CHAPTER ELEVEN: Zaethan
“You promised me, Zaeth.” Dmitri said, mouth clenched, as he put space between Zaethan and the rest of his Quadren. “You swore you’d be civil with her!”
The prince shoved his uncooperative hair away from his face in frustration, only for it to fall right back in his eyes. Zaethan walked with him, matching his stride to the clack of Dmitri’s cane as it rhythmically smacked the floor. They meandered through a maze of chattering yancies, the majority of whom were too lost in their own amusement to even notice the crown prince weaving among them.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Having nothing civil to say to your y’siti guest, I prudently said nothing at all!” Zaethan challenged.
Dmitri stopped and faced him. “Which was completely uncivil!”
“I will not degrade myself for the comfort of a witch!” Zaethan nearly shouted, inspiring people to step back and immediately form a ring of muffled gossip. “You don’t know this y’siti, Dmitri, or what she is capable of. Not like I do. Don’t ask me to play nice with the viper aimed at your throat!”
Zaethan knew his friend was struggling to teach him some lesson in courtly decorum, but he felt the restraint he’d demonstrated deserved to be commended, not corrected.
It was ridiculous how the Ethnicam still came together under the guise of mutual esteem. Through perseverance and countless compromises, it’d taken centuries for the other Houses to weaken Boreal’s twisted hold on the line of Thoarne. With their mysticism and superstitious practices, the haidrens to Boreal maintained an unmistakable power over the Orynthian realm and her rulers. It wasn’t until the early Stag Age, when King Korbin drafted treaties with Mworra, Razôuel, and Tevaár, that Boreal’s strange supremacy finally broke.
This entire event was a mockery—as if Bastiion, Pilar, or Darakai would ever truly celebrate the renewed influence of these creatures. Nevertheless, here they were, playacting now that the mysterious al’haidren to Boreal had come out of the mist for all to see.
“She’s not a witch!” Dmitri hissed at him. “Do not speak that abhorrent profanity in my presence again. I mean it, Zaeth, do you understand? She is your equal, and her name is Luscia.” Dmitri’s voice rose louder as the foreign name passed over his lips. “You’d better get acquainted with it quickly, because she’s not going anywhere.”
Zaethan was lost for words as he considered his lifelong friend. He couldn’t recall the last time Dmitri had raised his voice—with him, or anyone else.
He scanned the breadth of the room and saw the y’siti casting a cold, emotionless gaze onto Sayuri Naborū-Zuo while the Pilarese al’haidren conversed in her notoriously catlike manner. The y’siti did not speak in return, but stood resolute like the ice she’d surely been cut from. No longer did she resemble the spirited, dauntless child he’d caught dancing in combative positions upon the railing of a ship. Gone was her vigor and youthful exhilaration. The House of Boreal must have beaten those qualities out of her when they replaced them with the stony detachment she now exuded. Her entire countenance reminded Zaethan of some fabled bird, agelessly observing her surroundings through each cursed eye, one steel and the other cerulean.
Reluctantly, his attention returned to Dmitri when an irritating jingle of jewels drew near. Zaethan closed his eyes and systematically cracked each knuckle on either hand, as the scent of poppy perfume foretold the imminent arrival of Flourette Hastings.
“What are you doing?” Dmitri asked suspiciously.
“Bracing myself.”
“For wh—”
“Lord Zaethan, there you are!” Flourette squealed as she made impact, lacing both of her arms around one of his. Her pitch must have breached another octave by the ache it left in his eardrum. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Her flirtatious gaze landed on Dmitri. “Oh! Hello, Your Highness! Don’t you both look dashing tonight!”
Dmitri opened his mouth to respond when she took a breath, then briskly shut it again as her babble continued.
“You look so handsome in green. This fabric feels even more marvelous than it appears.” Her fingers explored the surface of Zaethan’s jacket. “Isn’t Lord Zaethan just the finest al’haidren to Darakai that Bastiion has ever seen?”
“Isn’t he, though?” Dmitri encouraged her, stifling a laugh.
Momentary delight took precedence over their argument, at least for one of them. Dmitri rubbed the side of his face in an effort to cover a satisfied smirk. Zaethan stared at his friend, pleading for mercy, but Dmitri was punishing him. The prince attentively listened to Flourette’s gossip, pretending not to notice when Zaethan reached behind to capture her wayward fingers when they brushed his hairline.
“How fortuitous it is, Flourette, that we are burdened by your company when there are so many others eager to hear your commentary,” he stated blandly, releasing her spindly fingers.
Zaethan felt a swift rap below his knee as Dmitri cautioned him to remain civil with Flourette as well.
“Well, we couldn’t have it any other way, could we? How would I enjoy the evening if I left you all by yourself?” Ira’s younger sister giggled and began to twirl one of Zaethan’s locs around another meddlesome finger.
“We’ll never know until you do, Floure—umph.”
The cane thwacked his leg harder, enunciating the warning.
“Lady Flourette, have you a chance to meet my final al’Haidren?” Dmitri asked. “I’m sure she’d welcome the perspective of a native courtier, especially since your father serves as both haidren to Bastiion and minister of the Peerage. Would you like to make her acquaintance?” In seamless suggestion, he offered Flourette his royal dimples as he eyed Zaethan shaking out his leg.
“Of course, Your Highness! She’s probably lost without me, you know, after all those years trapped in the highlands.” Flourette’s hand fluttered up to press against her heart. “Is it true the Boreali live in the trees? Do you think she knows what a bathtub is for?” She shook her head and let out another high-pitched giggle. “I can only imagine the work I have cut out for me, but I will make you proud, Prince Dmitri!”
“I’m certain your efforts will not go unnoticed, Lady Flourette.”
Zaethan saw a palace attendant climb the dais to signal the king’s official welcome. He picked up a cloth-wrapped hammer and struck the hall’s enormous bronze cymbal.
“Thank the Fates,” he mumbled.
“Friends and guests! My family and I invite you all to join in celebrating the Ascension of the al’haidren to Boreal. Her presence brings us into a new age as she takes her seat and completes my son’s Quadren! Please, eat to your content, drink ’til your limit, and revel in the evening’s entertainment!”
Dmitri’s father tipped back his glass as he sank into his throne. The shining cup was refilled by the time his elbows hit the table before him.
Promptly, Dmitri excused them from Flourette’s clutches and strolled with Zaethan toward his table across the hall. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Fates,” Dmitri pointed out as they scaled the steps.
“I don’t. But if I did, I’d be kissing their immortal feet. You were supposed to rescue me from that barnacle, not encourage her.”
“Did you not hear? I just insisted Flourette refocus her attention on the al’haidren to Boreal. Now you and Luscia will have a common interest to discuss,” he replied, vaulting over the final steps.
Someone’s feeling chipper, Zaethan thought with a grimace.
Avoiding his father, who sat behind them to the left of the king, Zaethan settled into his chair. In doing so, he viewed the opposite end of Dmitri’s table, where the y’siti’s brawny henchman dismissed a servant waiting to assist the al’haidren and seated her himself instead. Once assured she was content, the bearded, fiery-haired man stepped aside and stationed himself against the closest wall. Her hybrid mutt laid at the y’siti’s feet, though its ears shifted alertly with the noise of the hall. Being Darakaian, and not fully enmeshed in the social delicacies of Unitarian culture, Zaethan was surprised her wild animal was permitted at such a gathering.
“All this for some foul y’siti. It’s absurd.” Accented Unitarian whispered in Zaethan’s ear as Sayuri slithered into place at their end of the table. “And she brings that vulgar dog everyone knows is the spawn of war-taint.”
He couldn’t agree with her more, which was a first.
“Dmitri, darling, this is truly a lovely display.” Sayuri reached past Zaethan in order to drape her hand atop Dmitri’s, slowing the natural staccato of her Western accent to a more beguiling cadence. “Boreal’s al’haidren must be so honored by the incredible generosity you’ve shown her tonight.”
“She is,” a husky voice interjected.
Beyond Dmitri’s profile, the fair skinned y’siti sat forward. Her unnerving eyes traveled up the length of Sayuri’s sun-kissed arm to read the expression on the prince’s face. Angling away from Zaethan, he only saw a dimple emerge on the lively skin of Dmitri’s normally hollow cheeks. The witch half smiled and nodded at some unspoken understanding before she turned to answer a question posed by Ira.
Stolen novel; please report.
Below their platform, a parade of alluring Unitarian dancers spread around the base of the dais as music enveloped the room. Zaethan caught a knowing look from a handsome woman in the back as her performers entertained the crowd of hungry nobles. Salma Nabhu tilted her head toward one of the glistening, twirling dancers, offering a temporary solution for his mood. The girl in question was beautiful, of course. In the torchlight, the dancer’s vitality rolled off her skin with her sweat, and sepia-toned hair moved around her like a sandstorm from The Wastes.
“Gregor Hastings is already intoxicated, and it isn’t even the second course,” Sayuri murmured beside him. A howl exploded from where the haidren to Bastiion laughed enthusiastically with the king, unconcerned with the serene queen trapped between them. “No wonder Ira is never sober.”
“Sayuri, I have to suffer through the entirety of this event as is. Don’t make it worse by opening your mouth,” Zaethan spat in a low voice.
Per tradition, the evening was far from over. The Houses would have prepared a variety of performances to accompany each course of the meal, Boreal being the exception. Since being driven out of the proper over the last decade, members of the northernmost House were generally less willing to participate in court gatherings with the rest of the Ethnicam. An arrangement preferred by the majority.
“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.
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