“Over and over, you’ve repeated that to me.” Dmitri lifted his head and let out a sigh. “But not once, in all these years, did you mention how significant the loss would be.”
Zaethan’s insides clenched, remembering the weight of that smuggled crate in his arms. Guilt coated his windpipe. Clearing his throat, Zaethan responded the only way he could.
“I will spend the rest of my life retracing tonight,” he vowed hoarsely. “I’ll scour my memories, searching for the way I might’ve prevented this from happening to you.”
“I know.” Dmitri suddenly straightened. Reaching for Zaethan’s forearm, he angled to face him, squeezing it. “I know, because that is who you are. If there was anything you could have done, it would have been so. You may spend your life reliving this tragedy, but I will spend mine wishing you free of its heaviness.”
Releasing him, Dmitri looked away. The shadows under his eyes grew more pronounced with the sunrise. “I know he became a father to you, much in the same way he was to me. Don’t allow duty to prevent your mourning, Zaeth. It’s just that…” Dmitri’s voice hitched. “It’s just that I don’t think I can bear it alone this time.”
Zaethan’s gaze anchored onto the track of dirt leading into the pristine garden, thinking of years past. After several minutes of silence, he bent to unbuckle the backs of his boots. Slipping off his wool socks, the soles of his feet nestled into the gravel beside Dmitri’s.
“You were never alone.”
Dmitri’s eyes glistened as he released a shaky breath. “We sometimes forget to expect the light, when all we see is the dark.” Breaking into a weak grin, he pointed to the brightening sky. “And yet, despite our disbelief, it never fails us. My first act as king will be to reassign the cross-caste investigation to your oversight—the one your father transferred to the command of that visiting alpha. That was wrong of him. Today, we will make it right.”
A chill rolled up Zaethan’s shoulders. In all the commotion surrounding Korbin’s assassination, he’d barely begun to process what he’d witnessed in the backstreets of Marketown. Alleys free of Wekesa, instead tormented by a different kind of monster. The better part of the summer had been squandered chasing the wrong man, when all along, he wasn’t chasing a man at all, but a beast.
Zaethan shifted on the bench uncomfortably as the memory of Ambrose’s rotting features flashed before him. The sunken cartilage in his face; the flesh darkened from disease; decay rimming every orifice. He’d only heard stories of war-taint, as it had been flushed from the bloodlines through the course of generations. No story could have prepared Zaethan for the creature Ambrose became—a creature without limit to his endurance. To his pain.
A shiver crept up Zaethan’s neck, remembering the way Ambrose moved despite the carnage, driven by something else, something other, even as his bones jutted from his body.
No one could move like that. Not even the witch.
“It’s no longer a concern.” Zaethan tugged on the lacing near his throat, loosening it. “After I left the solstice celebration, there were some developments in town. Another victim, or would-be victim. We apprehended the perpetrator, but in the struggle, he was killed.”
Dmitri let out a puff of air, “I bet the commander loved that, apprehending a murderer against his orders.”
“I’ll be sure to tell you when he finds out.” Zaethan cleared his throat, choosing his next words carefully. “Dmitri, the man was war-tainted,” he shared warily. “Absolute kakka-shtàka frenzied. No longer human. We also received a few reports of men fighting last week near butcher’s row, one of them covered in boils and the like. I’ve not heard of it spreading, but you need to know that war-taint was here, in the city.”
“War-taint…in Bastiion?” Baffled, Dmitri crooked his chin, scratching it. Briefly, life sparked behind his earthy irises, a temporary distraction from his pain. “But why target the children, and northern cross-castes specifically? Historically, victims of war-taint ravaged everything they encountered.” Fatigue relaxed the tension in his brow when he inquired, “What of the body? We can’t risk contamination.”
Zaethan folded his arms, remembering the tale the Boreali captaen had spun. “The body was…cremated. Nothing left.”
Dmitri nodded, content with the half-truth. In the aftermath of a royal assassination, neither the House of Darakai nor Dmitri’s premature reign needed the additional complication of a dead nobleman, slain by the hand of the militia prydes. Or, worse, by the hand of two rogue al’Haidrens. Admitting Ambrose’s death to the Ethnicam would only result in political nightmare, for him and Dmitri alike.
“Please relay all the findings of the investigation to Luscia, at least. Those poor children,” Dmitri muttered. “As you can imagine, their murders have burdened both her and her aunt for some time.”
“I will ensure Boreal is notified.”
“That is a small gift—to know such heartbreak has finally come to an end.”
Zaethan hesitated. He tucked his chin to his chest, inhaling deeply. Taking a step into the unknown, Zaethan could not predict his friend’s reaction to his next statement, though he had to try.
“You could prevent another such heartbreak.”
Dmitri frowned, confused. “How do you mean, Zaeth?”
Zaethan tightened his crossed arms, pinning them against his middle. “I don’t think she did it, Dmitri. By Owàa, by the Fates, by the moon herself. I think we should wait, conduct a formal trial in front of the Peerage. It’s the least we offer common criminals.”
Dmitri flinched backward, creating space between them on the bench. “Salma Nabhu is not just another criminal! That woman brought that venom into my home, into his hands! He’s gone,” Dmitri croaked, a sob escaping before his mouth tightened. “He’s gone, and you’re really sitting here, defending what that woman did to take him away?”
“Ano zà! No, Dmitri. I’m not defending anything.” Zaethan slipped out of his native tongue, collecting himself. “I’m asking you if we want to be the generation who continues to withhold the right of trial from cross-castes, or the generation who offers it? Maybe she is guilty, but what if she’s not, Dmitri? The cross-caste have no representation in the Ethnicam, no one to speak for them—”
“And so you will?” Dmitri cut Zaethan off, fervor enlarging his hazel eyes. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me, Zaeth?”
“Salma Nabhu could not have orchestrated an act of this magnitude alone, Dmitri. Razôuel could be a real threat—”
“I know she didn’t do it alone!” Dmitri snatched up his cane, panting heavily. “I’m beginning a rule steeped in betrayal—the backdrop of my legacy will forever drip my father’s blood! And no, it wasn’t Razôuel. The proposed marriage contract limits Rasha and all of Orynthia to my governance, to extending the line of Thoarne.”
“But who else could possibly gain from this?”
“The Peerage.” Flexing his fingers around the cane, Dmitri glowered down at the gravel. “You don’t understand the fragility of this season we’re entering, Zaeth. But the Peerage, whether a single member or many, have realized it. In recent years, some councilmen have voiced their doubts about my succession. The province of Agoston, for instance, has had misgivings since my Ascension. One of their nobles—Lord Ambrose, I’m told—elected to not even attend the feast the other night. No one has been able to account for him since.”
“Felix,” Zaethan repeated. “Felix Ambrose.”
“It’s simply a theory, but that’s the point, isn’t it?” Dmitri squinted at Owàa’s brightness, well-seated in the sky. “Hushed theories, whispering all around us. I see your point, Zaeth. I do. But the Peerage will mistake mercy, however intended, for weakness. And if they perceive my weakness, those responsible for my father’s death will just seek another Nabhu and do this again.”
Dmitri’s eyes slid to Zaethan’s, locking onto them. His friend looked like the
very ghosts he spoke of, haunting his reign. Lavender bloomed around his lids. Burdened by grief and weariness, he desperately needed sleep.
“I won’t let that happen, Dmitri. I will defend you until my last breath.” Rising, Zaethan collected his boots. “Now, the crown needs his beauty rest. Let me walk you.”
“I would like to stay just a little longer.”
The phrase was a familiar one, a subtle request for privacy. Zaethan hitched a bare foot over the bench and stood behind Dmitri, preparing to leave him in peace.
“I know what I ask of you,” Dmitri stated as Zaethan took a step toward the gate. “But I am not asking it as…” His back shuddered as he swallowed, “as your sovereign. I am asking it of you as my friend.”
Boots dangled from his fingertips, tucked beneath the sling. Zaethan’s free hand came down and held onto his friend’s lean shoulder. He did not let go.
“I will see it’s taken care of.”
“You have my gratitude,” Dmitri whispered. His head dipped slightly. “I need you, my brother.”
Dmitri’s right hand stretched over and fell atop Zaethan’s on his shoulder, revealing an old, faded band of crimson encircling his narrow wrist. Zaethan tightened his hold on his friend, staring at the fraying thread Dmitri had tied so long ago, simply to make a point. A point he’d never retracted.
Brothers by choice, stronger than blood.
“I am with you, brother,” Zaethan assured him. “Always.”
Splashes of coral and cerise blushed the horizon. Bittersweetly, the colors of Àla’maia’s approach painted the skies as her lover, Owàa, descended into the sorrow of night. Zaethan felt the sun’s misery like his own.
In a stalwart sway, the waters of the Yachel Channel lapped against the hull of the Esafit Ramali. True to her naming, the ship navigated the vast river like a sandstorm, intrepid and commanding. Abandoning the shores of the Wastes, she embodied the precision expected of an executioner. It was the voyage she knew best, after all.
On the main deck, Zaethan turned starboard to watch the barren, cracked sands pass by. He could taste the salt in the air as the breeze licked the dust from the coast. It numbed his tongue, flooding his mouth with the hopelessness of the land, rather than the sea. Desolate and deadly, nothing could survive these endless miles of nothingness. Not even his friend Salma Nabhu, if she lived to see the morning.
“Shàla’maiamo, my favorite yaya,” he said softly to the wind.
Zaethan gripped the ratlines and watched the weeping woman disappear in the distance, forcing himself to accept what he had done. And, because of his action, what could not be undone.
“Eh, full speed ahead, yeye qondai?” he heard Dhalili yell from the crow’s nest, high above the decking. With a triplet of yips, his small scout swung from the basket, landing in a skip across the planks. Clutching onto the railing, Dhalili smiled beside him, grinning into the breeze. Shorter than the rest of the minimal crew—as the ship was manned by the essential members and no more—Dhalili set her hands on her boyish hips. Her billowing gunja pants caught the wind like a mast, almost sweeping her away.
“I’ll keep this yancy crew in order, Alpha Zà,” she declared, crossing her petite but muscular arms. “Move like sludge-runners, yeah? Even the mudmen have more grit than this kakka-shtàka band of Unitarian slummies, ano?”
Dhalili looped one of the tiny twists dotting her head, wrapping it tightly around one finger. Her youthful eyes rolled when she grimaced at a crewman gathering the line, apparently too slow for her liking.
“Ah, ano, ano. I show him, Alpha Zà.”
As she climbed to the quarter deck, Zaethan leaned over the taffrail and peered into the wake forming over the darkening waters. Soon the Esafit Ramali would meet the Drystan, sealing Salma’s fate under Àla’maia’s eye.
A heavy hand clapped the back of his jacket. Kumo bent down next to Zaethan, resting against the railing. His sleeves creaked as his massive arms crooked forward and he gazed out across the waves.
“You are restless.”
“Which is why you call me Ahoté,” Zaethan cited his cousin drily.
“Ano. I call you Ahoté because when you killed that rabid cat, you took on his spirit.” Kumo palmed the buttons down the front of his jacket. “Just a young, fearless cub, you set into the wilderness and came back with its head, proving your father wrong. But ever since, you roam like the restless bobcat. Always unsettled. Always pacing, rabid for more.”
“How can I be settled in this? Depths.” Zaethan chucked Salma’s empty shackles over the edge of the ship. “How do I know this night doesn’t prove him right?”
“We are doing what you believe to be just, Ahoté.”
“Uni zà,” Zaethan agreed, but he shifted his face away. “I stand behind my decision.”
Kumo nudged him with an elbow, pivoting on his side. “Then why torture yourself, Ahoté? You gave the command, and I arranged it, yeah? It is done.”
Zaethan rubbed his wrist in the sling, envisioning the red thread encompassing Dmitri’s. “When we act on what is right, a line is drawn. But that line…” He scowled at Àla’maia’s emerging glow, capping the waters. “That line has consequences, cousin. Kwihila rapiki mu Jwona. No victory will be able to unwrite this night.”
“Meme qondai.” His beta nodded grimly. “But there is no regret in victory.”
“I’m not regretting my decision, or the order.” Zaethan’s eyes narrowed intently. “I’m preparing for the day that choice will be staring me in the face.”
“Then on that day, Ahoté,” Kumo reached out and grabbed the base of Zaethan’s neck, “we face it together.”
Overhead, the moon took to her throne in the skies. Her glory bathed the sea as she held court in the clouds. Zaethan made for the stern of the ship, toward the magnificent ripples trailing their exodus. The Esafit Ramali surged forward, full mast, fleeing the shadow of the Wastes and leaving her sins behind.
Clasping the helm, Zaethan focused on the journey ahead, wishing his own could be so easily forgotten.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Luscia
Weary and spent, Luscia waited outside her aunt’s door.
Moments ticked by, unbearably slow. Her healing arm itched as irritably as her mind, swirling with conflicting thoughts and unrecognizable emotions. They’d eliminated a killer, only to uncover another.
The door creaked, admitting the captaen of Alora’s guard, Emiere, into her aunt’s great room. During the past months, the middle-aged Najjan had operated at a distance, likely at Alora’s bidding. Made famous by his valor during the late Shield Wars, Luscia noted the versatile manner in which her aunt entrusted the elder captaen. It would be wise, she considered, to task Marek to do the same in the trying days ahead.
The Najjan slipped past Luscia without a sound. His joints, though decades older than her own Najjan, gave no hint of his movements as he glided into the domed space. Emiere offered Luscia a somber nod. The silver stubble blanketing his grimace was the only indication of his unrest—she could not recall the last time Emiere had gone unshaven. A spindle of dread spun as she traded places with the impassive Najjan and entered her aunt’s chambers.
The late afternoon sun blanketed Alora’s bedroom, warming the cold bareness within. Seated on a modest bench near the windowsill, Luscia was greeted by her aunt’s back as Amaranth chirped her welcome. The lavender hawk preened herself, perched on a hook beside her mistress while she worked. Alora’s unbound hair rustled as she ground a fragrant assembly of herbs under her pestle.
“Ana’Mere,” Luscia tested, taking the corner of Alora’s bed.
“I’d invite you to sit with me,” her aunt muttered, engrossed in the mortar, “but it seems you don’t want my instruction anymore.”
Luscia felt heat rush into her cheeks. “Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere, I never intended to give that impression.” S
he awaited a response, but was only met with silence. “I am trying my best, for Aniell and for Boreal. I need you to know that.”
The air hung stalely between them. Alora rose slightly from the workbench to kiss Amaranth tenderly, stroking her feathers. Luscia bit down a familiar bitterness. It was silly to envy a bird, especially now.
“Your best is subject to your own judgment, Luscia,” Alora posed evenly. “After all you’ve accomplished in Bastiion, have you found it to be true?”
The question fell heavily, inferring Luscia’s judgment was not wise at all. She smoothed the front of her bodice, grateful her aunt’s eyes were otherwise directed, although experience guaranteed her ears were tuned to Luscia’s body language, listening for anomaly.
“I’ve found my judgment to be…commanding.”
“Not as commanding as your Haidren, I’ve surmised,” Alora added, reaching for a dropper of glistening liquid. Traces of lumin shimmered within the glass channel. “I trust your rebellion through the streets was fruitful, at least?”
“Wem. Boreali cross-castes will no longer be hunted like wild game, if that’s to what you’re referring.” Luscia stiffened defensively before promptly deflating, out of habit. “The killer was war-tainted. Some yancy from the Province of Agoston, I’ve been told.” Her words slowed as she pushed away the memory of his rotting skin, how the stench swam through her nose, suffocating and awful.
“I gathered as much from the bite on your arm,” her aunt commented, plucking fresh leaves of gilead from a pot. “What your wounds didn’t express, I compelled from Captaen Bailefore. He is fine, by the way, in case you were concerned that your escapade might have caused him injury.”
Luscia flinched, surprised by the suggestion that she didn’t care for Marek’s well-being. Or the well-being of her entire guard, for that matter.
“I see,” Luscia replied squarely.
“Tadöm to Aniell that bite was your only keepsake from an altercation with the infected.” Her aunt lit a match to a dried drössara leaf, tossing it into the mortar. “And praise the High One for kissing our veins, rendering war-taint ineffective.”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 36