack, but from the pattern of victims, it’s clear that isn’t the case.” She met Luscia’s gaze, her eyes full of an unspoken, depthless sorrow. “I am sorry for my absence, Luscia. You will soon learn that, as Haidren, our lives are no longer our own. And as much as I wished to see you recognized by the court, that little boy needed his Haidren to recognize him, too.”
It was difficult conversations such as these which made it impossible to stare into the twin cosmos under Alora’s thin brows and not see her mother’s eyes in return. They were Phalen’s eyes. Luscia’s eyes.
Tiergan eyes.
Luscia buried her longing for the past and seized the ire swimming in her chest. For centuries, the House of Boreal had been revered, respected for their unique service to the crown. Somehow, that respect was spun into envy, and envy twisted into suspicion—a suspicion that had led to Boreal’s complete defamation.
Still, the Ethnicam had never demonstrated such violence against their people before. Not after the signing of the Accords. Luscia couldn’t help but imagine the pale, withered frame of a child with walnut curls and vacant, teal eyes. One more relative to Mila, than herself.
“What was—”
“Finnian Wollack,” Alora murmured before Luscia could ask the boy’s name. “The threads speak differently to each of us, Luscia. I, for instance, can see… climates about a person. The lumin around you pulsed with curiosity, one could say. It may take years for you to learn how to pass in and out of the Sight continuously, but eventually you’ll employ it on a daily basis.”
Alora patted Luscia’s hand and returned to the window to complete her concoction. Her hair shimmered in the sun, much like the sheen of Saoirse pearls, but concealed any emotion by hanging over her delicate face and cascading loosely down her shoulder.
“I need to speak with the prince. He’ll want to know this is happening to our people,” Luscia declared. “Ana’Mere, if you’ll help me out of this bed, Mila can assist in dressing me and I’ll be on my way.”
“Niit. Those feet aren’t going anywhere,” Alora ordered, seriousness altering her tone. “It is time to think, Luscia. Marching down Unitarian halls like some wild, northern zealot won’t bring Finnian Wollack honor. Always think before allowing your emotions to dictate the path for you. I already brought the matter to the king’s attention when I gave an account of my delay. His Majesty wishes for the local military to handle it, and we are going to let them.”
“But Darakai controls the military. Any investigation for Boreal under their command will result
in nothing!” Luscia argued zealously.
“But until this proves true, I cannot use that argument with his Majesty,” Alora countered, thwarting Luscia’s rebuttal. “You will not fight me on this. Our House is not in a position to make demands. My years of collaboration with Korbin Thoarne have been cordial, but we are no longer his priority now that the others have set their hooks in him. The louder Boreal screams, the more attention we bring to the fact that the Ethnicam does not see a need for us anymore. They do not know what they cannot know, Luscia, and we won’t resent them for it. Korbin hasn’t felt the threat of battle in decades. He has little experience in what Boreal means to his line, or the realm.”
Frustrated with their political predicament, Luscia lay in silence while Alora poured the modified treatment into a tray of cloudy vials. Accepting one of the doses from her aunt, Luscia drank the marshy fluid in a rush. A sour, bitter tang skimmed the back of her tongue and slid down her throat.
A telling screech came just before a hawk soared through the open window in a flurry of wings. Alora lifted an arm as Amaranth glided onto her master’s perch. A rolled piece of parchment was fastened to one of her legs. The hawk had always been a mystery to Luscia, as she was never privy to the information the lavender bird carried to her aunt, or from whom it repeatedly came.
“Allöh, my dearest. You’re late,” she cooed, stroking Amaranth’s feathers before she unraveled the parchment and scribbled a response to the message within. “Tredae’Auryth.” She kissed the hawk’s beak gently. “And quickly.”
Three impatient knocks suddenly battered Luscia’s bedroom door, sending Amaranth shrieking back into the skies.
“Captaen Bailefore!” Alora spun and barked through the door. “If you persist in this endeavor to try my patience, then I will soon find some unpleasant use for your lack of it!”
Luscia heard another man clear his throat behind the dense wood.
“Ana’Mere…I’ve not come on my own behalf,” Marek answered nervously.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 12