CHAPTER FOUR: Zaethan

Climbing the stairs to the royal apartments, Zaethan gathered his thoughts, the gravity of the coming threat magnifying with each step he took. The lingering voice of the Khan River faded with his memories of hunting boar and quail, replaced by the haunted corners of Marketown.

Kumo had said it best; the emerging procession of slain children paved the way for the y’siti’s arrival like an offering of blood. Her party was due to arrive in Bastiion within the week, and Zaethan didn’t believe in coincidences. He needed to convince Orynthia’s prince of the same.

The years of merciless training and discipline hummed in agreement, though he knew Dmitri would have difficulty accepting the witch as a threat to the crown. Despite the laughable accords holding the Ethnicam together, Zaethan would not fail his House, or his king.

He’d just rounded an ornate landing that opened to a wing of guest suites when a string of girlish giggles reached his ears. The nauseatingly familiar sound echoed off the walls, breaking his concentration.

Shtàka! Not now, Zaethan thought furiously. With difficulty, he mastered his scowl into a dashing grin, bracing himself for another tiresome exchange.

A flurry of lavender skirts rustled in his periphery. The heap of fabric belonged to a young Unitarian woman, recognizable by her tan, glossy skin and shinning auburn hair, which tonight sat pinned atop her bobbing head. Fluttering lashes drew his attention—albeit reluctantly—to her large amber eyes.

“Oh! Lord Zaethan, I didn’t see you! How silly of me. I was just returning from dining. Such a lovely spread!” she announced in her tinkling voice. “You were missed by many, of course!”

“Ah, Flourette. I’m sure your practiced allure was too preoccupied with your usual victims to register my absence,” was his best attempt at pleasantry.

He didn’t have time to flatter Flourette Hastings. Nor did he care to.

“Lord Zaethan! Stop it, you are too charming!” she exclaimed as her palm brushed his arm flirtatiously, too obtuse to hear the barb in his bland tone.

Removing her hand, which had begun trailing patterns across his tunic, Zaethan reminded himself that insulting the haidren to Bastiion’s only daughter was not the smartest venture, even when she clearly required it. Zaethan thanked the figurative Fates that her brother, Ira, was Gregor Hasting’s firstborn, as opposed to Flourette. Otherwise, Dmitri would’ve had to draft strict rules regarding physical contact between his al’haidrens.

“As much as I’d enjoy discussing all of your colorful thoughts, Flourette—for I’m sure there are many—I must be on my way,” he managed, as Flourette’s face lit up at some compliment only she could find. “Please give my regards to Lord Hastings.”

Zaethan bounded up the stairwell in escape, only stilling floors higher at his destination. Flourette was an attractive girl, but a vapid one, and he half expected her to come skipping after to assault him with further courtier babble. The last time she’d successfully cornered him was during her own Ascension earlier that winter. She’d pulled him into an alcove and barraged him with intermittent kisses, while simultaneously recounting the latest innovations in embroidery.

It had been torture.

Briskly, Zaethan passed the guards on duty and made his way into Dmitri’s apartments, pressing his back against the door in relief. This was one of few places he alone was permitted, and no one else—including Flourette Hastings.

“Lord Zaethan, how pleasant of you to drop by.” Eugenio, Dmitri’s valet of twenty years, surveyed him critically as he added, “Unexpectedly.”

The old crow never managed to hide his displeasure over the prince’s friendship with Zaethan. Regardless of his station, evidence of it leaked into even their simplest exchanges.

“Eugenio, always such chipper reception! Tell me, have you gotten into our prince’s Southern bwoloa again?” Zaethan cheerfully provoked. “One sip too many this time, my friend?”

“I would never lower myself to the thievery and drunkenness of the outer Houses,” Eugenio muttered with indignant pride as he gathered Zaethan’s riding coat to hang, clearly horrified by the state of it.

“That’s the spirit,” Zaethan called over his shoulder, leaving the valet standing in Dmitri’s lavish foyer, still muttering to himself.

Striding through a slightly open set of doors, a wave of heat met his face. A fire so large wasn’t needed this time of year, even in the late evening, but his friend always preferred the apartment remain oppressively hot.

“Must you make a habit of tormenting my staff?” came a tired voice from behind a collection of papers. “If Eugenio spat in your growing collection of liqueurs, I wouldn’t hold it against him.”

Dmitri lounged on a plush emerald sofa, his untidy carob hair floating above the document he studied. He must have been waiting there a while, Zaethan surmised. An array of essays and reports cluttered the floor underneath Dmitri’s costly boots, which were propped contently upon the serving table in the middle of the large receiving room.

“I don’t expect you to understand the bond Eugenio and I share. It’s the truest of friendships, founded on a mutual disrespect,” Zaethan said airily, crossing the room to a small bar cart beside the crackling inferno. He poured himself a glass of Darakai’s favored bwoloa, knowing well enough not to offer a second to the prince, for he’d only decline.

“You’re later than expected. Trouble, or another productive hunt?” Dmitri inquired curiously, not bothering to look up.

“Business in Marketown, sentry replacements, Flourette Hastings,” Zaethan listed casually, taking residence on the matching sofa.

“A reprise of your stolen moment in an alcove, I suspect?” his friend jested, still engrossed in the same document.

“Depths, no!” Zaethan shuddered at the thought. “I barely escaped her the first time—I’d rather stab myself in the spleen than endure a second round of that scourge.”

At that, the parchment lowered to reveal a dubious expression distorting Dmitri’s refined features. The blazing fire ignited flints of gold in his hazel eyes, giving them more life than the intermittent pallor of his olive skin. A single brow lifted in doubtful amusement.

“I’m not exaggerating—you endure that prattling menace for an hour, and we’ll see how well you fare,” Zaethan challenged dramatically, inciting genuine laughter from his friend.

He sat back, content to hear Dmitri laugh, for he didn’t do it often enough. It was the reason Zaethan hassled Eugenio so intently—well, one of them, anyway. The sound reminded Zaethan of their many nights spent in this scorching room. In their formative years, Dmitri had insisted all his lessons be held in these very apartments, where they would sit like this, debating and unraveling the great mysteries with his Pilarese tutors. By accompanying Dmitri to nearly every lesson, Zaethan’s childhood became rooted in Bastiion, breaking from the balanced upbringing expected of an al’haidren. Yet where Zaethan’s deviation had been educational, hers had been dangerous, secluded as she’d been in that y’siti cult they dared call a House.

The realm had only rumors to speculate what truly existed inside the House of Boreal, as few who ventured into their highlands returned to speak of it. Archaic occultists, the y’siti were their own breed—colorless, lifeless soul-eaters. Many whispered that their cadaverous appearance was the result of ritual bloodletting and sacrifice, that they drained their humanity away in hope of the moon’s favor. Some suggested the y’siti carved the hearts from their offspring and traded with the Fates for something cold and savage instead. Something unnatural. The other members of the Ethnicam usually disregarded the stories, but Zaethan had witnessed their validity firsthand.

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Simmering at the thought of Luscia Darragh Tiergan, and the danger she was about to bring into the palace, he downed the golden liqueur in his glass and savored its bitter sting.

“We have to talk about your new security measures, Dmitri.” At the prince’s dark look, Zaethan rushed to add, “Uni—it’s time. The witch is said to arrive soon, along with the rest of the y’siti. With that in mind, I’ve drafted a list of alterations to the guard rotation, a log system for private visitation, and a new training regimen for those assigned to this wing. Also, I want you to keep either Zahra or Jabari within sight of you at all times.”

Heaving a sigh, the prince set the documents aside and perched forward. Clasping his hands together, he eyed Zaethan intently.

“She’s not a witch, Zaeth.”

Zaethan stared at him in astonishment. “In a handful of hours, another full-blooded y’siti will be walking these halls!” he exclaimed. “A y’siti raised completely outside Bastiion, fully indoctrinated in that foul Boreali sorcery! Therefore, one of my pryde will be with you at all times—minimum.”

He glowered over the tray of food Eugenio delivered, exasperated by Dmitri’s inability to see through Boreal’s deceptions.

The prince’s aristocratic nose crinkled as he pursed his lips. “Oh, is that all? Any other demands you’d like to make?” Dmitri asked, with practiced patience.

“Uni. Yes, actually. The al’haidren is to be housed on the lower level, near the guard offices.”

Dmitri’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m not putting my newest al’haidren in the dungeon, Zaeth.”

“Our facilities are very generous,” Zaethan grumbled.

“Behind bars, in the dark, with no windows?” Dmitri clarified.

“She’d burn in the daylight, anyway. It’s better for her complexion.”

“I’ve already ordered the appropriate accommodations be made to her apartments. They began earlier this afternoon,” Dmitri said, dismissing Zaethan’s plans.

“But her presence will be an ongoing threat just a floor below this one! Depths, Dmitri! How am I supposed to shield you from what you refuse to see?”

Zaethan stood, seething as he began to pace. Dmitri was his charge. For centuries, the al’haidrens to Darakai had protected Orynthia’s crown princes and, eventually, her kings. It was beyond personal consideration for a friend; it was duty. And for the first time in their personal history, Dmitri seemed to be truly questioning Zaethan’s judgment.

“Boreal’s haidrens and al’haidrens have been housed on that floor for generations, Zaeth, and none have proven to be assassins. Besides, if she was a threat to anyone’s safety, it would be yours, I think.”

Zaethan paused his pacing mid-step to study the other man. Dmitri smirked at a memory from their youth.

“Don’t make this about me. You know that was an accident,” Zaethan said defensively.

“You accidentally pushed her off the railing and into the bay?”

A muscle moved in Dmitri’s jaw, but he retained his calm indifference. It was a talent Zaethan had envied on many occasions.

“I didn’t push her. I…knocked her. Into the bay. Accidentally.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. You broke her arm, you know,” Dmitri countered.

“Kàchà kocho,” Zaethan shot back. “She was fine the next day.”

“You know I hate that phrase. It doesn’t mean anything. Zaeth, the girl’s arm was in a sling!”

“She deserved it.”

“She was twelve.”

Dmitri reclined his head against the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes. He suddenly looked exhausted, apart from the triumphant grin he wore, content with the temporary win.

It didn’t matter how many attempts Zaethan made to excuse what he’d done the night of Dmitri’s Ascension. His friend would never understand. Zaethan had already humiliated himself enough the morning after, when he’d tried to explain. Glowing eyes, he’d said. The prince had merely chuckled and shook his head, convinced Zaethan’s vivid story was the result of too much wine.

But he hadn’t imagined or hallucinated anything, and Zaethan never touched any refreshment besides water when his father was near. It still stung that Dmitri had never considered that.

Over and over, he’d replayed those events. In the month following, Zaethan nearly lost his sanity picking that night apart. Yet, with six years to forget, it still haunted him.

Fireworks shot into the darkened sky, exploding among the stars that littered Thoarne Bay with tiny pricks of light, reflecting the tears of Àla’maia, the moon. Guests spread along the deck of the private vàssa ship, cheering hungrily for more. Bastiion’s elite loved to be entertained, he’d thought, watching their lush clothing shine in the night, much like the very stars overhead.

The newly ascended prince stood several feet away, surrounded by a cloud of ruffles and perfume. Every ambitious daughter of the nobility was eager to ensnare Dmitri Thoarne, along with his crown, now that he’d crossed into adulthood. Zaethan smirked at the prince and jerked his head to the left, communicating his vote for the animated brunette who’d elbowed the contestant interrupting her.

Yes, she’d do.

He turned back to the celebratory display illuminating the docks, currently devoid of the colorful floating stalls that usually made up the Drifting Bazaar. Bastiion’s young al’haidren launched into another monologue about the grandness of his estate in Arune, encouraged by the bubbly intoxicant in his hand. And across the deck, the little y’siti played atop the ledge of the railing. Scanning the cluster of partygoers, he couldn’t find her keeper. The haidren to Boreal was nowhere in sight.

His obligation to protect Dmitri had won out, and so he watched her. The witchling had worn leggings beneath her formal garb, which soon proved intentional. She moved with an otherworldly grace atop the thin wall of lacquered wood, balancing, flipping, rotating. She played with more strength than he exhausted in standard drills. The formations eased into a kind of silent dance as she leapt from the ball of one foot to another, moving her palms in sharp patterns to cut through the gathering smoke of the fire show.

She paused to stand in place as she eased her entire weight onto one foot and raised her body to balance on a set of toes. Arms crept outward to create a foreign pose, clearly well-practiced by the required tension. Even slower, the y’siti angled her chin and let her eyes fall on his.

Then she smiled.

It was a look that encompassed pure euphoria, pride, and a challenge. It wasn’t right for a child to move in such a way, or any human. Even in Darakai, the House of War, no man conquered his body so completely, so effortlessly. Unease tightened his throat and chilled his bones. He began to step in her direction to encourage her down, to stop the wrongness of it.

Then she changed.

Her body remained as still as the dead heart she surely carried. It was her eyes that shifted. One eye bluer than the Khan River; the other paler than the sky. Eyes seen only on the haidrens to Boreal. And as he watched her, those eyes began to emit an incandescent light of their own. A gust of wind swept across the party, lifting her strange, pastel hair to join it.

The stories were true, he realized.

She really was a demon from the Depths.

Before his mind caught up with his body, he’d pushed her from the railing, watching without a trace of guilt as she fell into the black waters. Instinct had dictated it be done.

Stranger still was how her haidren interceded on his behalf. Once the witchling was fished out of the bay and sent to her quarters to be tended, the haidren to Boreal turned to where Zaethan’s father and the rest of the king’s Quadren stood gaping. After a series of questions, she’d set her mystic eyes upon him and insisted it had been an accident.

“Children just being children. Isn’t that right, young Zaethan?” the white demon had suggested with ease. Her cool persistence forced him to nod.

“That’s right—an accident. It looked as if she was going to fall, and I was only concerned for the al’haidren’s safety,” Zaethan had confirmed aloud, more confused than ever.

Regardless of the spoken niceties between the members of the Quadren, his father still struck him that night to remind him of his shame. As well as the next.

It had been six years since her only visit to court, and even now, reflecting on the ordeal, Zaethan didn’t regret his actions. If she pointed that otherness against Dmitri, he’d do it again.

This time with more…permanent results.

“Dmitri, recent events may change your position toward her coming.” Zaethan rubbed the interior of his palm. “The kakk in Marketown I mentioned—”

“Whatever has occurred,” the prince said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Luscia cannot be faulted in her absence. That’s the end of it, Zaeth.”

Zaethan watched the flames lick the walls of fireplace, biting his tongue. He detected the order, hidden beneath the prince’s casual composure. Despite their closeness, Dmitri was still his future sovereign.

“Thinking on Flourette’s unending agreeableness, again?” Dmitri said, changing the subject. “I can see Gregor’s face now, when you announce your forbidden love for his daughter.”

“In the name of your crown, shut it,” Zaethan barked, returning to the sofa.

It was a typical picture of their friendship. Sitting together, Zaethan felt too nostalgic to push the matter any further—not tonight, at least. The warmth of Dmitri’s apartments always provided a shared haven from the demands of their outside worlds. A haven, it seemed, they both still needed. As Dmitri rested his eyes, Zaethan tilted his glass, absent of the golden liqueur, and gestured to the checkered board on his friend’s wall.

“One round of darts and dice?” he asked. “Or does the prince need his beauty rest?”

Dmitri’s eyes reopened with the promise of victory at their favorite game, though the darkening circles on his skin betrayed him.

“This calls for more bwoloa.” With contrived enthusiasm, Zaethan bounded to the cart and poured two more glasses. He raised both in the air and twisted to shout through a corner archway. “Eugenio! The prince is in need of your talents. Now, come have his drink!”

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