House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1)

by K. L. Kolarich

  “Have you ever run an Andwele stallion? I doubt there could be anything more sacred.” A distant ember sparked behind his verdant irises, momentarily melting his hostility.

  “Then your definition of ‘sacred’ is rather grounded,” Luscia added dryly. She bent to pick up the wooden globe and repositioned it at the center of the largest mat.

  “As much as yours is vain, Lady Boreal,” Kasim muttered, following her lead. “I assume your little ball is supposed to prepare me, then? Did you bring the henchman’s stick, too?”

  Impatient hands rested on his narrow hips. The other al’Haidren was dressed strangely that morning. A trim but breathable linen vest freed his arms from constraint, whereas his legs stood swathed in draped, loose fabric that tightened at the waist and ankles. Truthfully, it didn’t matter what attire the man selected, however bizarre, as long as it allowed him to move.

  “The bomaerod is not necessary for your kind,” she noted, anchoring the sole of her foot on top of the globe to keep it upright.

  “My kind?” Kasim’s features darkened.

  “Wem. That is what I said, were you not listening?”

  It was not an untrue statement. Naturally, Darakai’s fickle al’Haidren would interpret offense where it didn’t exist. A Najjani bomaerod was not meant for his kind, or any other, as it would deliver him nothing but a migraine, an affliction Luscia was rapidly developing herself.

  Kasim’s ears were not attuned to the many layers of sound that drowned the senses of the Boreali. During advanced training, the children of Boreal required a tool like the bomaerod to focus that clamor by honing it to a limited sphere of impact. Each beating reverberation maintained a field of range. It concentrated one’s attention solely on the indicators of activity immediately surrounding them. This aid was particularly essential for Tiergan ears like Luscia’s, which were far more sensitive to the constant, buzzing disharmony than those of her own guard.

  Not that Luscia could clarify such things to the likes of Zaethan Kasim.

  “This,” she established, rolling the object under her sole, “is called a klödjen. Stand upon it, so we may begin.”

  Cords of ebony, braided locs swung to the side when he titled his head and assessed the klödjen. The fissures of his brow doubled the longer he studied it. Approximately the width of his shoulders, the globe was encircled by a lateral pane of viridi wood, crafted just wide enough to seat a man’s boot on either side. Luscia grinned as he scratched the back of his neck before shifting to crack his knuckles.

  “If you’d like me to assist—”

  “Don’t touch me, witch,” he hissed and instinctively placed his right foot on the circular panel, weighing it to the mat.

  Luscia didn’t stop him in his endeavor. She’d seen the routine before. His stubbornness deserved the multiple tumbles he was about to take.

  Succeeding with the right, his left heel touched down on the opposite side, causing his arms to reach out into nothingness for balance. A proud smirk promptly replaced his scowl. He swung his head to boast in her direction, which disrupted his fragile balance atop the klödjen. In a clumsy dance, he plummeted to the mat, landing firmly on his backside.

  “Again,” Luscia ordered, banishing her desire to laugh. It was going to be a long morning, and chuckling at his misfortune would only prolong it.

  He snapped into an upright position. Darakaians despised postures of submission, much less at the feet of a small Boreali woman. Standing, he brushed off his pants and tried again, repeating his initial approach. This time, Luscia watched his knees bend beneath his abdomen, causing him to land directly atop the globe. Being male, she imagined that was far from pleasant and expected it to alter his methodology once he recovered.

  It did not.

  Again, he collapsed, but to the side this time, crashing upon his hip bone. Then to the other, nearly bending an ankle. He landed on his palms, dislocated his shoulder, and on one attempt almost shattered an elbow. His ordinary bones were so breakable, but he refused to stop.

  “Heh’ta, enough,” she finally interrupted, weary from his failed attempts. “Crescent wraiths rely on three principles—predominantly, balance of the body and mind. The klödjen cannot be conquered unevenly. This,” Luscia emphasized, pushing one side of the viridi panel to the mat, “will never work. You cannot center yourself upon a foundation of unbalance.”

  “Then how do you suggest one mount your stupid klödjen?”

  Luscia stilled her mouth. Due to his lingering Darakaian accent, he pronounced the northern term more like cloud-june, which in Boreali loosely translated as “master’s hog.”

  “You jump,” she answered, spreading her feet apart into a leveled stance. “The whole body must leap from one balanced position to another. Your entire form must commit in order to succeed.”

  Bending at the knees, she pulled her shoulders back and evened her elbows. With an exhale, Luscia leapt atop each side of the wooden panel and dipped into a crouch to lower her center of gravity. Once secured, Luscia rose into stable position.

  Hopping off, she returned to the edge of the mat and nodded at the klödjen. “Again.”

  Grimacing, he mumbled foreign syllables but proceeded to mirror her example. With an angry grunt, he launched himself at the globe, almost overshooting it. Rocking back on his heels, he crouched deeply and waited for the swaying klödjen to settle before rising.

  “Good. Waedfrel. Now, focus on your breathing. Uncontrolled, breath alone can undo this symmetry,” Lucsia instructed as she moved to a wall that hosted an assembly of weighted discs. Selecting a few, she returned to his side. “In a moment I am going to touch you, and I’d prefer we not repeat the last hour. Do hold still.”

  With a fleeting tap of her fingertips, Luscia nudged his forearms to open and extend outward. Choosing one of the discs, she slid the accompanying leather tie over his fist and upward, to rest upon the muscle. Observing he was right-handed, she switched to his left and did the same, yet doubled the weight on the weaker arm. She saw the veins in his forearm protrude beneath it while he adjusted to the difference in heaviness.

  “Second, the wraiths demand a balance of strength,” Luscia continued as she added another disc to each arm, assessing his frame could handle more. “You have two arms. Both must carry the same burden. Your right is sufficient, but your left is too weak. Without balance of strength, there is no unity. Without unity, there can be no balance in your mobility. And as I said yesterday, neither of us would benefit from your self-inflicted beheading.”

  The al’Haidren snorted stiffly as he stretched his neck from shoulder to shoulder. “So considerate. What a puzzle, that a heartless y’siti would care about my possible decapitation.”

  “Despite the bias of your first education, the Boreali are not sorcerers, nor are we heartless.” Luscia shook her head, picked up a bag of chalky gripping powder, and began to scatter it over the mat around the circumference of the klödjen. “On the contrary, we tend to feel a great many things,” she whispered to the floor.

  “A bold claim from a House of creatures who hunt their own offspring.”

  “The murder of our cross-castes is gruesome and tragic.” Luscia felt her teeth clench as she rose and positioned her face directly under his, more than a foot higher. “Had jurisdiction been extended to our Najjan, the guilty party would’ve already been apprehended and brought to justice. Darakai’s delay is bought at the price of our innocents, not yours. Don’t you dare pretend these deaths are of any consequence to the House of Darakai.”

  A flippant laugh broke free from his flattened lips.

  “All I know—” Kasim grunted when his corded forearm constricted under the weight of the disc. “—is that my men never found a slaughtered child floating in the water like another stall in the bazaar until your colorless kinsmen entered my city.”

  A wave of vertigo washed over Luscia’s
senses. Alora had never mentioned a body in the bay. His tone was callous, but lacked any trace of sarcasm. The al’Haidren wasn’t misleading her; he thought she’d already known.

  Luscia put space between them, as if his nearness made the words truer. Methodically, she dusted the gripping powder from her palms and clutched them behind her back to bridle their shaking. Luscia needed to inform Alora straightaway, but a rush to her side might solidify Darakai’s suspicion of Boreal’s role in the cross-caste deaths. An absurd deduction, but substantial enough to threaten her House’s insecure standing with the Ethnicam.

  “The third principle,” Luscia managed, “is sheer endurance. The resolve of the wielder must be greater than the discomfort of his circumstance. The chalk will reveal how many times you dismount. Your objective is to do so only once, when you can endure no longer.”

  “That’s it? This is your lesson?” The al’Haidren scoffed, irritation calling a flush to his angular cheeks. “How much time do you expect me to waste standing here like this? An entire hour?”

  “If you consider a mere hour the extent of your endurance, then wem. Yes.”

  At her challenge, he sucked his teeth defiantly. “What is the record?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Hours?” The corners of his lips fell, teasing hers to rise. “Twenty. Six. Hours?”

  “Darakaians really do have terrible hearing.”

  Kasim blinked at her mutely. It was the most pleasant he’d been all morning.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve much to accomplish today,” Luscia offered in lieu of a farewell, and started toward the old door.

  “You aren’t seriously going to leave me here, standing on this kakka-shtàka wooden ball!”

  “The only assistance I could possibly provide would be to clean you once you’ve pissed yourself. But, since you’ve made it abundantly clear how you feel about my being—what was it? Ah, wem, a ‘plague’—I trust you’ll manage.”

  With a snap of her fingers, Aksel trotted to Luscia’s side, growling at Kasim in passing. She wrenched the door open by its rusting handle, ready to be rid of him.

  “The record,” he suddenly called out. “Which of Boreal’s men can claim it?”

  “None.” Hesitantly, Luscia brushed her chin over her shoulder. “I do. Good day, Lord Darakai.”

  Entering the solitude of the dank passageway, Luscia tore into a soundless race toward the Boreali suites, praying to the beat of her boots. Another cross-caste child, dead.

  Aniell help them.

  EIGHTEEN

  Luscia

  Luscia’s fingers scrambled desperately for the vial.

  Only minutes into Luscia’s trek to her apartment, the episode seized her entire nervous system. Searing, exploratory needles stemmed from each temple in search of the other. Despite the paralyzing intervals of pain, she remembered tying a single tonic under her tunic, just above her mother’s dagger.

  The privacy of darkness held Luscia captive within the winding, abandoned corridor. She tried to shush the shrill, whimpering lycran while she fumbled with the stopper of the vial and swallowed her aunt’s acrid remedy. Condensation enveloped her now-dampened skin, adding a chill to her feverous delirium. Luscia pressed her forehead against the wall as her hands cleaved the masonry. Each fissure in the stone marked a different loved one she pleaded to, begging them to take away her agony. Panting, Luscia pressed her cheek into the rock and waited for the pressure to subside.

  This is the price of my unfaithfulness, she whimpered to herself.

  Luscia wasn’t worthy of the High One’s mercy and wouldn’t dare beg Him for it. She’d broken her covenant to Boreal, to Aniell, by agreeing to teach Darakai’s al’Haidren how to wield their sacred blades. Luscia submitted to the piercing penance willingly; the shame was hers alone to bear.

  An unknown number of minutes passed before Luscia’s vision sharpened and her chest expanded to its true fullness again. Beneath her touch, Aksel’s ears twitched irregularly. The disorienting, buzzing fog slowly evaporated, revealing the distant voices that had caught his attention.

  Silently, Luscia eased away from the wall. She and the lycran were not alone.

  “No, you lied to me! I put a lot at stake for this agreement, Naborū!”

  Luscia shook out the remaining cloudiness in her ears.

  “I offered you an opportunity. It’s no lie you needed my assistance. Would you prefer your lordly debts come to light, Felix? You’ve always been a gambler. Will the Province of Galina celebrate the habits of their Lord Ambrose, or condemn them?”

  Preoccupied by their brisk exchange, the two men had not yet detected her presence. Unfortunately, they were about to. That turnoff ahead was the only passage in the direction of the Boreali suites.

  “This was not part of our bargain, Naborū! Fix it. Now!”

  “I cannot reverse what you’ve elected to become, Felix. But I warn you not to forget with whom you’re speaking. You were nothing to Galina before I extended my resources to satisfy your…appetites.”

  Luscia didn’t wait for the conclusion of their dispute—she had no desire to hear what despicable arrangement it entailed. She released the knot caging her mane at the top of her head, raked her fingers through the tangled ends, and smoothed the wrinkles out of her sparring tunic. None could learn of Luscia’s disgraceful pact with Kasim, least of all Tetsu Naborū, the notoriously shrewd Haidren to Pilar.

  With a groan, Luscia rushed down the corridor at her original pace, clucking at the lycran. “Come along, Aksel, I don’t have all day,” Luscia called, raising her voice as she rounded the upcoming turn.

  Though the passage was dimly lit, Luscia witnessed an abrupt shift in the men’s countenance. Ambrose, she deduced, was younger than anticipated. His untrained yancy build, similar to that of Ira Hastings, posed her no threat. Regardless, he promptly stood as lordly as he presumed himself to be and jerked on a pair of fine gloves, as if he was ready to leave. Squinting at her approach, the hue of Ambrose’s eyes was indistinguishable, though it aligned with the rich coloring of his noble Unitarian skin and even richer curls.

  An odor cradled her nostrils, akin to the sickening tinge of sweet onions just as they’ve begun to rot. Luscia’s bravado receded when she faced Ambrose’s companion.

  Luscia would not have believed Tetsu Naborū, to date Pilar’s wealthiest Haidren and Shoto Prime, could possibly fall victim to something so ordinary as addiction, especially that of common pipe marrow. Its cloying scent explained the unsightly yellowing of his eyes, which melted into his waxen complexion. The sallow skin over his cheeks was pulled taut by the slick loop of oiled hair fastened at the nape of his neck.

  “Little Lady al’Haidren,” he crooned. Naborū flipped his head studiously on its side, resembling a featherless owl. “I wonder what could have possibly brought Boreal’s fledging here, to our clutches, this morning? Tell me…” She tried not to gag when he leaned closer. “…do you and the crossbreed often play in ancient shadows?”

  Luscia didn’t respond, and the Haidren did not compel her to. Instead, he raised two spindly fingers and twirled the tapered hairs of his sharp beard around the claw of his pewter nailpiece.

  “I wished to walk the lycran about the palace to better familiarize him with our new home,” she said carefully, unnerved by his probing interest. “We were not welcome on this floor and made to leave. I quickly became lost, but I believe this direction leads to an exit. We should be on our way.”

  Inclining her head to both men, she took a step around the pool of Naborū’s billowing white robes. With a nauseating gulp of stale pipe marrow, Luscia looked up to find his calculating, jaundiced eyes dangerously near her own. Aksel snarled at Naborū, and bile climbed the walls of her throat.

  “Even the great, venerated Alora Tiergan came to learn her place.” Reedy, chapped lips hissed her aunt’s name as if
it were a curse. “And so I ask you, little al’Haidren—will her niece?”

  Luscia’s diaphragm constricted. Logic promised the willowy, opiated man couldn’t inflict any real harm. But as the ache in her skull returned, his nearness threatened logic to reassess its claim.

  “She should hope so,” Naborū warned, easing back barely enough to permit their passing.

  With a single snap of her fingers, Luscia mutely led Aksel away from the Haidren to Pilar. Keeping an unassuming pace, she refused to look back. When the hulking double doors to her apartments finally came into view, Luscia sailed into her makeshift haven. Inside, she pitted her back against the wood and pressed her eyes shut.

  “Lady Luscia, thank the High One!” a woman cried, disrupting Luscia’s solace. “They’ve been out searching all morning for you, your men have!”

  “Tallulah.” Luscia sighed; another complication of her contract with the younger Kasim. “Meh’fyreon. I began the day walking unaccompanied. It becomes oppressive, constantly being around the others.” She despised the sour tang of the half-lie. “But more pressing is my aunt—do you know where I might find her?”

  “Ana’Mere has left the city,” Tallulah answered, tears collecting along her sparse lashes. “They found an orphaned cross-caste dead in the bay, and…the Peerage denied her request to send the body to the nearest Boreali kin in Port Tadeas. The Haidren to Bastiion, him being M-Minister…he overruled the Peerage, b-but only under the condition that Ana’Mere escort the body herself.” The maid sniffled into a handkerchief. “They ordered her to r-remove the remains and depart before noon.”

  Tallulah reached into the swollen pocket of her apron and retrieved a folded scrap of parchment. Offering it to her mistress, the maid’s oversized teeth bit back a freckled lip as Luscia read the hurried script.

  Luscia,

  I trust Tallulah relayed the urgency of my departure, as you were nowhere to be found. I do hope your absence was purposeful. While I am away, do not respond brashly to these events.