House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1)

by K. L. Kolarich

  Picking up his pace, Zaethan’s fingers rustled over the hilt of his kopar as he drew closer. Distant torchlight casted an eerie, inconsistent halo around the intruder’s golden mane of hair.

  Y’siti.

  “You there!” he yelled, gripping his sickle-sword as the vibrations became more audible. “This is a restricted area! Y’siti are not permitted on Darakaian floors!”

  The Ethnicam allowed the Najjani shadowmen to roam in Bastiion for one purpose: protecting their Haidrens to Boreal. The Najjan blocking the old door appeared to be roughly the same age as Zaethan, which meant he must have belonged to Boreal’s al’Haidren. Making it highly probable the younger witch was breaking Unitarian law on the other side.

  The thought brought a sneer to Zaethan’s lips.

  “Open this door immediately,” he commanded her man.

  Up close, Zaethan watched the shadowman sigh, seeming fully at ease. His stance was immobile. Only blue-green eyes shifted to acknowledge that anyone had spoken at all.

  “By refusing to open this door, a chamber under the jurisdiction of the Darakaian military, you condemn your y’siti al’Haidren to more of the Ethnicam’s discipline than her actions have already earned her,” Zaethan threatened.

  Boreali eyes shot to his and narrowed as the shadowman considered the warning. Just when it seemed the man would not yield, he warily cracked open the door and allowed Zaethan to pass through.

  He’d not stepped into one of these rooms in years. Nor was there evidence to support another body had either, before today at least. The rhythmic beating boomed louder once he was inside the octagonal space. Tattered mats and filthy equipment couldn’t damper the sound when clashes of metal accompanied the ruckus.

  For a moment, Zaethan couldn’t speak. The criminal display before him was too rare to expel—yet. Gaping, he watched the y’siti wielding their coveted weaponry, moving as if they carried mere cutlery instead of the most magnificent blades in the realm.

  Crescent wraiths.

  Due to the ban on witchiron, no Orynthian of any House, including Darakai, had come across the deadly instruments in decades. To see them in action was even more unheard of. Beautifully crafted with captivating intricacy, the shining arcs cut through the air like water and proclaimed gravity a human myth. Held in each hand by a shielded center hilt, the shadowmen battled in rotating offensive maneuvers.

  No man warred like the Najjan. Zaethan’s jaw slackened even further when he saw who warred alongside them.

  Two shadowmen faced forward, their backs to Zaethan, immersed in the duel. The witch’s ginger henchman carried a strange, vented staff carved from bone that he used to strike the floor repeatedly. The second man stood much taller, whittled from the iciest winters. His snowy fall of hair swung as he clapped in approval.

  And in the center, two beings circled each other hungrily.

  Between rapid, blurred movements, Zaethan recognized the larger fighter as the al’Haidren’s escort from their hunt. Captaen Bailefore, he’d heard Dmitri call the shadowman. The captaen’s opponent, notably smaller, fought swiftly, evading his strikes. When he missed a fourth time, Zaethan saw the witch smile widely, laughing aloud at Bailefore’s failed attempts.

  As to how her evasion was possible, Zaethan couldn’t begin to fathom—for the al’Haidren to Boreal fought blindfolded.

  The rhythm of the red-haired shadowman keeping time faltered when he realized they’d acquired an audience. Bailefore’s face shot to Zaethan, causing his footsteps to stumble in their graceful dance. Not perceiving the change in atmosphere, the al’Haidren sprinted off the wall and flung herself at the Boreali captaen, similar to a falcon diving after her prey. Twisting her surprisingly agile body through the air, an arced talon sliced his shoulder on her descent as he spun to the right, barely in time.

  She landed in an animalistic crouch, hardly out of breath. Zaethan felt history creep down his spine. He should have killed her six years ago, when she was still a cub. This y’siti moved faster than the captaen of her own Najjani Guard. She used their sorcery to see without her eyes. It’d made her laugh with pleasure.

  Zaethan’s dread rapidly shifted to a feeling of triumph. Finally, he had enough evidence to take to Dmitri, to the entire Ethnicam. Boreal’s seat on the Quadren would be no more. Both witches would be banished, along with their shadowmen. Zaethan would restore honor to his birthright, to the name of Kasim. He would singlehandedly dethrone the House of Boreal.

  Grinning sardonically, Zaethan brought his hands together and applauded their demonstration.

  The witch ripped off the black silk blindfold. Her unnerving eyes widened, but he looked away, avoiding them and noting her choice of attire. Instead of the garb expected of her station, she’d donned humble sparring gear: a collared, sleeveless jerkin tightened at the waist over men’s trousers, emphasizing the curves of her figure. The y’siti’s pale arms showed more muscle than he’d expected—more like his third, Zahra, than a courtier. Most of her ghostly hair was pulled into an efficient knot. His gaze stopped just above the collar of her jerkin, where a taut, withered scar crept toward her earlobe, disfiguring her smooth neck.

  The Orynthians believed Boreali skin couldn’t bleed. He was happy to see that was not the case.

  “Oh, don’t stop on my behalf,” Zaethan remarked, picking at a hangnail. “It’s a spectacular show. The king will appreciate it, don’t you think?”

  The one with locks of fire—Bailefore—pushed through the others, wraiths in hand, and shouted some kakk in witchtongue.

  “I wouldn’t suggest that, but your call. Kàchà kocho.” Zaethan shrugged, then folded his arms. “First count, illegal contraband on royal grounds.” He released a finger to count for the y’siti. “Second, lying about said illegal contraband to royal authorities...hm, that’s not so good. Ano.” A second finger joined its neighbor, followed by a third. “Do we want to add number three, assaulting the al’Haidren to Darakai, to the list? I’d think not. Unless you’d all prefer to be sentenced to death, in which case by Owàa, do continue. You have my full support.”

  Her men began to argue in Boreali, much to his amusement. It was a moment he intended to savor.

  “Lord Darakai,” the sorceress spoke above their disagreement, “my men and I reserve the right to privacy, which you have infringed upon once again. Is this the foundation you want to lay for our diplomatic relationship?”

  “I don’t want a relationship with the y’siti,” he spat, earning a snarl from one of the shadowmen. “Nor do any of the others on Dmitri’s Quadren.”

  Staring at Zaethan, she murmured under her breath. The shadowmen glanced between each other and back to their mistress.

  “I said, leave us!” She raised her throaty voice to a shout, shocking her men.

  Gradually, they laid their witchiron on the floor and departed the room one by one until only the captaen lingered near the door. Raising her brow, she mouthed something to him all but silently in witchtongue.

  Her peculiar gaze didn’t leave Zaethan’s face while she waited for the captaen to exit. Unable to stomach it, Zaethan looked elsewhere. They were wrong, those eyes. One iris of beryl, the other a swirling, iridescent emptiness. Two sinister globes that hosted pupils like delicate pinpricks. Once they were alone in the training room, the y’siti cocked her head and allowed several seconds to pass before speaking again.

  “What is it you want, Lord Darakai?” she asked calmly. She knit her hands behind her, as if they merely spoke about the weather.

  “I just told you,” he spat. “Is your head as empty as your chest? My greatest wish is for the Boreali to be exposed as the treacherous, abominable creatures you are.”

  “That is only partially true, Zaethan Kasim. Oh, you would enjoy it immensely, that much is plainly evident,” she posed, stepping closer to him. “Everyone desires something very few can give. Therefore, I
suggest you think carefully in this moment, and ask yourself what it is you truly desire.”

  “What do you know about desire or what I want?” Zaethan’s hand flexed around the hilt of his kopar. “You aren’t even human, you’re a thing. A plague upon Orynthia.”

  “I know you are caged by superstition. It’s a noose around your neck, suffocating you more every day.” She peered down and smirked at something unsaid. “It’s time to think, Lord Darakai. Always think before allowing emotions to dictate your path for you.”

  By her rigid posture, he knew the al’Haidren was not offering what women like Sayuri or Flourette used to manipulate men. Fleeting uncertainty nudged Zaethan to reconsider his plan. On one hand, he could become a hero to Darakai. His actions might result in a war with Boreal. Lives would be lost, but for a cause such as this, Darakai’s sacrifice would not be in vain. It was unlikely the Ethnicam would defend Boreal’s seat when for the last century, the other Houses had fought to lessen their influence. He would almost certainly be praised, and his father would finally see his value beyond the underlying hatred he held for his son.

  Then, Zaethan would never be replaced by a nameless Jwona rapiki like Wekesa.

  Zaethan shifted his weight to the other foot, along with his thoughts. Orynthia’s commander honored Wekesa—he’d brought him into Bastiion against territorial protocol. If Wekesa was in the city, then there was always a chance he’d be given credit for Boreal’s fall. Zaethan needed to become his own Fate writer, his own Jwona rapiki. For in the event that his father allowed the bastard to rechallenge Zaethan for the title of Alpha Zà, he’d need a new advantage to defeat Wekesa again.

  Chance had delivered him the first victory. Only a strong upper hand could deliver him a second.

  Zaethan’s spinning thoughts traveled to the witchiron blades sprawled across the mats. In all of their history with the Ethnicam, a Darakaian had never carried a set of crescent wraiths. An unexpected coupling of emotions seized his gut.

  Jealousy.

  Exhilaration.

  “The crescent wraiths. That’s what I want,” Zaethan declared, his decision made. “Teach me.”

  The y’siti contemplated his trade, taking her time. Finally, she shook her head.

  “My men can teach you another blade. Either the kuerre or the consort daggers. Whichever you choose, in private, as long as you agree to bind yourself to mutual secrecy.”

  “Ano zà.”

  “No?” the witch questioned. “Crescent wraiths are advanced Boreali weaponry, Lord Darakai. Luxiron is corrosive. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever handled. You’d likely decapitate yourself and sentence me to execution for it. The former is permissible, the latter is not.”

  “Despite your arrogance, y’siti are not the only beings capable of prolonged stamina and flexibility. I promise you, I can handle myself.” Zaethan smirked. “The wraiths, or I join the king for a drink and share with him the sweet tale of Boreal’s demise.”

  He watched her bite down. The tension dragged the scar up her neck.

  “Fine. Declan or Marek will train you. I will ask them to be discreet.”

  “Ano,” he repeated.

  “This is tiresome, Lord Darakai.” The witch straightened her shoulders. “Are you a child?”

  “You will train me.”

  If he was going to study the enemy’s blade, Zaethan needed to learn from the victor. She’d fought more fiercely and fluidly than her shadowman. Zaethan would have to become even faster to eradicate her when the moment came.

  A low chuckle escaped her shapely lips. It was a shame they were so pallid and cadaverous.

  “Let the record show this course is ill advised,” she boasted, raising that dainty chin. “We are each beholden to keep this secret. If you utter a word of our arrangement outside this conversation, I will expose you for betraying your own kind by dabbling in, as you so tastelessly put it, y’siti custom.”

  Zaethan assessed the creature before him. Deadly. Underestimated. He wasn’t sure how he’d endure training sessions in such closeness without smothering his tutor.

  The struggle had better be worth it.

  “Then it’s settled.” Zaethan grinned. “I hope your dead Boreali flesh can face the light of dawn. We start tomorrow.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Luscia

  Inquisitive, arctic eyes charted the training space as Luscia tallied the new additions to the formerly forgotten, dirty chamber. Where yesterday lay battered mats and dingy cushions, durable leather replacements rested in their place. Gone were the musky rags that had littered the multiple corners of the room. Instead, various pieces of freshly polished equipment were positioned along the walls, ready for her enlistment.

  He’d been busy, this Zaethan Kasim. Luscia peered down at her lycran, her lone confidante, and heaved a sigh.

  “What say you, Aksel?” she asked, depositing the wooden globe she carried onto the edge of a mat. “Wem, I concur. This is a wretched idea.”

  An energetic swish of his lush tail conveyed her wolx was in higher spirits that morning than she. Unlike her canine accomplice, it was Luscia who’d agreed to commit some degree of treason. But had she not, defiance of Orynthian legislation could have brought charges of sedition against the entire House of Boreal. After all, each member of her party had concealed additional weaponry in their arrival to the city. Conversely, committing infidelity to Boreal by allowing this adulterous handling of luxiron would implicate Luscia alone, though the disciplinary action would surely be severe.

  In an unexpected moment of demarcation, she’d chosen to defy her own House—a feeble attempt to save it from her own folly.

  Planting her feet hip-width apart, Luscia rolled her shoulders and initiated a series of standard stretches. A shrill yip pierced her ears. Upside down, she turned to watch the lycran’s enormous body spasm theatrically. Opening his elongated muzzle, he released a pink, textured tongue from behind his serrated fangs. Luscia rolled her eyes when he started panting.

  “Niit,” she chastised, and extended her body to the opposite side, savoring the sting of her muscles as they embraced the day. “You are not dying of thirst, you manipulative ogre.”

  Aksel’s rump thumped against the mat in a slobbery huff. Byrnnzite monoliths and unfamiliar scents were not the only elements of life in Bastiion the animal was adjusting to. Though in Aksel’s defense, he’d spent the majority of his existence traversing freely, drinking from every body of water he happened upon. Luscia hated instructing Mila to limit his consumption while they resided at court, but she’d hate the inverse exponentially more.

  Natural adaption, boosted by the hints of metabolized lumin that bridged the genetic rift between fox and wolf, gave the Orallach hybrid a knack for marking pack territory throughout even the iciest winters. Unfortunately, Aksel refused to accept that it was not wintertime in the highlands, and the last thing Luscia desired was for her apartments to smell like his urine during the heat of a fast-approaching Unitarian summer. Being noxiously pungent, a single accident could take months to dispel from her quarters.

  Snaking into her next pose, a distant succession of steps pricked Luscia’s ears. “Aksel, heh’ta.” Recognizing the vexed tempo of the harried pace, she prepared herself for company.

  “You are late, Lord Darakai,” Luscia remarked as he eased the aged door open.

  By his abrupt muteness, she imagined his southern features warping suspiciously at her foreknowledge. She’d never know if it was an accurate assumption, as she didn’t bother to face him.

  “Wicked y’siti ears,” the al’Haidren cursed under his breath. “Damn you all to the Depths.”

  “Nii’boleava,” Luscia rotated her stretch to reply. “I’d rather not visit this time of year.”

  His uncommonly jade gaze narrowed as he greeted her with an unfriendly snarl. It would be tedious to avoid riling him dur
ing their sessions. Even in her limited time at court, Luscia had already discovered that it took very little to arouse the temper of Zaethan Kasim. Keeping him in a calm state of mind would be akin to waltzing through a forest of wind chimes in silence—highly problematic, but not impossible.

  “I see your witch flesh survived first light.” He eyed her arms as if they were combustible. Perhaps he thought they were.

  “Highly observant of you,” she stated, dodging the barb. “Shall we begin, or would you prefer to spend our time admiring my flair for punctuality in your absence of it?”

  His nostrils, the same hue as her morning viridi tea, flared as he constricted his fists. He flicked a glance at the wooden sphere beside her feet. Interesting, what motivated this man.

  “Where are the wraiths?” Kasim surveyed the room. “We had a deal, you and I—unless you’ve decided to withdraw your trade? Our king takes his breakfast early and is not difficult to track down.”

  “Luxiron will be of no use to you today.” Luscia’s hand shot out to hush a second threat. “I promised to teach you how to wield the crescent wraiths, and I will. But first, we must prepare your undisciplined Darakaian body to do so.”

  “The House of Boreal has restricted witchiron for centuries,” the opposing al’Haidren cautioned. “My undisciplined Darakaian patience has run its course.”

  “Yet I wonder, in all of those centuries, did Darakai share their prized stallions with the rest of the realm?” Luscia countered.

  “Our Unitarian prince rides the twin of my own.”

  “Wem, but your House has never shared them with Boreal.”

  “And we thought the y’siti would never deign to ask for anything.” His ample upper lip curled back to reveal a row of immaculate, well-bred teeth as the obscenity passed between them.

  “The point remains,” she finished, eager to begin his lesson so she might sooner conclude it. “Do not begrudge the House of Boreal for protecting what they hold sacred. Luxiron blades are far more valuable than a horse.”