“I appreciate the sentiment, Bahira’Rasha,” Luscia said with a wry smile. “Alloh’jom’yeh.”
“What does this mean?”
“May peace convene with you,” she translated.
Rasha repeated the Boreali greeting as she led Luscia deeper into the swarm of guests with an air of authority. As they passed a tower of bubbling effervescence and flutes of Galina wine, the princess plucked two glasses from the top.
“For you.” She extended the second to Luscia, taking a generous gulp of her own. “Now, teach me more of Boreal. Tell me of your trees, they are so tall?”
Her russet eyes lit up as she tucked in her chin, like they were two old crones discussing something scandalous instead of foliage.
“Wem, indeed, massive enough to host our village-fortress within the heights.” Luscia gestured overhead. “All Roüwen hangs off the earth. In my home, it is said that in Roüwen, man stands closer to Aurynth, for the distance is already a foot and a flight shorter.”
The train of the princess’s hybrid gown trailed their path through the solstice celebration, her billowy pantlegs swishing as she walked, seeming genuinely entranced by the account of Luscia’s homeland.
“The city among stars. It is…” Rasha’s tongue curled over her teeth, finding the right words. “…my dream to see such a settlement. In Razôuel, my cities are dressed in jewels. Jol’Nune would fall to the ground!”
Luscia laughed, imagining it. Rasha touched the flute to her lips, but the wine sloshed onto a nearby yancy when she abruptly changed course, dragging Luscia in tow. Meandering through the Hall, the princess brought them to Ira’s side. Buttoned into a pressed, velvet waistcoat, the al’Haidren almost looked sober, barring the bit of residual rouge across his cheek from his latest encounter with some nobleman’s daughter.
“Bahira’Rasha.” Ira lingered over her fingers, kissing them. “And my wintery rose!” He swiveled to Luscia next, scanning the pearly patterns on her neck as he raised her hand to his lips. “I bid you both a very sweet solstice.”
Luscia yanked her hand from his grasp. It was sticky, and she tried to convince herself it was only sweat.
“Lord al’Haidren—Ira, may I?” Rasha tested. “You’ve known each other now many years…or is it only a few?”
“You can call me whatever you please, whenever you please,” Ira simpered toward the princess, deepening his voice. “My acquaintance with Boreal is just as inadequate as your own, despite tremendous diplomatic attempts to bridge our…” Tilting his head, Ira admired Luscia’s fitted bodice. “…topographical differences.”
The princess eyed Luscia curiously, who vehemently shook her head at the prospect. “Our differences span wider than the Ileas, Ira.”
“Oh, I’m a fine swimmer.” He winked and thrust his palm in the air, looking past them as he called, “Sayuri, be a pet and fetch that attendant there. No, darling, the chubby one.”
Ira flipped his glass upside down, shaking it. Sayuri melded into their group, wedging herself into a gap between Luscia and the princess.
“We’re not here to grab things for you, Ira,” she said. “You insufferable snob.”
“But you’ve proven such an affinity for it, dear.”
Scoffing, she spun her back on Luscia to converse with the Zôueli princess, her features so similar to the other westerner. Sayuri’s coastal beauty was on full display for the solstice, her curves enveloped in gilded tiers of feathery lace. Her movements seemed labored, drowning under strings of Pilar’s famed pearls. Offset by the dark, glossy curtain of hair descending her back, Sayuri’s splendor was a clear show of rivalry with the princess. Luscia skimmed the room to find Dmitri in animated discussion with a trio of nobles, evidently indifferent to her efforts.
“Loo-Shah was speaking of things,” Rasha’s head whipped around, “elsewhere things. Shall we, friend?” She extended her reach around Sayuri’s tiny waist and grabbed Luscia’s wrist, yanking her away from the other two al’Haidrens.
Fleetingly, Luscia worried the House of Pilar might publicly threaten Dmitri’s prospective wife, but Sayuri’s brows merely furrowed into sharp lines as she watched them disappear into the crowd.
“I hear Pilar speak enough in Jol’Nune. They are my neighbors, you know,” Rasha stated under her breath, “and they never quiet.”
“Maji’maia.”
Someone tugged Luscia’s sleeve where it fell off her decorated shoulders. She was surprised to see that it was Kasim easing through the wall of nobles. At his appearance, the princess slowed her advance, seemingly intrigued. He kept pace with them as they headed toward another tray of Unitarian treats.
Dmitri must have ordered Kasim a tailor and a decent grooming, for it was the finest suit he’d sported since her arrival at court. Worn over trim leather pants, his satin jacket appeared to be custom-made. The crest of the short collar shone under the lively lantern light, the depth of indigo rich and radiant. Luscia gave additional credit to the valet responsible for taming his locs into the ample topknot at his crown, save for the few locs that hung tucked behind an ear, encased in copper thread.
Kasim leaned in. “Kumo reported Takoda’s transfer from your quarters. It’s done.”
Up close, Luscia noticed the cut had already begun to heal, enough for a barber to have shaved a tight margin around the base of his scalp, fading upward, where it’d been neatly gathered.
With the slightest angling of her chin, she acknowledged his update, and he backed away, without a word to the princess.
“So pretty, yes?” Rasha bit off a piece of sweet wafer, staring after Kasim as he crossed the hall to Dmitri’s right side.
“Unfortunately,” Luscia grumbled.
“Oh, Lord Zaethan!”
A bushel of taffeta bounced after the Darakaian al’Haidren, who unsurprisingly ignored her shrill cajoling. Flapping a piece of napery in the air, Flourette hastened after him, like someone signaling for help. A few courtiers stepped out of her path as she latched onto Kasim’s jacket.
The princess looked amused. “Who is that, Loo-Shah?”
“That is the Haidren to Bastiion’s daughter, Flourette Hastings. Ira’s…very enthusiastic sister,” Luscia replied, cringing for the girl when Kasim grabbed her lanky fingers, halting their progression toward the cluster atop his head.
“She has an emptiness, yes?” Rasha gesticulated around her forehead as they headed for the platform at the end of the hall, toward the towering byrnnzite antlers affixed to the throne.
“Wem, yes.” Luscia grinned. “I suspect much the same.”
Guests littering the cavernous space leisurely found their way to the long, pristine tables situated around the perimeter. The tabletops, spread with the finest place settings, sparkled under the lanterns as the sun dove into the waters of the horizon. Luscia escorted the princess to Dmitri’s table, positioned lower than the king’s, where Rasha’s mother would dine.
An additional setting had been placed between Dmitri’s seat at the middle and Boreal’s to his left. Two attendants rushed to scoot both Luscia and the princess into their chairs. Serving royalty first, wine was poured for Rasha before the attendant switched to Luscia, failing to meet her eyes. Missing her glass as his hand shook, the man apologized and scuttled away.
“Orynthia is a land full of people puzzles,” the princess mused, squeezing Luscia’s forearm tightly. “But now, let us speak of your prince. Will he do for me, Loo-Shah, or must I pursue another? Tell me of his nature—I must know.”
Luscia regarded the Orynthian prince in question near the base of the platform. He’d propped a polished boot on the first step, still engaged in some lively debate. Luscia considered the question carefully, aware the Zôueli princess would judiciously weigh her response, despite Rasha’s casual and light-hearted demeanor.
“I can testify his patience is unparalleled, that is cer
tain,” she began, thinking on their most recent conversation in the temple. “He holds a great capacity for feeling, more than most rulers.”
“And you believe this is good for your kingdom?” Rasha turned in her chair, resting her chin on the back of her wrist with ease.
“Do you not?” Luscia paused, studying their foreign ally.
“Men should not carry a crown.” She shrugged and tapped her heart. “Too many emotions, they hold. Women are the backbone of a people. They break their body, mar their beauty, for the life. Each swallow great pain, and call it joy. Men, not the same. Great pain makes a great man crumble. This I know, Loo-Shah.”
Luscia thumbed a shining copper spoon on the edge of her setting. Dmitri started up the steps with enthusiasm. His eyes gleamed, seeing they were already seated, and stopped at the other end of the table while Sayuri took her place. Laughing at something she said, his dimple came forward. A warmth filled Luscia’s chest, pleased that her blood, in the mystery of those vials, granted him renewed liveliness for an evening.
“Bahira.” Luscia faced the golden princess. “What you say holds merit. But we are not the owners of suffering, simply allies through it. I promise you, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne is no different. If you deem sorrow a prerequisite for kingship, you will not find the Crown Prince of Orynthia wanting in that regard.”
“Much to consider, my friend,” Rasha muttered as Dmitri’s hand slid over the backs of the chairs, pulling his own out from the center, Kasim following close behind. Attendants swooped in to assist their prince, as well as the Darakaian al’Haidren, but Dmitri waved them off.
“I see you two are getting on nicely,” he commented, beaming. “I do hope you’ve not plotted my demise in my absence, for I’m certain you’d be very effective at it.”
Chuckling, Rasha slid her thick braid over her shoulder to cascade down her back. Over her head, Dmitri stretched to peek at Luscia, miming his thanks.
The great gong sounded, and Ira skidded into his seat just as the first course was served. Reminiscent of Luscia’s own reception, a parade of entertainers ascended the dais, accompanying the progression of the meal, though with significantly more grandeur and costly extravagance.
“Pow prawn?” Ira raised a shining plate as he leaned closer, rubbing her arm. “They are meant to be shared—a lover’s delicacy.”
“You ought to learn some delicacy, Lord Bastiion,” Luscia answered sharply, staring ahead.
“In time, my snow dove,” he declared, slurping it down.
After unnecessary rounds of perfectly baked crumpets and a procession of soups, a wave of attendants brought the main course to the table. Like a collapsing tide, a company of shotos—likely early in their years of study, by the ashy hue of their voluminous robes—replaced the traffic of the palace staff and surrounded the dais. A series of ropes tumbled from the ceiling into their grasp, adjoined to a floating contraption mingling among the lanterns overhead.
“Oh, I do love this one.” Ira perched over his plate in anticipation, clutching a hunk of braised meat. “Much better than their standard depressing recitation!”
Sayuri’s uncle, the Haidren to Pilar, joined the Pilarese students. His robes were white and crisp, signifying his status as Prime over their Shoto Collective. Around the hall, most of the torches were extinguished, save for a few to cast enough illumination for their dining. Tetsu Naborū leaned over a metal dome and lit a match. As he stepped away into the dark, light exploded from the device, mirroring its beam into the ceiling. Reflecting off the box among the lanterns, the students swayed to adjust the roping like a single organism. In a flash, the head of a stag appeared on the dais, printed in shadow.
The room erupted with applause, impressed by the sight. Modifying their steps, the students twirled the ropes around their abdomens. The antlers of Thoarne’s stag melted into the wings of an owl, flying in place while they continued their dance. Guests cooed in wonder, the Zôueli princess joining their praise. She clapped with delight, pointing at the scene while she brushed back a wisp of Dmitri’s hair to speak in his ear.
After navigating the crowd through a series of images, Naborū moved to the opposite flank and lit an identical dome. The galloping horse on the dais broke apart and materialized into a pack of wolves running through a forest. A shadowy hawk soared above a forest of pines.
Luscia felt an odd stirring in her stomach as he struck another match for a third dome. Settled into the shade outside the circle of performers, the Haidren leveled his gaze at her. Eerily and unblinkingly, Naborū tilted his waxen, yellowing face, just as he’d done after their encounter in the passageway.
A sting panged through her temples. Panic constricted her throat, which had gone raw. She’d taken her last dose just yesterday—it was impossible that she could be having an episode so soon. The pain worsening, Luscia pushed back her chair, grateful that the guests of the hall were too mesmerized to notice her stand.
“Luscia, are you alright?” Dmitri started to rise.
“Niit, niit…I am fine, just feeling unwell.” Luscia stepped away, reassuring him. “Stay, enjoy the show, Your Highness.”
Spinning in place, she found her aunt at the king’s table. Confusion tugged Alora’s delicate brow. Humming consumed Luscia’s hearing, drowning out the words Alora mouthed. Exiting off the corner of the hall, she plunged through an archway, collapsing to her knees on a vacant balcony. Clutching the stone balusters, she pulled herself up, rocked by the tremors controlling her limbs, contorting them unnaturally. Her head sank back, and Luscia felt her lashes flutter as the hum was overtaken by whispers. Some faint, some louder, they blended into an unwanted chorus.
Drawn into the Sight, Luscia’s view of the city over the banister evolved into a shimmering network. Threads of lumin drifted hazily through the streets of Marketown, forming a luminescent map of Bastiion. The whispering waned when she recognized a unique thread, brighter than the rest, twitching in the distance. Its light sputtered as it wound through the alleys, convulsing in agitation.
Gentle pressure touched her back.
“Ana’Sere?” a voice asked through the distortion, its tone far and hollow. “Ana’Mere sent me to find you. Luscia, are you alright?”
Sound rebalanced itself, the cloud dispersing. Twisting, she discovered Marek standing nearby. She’d not even felt him clenching her hand.
“Do you trust me, Captaen?”
The skin beneath his eyes tightened as he searched her gaze. There was a newfound intimacy behind them. “I trust you, Ana’Sere.”
She laced her fingers through his and guided him under the archway. A tingle spread down her spine. Hesitating, she glimpsed over her shoulder into the night.
“What is happening?” he asked.
The light of the Other disappeared, concealed behind the veil. The ominous disorder of Marketown returned, flickering in front of it.
“I’m fulfilling my promise to you, Captaen, and taking you with me.”
Beside Marek, Luscia balanced over the shelf of the aqueduct, surveying a hunting ground of opulence and depravity.
“So this is how you’ve been getting around us,” she heard Marek mutter.
For the first time since the clearing in the wood, Luscia voluntarily sought communion with the threads and summoned the Sight. This time in the presence of Najjan, rather than lycran.
“Bolaeva,” she prayed, her lids falling.
Reopening them, she saw strings of lumin entangling the buildings, connecting and dispersing in an alternate map of the Other. With stillness and resolution, Luscia searched for the restless thread among its brethren. Whispers replaced the vibration in her skull, louder than ever before. Searing tendrils shot up her nape and outward, like twin captors squeezing her mind.
There—among the pipe marrow tents at the edge of the docks, the harbinger thread embarked on a quivering path into the pit of Mar
ketown.
“I see you.”
At her acknowledgment, the murmurs started to scream, becoming an indistinguishable anthem. Luscia sank into a squat, clutching her head. With a pop, their song vanished.
“Luscia…”
She slowly turned to Marek, praying it was him at the end of the call, and not the unseen. He flinched away when her hood fell back, lips parting. Droplets fell, chiming against their weaponry, as the sky opened. Rain rolled off Marek’s hair, and in the reflection of his pupils, her irises were aglow.
“Luscia…”
Marek reached out to touch her, but stopped, seeming afraid. “Luscia, your nose.”
Her hand lifted to wipe away a wetness trickling from her nostril. Blood smeared her fingertips.
“Release your wraiths, Brödre.” She rubbed her hand on the tail of her coat. “We’re losing time.”
Fastening the shroud across her cheeks, she restored the hood and vaulted off the waterway. Luscia struck the ground and sailed into the night after the thread, trusting the captaen to do the same.
THIRTY-FOUR
Zaethan
She was easy to spot—a pastel specter in a lake of the living.
Arm in arm, the al’Haidren to Boreal walked with Dmitri’s would-be bride. Zaethan was about as interested in forging a more intimate alliance with the Zôueli as he was with his tailor, both of whom Dmitri insisted were essential to the future of the court. But unlike the fingers of a nosy tailor, Zaethan doubted Razôuel would be satisfied with mere proximity to the real prize. Eventually, when the splendor of the union dissipated and the dust of the Ethnicam settled, Razôuel would come for it—the throne of Orynthia.
Zaethan’s eyes rolled as he squeezed between a nobleman and his wife, both too in their cups to care. The Unitarian Peerage would never agree to a bride from one of the outer Houses, but a foreign princess, as rich in trade as she was in gold, rang a different story in their greedy ears. A princess who had much more to gain, and even less to lose, than his optimistic friend, Dmitri Thoarne.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 32