House of Bastiion, page 12
“There will come a time, Lord Darakai, when you and I will see the need for each other.” Sayuri pursed her ruby lips. Peering over his shoulder, she quietly continued. “Watch her. She is not like her aunt, Zaethan. You’d do well to consider that when you choose to distance Darakai from Pilar’s hand of friendship.”
Zaethan despised Sayuri, primarily for her many attempts to openly seduce Dmitri, but the sharpness of her narrowing eyes urged him to rotate in his seat. The y’siti had twisted as well, except her gaze was fixed on the table behind. Zaethan followed her line of sight to the empty seat beside Gregor Hastings. Worry flashed across her face before reassuming her expressionless state. Her strange eyes caught his, and Zaethan’s mouth eased into a vicious smile. The y’siti had finally realized just how alone in their world she really was.
Breathing in, she elevated her chin and faced forward to resume a dull discussion with Dmitri and Ira over the province of Wendylle.
His thoughts returned to Sayuri’s counsel. Zaethan risked a sidelong glance at her predecessor, seated near his father. Tetsu Naborū rapped his metal nailpiece against the tabletop as Lord Felix Ambrose, an entitled yancy from Galina, spoke rapidly into his ear. Zaethan wasn’t surprised. As the elected Chancellor of the Shoto Collective, Pilar’s congress of scholars and statesmen, Naborū had woven a web of political partnerships over the years, each to his benefit. In addition, adopting the role of haidren after the death of his brother meant a man like Naborū encountered few limitations and knew how to circumvent them when he did.
“But you are exactly like your uncle, Lady Pilar. A conniving little snake,” Zaethan hissed, turning back to his plate. “And that time you speak of is not tonight.”
Salma’s dancers glided off the floor as the cymbal clashed again, signaling a transition into the next course. Darakai’s painted drummers took their place, the masculine uproar causing the staff to jump while they exchanged the empty dishware with something colorful and overflowing. An attendant lifted Dmitri’s plate, then apologized profusely when he nearly knocked the prince’s cane off the edge of the table. On and on the charade went, performance after performance, delicacy after delicacy.
When the cymbal marked their final course, the original musicians took to the dais for the remainder of the night. Zaethan pinched the bridge of his nose and eagerly awaited the first opportunity to leave.
“Luscia, I think dessert is the perfect opportunity to display your skillset. I’ll inform Alora how seriously you’re taking your duty to sing me lullabies,” Dmitri jested with the y’siti, apparently referencing some prior conversation.
“What a grand idea, Your Highness! The court would love to hear the elusive al’haidren to Boreal sing for us all.” Sayuri stretched across Zaethan once more, tugging Dmitri’s arm.
“No, no. I was just referring to—”
But before Dmitri could explain the nature of his comment, Sayuri bolted from her seat and dashed to exchange words with the king. Promise twinkled in her eyes when she sauntered back down to their table.
“Dmitri! I didn’t know your al’haidren had prepared something for me!” King Korbin shouted over the noise of the hall.
“Father, it’s…it’s a misunderstanding.”
“Everyone!” With dazed eyes and slurred words, Dmitri’s father clapped for the room’s attention. “My son’s al’haidren has prepared a treat for us before she presents Boreal’s Ascension offering!”
“Luscia, I’m so sorry. He’s—I can explain it to them,” Dmitri started to say.
“It’s not your fault,” Zaethan overheard her respond stoically. “It is an honor to sing for you, Your Highness.”
Standing, her guard escorted her to the dais. Halfway there, the y’siti paused and returned to Dmitri.
“If you’ll permit?” she asked and cautiously reached out for his cane.
“Oh! Yes, of course!” he promptly responded, his regal nose crinkling quizzically as he gestured to the cane in her grasp. “Whatever you require is yours for the taking.”
With his permission, she gave a short bow and continued onward.
Sayuri reclined smugly and crossed her arms expectantly. “You’re welcome for this,” she said to Zaethan.
As the al’haidren climbed the dais with the help of her escort, the imported material of her dress shifted with her graceful movement. It was strange how the modest cut was distinctly masculine, military even, yet made her look anything but. She lifted her ghostly, heart-shaped face to whisper to her henchman. He stared at her with momentary skepticism before bowing his head and retreating to his position at the end of their table. The crisp lines of the y’siti’s face shifted as she closed her unsettling eyes, situated under dense, tawny brows, and began to mouth phrases under her breath.
Zaethan’s gut tightened. The witch wouldn’t dare use one of her arcane spells in the open, surely? Then, striking Dmitri’s cane against the stone she stood upon, a deep and haunting ballad echoed off the walls of hall as the y’siti began to sing.
The Earth became dark, her blood spilt anew,
Betrayal so deep, burning tears ran true.
She drank of the shadow, then drowned in fire,
Who could rescue her from our taint and mire?
Rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
In the mist it hid, between trees it dwelt,
Before the Light of Him, whom Tiergan knelt.
A touch breeds death, this radiance would save,
His Gift to Boreal, the High One gave.
Rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Zaethan jerked when the najjani guard at the foot of their table took his sheathed sword, having unbuckled it, and accompanied her rhythmic clamor. His rich baritone joined her chilling tale.
Those of North they sang, yet of East they sought,
Unaware of the terror, which Tiergan fought.
Bold Thoarne traveled far, a brotherhood sealed,
By might nor by force their lands slowly healed.
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Old hunger recalled, scarred mouths of teeth drank,
Tearing flesh from bone, their thirsty claws sank.
Monstrosity pushed and would not abide,
Brothers East and North, whose fates did collide.
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Fallen pierced and slain, the Dönumn became Tiergan’s tomb,
Thoarne dread, stolen hope remained.
On scorned knees he pled, spirit threads rebind,
Brilliant breath sprang forth, men no longer blind.
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Male voices resonated throughout the hall, though from where they originated, Zaethan couldn’t tell. Rage flared inside his chest. The y’siti were concealed in their midst without his foreknowledge. Zaethan pivoted and beheld Dmitri, who sat forward, listening in wonder.
An unnatural breeze swept the room, lifting the y’siti’s hair like ash fanning off a fire. The raw gems knit throughout her tresses chimed as they rustled in place. Slowly, Zaethan’s hand felt for the hilt of his kopar.
History written, and history rings,
Even leaves know the One for whom life sings.
He mends every wound, joins feathers to fly,
When all men forget, still the Earth will cry,
rul’Lothadim Aniell,
rul’Lothadim, On High.
Dmitri hopped out of his seat and led the crowd in applause. The witch bowed solemnly and descended the dais, returning to their table. Reaching into her skirts, she pulled out a curved dagger.
A gasp shuddered over the crowd as Zaethan’s limbs leapt into action. He pushed off the table and shot an arm across Dmitri’s torso, calling for the guards. Within moments, sentries filled the hall, eliciting shrieks from nearby noblewomen when they drew their swords, the metal screeching.
“Lateef!” Zaethan heard his father shout over the frenzy, from his place at the king’s table. “Seize that witchiron at once!”
This is why she came out of hiding, Zaethan thought, panicking as General Lateef tore through the swarm of men. She wanted an audience to her massacre.
“This is completely inappropriate!” Dmitri sputtered. “She is a member of my Quadren!”
Ignoring the crown prince, Zaethan’s father hurried down the steps of the platform. Sentries moved to surround the witch, swords pointed at her neck, shielded only by a thin layer of fabric. Despite the imminent threat, the y’siti remained calm, slowly kneeling inside the circle of men and lifting the dagger in the air for all to see.
A flutter of relief skirted through Zaethan’s gut, though his arm still hovered in front of their prince. Y’siti should never be trusted, even before a sea of witnesses. His left hand, positioned inches from Dmitri’s plate, crept toward the napkin on the table. Zaethan stared forward as his forefinger eased under the fabric and took hold of the prince’s dirtied carving knife. Flexing his hand around the hilt, he felt the cold of the iron seep into his skin.
“My offering to you, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne, crown prince of Orynthia, is a single dagger,” she announced in a clear, strong voice. The y’siti lowered her arm and stroked the hilt, suddenly looking wistful. “Consort daggers are never to be parted, and this pair is the last remnant of my mother that I have. Its mate remains with me, as this blade will remain with you. It is named Benevolence.”
Dmitri leaned forward, entranced. “And the mate in your possession?”
“Ferocity.”
For an instant, her glistening, smoke-rimmed eyes blazed a searing light, but no one else seemed to notice. Zaethan lifted the knife out from under the napkin, looking around disbelievingly. Not even his father appeared to be particularly alarmed. Then, to his shock, the commander nodded jerkily to his sentries, who slowly back away from the y’siti, allowing her to rise and move toward the prince once again.
“Dmitri, I don’t think—” Zaethan began.
Yet Dmitri merely brushed him aside and stepped around the table, opening his palms to receive the y’siti’s Ascension offering. Zaethan held his breath, waiting for the witch’s inevitable attack.
The y’siti smiled at Dmitri, holding out the consort dagger, looking innocent as a doe. Then, without warning, she suddenly seized her head in both hands and screamed. The jeweled blade clattered against the floor as her eyes rolled back into her skull and she collapsed.
“Niit!” a panicked voice cried.
A blur of emerald and crimson emerged from the shadows, leaping over the tabletops. A najjan ran toward her, dropping to his knees once he’d cleared the crowd. He skidded upon them across the smooth floor, catching the unconscious al’haidren in his arms. Cradling her head, the shadowman panted in alarm. A swarm of nobles stood in shock, gasping as three more fully armed najjan materialized to escort their al’haidren’s body from the hall.
“Well,” Sayuri said with a pout, “that took an interesting turn.”
Zaethan slammed his fists down, causing cutlery to fly from the table, then stormed out of the room. There was no telling how many pale faces had infiltrated the corners of this palace. He realized then that the House of Boreal had not sent a mere sorceress into the heart of Bastiion, but a cancer. A weapon who’d bewitch their prince before slitting his throat.
The pang in Zaethan’s chest foretold that this would be the night he’d always look back upon as the moment when everything changed.
TWELVE
Luscia
A spicy, floral scent struck Luscia as an invigorating breath of rhali pollen filled her sluggish lungs.
Her eyelids cracked open. Bright, hazy light forced her to blink multiple times before her vision could clear. Pressure racked the base of her skull and spread forward, like webs of pain holding her hostage. An involuntary groan escaped her parched lips. Then, with a soft click, the aggressive aroma was capped and whisked away from her nostrils.
“There we are,” said a soothing voice.
A warm palm rested lightly against her forehead. Alora withdrew her hand and began sifting through her apothic instruments, but returned it more forcefully when Luscia tried to lift herself upright.
“Ah, ah…my Boreali niece should know impatience is never prudent. Keeping your Captaen Bailefore out of this room has alone proven cumbersome, so I’d appreciate some cooperation.”
Luscia huffed and pressed her aching head into the pillow.
“Tadöm,” Alora thanked her, combing through the boxed apothecary.
“How long?”
“About forty-eight hours. You’ve broken your record, lu’Lycran,” Alora answered kindly, though the use of Luscia’s childhood name betrayed her aunt’s attempt at nonchalance. She’d not uttered it in years.
Meaning Little Wolx, only Luscia’s father held onto the name his wife had favored. Luscia’s mother used to say their daughter was more lycran than al’haidren, whenever she found Luscia covered in mud or out of bed, exploring in the moonlight. Alora embraced it for a season after her younger sister, Eoine, was taken from them, but her aunt’s parental inclinations were much more reserved than the younger, whimsical woman who’d brought Luscia into the world.
Still, Alora became an essential figure during Luscia’s formative years. True to her sober disposition, hers was a distant love—ardent, but less concerned with impractical sentimentality than with Luscia’s birthright and blood-calling.
“I’ve been in this bed for two days?” Luscia sputtered, startled by the time lost. “I don’t understand how this happened. My vials ran out the night we entered Bastiion. A minor episode occurred once I initiated the Sight,” she added at Alora’s inquiring look. “But even so, my last dose was taken less than a week ago.”
“You waited that long to awaken your connection? Luscia…” Alora scolded, disregarding the topic at hand. “You were instructed to begin communing with the threads the night of your Ascension. I was hoping your Sight would be second nature by now. The threads discern for us. The High One speaks through the Dönumn and thus through the lumin. It’s your most vital gift as haidren to Boreal.”
She’d expected the lecture, but Luscia wasn’t ready to admit to the fear that she’d been vacant of the higher gifts. Or that she’d yet to commune with the threads since.
“Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere.”
“It is forgiven,” Alora dismissed. “Now, what of this minor episode you mentioned? I wasn’t aware there’d been another since your departure. Your fiery captaen only reported what transpired at your reception.”
Briefly, Luscia recounted what had taken place after initiating her Sight in the wood outside the proper. It didn’t make any sense; Luscia had never fallen victim to an episode so quickly after taking her standard dosage. Her aunt began brewing the medicinal treatments around the time of puberty, when an unknown, splitting head pain first took hold of Luscia. Neither Boreal’s chief healer nor her Clann Darragh were able to discern what had befallen their young al’haidren.
“Could this be because of my Ascension? The episodes used to be further apart, but they’ve intensified ever since,” Luscia posed.
“Niit. What’s more likely is, as you approached adulthood and entered into it, the occurrences are being triggered by external stressors. The episode in the wood and the reception were both evenings of extreme significance. The latter incredibly so. You attended without your haidren and were forced to participate in that ridiculous spectacle,” her aunt noted resentfully. “The thought of that court handling you like another plaything…”
Alora moved toward the windows of Luscia’s bedroom, where multiple, glistening jars had been set out upon the window ledge. She picked up a stone bowl and started grinding a complex mix of herbs together.
“Do you think”—Luscia stared at cracks in the ceiling—“maybe I’m like her? That I took after her somehow?”
“Heh’ta. Stop that.” The grinding paused before resuming at a calculated pace. “Assumption is not becoming on you, niece.”
Alora was truthful. Her mother’s madness hadn’t exhibited physical symptoms before…before it had suddenly worsened.
“I’ll simply increase the potency of your dosage as well as the frequency. You’ll soon find court life a continuous stressor.”
“What elements will you add to my treatment?” Luscia propped herself up on an elbow, genuinely curious.
“Many.”
Knowing Alora, the complication of its creation would likely double as well. Her aunt tended to implement herbal blends and methods most Boreali healers wouldn’t think to attempt.
“Ana’Mere, we need to discuss the nature of this elixir I’m to produce for the prince,” Luscia said. “He summoned for more the night I arrived and, frankly, it was dishonest to pretend I’d even known about it.”
“This is not the time for that conversation, Luscia, nor is it mine to have with you.” Alora positioned her back to Luscia as she worked. Her aunt would not give further comment on the matter.
“Will you at least share the cause for your delay, then?”
Luscia knew she was pushing Alora’s tolerance, but she deserved an explanation. Never had another al’haidren been presented to court devoid of their predecessor’s support. Begrudgingly, she’d sacrificed one of her mother’s consort daggers because of it. Her father had gifted Eoine with the set during their courtship, and now Luscia had forever separated the two blades. Meaning, Luscia lost two of his gifts to Bastiion, coupled with the kuerre.
