Luscia avoided the looks from her men and peered closer.
“This had to have been some kind an animal, you see? What kind of blade would make such markings?” Luscia indicated the parallel slashes over Takoda’s belly. Torn and savaged, he resembled the victim of a bear attack. She mimed a set of claws over the wound for Kasim and the beta. “I will do what I can for your friend, but you should prepare yourself, in the event our aid proves futile.”
“Ano zà!” Kasim grabbed a vase and smashed it against the wall, pointing at her. “You do for him whatever you did to heal those bruises I gave you. He will not die!”
“This is not a bruise.”
“Ahoté…” His beta cringed when Kasim kicked a chair over.
As Kasim reached for Dmitri’s Noculoma-Anastasis on her nightstand, Luscia stood abruptly, needle in hand.
“Lord Darakai! That is not yours, and you will put it down immediately. Take him out of here.” Luscia poked her chin toward the common room. “Declan, get them out of this room right now.”
She rolled up her sleeve and wiped a bit of blood off Takoda’s wound using her forearm as the brawniest of her guards corralled the other two Darakaians into the communal living space.
Dust puffed off the trim when Kasim punched the wall outside. “If Takoda dies in there, by Owàa…by Owàa, Kumo, I’m going to find him and kill him. Tonight,” she heard him vow.
In her bedroom, alone with Marek and the unconscious Darakaian, she went to work. Threading the gashes into tight, meticulous seams, Luscia packed each laceration with the healing paste, praying to Aniell the kaléo fulfilled its purpose and accelerated sterilization. Unconscious and unresponsive, Takoda needed the lumin-laced remedy to do what Bastiion’s physicians could not.
She moved to her apothecary chest. Luscia plucked some dehydrated bits of ennus and viridi bark, dumping them into a cup. The brew for her morning tea could suppress pain in high enough dosages.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked, her back to the silent captaen.
Marek must have deduced the partnership Luscia had forged with Kasim within the first minutes of their knocking, and the nature of her nightly activities was made even more obvious by Kasim’s explanation of Takoda’s attack. There were nights she was not alone when she evaded her guard and left them behind, a fact she could no longer hide from him and Declan.
“Darakai, Luscia? Of all the Houses, you trusted Darakai?” The tenor of his voice lifted in disbelief.
She winced when the door handle latched sharply, marking his departure. Luscia stirred the vapors steaming off the surface of the tea, thinking of all the times she could have told Marek the truth. She spun and stared into the grain of the wooden door, wishing she had chosen differently.
Nearing daybreak, as the beginnings of dawn teased through the vast windows, Luscia brought a heap of soiled linen into Tallulah’s washroom inside the apartment. Scrubbing, she tried to salvage a few items, working as she let the maid sleep. They would need someone to watch their patient during the day, as she and Kasim were expected to cater to Dmitri’s guests. Luscia didn’t anticipate Marek allowing a member of Kasim’s pryde into her quarters to do so.
She swirled her fingertips through the rosy water, its hue deceptively innocent, and considered her role in what had happened to Kasim’s warrior. She’d betrayed her own men to play the hound, to guide the band of Darakaians through Bastiion’s underbelly and into the den of a killer, only to ultimately abandon them in their quest. Left to their own mortal devices, Luscia couldn’t help but feel a responsibility for the young man beating back death in her bed, unsure if he’d see his tomorrow. Her lashes beat back moisture as she held onto the prince’s recent sentiments about the forgiveness of others, hoping he was right.
“You should also rest, Ana’Sere.”
Luscia stretched out her neck, blinking multiple times before acknowledging him. At the entrance to the washroom, Marek leaned against the doorframe, his hands clasped together loosely. His shoulders rounded with exhaustion under the fitted, sable jacket that normally hugged a more attentive posture.
She rung out a rag, proceeding to the next as he watched her. “Allöh, Captaen.”
“Let me finish this, Ana’Sere. Even you need sleep.”
Luscia propped herself against the rim of the washtub. “Every step I take is the wrong one. By Aurynth, Marek, I make a choice, believe it in my soul to be true, and then I falter. Meh fyreon.” Her head shook as she apologized. “From the bottom of my heart, Marek, I was just trying to save them.”
The floor creaked as he stepped into the snug space, maintaining a foot of decorum. “You saved the man in that room.”
Luscia’s throat tightened and she asked in a whisper, “And if my actions somehow put him there?”
Uncertain why she was confiding in him, Luscia lifted her gaze and stilled for Marek’s shrewd rebuke. She’d certainly earned it. Except that where she’d expected to find judgment in his cerulean eyes, there was none. Instead, like the light of a lumilore, the crystalline ring about his irises shone in the dim washroom, untarnished by spite or resentment.
“Only the High One sees everything under Aurynth.” Marek’s shoulders rose and fell. “We may never know.”
“You left Roüwen. You traded your independence to follow the al’Haidren to Boreal, descendant of Tiergan, daughter of the Clann Darragh, our Mighty Oak.” Luscia squeezed the damp fabric, dispersing a deeper shade of scarlet throughout the basin of water. “But I only offer you a life sentence of more grief and more death in return.”
Marek came to her side and took the rag from her, setting it on the bench. Hesitantly, he scooped up her chin, angling it toward him. Her breath caught at the intimacy of his gesture, unsure if she should correct it, though the heat of his touch petitioned her not to look away. “Is that why you think I’m here, in Bastiion? For accolade?”
“Wem, what else could possibly warrant it?”
“I’m not upset because they’re Darakaian, Luscia.” The lines of his mouth tensed. “Or because you care deeply for our cross-castes, or that you wanted to try to save them. I’m upset that, even still, you don’t trust me enough to take me with you.”
She inched back in surprise. “But you are bound to her orders above mine. Ana’Mere—”
“—is not you.”
His hand slid softly to her neck, avoiding the lengthy terrain of her scar, and tipped her head back with his thumb. Marek never initiated physicality between them. Not even when they’d first met on the Isle of Viridis in her youth, before she Ascended to her station and he called to his own. But she had merely been a frail young girl at the time. Bruised, in more ways than one. Now, Marek no longer stood before a girl, but a woman, resilient and whole. The realization caused Luscia to stiffen, though only momentarily. Something sleeping inside her awoke, soothing the disquiet of her thoughts. Calming and warm, it reminded her of home.
His throat leapt as he swallowed. “Under Aurynth, I willingly give my independence to serve a woman I believe in. To protect her. To attend her.” Closing the gap, Marek’s hair swung out of its binding, like a flame licking his skin. “To be near her.”
A wisp of it skirted her cheek as he bent down and brought his lips to hers. While his mouth was polite in pursuit, his fingers curled behind her nape, indicating he did not wish to let go. Luscia wasn’t certain if she wanted him to either. It seemed like another life since she’d allowed herself to be touched in that way. A tendril of desire unfurled in her middle when Marek’s foot shifted and his belt pressed into the front of her robe, as if begging to open it up to the unknown.
“Ana’Sere. Captaen,” Declan knocked on the doorframe. Luscia broke the kiss, renewing the space between herself and the leader of her five. Blooming a flush, she retightened the robe, its closure suddenly untrustworthy. Declan palmed the strand of metal beads in his car
roty beard and averted his eyes. “The Darakaian stirs.”
Luscia sidestepped Marek to follow Declan down the hall with haste, preventing any potential query from the eldest of her Najjan. Instructing him to wait with the others, she caught the uncharacteristic, upturn of Marek’s mouth when she backed into the bedroom and gently closed the door.
What to do about said mouth posed a veritable quandary, indeed. One she did not have the time or emotional store to properly ponder.
Twisting, she saw Kasim drooped over the arm of a chair he must have dragged to the bedside. His black locs hung freely over his shoulders, untied. She’d never noticed the detailed threadwork around a handful of them. Asleep, his head was held upright on the edge of his fist, his kopar unbelted and propped against one of the chair legs. Curled up beside his boot, Aksel fixated on Kasim, watching the al’Haidren doze from his spot on the floor.
Moving to the opposite side of the bed, she dabbed at the perspiration along Takoda’s dark hairline as he moaned in his sleep. Minor tremors played with his slender features as he fought off delirium. Luscia pulled the skeleton key from between her breasts and pivoted to the apothecary, once again releasing the woodsy scent of the highlands.
“Kumo swore you’d refuse us,” Kasim slurred in exhaustion.
Luscia jumped, then resumed scraping more ennus thorn into a clean vial. “Regardless of where we stand, I wouldn’t just turn you away. Not when you brought a wounded man to my door.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”
Her knife slowed. “That is a lie,” she noted, setting it down. Luscia poured a few drops of nixberry into the cocktail, trying her best to remember Alora’s combination for fevers.
“It went too far, what happened in that room,” she heard him continue, alluding to the last time they met in the abandoned training chamber. “I crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Last night, you could have punished me for it.”
Luscia took a deep breath and returned to Takoda’s side, noticing a pile of broken glass gathered neatly in the corner of the room. Kasim must have cleaned up the shattered vase at some point. Holding the vial, she eased the rim between Takoda’s lips. The fragility of their existence struck her unexpectedly as she peered down, his shallow breaths a powerful reminder of how human they both were. Even for a child of Boreal, life was never guaranteed.
“I want to hear what you think you’ve discovered about me,” she said abruptly in an low voice. When he didn’t reply, she glanced across the bed. Fleetingly, a look of pity pinched Kasim’s countenance and he looked aside. “Say it, Kasim.”
Pulling the vial back, she waited for an answer. Gazing outside, his fist neared his mouth. “You excel only at the range of your weapon. In close combat, you become preoccupied with your defense. Distracted, even.” Kasim turned back from the window and toward his friend. A tendon twitched in his jaw. “You’re scared to be touched. That’s your weakness.”
Luscia absorbed Kasim’s observation as she eased her hand behind Takoda’s neck. His judgement was sound, she bitterly admitted. Thinking back on their sparring sessions, none of her men ever proposed hand-to-hand combat, always favoring a blade when she was their partner. An odd embarrassment threatened Luscia’s impression of herself. Such glaring negligence in her training, and not once did the Najjan attempt to correct it.
“A weakness that might have cost me my life one day,” Luscia said evenly, “had you not revealed it.”
“Even still, a line was crossed. It won’t happen again.” His leather pants creased as he sat forward. “You have my word.”
Twisting, Luscia stared at Kasim. Unblinkingly, he stared back.
“Is that the Darakaian equivalent to an apology?”
“Darakaians don’t apologize.”
“I see.” She lifted Takoda’s head to slowly tip the treatment down his throat. “Tadöm, for it is accepted nonetheless.”
Kasim stretched out in the chair. The sun rising over the bay sent fresh light spilling into the room. Absently, Luscia started to apply another batch of paste, forming a poultice on Takoda’s wounds. As she did, the rapid fluctuations of his chest smoothed to a more reassuring rhythm.
“Will he live?” Kasim asked, clearing his throat.
“Perhaps.”
Luscia carried the mortar over to Kasim. Scooping two fingers into the paste, she lifted the substance toward his right temple. Edging back, his nose wrinkled at the strong, mossy odor. Luscia pitched a hand on her hip, knowing the longer it went untended, the more irritated the cut would become. Wordlessly, he swept a section of locs back to reveal the place her mother’s dagger had grazed him. Evidence of the day she’d lost control.
The outline of the cut was crusted over in certain areas, indicating its slowness to scab, thanks to the corrosivity of luxiron. The fading slit under his chin fared slightly better.
“I should not have thrown that at your head,” Luscia confessed, smoothing the paste over the partially healed skin.
“Kàcha kocho, I might’ve deserved it.” Kasim grimaced as she layered it on. “Good thing you missed, or you really would be in the dungeon.”
“I didn’t miss. Yeh’maelim—you’re welcome for that, too.” She reached into the bowl and smeared what was left onto his throat. “Why didn’t you take Takoda to a court physician, or one of the yancy doctors? Surely you’ve garnered enough coin, or favor, to demand treatment.”
“You know why.”
He watched her through tired eyes as she finished. The two had never been so close without injury, normally to his person. Luscia tugged at the plush collar of her robe, realizing then that she still had yet to actually dress, and began busily collecting the supplies dispersed throughout the room. Once everything was tucked away, Luscia stood against the dresser and faced Kasim, crossing her arms, more comfortable at a distance.
“The cross-caste boy taken from the stables,” she had to ask, “was that who he found?”
Reluctant to reply, Kasim peered into his lap. “Nothing’s been confirmed.”
“Then tell me this. Your friend was on his deathbed, bleeding out into the street. When you came to my door, were you resolved to bring him to a witch, or to someone else?”
Reclining in the chair, Kasim crossed his arms as well. “I’m not sure.”
She gazed straight into his hard, chartreuse eyes. “Then I propose we release ourselves from further threats at this point, don’t you? We’ve too many enemies in this city, coming after yours and mine alike.”
“I don’t know what you are,” Kasim reiterated, a knuckle grazing the fullness of his mouth. “Until I do, we cannot be allies.”
“Waedfrel, then we are in agreement.” Luscia tossed him the dirty rag, intending to find Tallulah so she could prepare for the event-filled day ahead. “But for the foreseeable future, we will cease trying to destroy each other.”
“Uni zà,” Kasim confirmed in his native tongue, “for the foreseeable future.”
Getting up, he stooped for his kopar, strapped it on, and bent over Takoda to whisper something in Andwele. Kasim reached around her torso to grip the handle and reenter the common room. Stilling, he took one last glance at his kinsman and then to her viridi box on the dresser.
Just before he walked out the door, he threw the rag back into her hands. “I’m no laundress, and neither are you.” He squinted at the apothecary again. “Maji’maia.”
Granting a wide berth to Tallulah, who’d been awoken by the dawn and was clearly startled by his noisy departure, Kasim thumped his slumbering beta’s leg, hanging off the edge of the chaise.
“Owàamo, cousin,” he announced, heading into the foyer. “We’re leaving.”
Together, the two Darakaians marched out of her apartments and into the morning bustle. But before entering the main corridor, Kasim’s beta rotated and bowed his head toward Luscia.
“Shàla’maiamo, Maji’maia.” The tall warrior looked up at her, smiled, and hit his chest.
Bewildered, Tallulah closed the double door behind them. “Well, what in Aksel’s Keep is that supposed to mean?”
Utterly exhausted, Luscia rubbed her eyelids. “It means the House of Darakai is the least of our problems, Tallulah.”
THIRTY-THREE
Luscia
Under a sea of colorful lamps and suspended lanterns, Luscia took a breath and smoothed the front of her gown, appreciating how the luster glinted off its detailed beading. Out of habit, she went to straighten her collar before wading deeper into Thoarne Hall, only to remember there wasn’t one on this dress. Careful not to disturb the intricate designs painted over her exposed neck, she lowered her hand, feeling a sudden flush beneath the iridescent artistry.
Unlike the temperate climate of the highlands, summer in the lowlands made it challenging to conceal the scar stretching toward her ear. Its ugliness had been camouflaged by Noxolo’s handiwork, and Luscia lifted her chin proudly, pleased to wear their Boreali custom in the Unitarian court.
“They will not notice,” Declan assured her, as if attuned to her self-consciousness. By the time she glanced in the direction of his voice, he’d disappeared to his post in the shadows like the others.
Luscia bypassed a huddle of courtier women near the towering windows, who relished the sunset view over the city below, and sought the prince in the throng of clinking glass and swirling skirts. She’d left the lycran behind tonight, as the event was not in her honor, but the Zôueli. Eyeing the roasted boar on a platter, surrounded by choice fruits, she concluded it was likely for the best.
From behind, a bronze arm snaked around her own, ensnaring it. “There you are, Loo-Shah,” the princess rolled her northern name, still unable to pronounce it. “Come with me, my friend. Missed, you have been.”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 31