Dmitri cleared his throat and stood, using his cane for support. “I would like to officially call this Quadren to session,” he said formally. “I know it may seem a bit…silly, I suppose, us meeting like this. My Quadren is politically dormant and we are bound by countless constraints, but I’ve decided to proceed unorthodoxly and deviate from Orynthian tradition.
“Over the last year, I’ve spent a great deal of time delving into the journals of my predecessors, specifically the entries recounting the dealings of their Quadrens through each generation of Haidrens. From my grandfather, King Aquila Thoarne, to his mother, Queen Roma Thoarne, and as far back as the ledgers allow. The single commonality between them is one I find rather unfortunate.” Here Dmitri paused, glancing at each of them for emphasis. “Not one generation has managed to fulfill the true purpose of the Quadren, which is, by the way, to work together for the good of the realm. While each of us are divided by House, we are united under the banner of Orynthia, and it is as Orynthians that we will lead.”
“Bridging the gap between our peoples starts at this table, Highness, and I for one am devoted to the cause,” Ira pledged. He winked at the y’siti and lazily ran a hand that had never known labor through his shining mahogany hair.
“We all thank you, Lord Bastiion, for your personal support,” Zaethan said with enough sarcasm to satisfy even Zahra, his third, had she been present.
“I’m so pleased to hear our union has become your passion, as well,” Sayuri swiftly added, letting her fingertips brush Dmitri’s hand as she regarded him through her dense lashes.
Zaethan audibly laughed, earning him a deadly scowl from his friend. He couldn’t believe he was obligated to sit here and listen to this kakk. Dmitri had always been an idealist, but this discussion was absurd. Did Dmitri think the Houses would simply come together and abandon centuries-old ambitions and rivalries? That a noble like Ira would put his liquor aside for a cause beyond his own debauchery. Or that the y’siti sorceress would cease sharpening her witchiron while they slept? The notion that the four of them could set aside generations of strife was about as likely as one day referring to Sayuri Naborū-Zuo as Her Highness.
“Some of you may scoff at this proposition.” Dmitri’s eyes targeted Zaethan. “However, I still propose that we open this Quadren privately, be it prematurely. None of you serve your House as Haidren until I serve Orynthia as king. I’m aware it will likely be years before that becomes our reality, but we have an opportunity before us. This is the first and only Quadren to ever be born into an era of peace. So many of these journals, journals like this one,” he passionately urged, lifting a tattered book off the tabletop, “were scribbled inside a tent on a scorched battlefield. But that is not how we begin, and it is not how we will end.
“We are going to use this time, these years ahead, to forge our solidarity. Over time, I can find ways to impose our influence within the bureaucratic realms. The Peerage and the Ethnicam will have to allow it when they see how united we’ve become. And because of that, we can dedicate our youth to something that matters—to the betterment of our people.”
Not since childhood had Zaethan seen his friend speak so zealously about anything. He’d noticed the papers piling up in every corner of Dmitri’s great room and study, but he had just assumed it was the king’s way of preparing the prince for his future responsibilities. And on a day like this, when Dmitri’s color waned and his cheeks shone hollow from exhaustion, his hazel eyes were brighter than ever.
“The Hastings family has always shown friendship to the different members of the Ethnicam. In fact, my father has purchased every type of cross-caste you can imagine for our manor in Arune. Quite an exotic collection, actually,” Ira stated casually, as if Unitarian supremacy was welcome at the table. “Although he lost one just the other night. Rabid coyotes, I think? Anyway, she was exquisite—”
“Ira—” Dmitri interrupted, sensing the ire emanating from the other three.
“No, truly. It’s really a compliment to your kind, gosling,” he said, turning to address the y’siti. “Boreali cross-castes are priced steeply for a reason.”
The y’siti seized Ira’s forearm forcefully, startling him. “What did you just say?”
“Begging your pardon.” Ira nervously grinned. “Lady Gosling, that is—”
“Ira, are you saying there was another attack?” Zaethan grabbed the noble’s shoulder and interrogated him from the opposite side. His pryde had reported nothing of the sort since before the witch’s reception. It was unlikely Zahra or Kumo knew anything—a painful reminder that his father had cut their force in Bastiion by three-quarters.
“What do you mean by another attack, Lord Darakai?” The y’siti pushed away from the table and loomed over Ira. She fixed her unnerving stare upon Zaethan.
The witch did not raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Zaethan felt a series of pricks along the base of his neck. He didn’t lift his hand to touch it, not even when the skin seemed to boil. The sensation vanished when she finally blinked. Wordlessly, she’d seared the truth of what she was into his flesh.
You aren’t human, he suddenly understood. You’re a daughter of demons.
“I’d like to invite you all to attend a hunt,” Dmitri interrupted anxiously. “Zaethan and I were planning on an outing to the Outer Proper tomorrow with some of his men. I’d like to extend the invitation. Lady Boreal, would you grace us with your company?”
Zaethan’s head swung violently toward the worried prince. “Unbelievable!”
“Lower your voice at this table,” Dmitri warned through strained lips.
Zaethan seethed incredulously. That hunt was the only promise of freedom Zaethan had clung to during the last weeks. He was not about to roll over and let Dmitri ransom it for political pacification. Not for the sake of this…creature. But before he could open his mouth to protest, the witch was already accepting Dmitri’s invitation.
“I’d be delighted.” The y’siti’s icy tone defied her smile. “My Aksel has grown anxious and could use the fresh air. It’s been ages since he ran with a pack of animals.”
Zaethan gripped the smooth edge of the table as he witnessed this precious escape being traded away, like a measly handful of copper crupas for Marketown’s most prized jewel. There was now no polite way for him to object to Dmitri’s decision, and certainly not in front of the other al’Haidrens.
“Splendid!” Dmitri said, beaming at her. “Sayuri, Ira, I hope to see you both in the morning as well. I think that’s enough for today. You are all dismissed,” he hurriedly concluded, grabbing his cane.
“Your Highness, a moment of your time, please?” the y’siti requested coolly.
Zaethan glared at her as he rose to his feet. Her ashy hair was worn in a mess of twists, resembling a vengeful ghost in the way she stared down Orynthia’s crown prince. As he strode toward the door, Zaethan’s restless palms itched to strangle her, for bit by bit, this single creature would poison everything he held dear. Tomorrow’s loss was just the beginning.
“Actually, Luscia, would you give us the room? I’d like a word with my al’Haidren to Darakai.”
Zaethan halted at Dmitri’s words, struggling to compose himself before turning around. After a brief pause, he overheard a submissive, “Of course,” before the y’siti stepped around him, leaving the two men in privacy. Zaethan took a deep breath and twisted to face Dmitri, allowing the doors to close at his back.
“What is wrong with you?” Dmitri hissed at him. “This is our legacy, Zaethan. My legacy! How dare you act like it’s all some joke? Or do you believe I’m the joke?” he accused, his brows scrunching together. “This isn’t like you, Zaeth.”
“Ano zà! All of that,” Zaethan yelled, thrashing his arms toward her seat at the pentagonal table, “is not you, Dmitri! Depths! A friend who calls himself my brother would never sacrifice my few precious hours of freedom and
proposition them like a stepping stone for his own advancement!”
“Zaeth…” Dmitri’s lean shoulders fell. “I just—”
“Save it for your next forum…Your Highness.”
Whatever Dmitri tried to say in defense of himself, Zaethan never heard. He rammed the brass doors open and charged down the hall, the deafening echo masking any rebuttal to his exit.
Consumed with rage, Zaethan eventually turned a corner to the wing of Darakaian suites. In a concentrated haze, he barely registered the ominous presence of the very man who fueled his urge to escape. From the clenching of his pitted jaw to the way his thick, scarred arms crossed over his chest, Zaethan’s father appeared to have been waiting outside the apartment for some time.
“Doru, control yourself. Your brooding embarrasses my entire House, like a weak hatchling whining for its mother,” his father said scathingly, sucking his front teeth. “Rumor says the prince initiated his Quadren prematurely today. What was discussed in this little gathering?”
“I was under the impression that the dealings of a regent’s Quadren were of the utmost secrecy,” Zaethan tested, more out of defiance than over actual principle.
His father brought his face dangerously close. His hot breath threatened Zaethan’s cheeks.
“But you were not meeting with a regent,” the commander warned. “You sit in that seat to serve Darakai’s benefit. Lest you forget, I am Darakai. And because you’ve proven ineffective at the most elementary assignments, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”
“Uni. Uni zà,” Zaethan breathed, voicing his absolute yes.
“Good,” his father growled, pulling back a fraction. “Now, we can use this prematurity to our advantage. The y’siti can’t be trusted, of course. Keep her segregated from the others, just as I enlisted Tetsu and Gregor in alienating her aunt years ago. The Hastings brat is a fool, so it would be better to align yourself with Tetsu’s neice. Pilar’s and Darakai’s goals are mutual for the time being. The Pilarese girl could be an asset to us.”
“I agree the witch should be watched, but I doubt Dmitri would turn to her completely. Not over the friend he was raised with—and not enough to require aid from Pilar,” Zaethan reassured his father.
“Meaning you?” The commander snorted his contempt. “That vile abomination is still female. Unless there’s an aspect of your relationship with Korbin’s son that you’ve made a point to conceal from me, then uni zà, he would. You may have given the prince a prized Andwele mount, but you are not the one he is mounting. Or are you?”
Blood rushed to Zaethan’s cheeks, warming them. “We’re taking it slow,” he bit out sarcastically.
Instantly, his father snatched Zaethan’s collar, twisting his grip so it tightened around his windpipe. His cold, black eyes narrowed as Zaethan tried to not give him the satisfaction of wheezing. “Mind her,” he said, letting go. “Y’siti are deceitful by nature, and history has proven that Thoarne men do not hesitate to taste whatever they desire.”
Rather than commenting that Dmitri was not the type, Zaethan cleared his throat and prudently switched topics. “Did you come for my report?”
“Is it even worth hearing?”
“One of Gregor’s Boreali cross-castes was murdered this week in Arune. It may be related to the killings in the Proper or part of the reason the Haidren to Boreal was delayed in Tadeas—” Zaethan began, eager to redeem himself.
“I am your Haidren, Chief Warlord of Darakai, and Commander of Orynthia,” his father said coldly. “Did you think I would wait around for you to drag these petty scraps of gossip back to me? Your old friend Wekesa is alpha of the pryde stationed in the Valley of Fahime. He does what you cannot and keeps me sufficiently informed.”
The corner of his father’s mouth twitched. He was enjoying this turn of conversation, Zaethan realized. In claiming the position of Alpha Zà, Zaethan had thought he’d finally be free of his long-standing rivalry with Wekesa—a rivalry that had earned him enough scars in failed attempts to earn his father’s approval. Yet even without greatness in his line, and no family name to support his own, Wekesa still somehow maintained his hold on Zaethan’s heels.
“Then perhaps I can continue to investigate the deaths within the Proper,” Zaethan suggested, trying to keep any hint of desperation from his tone.
“Wekesa is steadily proving to be Jwona rapiki, a fate writer for Darakai. Your victories are disappointing, and Wekesa’s have written over them. He will lead the investigation throughout the plains as well as within the Proper,” his father and commander declared. He crossed his arms, rolling back his shoulders and awaited Zaethan’s admission of defeat.
Zaethan lowered his head, inwardly chafing at the gesture. “Uni zà, Fath—Commander Zà.”
He held his breath until the sound of his father’s boots could no longer be heard, treading into the distance. Then Zaethan spun and threw open his apartment door, causing the walls to shake. Locking himself inside, he screamed until his throat became hoarse and collapsed against the wooden entrance, burying his head between his palms.
Kwihila rapiki mu Jwona.
Victory did write over fate. And so, as his rival Wekesa, the bastard fate writer, had erased him, Zaethan vowed to erase the witch from Boreal.
FIFTEEN
Luscia
An arrow soared past Luscia’s shoulder, nearly enlisting a collection of blonde hairs in its lethal pursuit.
She twisted in the saddle to see that the target was an average-sized buck grazing among the farthest trees in the distance. Assessing the trajectory of Zaethan Kasim’s arrow and the angle at which it sailed, Luscia abandoned her long-awaited discourse with a certain Orynthian prince and kicked the mare into a run.
The savage whooping and howling of Kasim and his warriors died when they realized she’d dashed to greet their conquest, though she hardly cared. A Darakaian wouldn’t see what she did and, likely, wouldn’t be too concerned if he could. Once in the animal’s vicinity, Luscia slowed her horse, but did not wait for the mare to halt. Seamlessly, she slid from the saddle and sprinted the rest of the way on foot.
Lying on the forest floor, the buck struggled to breathe. It was as she’d anticipated. Kasim’s aim had been too low to strike the skull and yet too high to plunge the heart or liver. She dropped to the earth and cradled the deer’s head in her lap, soothing him with Boreali hymns. With one hand she stroked the frightened animal, while the other reached beneath her surcoat and gripped her consort dagger, Ferocity.
“Tadöm, Ana’Brödre. Tredea’Aurynth,” she whispered tenderly in the buck’s ear. Her mother’s blade caressed the hairs of his neck and ended his suffering.
Warm blood oozed from his throat and soaked her outer gear. Gently, she moved the head off her thighs, careful to avoid his antlers, as the band of southern hunters rushed toward the macabre scene on horseback. Never before had Luscia seen anyone ride as the Darakaians did. Bows drawn, they stood in the saddle as their stallions galloped underneath, like a tidal wave of menacing, monochromatic towers charging in unison.
“Get away from my kill!” the al’Haidren to Darakai barked as he leapt from his stunning, if erratic, Andwele stallion. “Tell me what you did! Did you curse it? Or is bathing in its blood just another filthy y’siti custom?”
Luscia studied Kasim’s bright eyes. A genuine accusation of sorcery boiled behind them. Ire settled in her belly at his routine use of the derogatory term. His lip curled into a fleeting snarl, twisting his usually appealing features. A slim yet powerfully built woman came to stand at his side, though she lingered a foot behind. By her tattooed cheek, shaved head and the whittled bone sheathing both ears, Luscia quickly recognized her as the female who’d guarded Dmitri’s apartment the night she arrived in Bastiion. The confidence the woman projected suggested she was either Kasim’s mate or held a high ranking within his pryde.
�
�I saved him from the misery of a poor shot,” Luscia squarely replied as she wiped Ferocity clean with the edge of her surcoat. She pushed a few stray hairs out of her face, untroubled by the trace of crimson her fingers left along her jaw.
“This is a hunt! Your kind have no authority here. How dare you mark what is mine!” Kasim pointed to the carcass and back at Luscia.
Luscia’s eyes charted the jerky motion of his hand. A series of newly healed hatch marks decorated his knuckles.
Violent, this one.
“This is a life, Lord Darakai. One given for your enjoyment,” she added when he started up again, refusing to be bated by his outbursts. “Make use of it all. Don’t you dare waste him.”
Luscia strode back to her mare, feeling no obligation to continue the exchange. She’d come on this excursion for one purpose, and it was not to be disrespected by the al’Haidren to Darakai. She heard him shout his displeasure from where they huddled over the dead buck, but Luscia ignored his remarks. If one indulged the tantrums of a child, one encouraged them—a principle she likewise applied to Zaethan Kasim.
By the time she resettled in her saddle, Marek’s scarlet head had emerged through the foliage as he led Dmitri to find the rest of the group. Aksel trotted between their mounts, the white fur of his muzzle bloodstained by a recent meal. Eager to roam freely, the restless lycran had disappeared an hour earlier. Luscia knew he’d find her once finished. She whistled for him to come near, as the presence of her northern predator wouldn’t help to calm the already edgy band of Darakaians.
“Ana’Sere,” Marek murmured through tight lips, though he was still yards away. “Did anyone touch you?”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 14
