Wedging his hand past a pair of yancies, Zaethan caught hold of the delicate sleeve of the al’Haidren’s gown. The material fluttered off her bared shoulders, twinkling in the lanternlight, unlike anything she’d worn in the past.
“Maji’maia,” he said under his breath, adopting Kumo’s moniker for the witchling.
Striding to a nearby table alongside her and the princess, he bent to her level and whispered into her untamed hair, “Kumo reported Takoda’s transfer from your quarters. It’s done.”
Irregularly woven gemstones tickled his nose as he pulled away and departed, not caring to hear her response. He’d committed to having Takoda moved, and it had been done. No need for commentary, especially in the presence of foreigners.
Dmitri hadn’t exaggerated Bahira’Rasha’s odd obsession with the House of Boreal. The princess had practically lacquered herself to the al’Haidren since her arrival, constantly entwined, like those candied rods of twisted treacle in the market. Zaethan shrugged at the enigma of it all and tried to locate Dmitri in the crowd. Better Razôuel form friendships with the secluded highlanders than their more affluent and powerful neighbor, Pilar.
Sighting the bronze tail of Dmitri’s cane, Zaethan angled for the base of the platform beneath the throne. Then he winced, hearing the ear-splitting yelps of Gregor’s daughter. Under siege, Zaethan clenched his jaw, thoroughly defeated. As with all her attacks, the impact hit him from behind, bathing his coat in nauseatingly floral perfume.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Lord Zaethan!” Flourette wagged her handkerchief, hanging onto his bicep like a thirsty sucker-bug in Hagarh.
“Making it impossible to get away,” he remarked, and swiftly snatched her hand before it could ensnare one of his locs, clustered and secured. “Let’s not, Flourette. Wouldn’t want to ruin the prince’s handiwork, would we?”
“The prince styles your hair?” Her brown eyes widened, lashes flapping incessantly.
“Oh, uni zà…exactly.” Zaethan seized the opportunity. It was less than Dmitri deserved for sending the squadron of barbers to his door. “It’s his newest passion. Can’t get enough of it.”
By then, they’d reached the huddle of councilmen surrounding the prince. From the sound of it, the Duke of Uriel was making an uncompelling case for higher tariffs on the provincial exports of his competitor, Hildur. Impartial to the rebuttal, Zaethan set his palm against the back of Flourette’s corseted waist and nudged her forward enthusiastically.
“Well go on, then.” He waved over her shoulder. “The prince has been waiting all evening for someone to notice!”
“Pardon me, gentlemen. Yes, you, sir!” Gregor’s daughter bumped the noblemen apart, carving a place for herself. “Prince Dmitri! It’s masterful, really, what you’ve done with Lord Zaethan’s glorious mane. Truly, you should be delighted with your craft!”
Flourette pocketed the handkerchief to applaud the prince, expecting the councilmen to do the same. They would, of course, as the Minister of their Peerage was her father. Zaethan stepped aside and suppressed a chuckle at the sight of Flourette conducting the circlet of yancies in a round of awkward applause.
“Should I, Lady Flourette?” Dmitri’s brows jumped into his hairline, and he shot a look to Zaethan, clamping his lips into a taut smile.
“Oh, Councilmen, by the Fates, he really is the best there is.” Zaethan backed away, pinched his fingertips, and kissed them. “Day or night, gentlemen!”
Picking up speed, he cut a path toward the eldest of Gregor’s progeny, philandering by the windows. Ira’s arms snaked around a shapely attendant, who tried to balance a tray of morsels. Her giggling ceased when Zaethan grabbed the tray, whipped Ira around by the lapel, and handed it back to the young woman.
“Your timing offends.” Ira straightened the cockeyed scarf tied around his collar. “It’s like you specifically target my happiness just to snuff it out. I’ll have you know,” he leaned in, pointing between them, “I could have negotiated something for you out of that. But it seems you’ve withered that, too.”
Zaethan shoved him against the windows, though not forcefully enough to attract attention from other guests. “Your sister is an absolute plague, Ira. Get her in line before she makes an even greater mockery of Wendylle than you already have.”
Ira dodged a glance beyond Zaethan’s cluster of locs, fanning them away, and blew out a breath. “You expect me to cure that pestilence? Better to accept it early on, Zaethan.” He rebuttoned his jacket, yanking the cuffs down. “Like warts on a whore, it could always be worse. Aren’t you relieved it’s me on the Quadren instead?”
Ira slapped him on the shoulders and tipped a flute of wine back when a fresh batch passed by.
“Ano. Zà.” Zaethan snatched a second glass out of Ira’s grasp, handing it off to an attendant. “Absolutely not.”
“Your loss, another’s gain.”
Drifting off, Ira meandered toward a flock of courtiers, preening themselves as they fawned over the sunset settling into the Drystan. Sauntering onto the platform, Zaethan cracked his neck, stretching it out. Even Owàa grew tired of the solstice, his longest flight of the year, abandoning Zaethan to endure the festivities alone.
As the dinner gong was struck, Dmitri slid into place at the middle of the table, beside the princess, and launched into spirited discussion.
“First the y’siti harlot, now this Zôueli shrew. Depths!” Sayuri pouted as she toyed with a string of pearls in her seat next to Zaethan at the end of the table. “When is she going back to her bloody beaches? That’s probably why they get along so well. The y’siti are drained of blood, and the Zôueli possess a coast of it.”
Zaethan ground his teeth. He wasn’t sure what irritated Sayuri more—the fact that Razôuel held the burgundy beaches or that they were famous for them, neither an asset Pilar could claim.
“I’m not in the mood to listen to your soured kakk piss, Sayuri.” Zaethan took a platter from the attendant approaching the table and thrust it under her chin. “Just shut up and eat something. You’re starting to look poor.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised when Sayuri instantly nicked a spiced teacake and ate it, the threat of appearing impoverished worse by court standard than actual malnourishment. As the sun vanished and ceded to his lover’s plight, Zaethan thanked Àla’maia that Zahra, his third, maintained a healthy appetite, equal to any man in the prydes.
He elbowed Dmitri in the ribs, grimacing as he scratched at his jacket. “Your royal tailor is a fraud. This thing itches like the Depths.”
“Maybe if you’d held still,” his friend said through his teeth, grinning for the rest of the room, “then it would fit correctly.”
Twisting, Dmitri resumed his conversation with the princess and her Boreali pet. Zaethan spooned at his bowl of thissle bisque, keenly aware it shared the color of vomit, as an ensemble of woodwinds descended the dais. A line of shoto’shi, each an acolyte to their Shoto Prime, replaced the musicians just as the soup course was swapped with something more substantial.
“I hate this one,” he grumbled, eyeing a box affixed to the ceiling.
“That is because,” Sayuri interjected, using her butter knife to check her reflection, “you Darakaians don’t appreciate the complexity of the shadow box.”
“Darakaians don’t like liars,” he corrected. Zaethan narrowed his gaze at her uncle, about to light the first dome. “This shtàka—this is why the Ethnicam doesn’t trust the Pilarese. What you say, what you show, is never what you mean.”
“I’ve never deceived you, Zaethan.” Her lips puckered, excessively rouged. “The fact that you are so adamant about this says more about you than it does me.”
The head of a stag blossomed over the dais, the tendrils of its antlers seeping onto the main floor. Sayuri’s uncle lurked outside the student formation as the shadowy antlers melted into the win
gs of an owl. The shoto’shi swayed, making it fly, as he prowled toward the second fixture.
“A Haidren to Pilar is always a better liar than that, Sayuri.” Zaethan sat back and folded his arms, his appetite diminishing. “You ought to seek lessons from your own. I’m sure it runs in the family.”
Sayuri simpered and brought a plump berry to her mouth, biting it off the stem slowly. “You should hope so…behind your father, there’s so much to live up to, isn’t there?”
Zaethan’s head snapped up. She licked the dark juice from her lip and resumed watching the performance. His fists clenched beneath the table. Down the row, Dmitri started to rise as another chair screeched. Told not to worry, both royals eased into their seats as the Boreali al’Haidren excused herself from dinner, leaving in the direction of the balcony. Seeing her captain follow, Zaethan ignored any budding curiosity as to what caused her to seek the evening air.
When the match of the fourth and final dome was struck, the scene dispersed across the dais and reformed into Bastiion’s silhouette, the bulbous cupolas of the palace readily familiar to the audience. Movement caught his attention beyond the brightness at the center of the hall. Zaethan squinted. Kumo stood just inside the entrance, away from his assigned post on the opposite end of the eastern wing.
Locking eyes with Zaethan, his beta signaled him over, then ducked behind the gigantic doors, returning to the main corridor.
“I must check on the guard—I’ll be right back,” he muttered to Dmitri before abandoning the meal, an uneasiness spreading in his chest.
Outside the Hall, Zaethan found Kumo tucked behind a column, posture rigid and expression tense. As he drew near, Kumo scratched the backs of his knuckles.
“Spit it out, cousin,” Zaethan ordered.
Kumo tensed, crossing his arms. “Wekesa is missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“He should have been in there tonight with you, ano?” His mouth tightened, tilting it toward the Hall. “Zahra said Wekesa’s not gone to his apartments all evening, claims he never came back. Jabari checked the guard house, yeah. Playing no cards, nothing. But the sentries…” Kumo paused, watching Zaethan’s reaction.
“The sentries…?”
“Some of the sentries say he headed to the kitchen earlier—”
“Shtàka!” Zaethan squeezed the hilt of his kopar in one hand and punched the column with the other. “This night, of all nights! Uni, of course Wekesa planned his next attack tonight—he knew I’d be stuck in there for that yancy charade.” Rubbing his busted knuckle, Zaethan shook his head passionately. “We move one step, he’s already two ahead. Every time.”
“Meme qondai, I get it.” Kumo edged closer, away from any possible listeners. “Send Zahra and I back out there. Stay in the Hall, avoid questions, yeah?”
“Ano zà. Not again,” Zaethan spat forcefully, Takoda’s bloodstained sheets fresh in his mind. “I want Zahra on Wekesa’s pryde, watching his men. They’ll give something away eventually, if they drink too much. I’ll find Jabari, assign him elsewhere. Let’s keep the cub out of this.”
“Then I come with you, Ahoté.”
“Ano, Cousin. I want you here in my place, with Dmitri.” Zaethan checked behind them, knowing the Pilarese exhibition would conclude at any moment and that they’d soon be joined by the shoto’shi in transition. “When they exit, slip inside, yeah? Keep to the exterior, you’ll be less noticeable. Don’t take your eyes off the prince.”
Kumo hesitated, but struck his fist to his chest. “Uni zà, Alpha Zà. I won’t leave his side until you return.”
“Takoda—I need to ask him to do something first. You said he was awake?”
“Eh, he started to come to earlier,” Kumo confirmed, peering around the column as the door creaked. “Nothing coherent, ano.”
“Shàla’maimo.” Zaethan’s fist left his own chest and bumped his beta’s heart twice. “Don’t leave the prince,” he reiterated in parting, pointing at the Hall.
As the robed students departed the celebration, Zaethan launched into a sprint and sped around the bend, running up the nearest stair. He dodged a valet, causing the man to whip his wheeled drink cart over in the process. Shards of crystal bathed the floor, spilling wasted spirits across the vast corridor as Zaethan threw up his arms and smacked into a lady’s maid. Jumping over her basket of table linens, he charged up the steps toward the apartments.
As he climbed the heights, Zaethan ripped the blasted satin jacket off his upper body and flung it aside, ditching it on a landing. With a swell of relief, he spread out his shoulders, rolling them as he plunged down the passage to the suites of the northern wing. As he’d not done in ages, Zaethan pleaded with the Fates, begging for the witchling’s sorcery to have brought Takoda to consciousness.
He was the only person who could provide testimony to the identity of the cross-caste killer. Should something similar befall Zaethan, leaving his pryde in the hands of a butcher, he needed to ensure Takoda’s account was recorded, before it was too late.
He dashed under an archway, skidding into the doors of the Boreali suite. Standing before their height, Zaethan released a howl of frustration, remembering Takoda had already been moved earlier that evening. He slammed his palms against the wood, rattling the giant slabs within their framing. Pushing off, he started for the opposite end of the corridor, where the passage rejoined the common route to the residential apartments.
Zaethan halted when something crashed against the double door from inside the Boreali suite. A second crash rumbled the hinges, followed by warbled shouts in foreign syllables.
Zaethan rushed back and pounded on the surface. “What’s going on in there?” He jostled the handle. Locked. “Open up! This is Kasim, al’Haidren and Alpha Zà, head of the prydes and local sentry.”
At his command, a weight blasted into the other side, thumping him backward. The yelling increased, and the door cracked open. A frazzled and pale, doughy woman with exceptionally large teeth stood behind the gap.
“Not the best time, milord.” A blonde tuft from her braid smushed into view as she looked back and shrieked, “Shores of Aurynth! Heh’ta, you mangy, war-tainted mongrel! I’m warning yeh, stop this insanity at once!”
The maid yelped, her teeth consuming her bottom lip, as the door wrenched from her grasp and bashed into the stone. The hybrid wolx reeled into Zaethan, hurling him to the floor. The animal’s voluminous tail swished buoyantly as the enormous crossbreed dashed down the passage. Its claws, too long and dangerous to be trapped in a stone cage, clacked against the tiles as he skidded around the corner. Scrambling to his feet, Zaethan took off through the halls of the palace after the rampant wolx.
Panting, both from fatigue and genuine panic, he chased the animal as it launched down a stairwell, destroying a few banisters, and escaped into the lower levels. A group of yayas chucked their piled platters aside, screaming when the creature bolted through the entry to the kitchens. Puffed pastries flew through the air, pelting Zaethan in the face. The wolx weaved between the servants and scurried to a stop in front of an old hatchway, surrounded by soiled meat buckets and discarded produce.
Cautiously, Zaethan unsheathed his kopar, angling for its throat. At the whistle of the iron, it snarled, barring its serrated teeth. Spittle leaked off its lengthy canines. But instead of attacking Zaethan, the animal’s snout lowered toward the rusty padlock. The Orallach wolx thrashed its head and yipped, jaw snapping savagely.
“Your mistress—she already went after him, didn’t she?” Zaethan asked it.
At his mention of the Boreali al’Haidren, the amber fur along its spine lifted, hackles rising. The wolx yowled and pawed at the hatch. With the tip of his kopar, Zaethan lifted the broken lock. Flinging the door open, he gazed into the darkness below.
“Show me the way.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Luscia
The unrelenting rain beat down upon their backs. With her hood pulled taut, shrouding her face from Aurynth’s watchman, Luscia stared through the curtain of droplets spilling over the edge, blinking it out of her line of sight.
Her spine pressed into the broad support of Marek’s back as he watched the streets from the edge of Marketown. Conversely, Luscia searched the threads patiently, awaiting another disturbance.
“Anything, Ana’Sere?”
“Niit, Brödre,” she muttered, her lips barely moving.
Most of the alleys had already cleared, slickened from the downpour. The clouds rumbled and shifted overhead, casting eerie shadows over the uneven pavers reflecting the moon, mirroring Naborū’s display in the Hall. Robbed of a noble audience, the clouds thundered their applause as they showered the city, the clamor for an encore pouring into the drains.
Like threads in a loom, the lumin carved patterns through the city, more radiant than she’d ever been led to believe was possible so far from the Dönumn. It enveloped the buildings and cradled everything in between, snaking around to the back street, to climb the heights of the busted masonry. Light twinkled and reached for its brethren across the rooftops above, as if it held Bastiion together from behind the veil. Crowding cracks in the brickwork, it balanced the brokenness, offering recompense from the Other.
At the thought, Luscia felt an odd sensation tickle her temples. Poised and controlled, her eyes slid, peering to the side. Beside the wet fabric covering her head, a tendril of light drifted by her cheekbone. She stared at it, allowing the rain to drown her vision. The tendril seemed to stare back, hovering inches away.
“Luscia….”
The tingling intensified, a severe pain forcing her mouth open in a silent wail. Luscia gasped as the tendril writhed in place, its light contorting. The rush of whispers returned, roaring and wailing.
“Ana’Sere!” Spinning toward her, Marek’s hands clutched her shoulders.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 33