“Kumo,” Dmitri greeted him by name. “Is everything all right?”
“Your Highness.” He bent over a second time, thoroughly out of breath, and asked, “Is Alpha Zà with you?” As he spoke, the beta’s huge skull swung from side to side, surveying the protected field. Comprehending Kasim’s absence, the Darakaian rolled the twisted knots atop his head between his fingers anxiously.
“He was unable to join us, Kumo. Though I sense there is some urgency?” Concerned, Dmitri stepped forward, hands at his belt.
The beta leaned down to mutter in Dmitri’s ear. Shifting slightly, Luscia tuned her northern ears toward the flutter of his full lips.
“…stable boy gone missing, Your Highness,” he uttered in a hushed whisper. “Boreali cross-caste.”
Dmitri lurched back in shock. Smoothing the lapel of his jacket, he lifted on his toes to whisper in return. “Here, on the grounds?”
As if he knew she’d overheard the report, Kumo’s hickory eyes slid to Luscia. Grimacing, he dipped his chin to the prince. The southerner then offered her a look of pity, confirming his words.
Dread brought her hand to her stomach. Dropping it, Luscia straightened her posture, aware Rasha was studying the entire encounter. Despite the language barrier, the princess was more astute than she let on. Razôuel had no business decoding the peril of Orynthia’s downcast, and Dmitri couldn’t afford for them to find out.
A single weakness in the realm could became a weakness in a marriage contract. Their own Accords already posed enough.
“You should find Zaeth in the southern wing, around the Zôueli suites. Go, quickly now.” Dmitri patted the beta’s bicep, double the width of his hand, sending him off.
As Dmitri returned to their picnic, Ira came around from behind, his fine silk shirt covered in dirt stains. Holding a bowl of his Wendyllean grapes, he munched the remaining few, ogling the trio of women.
“Well, look at that. Quite a riveting sunset you’ve made, ladies.” His cloth-swathed hand gestured down their row, calling attention to the gradient of their skins. “What a shame so many clouds are in the way.”
Luscia ripped the bowl out of his grasp, covering her chest indignantly.
“I’m pleased to see someone tasted the fruits of my labor.” Ira winked at the barren vine. “I trust you found them pleasantly plump?”
“Compensating, Ira?” Sayuri muttered dryly as Dmitri reentered the tent.
The prince wicked moisture off his temples where they had started to glisten. Luscia wondered when he’d need his next treatment, assuming the heat hastened his metabolism of the elixir.
Sprinting up to them, Bahir’Tozune presented his sister with a pile of busted arrows, likely Ira’s doing. Luscia felt a pang through her ribs. He was old enough to work in the stables, like this missing boy. An image of the princess’s brother hemorrhaging into a stack of hay flashed through her vision.
Wetness suddenly bordered her eyes. Luscia turned around, searching for her men around the outskirts of the field. Declan held his post at one end, disguised within the brush, while Noxolo remained in sight beside Rasha’s quartet of guards. Luscia located Nox, a moonbeam among pillars of amber. Sensing her distress, his brow cinched over the bridge of his beaklike nose.
“Rasha, do you enjoy botanicals?” Dmitri asked as Luscia rotated forward, gathering herself once more. “Our garden is a bit of a wonder, and—”
He trailed off when another visitor appeared, curtsying just outside the tent. The dainty lady’s maid lowered her abdomen, staying that way, even though the reprieve of the shade was inches away. Dmitri coughed and waved her in, clarifying, “You may enter,” when she failed to look up.
The Pilarese girl, concerningly slight in stature, curtsied another half a dozen times before she relayed a message to Sayuri in their western tongue. Unexpectedly, Sayuri launched away from the post and tidied the top of her dress. An eager grin broke her smooth indifference as she snatched the girl’s wrist and moved to depart.
“Forgive my brevity, Highness. I’ve an appointment I cannot miss.”
“What did she mean, ‘procedure’? Or was that ‘pirouette,’ perhaps? I’m embarrassed my Pilarese is rather shoddy,” Dmitri explained to the princess. “‘Potbelly’…no, that can’t be right,” he rattled off distractedly.
Remembering Dmitri’s earlier mention of the gardens, Luscia leapt at the opportunity, eager to visit the stables, even if the Najjan wouldn’t be allowed inside.
“Why don’t you escort the princess to the gardens, Your Highness?” she suggested. “I’m sure she’d love to see the Byronia coming in. Very impressive.”
“That is true. Byronia lily, such a remarkable little thing,” he began, leading Rasha in the direction of the hedge maze.
Treading across the lawn past the archery targets, Noxolo’s long stride fell in step with Luscia’s. Under her breath, she relayed the beta’s report.
“On palace grounds,” Luscia murmured angrily, snapping more of Ira’s stray arrows underfoot. “How did this happen? Our Najjan are concealed everywhere, both mine and those with Ana’Mere.”
At his silence, she halted their advance.
“Well, Ana’Sere, you’re the expert.” Noxolo exhaled sharply. “How do you evade us?”
Unwilling to answer, Luscia eased back, allowing him to lead the way through the lake of discarded equipment. Slower than before, her upturned slipper stepped over Tozune’s bow.
“Oh, Lady Boreal, I keep meaning to ask,” Sayuri called, towing her attendant along. “How is that y’siti mutt of mine serving you? Mira, Melda—oh, does it really matter?”
Luscia stopped walking. Sayuri’s lips curled as she passed behind one of the targets.
“Better for cross-castes to keep to their own kind…increased survival rate and all.”
Forgetting restraint, Luscia dove for Tozune’s bow in the grass. Nimble and true, she pivoted on her knee and released an arrow.
Sayuri screamed and grabbed her maid like a shield as the arrow splintered the wood of the target, striking the very top, right in line with her heart. Gasping, Sayuri shoved the girl aside and marched off, shouting in a Pilarese staccato.
At the smell, Luscia glanced behind the archery target. The small maid quivered as liquid seeped down her legs. The girl’s eyes shone with tears as she gaped at Luscia.
Frozen in place, Luscia wondered what she saw.
“Come, Ana’Sere,” Noxolo prompted her to rise. “You’re needed elsewhere.”
Forfeiting the bow, she quietly left the maid crying on the lawn, forcing Luscia to question if she was so different from the al’Haidren to Pilar after all.
THIRTY
Zaethan
Zaethan flipped the motumbha stick, rolling it between his palms. The ladles on either end hovered in anticipation over the freshly cut lawn.
Jabari whooped twice, running between their opponents. Sliding on his thigh, he tore through the green and thrust the ball of laced hide through the air, dirt and grass accompanying its flight. Zaethan shouldered another player, not bothering to watch him crash to the earth, and lowered the stick, dashing to the middle of the field. Spinning through a triplet of oncoming players, he spied the narrow goal basket.
Without hesitation, Zaethan launched the ball upright and spun the stick. Striking with the backside of the adjacent scoop, it soared over the heads of his competitors. He released a series of similar sounds, summoning his teammate. Zaethan spotted Jabari beyond the cluster guarding the basket, the Andwele warrior swiftly retrieving an arrow and aiming for the flying target.
The crowd voiced their disappointment as the arrow narrowly missed, followed by a steady clap after the ball fell into the mouth of the basket.
“Kàchà kocho, Alpha Zá.” Jabari shrugged and snatched the ball, wiping off a chunk of soil on his relaxed gunja pant. “Eh, uni!
Knick a lick, yeah?” The warrior’s accent thickened as he displayed a slash in the hide.
“Zullee.” Wekesa snatched the ball from Jarabi’s grasp and tossed it to another member of his team. A red cord wrapped about his forearm, distinguishing their opposition for the onlooking nobles. Zaethan’s men did not need dye to know whom they were against. “When you run with men, instead of cubs, you’re never in this position, Zaeth.”
Rotating his wrist, the blue cord around Zaethan’s muscle suddenly felt constricting. “What position, Wekesa?”
“Liability.” His rival’s playing stick swung and smashed Zaethan’s calf where it was still healing from the y’siti’s witchiron. Biting down, he refused to show the pain. “Yeye quondai…Alpha Zá?”
“Eh, meme qondai…I understand you’ve been playing a dangerous game.” Zaethan crouched low, awaiting the signal for the pitch. “On the field, and in my city.”
“Think Bastiion’s still yours, Zaeth?” A wailing cry rang out as the ball glided above. Wekesa’s murky eyes widened, exposing their whites. “Kwihila rapiki mu Jwona!”
The blunt end of his ladle socked Zaethan’s middle, causing him to double over. Spitting out a mouthful of bile, he sprinted after Wekesa, both men tracking the lost ball between players. Nearing the bastard’s heels, Zaethan roared. He whipped the stick around Wekesa’s abdomen, pinning the man as he caught the opposite end in stride. Lifting the other alpha off the ground, Zaethan yelled at the throbbing pain in his leg as he careened them to the left and freed the stick, hurling Wekesa onto the green.
“Ho’waladim,” Zaethan bit out, striking the shredded earth inches from Wekesa’s head. “That’s what’s due you.” He ran ahead to his team of off-duty sentries on the far side of the field.
One of Wekesa’s men hoisted the ball, preparing his serve, and howled for his archer. Zaethan searched the lawn for Jabari, whooping the same. Hailing an arc, Wekesa’s player aimed for the furthest basket in front of the royal pavilion. Zaethan rushed under Jabari’s arrow, trusting its trajectory. He might have been inexperienced in his youth, but Depths, the cub was a good shot.
The gong rang out, signifying the end of the match just as Jabari’s arrow spliced their opponent’s and impaled the hide victoriously into the third basket, stealing the goal. Zaethan rammed into Jabari and cupped his head of sweaty coils.
“Shtàka! Uni zà!” He shook the youngest member of his pryde triumphantly. “Rounds of bwoloa, as many as we can drink.”
“Owàa lent me his eyes, yeah?” Jabari’s fingers drew away from his face and toward the clouds. Strapping his bow to join the final arrow in the slim quiver, he trailed Zaethan to the secondary pavilion, where Dmitri watched the match with the Zôueli princess.
“Good game, Zaeth, good game!” Dmitri gripped his cane and stood, continuing his applause. “I tried explaining the rules of motumbha to Bahira’Rasha.” He colored slightly and waved to the exquisite woman lounging to the right of his seat, elevated from the others. “I fear I may have confused things further.”
“Bahira’Rasha.” Zaethan bent his knee, her Zôueli title feeling bulbous as it exited his mouth. Bowing to the woman, he recited Dmitri’s lines as promised: “We are graced to host you for the summer solstice. The sun shines brighter in Orynthia for years to come.” He doubted the last part sounded the least bit genuine, but offered a toothy grin nonetheless.
“I like this Darakaian arrowball, as you call it.” The princess didn’t get up, and seemed to enjoy the fact she didn’t need to. Zaethan straightened as she looked him over. “It is barbarous.”
Rasha elongated her figure as she reclined, in a way Sayuri never could. The Pilarese al’Haidren noticed as well and attempted to imitate Rasha’s gestures from the end of the row near Ira, who fished something out of his empty glass. The princess dripped gold and precious stones, and her entire being sparkled when she tossed her head and laughed heartily.
“Bloody and riveting, you are.” Her nose crinkled, jingling a chain that connected to a jeweled earpiece. She idly crossed her legs, enveloped in billowy pants beneath a type of skirt. Ironically, her feet were bare, though no less decorated than the rest of her.
Zaethan scanned the witch seated next to the princess. “I get that a lot. Lady Boreal, you’re looking well,” he offered lightly. Regret from their encounter lessened when he saw her ivory jaw was devoid of the lovely bruise he’d gifted it. “The sun does the Boreali good, after all,” he commented, noticing how gracefully her fractured wrist moved as she plucked a grape off its stem.
“I keep reminding you how resilient I am,” the witch said to the fruit.
“Ah, my new friend, Loo-Shah…” Rasha rolled her name and clutched the witch’s arm, drawing her closer. “This wit of the northmen, I love.”
“Won’t you join us, Zaeth?” Dmitri motioned to the empty place in the line of spectators. “I’ve ordered your favorite,” he added, gesturing toward an amber bottle on a valet’s cart.
In Zaethan’s periphery, players departed the field, equipment in tow. Passing the next pavilion, more prominent in scale and grandeur, Wekesa was called out of the pack. Breaking from the group, he sauntered up the steps and leaned into the shade for Zaethan’s father to relay something. Their commander’s fingers twitched as he went on in Wekesa’s ear.
“Alas, I must see to the guard.” Zaethan squinted under the sun. Dmitri grimaced, not entirely pleased, but ascertained the course of his thoughts, jerking his chin toward their parents.
“We’ll see you at dinner?” Though posed as a question, Zaethan knew better.
“Dinner,” he confirmed, and bowed to the princess. “Bahira’Rasha, shàla’maiamo.”
Zaethan picked up his pace as he walked in front of the king’s pavilion, pretending to ignore the closeness between his father and the other alpha. Tetsu Naborū appeared to offer comment on their discreet dialogue. Zaethan wondered how entangled Wekesa was in Lateef’s plan for additional ships stationed in Lempeii, or if the Haidren to Pilar had simply seized an opportunity to spew partisan poison to the closest party.
“Zaeth, my boy!” The king descended onto the lawn and slapped Zaethan across the back. “I put my auras on you. Sack of gold you just earned me!”
Dmitri’s father sloshed his wine as he turned to the Queen of Razôuel, who seemed disinterested in his royal pocketbook. The Zôueli regent wrinkled her hooked nose at a plate of Uriel pie an attendant offered, clinking an opulent set of chains across her cheek. He understood her reaction when she flicked a dollop back at the attendant, unimpressed. Uriel pie was already dreadful, made worse in the heat of summer.
Zaethan risked another glimpse into their pavilion. His father’s fist clenched and shook over the arm of his chair. Wekesa’s fat braids swung as he inched away.
“I think I earned a good washing, Your Majesty.” Zaethan mock scrubbed his middle and winked at the king. “I should take care of all this mud before charming Razôuel’s Queen.”
“Oh-ho!” King Korbin’s belly rumbled at the jest. Pulling the front of his thick belt into position, he again reached out and gripped Zaethan’s shoulder. “Just spectacular, my boy. Go, brush up and see to those yayas. Now, in my day…” His bushy brows leapt before his hand covered his mouth, remembering his wife beside the western queen. “Oh, on you go!”
Marching toward his office, Zaethan’s fingers tightened around the playing stick he still carried. He bid farewell to his teammates, grateful Jareth and Brandor had been available to leave their posts and put on a spectacle for Dmitri’s guests. They were his best Unitarian passers, not kakk squabblers like the rest of the sentries.
It was a good thing he still controlled their schedules.
Zaethan neared the hedge maze, intending to take a shortcut to the guard house. At its opening, Felix Ambrose sloshed his goblet and moved aside, off the path. Overly dressed, in typical yancy fashion
, the noble dribbled sweat into his wine, intently staring past Zaethan. Looking back, he saw the noble’s gaze was fixed on the exotic princess as she rose from her seat and took Dmitri’s arm.
“She’s off limits, Lord Ambrose,” Zaethan warned the man, then coughed as he was hit by a waft of pipe marrow. “Depths, Felix, take a bath.”
He proceeded through the opening in the bushes and into the maze. Someone’s swallow-call whistled from the field as they jogged around the bend.
“Do you hear the birdies, Zaeth?” Wekesa repeated the call and ran up the path, his arms draped lazily over the motumbha stick across his shoulders. “They’re singing a certain prisoner is missing. He flew away.” His fingertips flitted as he barged in front of Zaethan. “Flew like Owàa in the morning, yeah?”
“Kàchà kocho.” Zaethan’s thumb wiped away a bead of perspiration from the match. “Birds fly. If you’d borrowed his wings, you might’ve won. Now, get to your post.” His boot shifted off the gravel path. “That was an order.”
His windpipe collapsed when Wekesa sidestepped, hooked his rod over Zaethan’s head, and propelled them behind a hedge, forcing a gulp of greenery down his throat.
“I played your game.” Wekesa’s spit sprinkled the back of Zaethan’s spine. “Well, this is mine. You took from me, yeah? Now, I’m taking it all!”
“Using which prisoner?” Zaethan’s snicker made it harder to breath. “You failed,” he taunted, wedging a hand between the stick and his throat. “Uni, nothing to show the tribes but dead cross-castes.” He used the little space to twist forward, wrap his arm around, and pound his knuckle into Wekesa’s kidney. “Return to the valley,” he wheezed, “take your pryde, leave the city, and I won’t tell the commander what you’ve done.”
Bent over, Wekesa laughed cruelly. “But Zaeth,” his eyes rounded in mock horror, “what about all those helpless roach cubs? You tested Jwona. Freed their murderer.”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 29