Suddenly, Luscia realized her rightness in sending Mila to Boreal. They’d assumed Ambrose merely wanted what all men want, when he must have craved so much more. Luscia sat taller and let out a breath. Her judgement had proven true in that respect after all.
“He was ravenous, nearly unstoppable,” Luscia whispered. “I remember the old stories of war-taint, from our childhood. Phalen loved when Fappa would tell the tales to terrify us before bed. I just never imagined such…depravity.” Luscia caressed the radials over her knuckles, missing her brother. “There are a few things I can’t make sense of, though. The nobleman’s rate of decay for instance.”
Voicing her query, she then understood that Ambrose did seem to have made an effort to conceal the initial signs of his illness. The gloves, perhaps his overuse of pipe-marrow to ease his pain. There was no telling now long he’d been sickened. Did the ancient disease consume one’s body steadily, or expedite deterioration at a certain stage?
“Little was recorded about the behavior of war-taint, Luscia. Our ancestors were much more focused on trying to be rid of it at the time,” Alora chirped in response.
Luscia supposed that to be true, given the threat war-taint posed to humanity’s survival in the early ages. “Well, then secondly, if someone war-tainted harbors no restraint, how could he have executed all those precise incisions used to drain the bodies?”
The pestle in Alora’s grasp slowed to a calculated swirl. “Perhaps the infection took time to mature, delaying his madness.”
Nodding, Luscia’s brows tightened as she countered, “Then what of the outliers—the few who were found torn apart? They bore the wounds expected of a war-taint attack. Could the sickness exist elsewhere in Orynthia?”
“That nobleman lost his humanity to an ancient plague, Luscia.” Alora wiped her tools with a scrap of linen. “You cannot seek rational rhythm in the clamor of chaos. Perhaps his urges came in waves. Perhaps he tried to hide the affliction with his neatness, only to surrender to a more visceral nature once it overthrew his mind. We cannot know, and it is a distraction to even try, when at this very hour the state of the realm hinges on the precarious allegiance of men.”
Her aunt gathered her linsilk skirt and stood. She walked to the center of the room, commanding it despite her slender frame. Her hands gathered behind her back as she looked out the vaulted windows. A glare glinted off her solrahs, identical to the luxiron piece in Luscia’s septum.
“You must put away these thoughts. Your future lies at a pentagonal table, beside your king, not in the streets like some breakaway vigilante. The honor bestowed to you, Luscia Darragh Tiergan, is greater than the others at that table.” Alora’s thumb grazed the veins at her wrist. Faint indigo feathered under her nearly translucent skin. “History written, as history rings.”
“Ana’Mere?”
“Think, Luscia.” Alora released her wrist and gathered her hands behind her back once more. “Think. How has the line of Thoarne survived centuries of war, endless bloodshed, countless deaths? You sing your history in Thoarne’s own Hall, yet you refuse to believe it.”
Her aunt’s words stung. Luscia wished for once Alora would speak plainly, instead of seeking another opportunity to critique her. This wasn’t the time for correction, but rather for answers. Answers Luscia felt she more than deserved to hear.
“But that’s simply poetry,” she rebutted. “You don’t actually mean—”
“The blood of Tiergan will always rescue the blood of Thoarne.” Alora’s chin lifted. “On the battlefield or in a garden. This is for what the High One anointed us, Luscia. This is our charge. Your blood is sacred, precious. It cannot be spilled and wasted, like a member of your guard or one of the Najjan. You are not fodder. Niit, my niece, you are the remedy.”
“You said he couldn’t be cured,” Luscia challenged, hope teasing her chest.
“Dmitri’s cure is the continuation of his lineage,” she answered quietly. Alora untied the stained apron around her waist, folding it as she rotated toward her apothecary. “You may not be this king’s remedy, but in offering him time, you are Orynthia’s remedy. As his coronation nears, it is imperative you practice your Sight daily. The threads…the threads will tell us how to proceed.”
“Have you ever heard them, Ana’Mere?”
The question escaped Luscia’s lips before she could stop it.
Alora froze, her back to Luscia. Gradually, her face turned over her shoulder, though her eyes did not follow. “No one has ever communicated with the threads, except in the days of Tiergan himself. This I have already told you.”
Biting her lip, Luscia tread carefully. “Do you think my mother heard the lumin? The voices she talked about…”
Luscia trailed off as the side of Alora’s mouth pressed into a firm line. Stiffly, she set her folded apron atop the viridi chest housing her apothic elements, much larger than the box in Luscia’s quarters.
“Eoine thought she heard many things, but all of them were a delusion in the end.” Abruptly, Alora spun and tilted her head. “Have you experienced something similar?”
“Niit,” Luscia blurted.
At her outburst, Alora’s gaze narrowed and darted through the air around Luscia. Undoubtedly, her aunt was reading the threads in her own way, discerning fact from fiction. Luscia’s stomach clenched, hoping the luminescent energy would not betray her haunting secret, either in claiming the voice she’d heard, or worse, confirming she’d not heard it at all.
If the former, then the consciousness of the Other, full of mystery and power, tormented Luscia unlike any of her ancestors. If the latter, then she was cursed regardless. If she never heard the threads, if it was not the lumin who whispered, then she was heir to her mother’s fate. A fate which promised a lifetime of whispers, until she could someday bear no more. And, like her mother, she would be forced to make it cease.
“I assume this is why your men relay that you’ve neglected your daily meditation. I’m told you’ve not practiced since your arrival in Bastiion.” Pouring her newest concoction into three vials, Alora gathered them up and came beside the bed. “Are you still concerned your episodes are connected to what became of her?”
“You truly believe they’re unrelated?” Luscia searched her aunt’s eyes, seeing those of her mother.
“Niit. Just as I assured in your youth, I assure you again now. It is your choice to listen,” she urged, placing the vials in Luscia’s open palms. “We will keep improving upon your tonic. This season will be laden with instigation, likely full of triggers. It is time you put away this foolishness and trust my wisdom on the matter.”
Luscia’s fingers wrapped around the vials, their marshy contents darker than the previous batch. She prayed her aunt was right, but feared the alternative nearly as much. If her connection to the Other was wrong, unnatural and strange, it could hinder her succession. Alora, being a woman of principle and obligation, might disown her, abandoning their mentorship. Or, Luscia hoped, she might increase her oversight, were she willing to explore Luscia’s torment together.
Uncertainty stifled her bravery. She couldn’t lose a second mother.
“Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere,” Luscia submitted, “for my wayward thinking.”
“I will say this only once, my niece.” Alora’s shoulders set. “If your disobedience was revealed prior to these unthinkable events, then this would be a discussion of severe consequence. However, supremacy changes with the crown, and you no longer answer to me.” She paced around the bed calmly, head elevated with authority. “There will be consequences for your and Captaen Bailefore’s actions, just not from the rule of your own House. It will follow you onto the Quadren and, once seated, may one day entrap you.”
Alora’s eyes met Luscia’s at last. “Soon, it is you whom they will call the Great Mother of Boreal. My legacy will fade into the stars behind the others, adding to Aurynth’s tapestry o
f old.” Her graceful fingers fluttered as she turned to the door. “But mark my words. You are playing a perilous game on a much larger board than you realize, as if you see all the parts when you do not. After your succession, I will continue to offer you counsel, as your grandfather guided me.”
Alora grasping the handle, pulling the door open. Mutely, Luscia rose, acknowledging their meeting had ended. As she neared the threshold, her aunt gathered Luscia’s hands in hers and, with an abnormal fervor, gripped them tightly. Discomfort pulsed through her fingers as Alora pinned her inside the doorframe.
“And when I counsel you, Luscia,” she cautioned, “I pray you heed it. For the sake of us all.”
Gulping, Luscia nearly stopped breathing. Alora’s colorless Tiergan eye sparked furiously, glowing like it never had before.
Wrapped in cloud cover, Aurynth’s watchman permitted Luscia the solace of complete darkness as she prowled through the streets of Marketown. Dulled laughter and muffled music drifted toward her from the bosom of The Veiled Lady, where the wealthy alongside the poor eagerly took advantage of the moonless night, their comings and goings concealed.
A lamppost flickered in the distance, the dim torchlight splashing the flanks of the narrow backstreet. Luscia pocketed her lumilore, no longer needing its light. Her vision adjusted to the intermittent flame, focusing on the evidence of the destruction they’d wrought outside the bustling tavern.
With a feather-light step, her upturned boots carefully maneuvered through a pile of crumbled brick. Over the hunks of masonry, she found the hollow depression where Kasim’s body had been thrown into the adjacent building. Luscia looked up into the murky heavens, grateful she only had to answer for the death of one man, instead of two.
Further on, Luscia stopped beside the busted crates. She stooped low, crouching near the place of the killer’s demise—the place where at her hand, Lord Felix Ambrose departed this world to enter the next. The pools of rainwater had long dried up, leaving only squalid remnants from the night of the solstice. Splintered wood encircled an emptiness on the ground, coated in rancid soot. Guardedly, Luscia untied the veil shading her face. Gritting her teeth, she released a shaky breath and beckoned the Sight.
Hazy threads beamed into existence, wafting in the soft breeze. Luscia tensed, anticipating the pain in her skull, but it didn’t come. Neither did the whispers. In gratitude, she closed her eyes to thank the High One for her aunt’s skill.
“Tadöm, Aniell.”
Alone in the Other, Luscia opened her eyes and studied the glittering patterns. She cocked her head curiously. While most of the threads meandered through the openness with ease, a few shuddered away from the sooty spot by her feet, where Ambrose had withered to ash. In their flux, the light sputtered as the threads created a void of nothingness in the middle of the air.
Intrigued, Luscia peered into the abyss. The feel of winter blew against her cheeks, like an icy wind from the highlands. She brought her fingers to her flesh. It was cold to the touch.
“Shores of Aurynth,” she whispered. The steam of her breath turned to frost.
Her head whipped to the side when a canister rolled through the mouth of the alley. Fluidly, Luscia reeled behind the crates, melting into their silhouette. A man trailed the canister as its roll came to a halt. She timed her exhales with the breeze, soundless and measured. Her Sight intact, she stared between the slats in the crates. The threads bobbed around the man’s long locs as they swayed. Kasim knelt next to the pile of rubble and cradled his face in his hand. Then, in a sudden huff, Kasim hurled one of the bricks at the broken wall, shattering it to pieces.
Massaging his shoulder in the sling, he turned away and glanced toward the lamplight outside the mouth of the alley. Then down the backstreet, to the back door of the tavern. Palming his mouth, Kasim’s shoulders sagged as he headed deeper into the alley.
Luscia’s eyes widened. Playing at his heels, partnering threads of lumin illuminated his steps as he climbed the stairs to the back door. Lifting onto the balls of her feet, she soundlessly followed. Blinking out of the Sight, she refastened the inky veil, hiding the brightness of her skin. She tucked her hair into the folds of her hood and entered the rear of the establishment.
Luscia didn’t know what compelled her to nestle into the back corner of the boisterous tavern. Hidden in the shadows, she charted Kasim’s journey to the bar, where he slumped onto a stool and lifted his hand for a drink. She saw his features fall after the barkeep slid his order down the bar. Kasim stared blankly into the untouched glass. Luscia filtered the noise to listen as one of Nabhu’s night-callers slunk to his side.
“What is wrong, Alpha Zá?”
Leisurely, the woman draped an arm over Kasim’s leg. When he didn’t flinch, she crooked his chin tenderly. Candlelight glistened on her southern skin, similar to his own.
“Do you know how to make it better, Jaha?” she asked.
Slowly, Kasim shook his head, his expression unreadable.
“I do.” She retrieved his glass and summoned him off the stool. Through the parting of heavy, velvet curtains, she led Kasim down a darkened hall and into the belly of The Veiled Lady. With a swish, the fabric closed, sealing him inside.
Noiselessly, Luscia tightened the cowl around her face and crept through the shadows, retreating the way she’d come. Reentering the night, Aurynth’s watchman came into view once more. Under his eye, she disappeared into the secretive web of Marketown, just another player in Bastiion’s grid of decay.
For in the heart of Bastiion, no one was who they seemed.
Not even the Haidren to Boreal.
EPILOGUE
On the rooftop, Alora’s lips compressed as they watched her niece follow Kasim’s heir into the tavern. It was obvious she was not pleased.
She was angry—and blaming herself more than anyone else, he knew, for sending him away the night of the solstice. He’d been assigned to investigate a petty brawl in the Bazaar, involving one of her Boreali merchants. All the while, her niece had charged into the torrent to face an unknown evil, alone and unprotected.
Upon the figure’s return to the Proper, she’d tasked him to root out where the monster was laid to rest, so she might inspect the remains. He reported there was nothing left to examine but ash and mire, but nevertheless, his mistress insisted she be escorted into the busiest district of Marketown. Disguised in the heights, they waited for the filthy alleyway to clear.
Apparently, her niece had shared the same intent that evening.
Amaranth’s claws anchored onto his shoulder. He felt the hawk shift her weight as she settled onto her favored perch, situated between her two masters. On the opposite side, Alora’s spine straightened as the door, stories below, closed behind her niece.
“He’s beginning to look like his father,” she remarked tersely.
The figure considered the young man’s lineage, but disagreed. “I still see Cyra in their son, Mistress. Others see her, too.”
Pensive, Alora angled her smooth neck. The darkness disguised the pearlescent hue of her skin, unique to her and her kinsmen. His blistered tongue swelled with need. Squeezing his eyes shut, he ignored the faithful beat of her veins. After his recent encounter on butcher’s row—after he’d given way to the hunger—it would take months to unhear the rhythm of her blood, calling out a promise it would never fulfill.
“Let us pray that is who their son sees in himself.” Alora tucked her chin determinedly. “Orynthia cannot afford to have Cyra’s son aspiring after his father’s control of the realm. The effects would be catastrophic.”
The figure adjusted his leather gloves, grating his scored flesh. Surveying her through the corner of his bloodshot eye, his lungs stilled. Freezing in place, he admired the way she tucked a wisp of fair hair behind an ear. It was the single blessing to his curse—the ability to see her beauty even when the light let it go. After their d
ecades together, encompassing a host of secrets, his affection remained their most devasting secret of all.
He looked away with difficulty. “It was her captaen who assured you, Mistress.” The figure fixed his attention on the alley below. “The nobleman’s corpse indeed turned to dust.”
When she said nothing, he peered past the rim of his hood. Almost imperceptibly, her jaw quivered, and she spun her face aside. He thought he heard her sniffle, an uncharacteristic release of emotion.
“You are not permitted to turn to dust.”
The figure dropped his gaze. Stepping back from the busted ledge of the abandoned terrace, he lowered his head in retreat, adding to their separation.
“You know this was not the product of war-taint,” he whispered, embracing the agony of his sores. “This happened because of the offenses I committed in another life. Dust,” the figure rasped gravely, “would be a mercy.”
Alora stilled several paces away. Stubbornness tensed her limbs as she entwined her arms, something she’d done in their youth when he came close to winning an argument. Sighing, she breathed his name into the night.
“I will say it again, and again, and again, until I can speak no more,” she declared to the emptiness. “There is still hope for redemption.”
He recoiled beneath the fabric of his cloak, away from the emerging sheen of the moon. As she refused his shame, the figure could not bear for her to behold his ugliness instead.
“I’ll never know redemption if history repeats my mistakes,” he murmured, hiding within the hood. “Coveting what was not meant to be mine. Taking what should never be stolen.”
Her hand glided into a concealed pocket in her skirts. Retrieving a pouch, she cradled it carefully as she replied, “You couldn’t have been the first to stumble upon your revelations about my kind, and I doubt you will be the last, as evidenced by the cross-caste slayings.” Her face tilted to the side, though he no longer stood there. “Why target the children? Why the unascended, instead of the full-blooded parent?”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 37