House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1)

by K. L. Kolarich

The Darakaian al’Haidren held her gaze for a moment, his bright eyes narrowing at her instructions. Turning, Kasim rocked the boy from side to side as he issued orders to his men.

  “Takoda, you’re with me. Kumo—” He angled his head at Luscia. “—escort the y’siti back to the palace grounds. Unnoticed. We don’t need any questions about our…association.”

  Luscia bristled, but started walking.

  The beta, Kumo, kept pace with her as they navigated between the more forgotten buildings of Marketown. After nearly half an hour of quiet, he began to speak.

  “So, eh,” he tried cautiously, as if their interaction would rouse her ire, “how’d you know where to go? You smell him out, yeah? After all that, uh…” His dark, oversized hands swarmed about his skull. “Kakka-shtàka…?”

  She snorted, though there was little to laugh about.

  “Kakka-shtàka sounds accurate,” she grumbled. Despite logic—for Luscia had been right to ensure the boy’s safety—it still felt as if she’d permitted a killer to run free.

  “You get a look, uni?” The beta inched closer as they walked, but kept a hand on his kopar. “You saw him, I mean?”

  “Man or woman, they wore a cloak, which did its job.” Luscia picked a few splinters of wood from the seam of her surcoat. “He’s not from any slum, though. The fresh polish of his boots gave that much away.”

  “Huh.” Kumo’s hand eased off his kopar. Suddenly, a pearly grin sparked on his face. “You no y’siti hound, ano! You like Maji’maia!”

  Unsmiling, Luscia eyed him, suspicious of her new branding. “In other words?”

  Sheepishly, his thick forefinger rose to point at Aurynth’s watchman. The full moon, alarmingly bright, illuminated their steps as they turned a corner.

  “When Àla’maia still has her magic.” His finger shook toward the sky. “The Witchy Moon.”

  Slowly, with great care and exhausting control, Luscia lowered the heel of her foot to the stone of her private terrace. Even slower did she allow the rest of her body to follow.

  With the gentlest click and turn, she nudged open the stained-glass door to her bedroom chamber. On any night, Luscia welcomed her luxuriously extravagant bed, but tonight her mind proved as weary as her extremities. Head pounding, she slipped off her hood and cowl, then bent to untie her upturned boots.

  The hiss of a match kissed her ears just before the light of its flame sizzled into existence. Luscia’s stomach dropped. Najjan were called Boreal’s shadowmen for good reason; she was the last being who should have forgotten.

  On a humble stool in the middle of her quarters, Marek slumped over the candle, elbows propped on his knees. His oceanic eyes were grim, shaded by his furrowed brow, when he eventually looked up.

  “Marek, I—” Luscia started.

  “You do not answer to them.”

  Luscia felt the warmth drain from her cheeks when Alora’s outline moved through the doorway. As her own candle crossed the room, the light illuminated the whole of her guard. Declan, positioned nearest their Haidren, stood stoically, with an expression equally stern. The twins bookended her dressing table. Böwen rubbed his face with his palms, clearly uncomfortable. Collectively, their eyes remained downcast, but it was Noxolo in the corner who physically turned his elegant features toward the wall, away from his charge.

  None of them uttered a word when Alora stopped behind Marek’s stool. Her posture spoke volumes.

  “These men have given their lives to protect the al’Haidren to Boreal,” she said, her tone icy. “Yet through your petulant actions, your infantile ignorance, you’ve turned their sacrifice into a petty game of hide and seek. A game—” Alora leveled her glance around the tense space. “—that they appear to be losing. If one loses the petty games of a child playacting as an adult, how then could one possibly be victorious against a real threat?”

  Many shoulders slumped at her communal admonishment.

  “Ana’Mere, they are faultless in this. Meh fyreon, but the Darakaians have made a mockery of the cross-caste massacres.” Luscia implored the humanity in her aunt. “I just…I needed to do something, anything in my power to—”

  “Niit, Luscia. What you have done is jeopardize the already fractured balance of the Ethnicam.” Alora’s unbound veil of platinum tresses followed her like an ethereal cape as she stepped in front of the captaen. “If your selfish whimsy and childish justifications were ever discovered, the Accords would be tested beyond your limited imagination.”

  “The Darakaians are dragging their feet, Ana’Mere! Are we to stand by and watch?”

  “Wem, as I instructed, weeks ago.” In her periphery, Luscia’s guards shifted uneasily. “Once the Darakaians conclude their investigation, the Najjan will be permitted to intervene. Not before.”

  “That investigation is a joke. You haven’t seen because you weren’t here!” Luscia’s face warmed again with the flurry of passion rising from her gut. “You weren’t here, so I made a choice. I too am Najjan—”

  “Niit, Luscia.” The etchings of age creased when her aunt’s lips pressed into a harsh line. “You are al’Haidren to Boreal. That is your duty—to be a servant to your House. Meh’dajjeni Dönumn, weh’dajjeni Lux. ‘My strength in the Gift, our strength for the Light.’ We lay down everything, Luscia—everything for our people.” Luscia’s mother’s eyes stared out from her aunt’s face. “Your pride—this need for your version of justice—has made you blind. And your blindness,” she emphasized in a detached voice, backing away, “is beyond a disappointment.”

  Luscia’s legs threatened to buckle under her, as if she’d been kicked in the kidneys. It wasn’t until Alora reached the doorway that Luscia realized she’d stopped breathing.

  “Se’lah Auryth, Luscia. Until the shores of Aurynth, I will endeavor to make you see.”

  Luscia counted her breaths in her aunt’s absence, weighted by an arduous merger of anger and shame. Staring at her half-laced boots, she heard the twins leave; listened to the abrupt pause when Böwen turned to say something, but changed his mind. Noxolo whispered to Declan, too low even for her ears, and then he exited after the twins.

  Luscia lifted her chin when the stool raked against the floor and Marek rose. She tried to offer an explanation, but nothing came.

  “How—” Marek shook his head, huffed, and twisted the hem of his jacket between his long fingers. He must have gone out in search of her. “How could you?”

  It was an accusation, not a question. Her chest compressed as he too departed.

  Tears promised to spill over, but Luscia refused them. She’d already demonstrated enough weakness.

  “Ana’Sere?” Declan held the door ajar, the last to leave. Light from his candle wavered over the braided, ginger hairs at his chin. “Just give us the night. We took a mighty tongue-lashing, the captaen more than anyone. Boleava, please. Give us one night to lick our wounds, Ana’Sere, and it will be forgotten in the morning.”

  “Mey fyreon, Ana’Brödre.” She bowed her head, pressing her eyes shut. “It seems I don’t deserve you.”

  Before the door latched, a somber chuckle slid over his shoulder. “We’ve learned many things tonight, Ana’Sere, but that was not one of them.”

  Luscia collapsed onto her bed. Her fingertips sought the solrahs through her septum for comfort, but the luxiron’s unnatural warmth did nothing to soothe her. Moments later, those same fingertips dropped to the uneven tissue of her neck, where layers of fabric hid its legacy.

  No Darakaian brand, no Unitarian slur, could ever compete with something so timeless it chased her like a ghost.

  Failure.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Zaethan

  Zaethan tapped the steel point of his quill pen against the blank parchment before him, rebelliously inclined to keep it that way. Dmitri had requested they each bring tools for note-taking, insisting there was a need.
Even since their childhood education, Dmitri had loved writing down his thoughts, almost as much as he loved Uriel pie.

  Zaethan hated Uriel pie.

  Along with flamboyant pens.

  “The gall, making us wait on her like this.” A swallow of citrus and sea salt caused him to cough when Sayuri leaned over the table to pour herself a generous flute of Galina wine. “Really, who does the y’siti think she is—the ghost of queens past?”

  “That’s a bit rich,” Ira propped his chair on its back legs and blew a kiss, “coming from you, dear.”

  “I’m sure she has good reason.” The prince licked his forefinger and turned the page of the ledger before him, otherwise engrossed.

  Fleeting and foxlike, Sayuri’s eyes rolled under her lashes. Despite the al’Haidren’s frequent dramatics, Zaethan found himself agreeing with her. He’d waited nearly an hour for the y’siti to show at the abandoned training room that morning. She never did. The witch had been dancing around their agreement for weeks by withholding the wraiths, but today had elected for complete absence.

  There was a reason the others in the Ethnicam did not seek bargains with the Boreali: they never stuck. Zaethan stifled a groan and fidgeted in his seat. He’d been stupid to test history in the first place.

  “…as if I couldn’t possibly have other social engagements today. Dozens of invitations, callers, and don’t get me started on the appointments—” Sayuri ceased admiring her nails when the double doors creaked and parted slightly.

  A sliver of the y’siti’s profile could be seen through the narrow opening. She paused in the doorway, appearing to argue with someone. A red-headed Najjan—the captaen of her guard, Zaethan recognized—stepped closer, backlit from the hall. Their lips jumped furiously, but emitted no sound. It was a characteristic of witch-tongue Zaethan had begun to notice.

  When the Najjan disappeared, Sayuri tracked the witch like an archer as she seemed to float toward her seat. Her stride was fluid, strange in its unfamiliar grace, though each step was notably more reserved than her arrogance typically warranted. The bushy tail of her war-tainted crossbreed dusted the floor as he padded inches behind her, almost imitating his alpha.

  “Finally decided to grace us with your undead presence?”

  “Lady Pilar,” Dmitri cautioned.

  “Well, I for one am pleased to see you, my dove.” Ira, slightly unbalanced, leapt to pull out her chair. “Life is just bl-bleak without your wintery radiance.”

  “Rich, indeed,” Sayuri muttered flippantly.

  “Per—” Ira hiccupped. “—haps, one day, I can undertake the duties of this chair.” Ira attempted to wink, his eye twitching, as he sloppily slid back into his seat.

  The quill snapped under Zaethan’s thumb. “I’m going to find better things to do with this pen, Ira, if you don’t lock it up.”

  “Meh fyreon. Forgive me, Your Highness, I—”

  “Dmitri,” the prince reminded her.

  “—overslept,” she finished, barely glancing toward the head of the table. The severe angles of her face were fully exposed today, as she’d donned no trace of kohl and contained her hair in an uncharacteristically tight braid.

  Without her Najjani mask, the y’siti looked emotionless. Zaethan was startled to realize how much she resembled her aunt.

  “Completely understandable, Lady Boreal.” Dmitri perched forward and dropped his face to find hers, offering a smile. “You and I know more than most how difficult it is for sleep to find us.”

  A shrill noise escaped Sayuri’s painted lips, as Ira started to snicker into his cup. Her glare seared an invisible pattern into the northern al’Haidren. Perhaps Zaethan hadn’t been the only one to hear of their midnight strolls. His pryde was discreet, not prone to common gossip. Unitarian sentries, on the other hand…

  To Zaethan’s surprise, the y’siti turned to him. “How was your evening, Lord Darakai?”

  Ironically, had she bothered to come to training, they could have discussed it. Zaethan would have relayed how he and Takoda almost lost the boy at one point from all the blood loss, or how his Unitarian mother had wailed through the night at the foot of his makeshift sling bed. And, more specifically, the distrust his Boreali father demonstrated after Zaethan mentioned the northern herbs and later pressed him for the origin of that knowledge before they’d departed the merchant’s home.

  Zaethan twitched irritably when he realized the others had gone quiet. Sayuri crossed her arms, while both Ira and Dmitri listened curiously. The y’siti stared blankly into her empty glass, feigning disinterest for the sake of the others.

  “It—” Zaethan cleared his throat and poured a shot of water. “It turned out exactly as intended.” With a cheeky smirk, he tossed the water back.

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” She nodded solemnly and stroked the muzzle of the highlander wolx. His forelegs were folded under her chair in order to rest his oversized head in her lap.

  “Here, here!” Ira splashed his glass with sparkling fluid and nudged a shoulder into Zaethan. “As did mine, my friend, as did mine. One of Salma’s finest!”

  “Get your hands off me,” he snapped.

  “You must not have felt that way last night.” Ira’s hands flew up in mock defense when Zaethan raised the pen. “Shtàka, so temperamental! Not that there isn’t a market for that sort of thing.”

  “By the Fates, Ira, I’m about to—”

  “Right. Now that we’re all settled, shall we begin?” Dmitri bookmarked the ledger and set it aside, replacing it with several pages of parchment scribbled in his own hand. “Last night, word arrived by courier notifying us that the Zôueli royals will arrive in a matter of days. Therefore, I’ve begun listing the arrangements we need to make. After all, their visit is more significant than a mere solstice celebration between allies.” Dimtri placed the parchment down and looked around the five-sided table. “I think it’s time my Quadren knew that we are courting Bahira’Rasha.”

  “Princess Rasha?” Zaethan couldn’t help his surprise. After their recent arguments, he’d given Dmitri space, but he’d never imagined his friend would keep something so vital out of their conversations. “Are you courting her, or is the Peerage?”

  “I’d prefer we use her Zôueli title. It might seem more welcoming,” Dmitri emphasized, for Zaethan’s benefit, no doubt. “Bahira’Rasha is a strong choice. The Peerage suggested the match, but I’ve…consented to their wisdom.”

  “Courting?” Sayuri sputtered, the smooth perfection of her brow crinkling erratically. “For what?”

  “Ah, the shapely lands of Razôuel.” Ira’s hands met behind his mop of hair. “Think you could handle a Zôueli queen, Your Highness? They’re so…bossy.” He grinned.

  Sayuri’s gilded features fell. “Queen…”

  “Thank you, Lord Bastiion. That very attitude is why I’ve taken the liberty of drafting some assignments, if you will. Rasha’s mother, Bahira’zol’Jaell, will be accompanying her and her brother, Bahir’Tozune, to Bastiion. I’m told he is eleven or so. Ira,” Dmitri rapped the wood, “write this down.”

  “I’m certain even I can remember the name of an eleven-year-old.”

  “Good, because he will be your charge.” Dmitri’s quill pen skirted over the folds in his parchment. “He enjoys riding and archery. As both activities require a sober mind, let’s start drying you out.”

  Seizing Ira’s goblet in hand, Zaethan promptly replaced it with a glass of water.

  “You want me to babysit—”

  “A prince. Bahir’Tozune, precisely. Moving on…Zaeth…” He flipped to a second page of notes. “Have you prepped the palace for the Zôueli party? I believe they are to be housed in the eastern wing, is that correct?”

  “It’s the most logical placement. We retain our ability to monitor their security, while they can enjoy the views. The western wing would be
more secure, but I doubt their queen would tolerate the docks.”

  Zaethan listed other provisions, sentry counts, and accommodations for the Zôueli guard. As he finished, Ira stifled a disgruntled yawn, while the y’siti caressed her mutt absently. Sayuri reclined in wordless disbelief.

  There’s one benefit to this news, he thought.

  “Most impressive, Lord Darakai. As always.”

  Zaethan leaned back, pleased. It felt like ages since his friend had acknowledged his aptitude for anything. Dmitri referenced his final page. “Lastly would be Bahira’Rasha herself. My mother will personally host the queen, but Rasha may require a sort of…social escort during our festivities.”

  Smoothing her inky hair where it slipped down her shoulder, Sayuri sat up a little taller. “I suppose I could introduce the princess into my elite circles.”

  “Thank you, Lady Pilar. That’s very gracious of you,” Dmitri said, patting her jeweled fingers. “However, Rasha has evidently harbored a fascination with the lands of Boreal since girlhood.” Withdrawing his hand and glancing at the y’siti, he added, “Luscia, would you be kind enough to assist me? I fear she’ll quickly grow bored of my conversation, with my avid appreciation of herbaceous shrubbery and whatnot. Might you relieve her from time to time?”

  Without warning, Pilar’s seat skidded backward as Sayuri stood and slammed her palms onto the tabletop in front of the witch. Dmitri grabbed his cane, bewildered.

  “Lady Pilar!”

  Her scrutiny narrowed as she inched closer to the y’siti. Amber against snow, their noses almost touched. “I know what you are doing, you putrid northern whore. And you are going to regret it.”

  The prince shot to his feet. “Sayuri!”

  The y’siti’s strange eyes sparkled when she glanced up for the first time that morning. “Remember yourself, Lady Pilar. I won’t remind you again.”

  Zaethan broke from Dmitri’s side when her war-tainted animal’s ears flattened, and his snarl revealed a set of elongated canines. Gripping Sayuri by the arm, Zaethan dragged her into the hall. Standing watch in the shadow of a column nearby, the Najjani captaen stepped into the light streaming through the wall of windows. The northman’s skin, normally so pale, now rivaled the shade of his hair, and his face was twisted with rage.