She knew he really asked if the al’Haidren to Darakai had overstepped his bounds again. Ever since Kasim’s intrusion in her common room, the Boreali captaen remained watchful for any excuse to retaliate. Even though the prince had ordered his hound out of her apartment shortly after, her men would not forget Kasim’s impudence so easily. In Boreal, protocol required she be spoken to with dignity and respect. It was understandable that anything less would enrage the men who’d sworn to protect her until their final breath.
“Niit,” Luscia answered the captaen.
When he tilted his head in question, perplexed by her earlier departure, she jerked her chin toward the deer carcass being tied onto the back of a Darakaian’s horse and the wound she’d made along its neck. Turning back to Marek, she watched him close his eyes and smile. He understood. As his lips stirred, she knew the captaen offered thanks to the High One for the animal’s sacrifice as well.
Unaware of their silent dialogue, Dmitri urged his horse forward until parallel with Luscia. His was a beautiful steed, she had to admit. During their travel to the southeastern border of the outer Proper, the prince had shared how his mare was twin to the headstrong stallion ridden by his oldest friend. Even beyond their dispositions, his Harmonia appeared to be the exact inverse of her sibling. Where Hellion’s black hide shone beneath his cotton white mane, her grey body gleamed under a mane that spilt across her neck like ink on a page.
“Ah, Zaeth! Good aim, my friend!” Dmitri cupped his hands and called to the other al’Haidren, then turned to address Luscia. “You took off so fast, I’d hardly enough time to realize what happened! Your man Bailefore insisted we’d find you all by following your wolx here.”
“To Aksel, I am pack.” Luscia shrugged. “He could pick up my scent a mile away, even in a snowstorm. When he was no longer a pup, we tried to introduce him to another lycran pack, but to no avail. The brute kept returning home to me.”
“It’s amazing, is it not? If not for the diluted war-taint in his veins, this fox-wolf hybrid could not exist,” Dmitri said admiringly. “How’d you come to find him in the first place? My maps suggest a fair distance between Clan Roüwen and the Orallach Mountains.”
Luscia grinned at the prince’s earnest attempt to study every aspect of his realm, even the most remote corners.
“When I was fifteen, my father journeyed to Clan Ciann to convene with their elders. On his journey back, he heard the cries of a lycran pup, either lost or abandoned. Winter was in the wind, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave it out there alone.” She chuckled, reminiscing on her father’s sentimentality. “The mighty Clann Darragh carried Aksel inside his bear-pelt coat the entire trek home.”
Bearing the name of Boreal’s second forefather, Aksel had undoubtedly fulfilled his calling. Meaning Champion of Peace, he was gifted to her more out of necessity than affection. Orien Darragh had sensed that, like the frightened, traumatized pup in hand, adolescent Luscia might find peace in the lycran’s companionship. That perhaps Aksel’s deep, untroubled breaths could lull her to sleep and help her heal the wounds beneath those marring her neck, after the initial months of turmoil three years ago.
Most nights, Luscia still needed him.
“When you meet those who offer such unwavering loyalty, it is difficult to leave them.” Dmitri sighed, his melancholy dragging Luscia’s mind back to the present.
She paused. Her hand rose to lift her collar out of habit, where it shielded the ugly evidence of those memories. Quickly, she dropped it to pick up the reins instead. Luscia directed the mare to follow Kasim’s men, who led them out of the wood back into the plains. Time was dwindling, and despite Alora’s warning to avoid the topic, Luscia was determined to take advantage of the prince’s cheery frame of mind. Soundless to most, she instructed Marek to fall back and allow them privacy.
“Your Highness—”
“Dmitri.”
Luscia smiled wryly at his insistent tone. “Dmitri…you must expect I wish to discuss the shocking information uncovered yesterday morning. Boreal was already abreast of the deaths in the northern port towns, but not of the cases your al’Haidrens to Bastiion and Darakai seem so familiar with.” She risked a glance in his direction and found him nodding in agreement. “I’d like to request permission for our Najjan to investigate these crimes. As the emerging pattern pertains to my House, Boreal should be involved. We deserve the opportunity to seek justice for our own cross-castes. However, they’ll need full disclosure—if you’ll permit them access through the Unitarian plains to seek it.”
“I agree, Luscia, but my hands are tied,” he said regretfully, fidgeting with the reins in his hands. “My father entrusted the matter to Commander Kasim. Even as crown prince, I hold little influence in military matters.”
“With all due respect, my kinsmen are being hunted, Your Highness. Hunted within this very Proper,” Luscia countered, searching his hazel eyes. “Are you unwilling to even try petitioning your father on Boreal’s behalf?”
“With all due respect, Lady Boreal, those cross-castes are breakaways. Per the Ethnicam’s Accords, they are no longer considered citizens of the House of Boreal.” The prince’s voice steadied and adopted a new, authoritative tone. “I might concur with your sentiments, but the fact remains that these deaths do fall under Unitarian jurisdiction and therefore must be investigated by the military and the prydes. If time does not favor their efforts, then I may eventually have reason to contest. Unfortunately, for now, both you and I are confined by the same Accords in this matter.”
“If you wait to confront the king, more will be sentenced to death by the delay,” she sternly warned, though mindful with whom she spoke. “Darakaians do not care for the Boreali, Your Highness. What is a Boreali cross-caste to them?”
“A cross-caste who is not permitted to reside within your own borders. So, what is a Boreali cross-caste to you, Lady Boreal?” He candidly shifted in his saddle to face her, waiting for an answer.
Yet it was an answer she could not provide him.
Luscia could not allude to what was at stake. Regardless of the crown that would one day grace his head, a higher allegiance required Luscia to tread cautiously. Upon her Ascension, she, too, became oath-sworn to protect the light sheltered within Aksel’s Keep. However much she wished to, Luscia could not speak to Dmitri Korbin Thoarne of the Dönumn Lux. Not yet.
“The Boreali way of life can be…difficult for some cross-castes to embrace, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” She severed eye contact and gazed forward, not liking the direction their conversation had taken. “Our breakaways choose to leave because they do not wish to carry our burden or follow our creed. But this does not mean our House has broken from them. These deaths are a horrific, legitimate assault against Boreali blood, and there’s no amount of litigation that can diminish that fact.”
“My father trusts the House of Darakai to resolve it, and I must follow suit. The cross-castes belong to Bastiion,” Dmitri promptly surmised, closing their debate. “I’d appreciate your support in this, Luscia. As al’Haidren to Boreal, your example will set the tone for how your people are to respond to these attacks.”
Luscia’s lips parted in shock. It seemed the Prince of Orynthia was just like any other Unitarian politician, gathering allegiance with the promise of betterment, but too content to actually challenge anything. She had been foolish to buy into his flowery speeches and late-night conferences. And not only had she fallen victim to Dmitri’s moving words, like a naive little girl, but Luscia had also failed Boreal in her first cause for diplomacy.
Anger simmered beneath her alabaster skin. It melded with the sweat coursing down her back, a gift from the unforgiving sun.
They rode in uneasy silence over the next hour or so, while Luscia reevaluated her argument and the conclusion Dmitri had ultimately offered in exchange. She was furious with them both—the prince for proving to be the embodime
nt of Bastiion, and herself for not seeing it sooner. Had Alora also suffered such constricting disappointment for the last twenty-five years?
Luscia pressed her mare to keep up with the Darakaians, who beat the trail ahead with fervor. A lagoon of tall grasses danced for miles around their party, a peaceful contradiction to the fanatical rush of riders before her.
She shared their urgency. For once they’d returned to Bastiion’s inner Proper, Luscia intended to have a long overdue conversation with her captaen.
“Might I ask where we’re running off to, Ana’Sere?” Marek questioned between strides, evidently concerned by Luscia’s impatience as she advanced down the corridor.
“Niit!” She whipped around and shushed him. “Not here, Captaen!”
Aware she resembled the very northern zealot Alora had cautioned Luscia against becoming, she hauled the confused captaen along in search of a secluded space, sheer frustration propelling her forward. She recalled a private alcove somewhere along these halls. Luscia had attended Bastiion’s trivial functions, stood poised in the face of their mockery, but the time for passivity was over. Her need could not wait.
“Boleava, Ana’Sere. If you would just explain your distress, then I—”
Hurriedly, Luscia turned at the next bend, but ran into a chest of maroon damask. The impeccable fabric reeked of ladies’ perfume.
“Well, what a treat,” came an inviting tenor. “And here I thought we wouldn’t see each other today. You were in quite a rush to find me, Crumpet—in need of a more experienced escort, are you?” Ira Hastings suggestively arched a tidy brow at her.
Shtàka, Luscia cursed silently and frowned, realizing she had begun to adopt Unitarian slang. She had also assumed she’d escaped his company when the al’Haidren to Bastiion declined to join Dmitri’s hunt that morning, and she didn’t have time for this nonsense.
She looked from Ira, who reclined against the stone wall, to the young courtier beside him, pouting with both hands on her remarkably slender hips.
“Ira, how rude you are!” the courtier scolded, swatting his arm.
“Forgive my manners, Lady Crumpet.” He winked at Luscia. “Allow me to introduce my insufferable sibling, Flourette Hastings. There—satisfied, you festering measle?”
“Hardly.” Flourette rolled her rust-colored eyes and reached for Luscia’s clenched fists. “Ignore Ira, he’s such a twiddleton. But you and I, our acquaintance is so belated! His Highness personally asked me to take you under my wing and share how we do things here in Bastiion.”
“Did he, now?” Luscia felt her nostrils flare.
“Oh, I don’t mind coaching you in a few areas,” the girl assured as she openly studied the hair drooping from Luscia’s braids, blanching slightly when she noticed the blood in it. “Ahem. Besides, friends share many effects with each other…”
Flourette’s eyes jumped to the Najjani captaen, appraising his form. A coquettish grin appeared, and she batted her lashes excessively. Suddenly enraged, Luscia wrenched her hands out of Flourette’s and gripped Marek’s forearm. A menacing sound rattled from the back of her throat as she stepped around the Hastings siblings, jerking the captaen with her.
Behind her, Luscia heard Flourette gasp. “Ira! Did she just growl at me?”
“Yes. Yes, I think she did,” Ira answered approvingly.
After another series of rapid turns, Luscia spotted the alcove to the left. Detecting no further pests in the corridor, she reeled Marek into the shadows, eager to move into action.
“By Aurynth, Ana’Sere!”
Luscia advanced, pinning Marek against the stone. “The luxiron—where is it?”
“You saw.” His lips tensed. “It was confiscated.”
“Marek…” Luscia whispered, shaking her head. She propped her leg on the molding, pressing against his own. Her fingers dropped to hike back the fabric of her surcoat where it split along her thigh. “You and I both know that was not all we carried with us into Bastiion.” Much like their luxsmiths, Boreali woodcrafters were just as skillful in their expertise, proven by the trunks that Bastiion’s own sentry had delivered to her apartments. Namely, the secret compartments built into ever single one of them. Flashing the hilt of Ferocity, she continued, “I’ve learned there are training spaces on the floor above. I think it’s time we christened one.”
Luscia saw the muscles of his jaw flex as he peered down at her, registering their rare proximity. She heard his breathing shift to a measured tempo. With each inhale, the plaited leather across his chest brushed her breasts before retreating with the next exhale.
“Wem.” Marek swallowed and dropped his eyes to where they touched. “I will gather the men and meet you in thirty minutes.” Swiftly, his gaze darted back to meet hers. “What calls to you?”
Luscia smiled with all her teeth.
“Bring me the wraiths.”
SIXTEEN
Zaethan
Zaethan used a damp woven cloth to scrub the dried blood from his fingers as he walked, welcoming the abrasiveness of the rough material. It was fitting.
His beta kept pace with him on the way to his apartments. Soured proof of today’s hunt clung to his outer tunic, and though Zaethan tried to listen attentively as Kumo briefed him on a recent assignment, his eagerness to wash was distracting. He’d not claimed the title of Alpha Zà by having a weak stomach, but this blood was different. Y’siti hands had defiled that buck, and now its corrupted blood coated Zaethan’s flesh, taunting him.
“…Dhalili spotted Wekesa’s pryde passing through the southern gate this morning,” Kumo reported with a frown, as neither man was fond of Zaethan’s rival. “She didn’t enter the city herself—just sent word through Jabari. I told her to wait for your instructions near the waypoint.”
Zaethan halted in the middle of the corridor.
“What?” He blinked, confused. “Doru, stop…the commander mentioned the transition of authority over our investigation just yesterday. Wekesa’s outfit is supposed to be stationed days away,” Zaethan said suspiciously, shaking his head. “Dhalili saw this? Were they his warriors, or did she physically see him at the lead?”
Zaethan eyed his beta, anticipating an unfavorable answer. Dhalili Pàdomà was his best scout, and her word was typically more than reliable. Though his father had forced him to send the larger portion of his pryde to the border of Hagarh, Zaethan Kasim was still Alpha Zà of the Darakaian militia, and a boarded alpha required a pair of roaming eyes to shield his position from aspiring Jwona rapiki—Fate writers—like Wekesa. Apparently, even a nameless bastard could rise in the commander’s favor over his own blood.
Birdlike and light as feather, Dhalili served as his eyes and ears throughout the plains, adept at both speed and discretion. Her slight form, similar to that of an adolescent boy, allowed her to adapt like a chameleon in every setting, become an unsuspecting resource outside his father’s scope.
Unfortunately, her talents would not change the truth of his current predicament.
“He is here, Ahoté. Dhalili recognized Wekesa’s face by that ugly scar you gave him, yeah?” Kumo added wickedly.
Zaethan squeezed the cloth in his fist until it bled onto the mosaic floor. This meant his father had called Wekesa to Bastiion long before their conversation outside Zaethan’s quarters, less than a day ago. Enlisting Wekesa must have been his intent from the first mention of the Boreali cross-caste attacks.
“Shtàka,” Zaethan snarled. “Where is he now?”
“At the docks.” Kumo blew out a breath and cracked his knuckles. “Close to dawn, Unitarian sentries found a body floating in the Drifting Bazaar. Same kakk, corpse drained. They’re down there inspecting it now.”
Zaethan’s fist met the wall, causing more damage to his already splitting skin than to the ancient rock. Dust particles rained from the ceiling at the impact. Scowling, he wrapped the fresh wound
in the woven fabric before he made it worse.
“Zahra paid off the guards outside Wekesa’s guest suite to relay his comings and goings, at least,” Kumo said, as more dust trickled onto the shoulder of the beta’s belted tunic.
“Shh.” Zaethan brought a finger to his lips.
“Was only a few crupas, the yancy blockhead.” Kumo lowered his voice to whisper and brushed off a third sprinkle of fine powder. “Loyalty runs cheap these days, uni?”
“You’re the blockhead, cousin. Now, shut up!”
Tilting his head back, Zaethan watched increments of dust and soot repeatedly escape creases in the limestone wall. Keeping an index finger at his lips to signal silence, he rested an open palm against the cool rock. Routine vibrations greeted his skin, like a muffled heartbeat from the opposite side.
“Kumo,” he ordered, pivoting to his beta without breaking contact with the stone. “Tell Dhalili to keep watch over the gates and inform me of any more visitors. I want Zahra on top of Wekesa’s operation within the city, specifically the palace. She is to report both morning and night.”
“Ah, yeah…” Kumo paused, blinking at Zaethan’s erratic fondling of the walls. “And I, Alpha Zà?”
“Stay near Dmitri until I relieve you.”
“Uni zà.” The beta lowered his chin and struck his chest, then hesitantly turned to leave. “Shàlà’maiamo.”
Zaethan wandered along the corridor, dragging his open palm against the stones as the slight tremors grew stronger. Beating twice, a pause, then twice again, his initial image of a heartbeat suddenly became unsettling. Originally reserved for the local military, Darakai had little need for this wing ever since Dmitri’s father secured treaties with neighboring kingdoms, leaving the rooms vacant. Spinning off the main walkway, he took the next left down a narrow, less frequented passage. The pulses led Zaethan through another deserted hall, or so he thought. About to change course, he noticed the outline of a man standing in the shadows, near the door of a forgotten training chamber.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 15