CHAPTER EIGHT: Luscia

Convincing Marek that Aksel served as a sufficient escort for the brief walk to the apartments of Prince Dmitri Thoarne had proven a taxing endeavor. Despite the fact that the lycran was one of the north’s most ruthless predators, her argumentative captaen had only conceded when she pulled rank in front of his men—a tactic that Luscia loathed resorting to. Consequently, she followed the page feeling prickly, having left behind an equally frustrated, brooding najjan.

Her finger itched where she’d applied a quick poultice over the recent puncture. Though the wound would have healed within the hour in any case, the last thing Luscia had wanted to explain was what had transpired behind closed doors to an already watchful captaen. Her quick mixture of gilead leaf and yarrow flower had expedited the healing, thanks to the metabolized lumin within the plants. One of the benefits of the mysterious essence was its ability to amplify the original properties of any substance.

As they strode through a maze of corridors, Luscia counted every door and each sequence of turns. This would be the most important path she’d learn, and while it was wise to remember the route for navigation’s sake, her time on the Isle of Viridis had taught her that it was even wiser to record the less noteworthy: guard placements, their dominant hands, assigned weaponry. Her Northern ears, further heightened by Tiergan blood, beckoned Luscia to listen beyond the voiceless doors. The rumble of two snoring peacefully came from the right. From her left, the steady, thumping gait of a heavyset man pacing in solitude.

Beside her, Aksel’s nostrils flared with the bouquet of changing scents. Always her frighteningly astute shadow, the lycran matched the tempo of her footsteps as he maintained contact with her hip. Luscia had expected him to have trouble adjusting to the differing extremes—the beast had spent most of his life running through the frigid peaks of the Orallach Mountains and prowling whistling forests blanketed in thick, lambent mist. Here, the russet fur of his hackles lifted, challenging the contrast of imposing stone walls and foreign sounds of strangers in the night.

Her metaphorical hackles rose with them.

After a change in floors, three byrnnzite archways, and a hall of impressive windows—which offered an intimate view of the thriving city below—the small page stopped in front of a set of doors. The adjoining, ten-foot slabs of red oak and ashwood were overlaid in stunning, swirling metalwork. Sleek bands met at the center, where a double handle was fixed. Molded from radiantly mixed materials, together the handles formed the head of a stag—the symbol of the Royal Line of Thoarne. The byrnnzite antlers sparkled in the dwindling light of the sconces.

Appropriately, it was said that Orynthia lived in the Stag Age. Hundreds of years and countless lives had been lost for the cause of peace, finally achieved during the early reign of King Korbin Thoarne. Understandably, the Unitarians immortalized the symbol.

But only in Bastiion, Luscia mused, would such opulence serve as a door handle.

The page used the knocker and nervously glanced about when the clanging echo shattered the stillness. Luscia couldn’t understand why the boy was so distressed. Even if she wished him harm, as he’d surely been taught, the dozen sentries positioned along the corridor should have provided him with some sense of security. Yet he still jittered in place, eager to be rid of her.

Two Darakaian guards, each stationed on either side of the entrance, received Luscia with an unmistakable intensity. The male scanned her form, seeking any potential threat, while the female’s posture radiated aggression. As al’haidren to Boreal, Luscia was insulted by their hostile reception, but did not allow her countenance to show it.

The doors parted, groaning in invitation. Instinctively, Luscia’s ears perked as she crossed into the prince’s foyer after the page.

“Your efficiency, young Callister, is lacking,” said a droll voice. Luscia saw it belonged to an elderly valet when he shut the door behind them. “You remain as hasty as my grandmother, who is dead.”

“But the lady—”

The valet ignored him and curtly cleared his throat when one of the Darakaians wedged the door back open. “No, not you lot. Prince already kicked you out once, best not to repeat it.” His hands, speckled in age spots, shooed them out. “Now, Lady al’Haidren, if you and your…dog…would follow me? His Highness has been waiting,” he directed after a clipped bow.

For some reason she suspected it pained him to do so, and not because of his age.

“Eugenio—”

“You are excused, Callister. Thank you for your unexceptional service to His Highness,” the valet wheezed over a hunched shoulder.

As she trailed behind the valet, Luscia silently scolded herself for not changing her attire before this visit with Prince Dmitri. There simply hadn’t been time—she’d already been delayed too long by mixing Alora’s tonic. In the face of opposition, Luscia had donned the Northern accents to represent her Boreali pride upon entering the Unitarian city, but a private, late-night summons from the future king had not been considered in her careful calculations. She’d been led to expect him to call on her at first light. For a gender judged predominantly on appearance before skill or intellect, a woman’s first impression was a powerful asset—an asset Luscia strove to wield with intention.

Alas, strolling into the prince of Orynthia’s apartment dressed as a Boreali battle cry come to life was far from intentional.

The valet led her into a domed great room, much like her own, though significantly grander. It was warmed by a freshly tended fire against the opposite wall. Luscia had thought her canopy was magnificent, but the large fire set the prince’s byrnnzite ceiling aflame.

“The Lady Luscia Tiergan, al’haidren to Boreal, has arrived, Your Highness.”

Pulling her eyes from above, Luscia found a young man attempting to rise from where he lounged on a low-backed sofa. The prince struggled momentarily, putting his weight on a beautifully made walking cane. It appeared to be crafted from the same range of materials as the stag door handles.

He managed to stand, though he still enlisted the cane to maintain balance. Luscia didn’t remember Dmitri Thoarne requiring an external aid for everyday mobility. He tiredly brushed ruffled, dark hair away from his handsome, if sallow face and offered her a genuine smile. It stretched widely, transforming him into the charming young man she remembered from his Ascension six years before.

The prince took pause as he regarded the fearsome lycran and Luscia’s own haggard features.

“Lady Boreal,” he began formally, greeting Luscia as if his Quadren were in session. “I truly apologize for the hour. I assume you and your party are exhausted, so I offer you my thanks for coming so promptly.” He went to move forward, but after a few shaky steps, seemed to think better of it. “Sit with me,” the prince offered instead, gesturing to the plush sofa opposite his own. “Please.”

Luscia complied while he again took up residence on the luxurious material.

“Are you hungry? What am I thinking, of course you must be,” he said, making up his mind before she could give an answer. “Eugenio! Eugenio, we must feed the lady. Oh, and send Callister to the kitchens to fetch something for her men as well.”

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Luscia rested a hand in her lap and let the other soothe Aksel as he settled near her legs. Thinking she ought to stop the prince from rambling, she decided to skip the expected pleasantries and treat their meeting for what it was: a late-night urgency, after a very long journey.

“Your Highness—”

“Please, call me Dmitri. ‘Your Highness’ becomes insufferable after hearing it all the time. You should really reserve its use for sarcastic effect, as some of my friends choose to do,” he suggested with a quirk of his lips, exposing a lone dimple in the dusky skin of his left cheek.

Returning to the receiving room, Eugenio pushed a small cart full of items, his joints popping in protest as he began to transfer the containers in front of her. Waiting for privacy, Luscia watched the valet hobble into an adjoining hall, counting five breaths before she continued.

“Prince Dmitri—”

“‘Prince’ is also tiresome, I find.” His rich, hazel eyes crinkled in amusement.

Luscia wondered if he, too, spent a great deal of time in his own company, as she did.

“Dmitri… ” she tested, continuing at his nod of assurance. “I brought your elixir, although I must admit I was taken aback by the request. I’m not nearly as practiced as my aunt in the apothic arts, and this was my first attempt at its creation.”

Reaching into the folds of her surcoat, she produced five vials. The murky plum fluid streaked the interior of the glass at the jerky motion. Luscia slid them across the short table, now decorated with trays of light pastries and a pitcher of pale coral liquid. Sweet wine from the vineyards of Galina, she guessed.

Dmitri’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. Hiding his strain, he leaned over to collect the dark vials. “I’m certain they will suffice. Alora assured me that you are highly skilled and suspected you might even produce stronger batches. Honestly, I’m surprised you weren’t informed of the change in responsibility. Did she at least mention the need for discretion?” he asked intently.

“Wem!” Luscia immediately confirmed. “Yes, of course, the utmost discretion. If the Boreali are good at anything, it is silence.”

He grasped a single vial and began to remove the stopper. She wondered if he knew what lurked inside it—if the prince of Orynthia knew of the wound she’d had to make in order to conjure the elixir. That the blood of Tiergan was necessary for whatever devices he’d commissioned Alora to make possible.

Swallowing hard, Luscia dared to wonder what brewed inside her own veins.

Her face must have communicated as much, because his fingers ceased their mission to release the stopper at her stare.

“Did Alora tell you to watch me take it?” He scowled. “She did, didn’t she? Depths, she knows I hate this foul stuff.” With a sigh, he brought the elixir to his lips and drank it brashly, like it was a shot of Darakaian bwoloa. Wiping his mouth clean of the residue, he continued, “I didn’t know the haidren to Boreal was also training up a royal nursemaid on my behalf. Next, she’ll have you singing me lullabies to ensure a full night’s rest.”

Dmitri shook his head in exasperation with her aunt’s tactics.

“If it would increase your appreciation for Boreal, then perhaps I should,” Luscia crisply retorted, registering her tone only after she’d spoken.

She instantly broke eye contact and bowed in place, awaiting his anger. A growing headache and Dmitri’s insistence on familiarity weren’t helping her lack of expertise in small talk. But the Orynthian prince merely rumbled with soft laughter.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your brazen wit in adulthood. I recall your aunt determinedly trying to instruct that out of you.” Dmitri lowered his oval face, reclaiming her gaze as he grinned.

To her surprise, Luscia felt a smile tugging at her lips too. “I’m surprised you picked up on that.” While Luscia was well aware of Alora’s attempts to reform her temperament, she’d not realized it was so apparent to everyone else.”

“When a child consistently engages in swordplay instead of attending teatime, it’s difficult not to notice.”

“Wem, well, I now recognize that tea and embroidery are more acceptable pastimes in Bastiion than swordplay,” she quipped.

“Acceptable, perhaps, but not nearly as useful, I’d imagine.” Dmitri swished another mouthful of the water Eugenio had delivered with the wine, clearly desperate to chase away the aftertaste of the elixir. “I’m also happy to see your arm healed perfectly since your last visit,” he commented. “It seems Alora can heal almost any affliction.”

“Aniell has gifted Alora greatly. That we can easily agree upon,” Luscia said, alluding to nothing more than her aunt’s penchant for rare herbs as she watched Aksel’s ears pivot with the crackling fire.

It was not an exaggeration. Alora Tiergan was thought to be the most successful and imaginative healer Boreal had produced in a century, which was Luscia’s point of perplexity regarding Dmitri’s earlier sentiments. Compared to her aunt’s renowned skill and anointing, there was no conceivable way that Luscia could ever produce a stronger medicinal remedy than Alora. The list of questions awaiting her haidren’s arrival was growing by the hour.

“Luscia?”

Dmitri’s voice interrupted her spinning thoughts when he abandoned traditional Quadrennal address and adopted her given name. “I want you to know that I have waited for your Ascension with undeniable anticipation. With the final member of my Quadren here at court in Bastiion, we can finally begin to care for the burdens of our people. Though I’ve been of age for some time, my hands are often tied by restrictive legalities. A complete Quadren holds greater influence and allows us to circumvent the limitations set by the Peerage.”

“You are the sole heir to the Orynthian throne. I should think that provides you with an ample amount of influence,” Luscia commented dryly. She had little pity for a Unitarian who had to play by Bastiion’s unreasonable decrees when the majority of those laws were pitted against the House of Boreal.

“Normally, I’d agree with you. I am the sole heir, yes, but unfortunately one who is not considered entirely legitimate until backed by a Quadren, wherein all four al’haidrens have reached Ascension age. It’s infuriating, really,” he explained, rubbing his temples as he sat back. “There is so much to be accomplished. So many injustices of worthy cause, but I have little sway in the Peerage without the Houses behind my every word and deed.”

Dmitri picked up a fat, dusty book in one hand and clenched a pile of parchment in the other, tightening his mouth as he peered down at them. “I am to be king, yet I’m bound to maneuver like a politician in my own home. It’s why I spend countless nights reading these, over and over again, committing them to memory. Perhaps with you here, I can finally be put to use.” His lips curved at the notion, revealing that lone dimple. “Luscia, I truly mean this when I say…well, that I hope we might become friends.”

“Friends?”

Luscia eyed the crown prince of Orynthia. In this moment, sitting alone on his couch, Thoarne’s heir looked like nothing more than a solitary boy, seeking escape from his isolation.

“Leadership can be a lonely state, Lady Boreal.”

Wistfulness swept his features as he turned toward the fire. Luscia detected faint traces of freckles over his elegant nose and lean cheeks.

“Thoarne’s friendship with Boreal was once a powerful force,” she replied, treading cautiously in light of his abrupt vulnerability.

“And may it be again,” were his closing words before grabbing the cane to propel himself upright.

She followed him into the foyer, mentally rejoicing at the prospect of returning to the large bed that awaited her and the restless wolx. Aksel’s tail twitched back and forth, communicating he felt the same.

“Do you know when Alora’s party will be returning? I assumed you’d journey together. She will be back in time for your reception, won’t she?” he asked with genuine concern.

“My reception, Highness?”

“Dmitri,” he reminded her. “And yes, your reception. My al’haidren to Boreal deserves a welcoming just like the others. Even Ira had a reception thrown in his honor at court, and he’s native to Bastiion.”

“That’s entirely unnecessary,” Luscia protested. “Besides, I’m not certain a lavish social engagement on my behalf would be well received.”

Advancing further into the foyer, Dmitri placed a hand on Luscia’s back to guide her forward. She tried not to tense under his innocent, but unexpected touch.

“Nonsense! Bastiion loves any excuse to celebrate…” He trailed off when he noticed her reaction. Then, to her surprise, Dmitri took one of her hands in his own. His grip didn’t feel as weak as she’d expected— Luscia could even sense shallow calluses on his palms, as if from some form of physicality. “You are right when you say that Boreal’s prestige has been forgotten by most,” Dmitri said gently, “but I have not forgotten. If you wish to restore it, as I do, then the House of Boreal must command the same level of respect as the others.”

Luscia lowered her head in submission. Dmitri was right; her people had so separated themselves from the Ethnicam that disrespect had become permissible in their absence.

“Your words bear wisdom, Ana’Brödre,” she acknowledged somberly. At his quizzical expression, Luscia added, “It means Great Brother—a title of honor among our people.”

Dmitri’s genial smile returned, as did his tremulous page, who was instructed to guide Luscia back to her apartments. After her muddy, upturned boots passed into the corridor, she heard Dmitri pop his head out after them.

“Oh, and Luscia, word travels fast at court. With regard to your demanding half a dozen sentries be stationed outside your apartments tonight…”

Collapsing her shoulders, she whispered defeatedly, “Wem, Highness?”

“Well done.”

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