House of Bastiion, page 37
“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, I know.” 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 guards, 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.” She 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 drösarra leaf, tossing it into the mortar. “And praise the High One for kissing our veins, rendering war-taint ineffective.”
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 those earliest 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 najjani order. 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 to inherit 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 of 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 grasped 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.
