“My men hardly look at me anymore. Each time I attempt heroics, I somehow make it worse.” Luscia resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder at the red-headed captaen on the steps.
“I can empathize with the feeling.” The prince sighed knowingly and smirked. “That’s the riddle of heroism, isn’t it? It is measured less by success, than it is our likeliness to fail.” His hand gently cupped her shoulder, avoiding her skin. An intentional awareness, she recognized, for her behalf. “They forgive us eventually, Luscia. It’s in the eyes.”
“What is, Your Highness?” Luscia turned to find him smiling warmly.
“Love. A leader’s greatest reprieve.” He removed his hand from her shoulder and returned it to his knee. “If incredibly uncommon. You should cherish it.”
At that, Luscia’s chin tucked to look back at Marek, where he stood at attention and attempted to force Aksel to do the same.
“Forgive, perhaps,” she added, and faced forward. “But never forget.”
“No. No, they don’t forget.” Dmitri tossed a twig onto the altar as his totem disintegrated. “It’s a blessing, though—their memory. Otherwise, what reason would we have to grow?”
Luscia exhaled and relaxed her neck, gazing up at the underside of the glittering, domed cupola. “Are you nervous, Your Highness? For her arrival?”
“Dmitri,” he corrected, then mirrored her posture, admiring the ceiling. “In truth? Absolutely.” They shared a communal laugh that loosened her limbs. “Razôuel is a daunting blend of Pilar’s splendor and Darakai’s strength. The Zôueli treaty provides us with a valuable ally, however Razôuel boasts that women are not only equal, but superior in all matters. It will be a fascinating marriage, should she find me favorable.”
“Is that what you’d want in a marriage—fascination?” Luscia imagined Dmitri pruning a faceless woman in a gardening pot.
“Sometimes fascination is all we get.” Dmitri looped a loose thread around his thumb. “And that makes fascination quite dear.”
Luscia’s thoughts returned to Marek, her father’s choice, contemplating the prince’s sentiment. It was unavoidable in their positions. Like Dmitri, Luscia didn’t have the luxury of her mother’s circumstance. Had Eoine been the elder daughter, she might have lived untethered, as Alora had chosen. Alora had never needed to produce a successor, as her younger sibling had rapidly produced two, securing another generation in the line of Tiergan.
“I’ve been studying the Zôueli, as requested,” she relayed, returning to the topic. “Their origins are curious. My knowledge of peoples beyond the Ilias is limited.”
“I’m sure the princess will be happy to illuminate you further. I think you’ll enjoy her company, from my recollection of when we were children. Rasha might bring a much-needed break from your experience here at court.” Dmitri wavered, pursing his lips. “She, too, will feel like an outsider in Bastiion. You have that in common.”
“Y-your Highness,” Callister voiced weakly behind them. “It’s time. The Zôueli are at the city gate.”
Dmitri motioned for a priestess and gathered his cane to stand. Holding his breath, he leaned down and allowed the priestess to waft her incense around his dark, unkempt waves. Rising, the prince pounded his chest at the puff of smoke.
“Pray to all of our majestic overlords, Lady Boreal.” He coughed and pointed to the sky. “We’re going to need it.”
A parade of starlight entered the southern gate to the inner Proper. Whirling flares and torchlight designs decorated the streets for the Zôueli procession. From the palace windows high above, the rolling tent housing the western royalty looked like nothing more than an oblong lumilore Phalen might have found shimmering at their feet by the edge of the Dönumn.
“It’s been a decade since Korbin hosted Bahira’zol’Jaell.” Alora fixed her eyes on the carriage as she spoke of Razôuel’s queen, unmoving at her niece’s side. “This is a pivotal moment, Luscia. Every maneuver must be wielded shrewdly and with unyielding precision. More than you realize hinges on the coming days.”
Luscia’s teeth set, following her aunt’s gaze.
“Your childhood must be laid to rest, Luscia. Further rebellion poses a risk to the prince now more than ever.”
“He told me.”
Alora spun away from the glass. The moon haloed her neat braid and betrayed the thinning of her cheeks, made more severe by the luster.
“The prince told you of his need for a wife, or his need for an heir?”
“He told me everything,” Luscia touched the skeleton key beneath the fabric of her dress. “It was not a tale for children, nor the responsibility of one. You can set your worry aside.”
She rubbed her eyes and clasped her hands together, regretting the curtness in her tone. Luscia felt her aunt reading the unseen threads around her. It was a new sensation, one she’d not noticed in the past.
“You are concerned for him, so I won’t take offense at your tone.” Alora’s pitch dropped to a level no ordinary human could detect as several courtiers passed by, eager to witness the extravagant display at the gates. “As well you should be. We must assume there is less time than he is willing to admit. Your elixir is potent enough to keep it at bay—for now. His complexion has already improved.”
“Why is my…” Luscia waited for a group of squealing attendants to drift on. “…my blood any different than yours? Do the elders know what we’re doing?”
“Niit. The elders know what is pertinent and have little need to know what is inevitable.”
She hated when her aunt answered straightforward questions as if they were puzzles. Their years together had taught Luscia when a boundary was established, and there was no use pressing through it.
“Ana’Mere.” She bit her lip as the tail of the Zôueli caravan moved out of sight. “How did you know our blood would save him?”
Alora’s pale brows crinkled, then plummeted, dissatisfied somehow. “History written, and history rings,” she quoted the ballad. “You should already know that answer, for it lies at the start.” Her aunt picked up her hand, tenderly pinching the healed spot on her fingertip. Then Alora let go and stepped back, tugging her linsilk shawl tighter. “If you can’t answer the past, you’ve no sense questioning the present.”
After a few steps from the tall window, Alora paused and turned back to her niece. “And I couldn’t save him. I only drew out his death. Goodnight, Luscia.”
Retreating against the glass, Luscia’s chest caved in. She wrapped her arms around her middle and stared out through the window, down at the gate. In a single breath, it seemed all the hopeful light had vanished.
TWENTY-NINE
Luscia
With the concentration expected of the most studious shoto, the prince slid his marble across the Zôueli playing board. Dmitri pocketed three others, plucking them from depressions in the lacquered wood, carved like eight-pointed stars. Among the spoils was one of Luscia’s own.
“Impressive, Prince Dmitri,” the board’s owner praised the maneuver in thickly accented Unitarian. Though they’d only met that morning, Luscia already enjoyed the way the princess’s western lilt altered each syllable, bending their common language into an exotic chime.
“I did warn you, Bahira, I do love a good game. And—” Dmitri bit the tip of his tongue as he completed his second move, swiping two more marbles. “—I rarely lose.”
His dimple emerged as he smugly boosted off his forearms, bolting upright, thoroughly pleased with himself. His boasting turned a bit sheepish when he glanced at the princess in question, sprawled over the lavish cushions surrounding their game. Bahira’Rasha lifted a brow under a dangling string of jewels, challenging him in return.
Across the multicolored set, Sayuri wound her long, silken hair around her fingers. Tossing the sleek jet strands over her shoulder, the Pilarese al’Haidren slunk forward, anglin
g her lowcut bodice over the playing board.
“Neither do I, Your Highness,” Sayuri simpered, plumping her ruby lips.
Luscia let her lids close, steeling herself. Pilar’s al’Haidren was relentless, even in front of company.
“Thankfully for our sake, you aren’t playing, Lady Pilar.” Dmitri responded awkwardly and picked up a glass of water, accidentally splashing his trousers.
Sayuri shifted closer, producing a dainty handkerchief and dabbed the inside of his thigh. “I never stopped,” she purred.
Gulping, Dmitri let out a shaky laugh and snatched the square of fabric from her, rising with vigor. As he meandered to the edge of the tent, which sheltered their gathering on the spacious lawn, Sayuri’s eyes tapered like a cat, sliding between Luscia and their foreign guest. Sitting back, she brought the goblet to her mouth and smirked over the gilded rim.
Luscia surveyed the princess nervously. It was unclear if, in her assigned role, she ought to condone Sayuri’s behavior or apologize for it. However, her concern was short-lived, for it appeared the Zôueli princess was not fazed in the least. Snapping a grape off its stem, Bahira’Rasha brazenly held the al’Haidren’s stare and popped the Wendyllean fruit in her mouth. The marigold-colored grapes had been harvested from the Hastings’ private vineyard in Arune, and it was a blessing that Bahira’Rasha’s brother preoccupied Ira on the lawn, rather than inside the tent, for he would have thoroughly relished the visual.
“A sweet solstice you have this year,” the princess commented aloofly, seizing another grape. “Your summers are milder than Razôuel. More pleasant, I find.”
As a bead of sweat trickled down her neck, underneath the thin lace collar, Luscia attempted her most believable smile. It was feeble at best. She’d long since decided that a freezing Orallach blizzard was more favorable than the humid, hedged lawn the Unitarians had selected for this picnic. Even if Thoarne Bay were drained until its last drop, it’d be no match for the moisture that suffocated the plains.
“It’s best not to grow accustomed to it here,” Sayuri commented, gently fanning herself. “It could be years before you’ve the chance to return.”
“Tell me again, Lady al’Haidren.” The princess stroked Luscia’s arm lazily, the only indication she was being addressed instead of Sayuri. “Why does your prince need a Quadren if he’s not yet a king? All the chatter from your Houses, it’s so…meaningless, yes?”
Luscia shifted uncomfortably on the tufted pillow when the princess’s fingertips skirted away and returned to her own lap. Even by royalty, she did not like being touched so candidly.
“Our prince aspires to build something new during his reign.” Luscia nodded at Dmitri, who scratched his chin, apparently trying to make sense of Ira’s clumsiness outside the breezy tent. “By engaging his al’Haidrens on a Quadren, albeit prematurely, he can leverage our strengths for the greater unification of the realm.”
The princess’s expression was skeptical beneath the emerald gems strung across her forehead. “And this…” She languidly pointed toward the lawn. “This is the strength?”
Following the angle of her forefinger, encased in stacked bands of rare metals, Luscia frowned as Ira thwacked himself in the eye while drawing his ornamental bow. Then, resituating the excessively feathered fletching against the bowstring, he somehow sliced his hand. Ditching both pieces, the al’Haidren to Bastiion clutched his bloody palm and danced in place. At the sound of his yelping when he stepped on the abandoned arrowhead, his juvenile companion, Bahir’Tozune, ran to Ira’s rescue so it wouldn’t happen twice.
“Strength comes in many forms, Bahira,” Luscia offered weakly.
Gratefully, the princess chuckled and patted Luscia’s hand. “You, I like. You may call me Rasha, as friends do say. And I, to call you…?”
“Luscia.”
Over the gaming table, Sayuri gawked in disbelief. For a woman whose eyes seemed eternally narrowed, it was a sight to see them so enlarged. Luscia wondered how the Pilarese beauty would look were she not so discontented all the time.
“Loo-Shah…” the princess repeated, pronouncing her name as if unrolling a scroll from her tongue. “Loo-Shah of the Boreali highlands. Your people, the northmen, come from the mist, yes?”
“Wem—yes,” Luscia translated, dabbing away the perspiration pooling in the crest of her upper lip. “Though I’m finding there is a different kind of mist here in the lowlands.”
Sayuri reclined on the cushions and ran a nail down her bare, copper-toned arm, kissed by her more accepted lineage. “You see how the Boreali putrefy under our sun, Rasha? It’s dangerous to even invite them to court.”
“Bahira’Rasha,” the princess sternly corrected.
Insulted, Sayuri pouted. Rising off the cushion, she strutted over to Dmitri, who continued to watch Ira from a shaded tent post, likely concerned for the welfare of his Unitarian al’Haidren. Drawing close, Sayuri threw her shoulders back unnaturally, like a pole were wedged into the boning of her corset. Swift and ladylike, she took his arm, holding it snugly.
Feeling a tug on her scalp, Luscia turned to discover the princess playing with a strand of her hair.
“The color is gone?” she questioned inquisitively, and passed it under her jeweled nose, sniffing. “Because the sun is so mighty, or does it grow empty of life?”
Conflicted about whether to recoil or to laugh, Luscia politely slipped her palest locks through Rasha’s grasp. “My brother’s is even lighter.”
The princess beamed, her interest visibly piqued. It was remarkable how Luscia’s kind were despised by her own realm, when the heir to another wished to know everything about them.
“Call your brother to us, yes? Enough of the prancer,” she said, dismissing Ira.
“Regrettably, I cannot,” Luscia said wistfully. “Phalen is not permitted in Bastiion.”
“He…stays in the mist?”
Rasha’s expression suggested she envisioned Phalen to be some woodland nymph among the toadstools, rather than a blade-laden luxiron apprentice. Peering through the wafting tent, Luscia considered Bahir’Tozune as he foraged Ira’s arrows, staked erratically throughout the grass.
“He stays in the mist, with my people. Yours is a natural archer.” Luscia stood, offering Rasha her hand. “I’m sure your family is proud.”
The princess rose as well. “Tozune will be a fine general, like our father. He is ineligible to wear my mother’s crown, you know.”
Together they walked arm in arm, joining Dmitri. Recently, Luscia had read how the Zôueli regency passed from mother to daughter. Orynthia had no such constraints, yet as Thoarne’s descendants tended to be sons instead of daughters, the tenor of the Peerage mirrored the throne, favoring male delegates from the provinces. That same favoritism traditionally held less favorable for female Haidrens, even when they occupied a coveted seat on the Quadren beside their sovereign. Although their policy and deportment couldn’t be more divided, Luscia and Sayuri were at least united in the disadvantage of their sex.
A fact the Pilarese had decided to use to their advantage, apparently, as Sayuri practically melted into Dmitri’s camel day jacket when Luscia and Rasha reached the perimeter of the tent.
Aksel might as well teach her to mark the poor man, Luscia mentally retorted, it would certainly be more effective. She couldn’t help but smirk at the thought, remembering the stench in Sayuri’s vacated apartments.
“Dmitri, tell me something.” The princess positioned herself between him and the tent post. “An Orynthian Quadren hosts four ambassadors, yet I’ve only met three. Where is the fourth?”
With a feminine confidence Luscia had never witnessed at court, Rasha exerted her supremacy by echoing his posture, not touching him in the least. Seconds later, Sayuri loosened her grip on his sleeve, doing the same.
Women were intricate, chaotic creatures, Luscia had decide
d long ago. Praise the High One her mother had only borne one. It was enough to dissect her own temperaments—navigating those of a sister as well would be an undertaking, indeed.
Dmitri unbuttoned his jacket apprehensively, waving the fabric to cool himself. “Forgive me his absence. My al’Haidren to Darakai, Zaethan Kasim, informed me that he was to spend today familiarizing your Zôueli guard with palace protocols and procedures. You are to meet him tomorrow, though,” he assured her. “At the match. Bit of a confusing sport, motumbha, but he makes an excellence starter.”
Luscia’s stomach unclenched. At that moment, she realized how tense she’d felt all morning. Luscia relaxed on her heels, relieved she wouldn’t be seeing Kasim until tomorrow afternoon. After their final meeting in the training room, she still wasn’t ready to meet his knowing stare, both watchful and smug. Not after what he’d done, intentionally or not. Luscia didn’t trust that Kasim wouldn’t broach the subject again, or use its gravity against her. There were times when she forgot who his father was. That morning had not been one of them.
Absently, she scratched at her scar under the lace and swallowed. He said he’d found her weakness in combat, and she couldn’t face him because of it. Not after he might have been right.
“Is the Darakaian as nimble as your fellow Unitarian?” Rasha posed cynically, watching Ira while he wrapped his uncalloused fingertips where they’d split and swelled.
“Shtàka!” he hollered, losing the roll of bandages between his boots.
Luscia wasn’t sure of the alternative, but sober, Ira really was terribly unathletic. She nearly felt sorry for the yancy when he bit down to sever the mesh fabric from the roll. His feet unknowingly entangled, Ira tried to march toward their party and fell flat on his face, uprooting the sod.
As Ira brushed himself off, an imposing character strode across the lawn, directly toward their picnic assembly. As he neared, Luscia recognized the dark man, his notable height the first clue that Kasim’s beta approached in search of his alpha. The unyielding sun melded his countenance, until the trampled lines of his square features defined inside the shadow of the tent. Unsettled in some way, the beta’s forehead puckered as he bowed to their prince and beat his chest twice.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 28