CHAPTER NINE: Zaethan
“Frankly, I found it quite clever of her.”
Zaethan paced up and down the length of the exquisite elm-and-aspen table lining the center of the war room. He refrained from ripping off the collection of maps scattered across the tabletop, spotlighted by sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling overhead. Maintaining his composure was less for Dmitri’s sensibilities than for the fact that Orynthia’s king and commander were scheduled to arrive at any moment. Otherwise, papers would have blanketed the floor.
“Clever? You mean to say that commandeering four additional sentries on a whim—” Zaethan jabbed his own chest, “—four of my sentries, is clever!”
Zaethan couldn’t believe his friend’s indifference. Less than a day at court, and that hellish y’siti was already creating problems. On one hand, he was pleased she’d demonstrated the very defiance he’d predicted she would. On the other, Zaethan was furious the witch had claimed authority over his men within the first hour of her arrival.
“To say the al’haidren commandeered your men is a rather dramatic summation, Zaeth. And I doubt it was a whim—more likely a statement of sorts,” Dmitri calmly mused, hands clasped behind his back. The prince spoke while he inspected a sketched map of Hagarh, as it was the true purpose for their meeting.
He hated when Dmitri did that. Unlike most Darakaians, Zaethan’s education was dually grounded in the disciplines of Faraji as well as the Unitarian scholastics. It was why their friendship began so early in life—Zaethan had joined Dmitri for most of his lessons. Yet despite the years of study at his side, Dmitri’s strengths always overshadowed Zaethan’s when it came to the eloquent subtleties of debate.
Kàchà kocho, he shrugged it off. Debate was for yancies.
“I’ll show your y’siti a dramatic summation,” he muttered aloud, accompanied by muffled curses in Andwele and slid a different map toward Dmitri, tapping a sketch of the city. “The only statement she made was of disrespect and complete lack of cooperation with Bastiion.”
“Perhaps. Or merely a statement as uncooperative as your own?”
Zaethan’s head whipped around. He knew he needed to calm down—his anger would only be met with further deflection. Dmitri always refused to listen to passionate shouting, which, unfortunately, was Zaethan’s natural tone of voice.
“I’m trying to fulfill my duty to you, Dmitri,” he said, exasperated. “How is that uncooperative? And then she comes here and starts giving orders to our sentries, as if they were her own! Sentries stationed for your wellbeing!”
“Do you sanction guards to bookend the corridors outside the Pilarese suites? Or the Unitarian?” Dmitri posed, making his point with infuriating ease. “One sentry, surely, out of respect for the resident’s status at court, but no more. She isn’t incompetent, Zaeth. In fact, I suspect she’s incredibly sharp.”
“Sharp like wolx teeth capped in witchiron!” Zaethan bit out. “And then you went and invited her for a midnight tea, without your guard! You should have called for me, Dmitri.”
Dmitri simply exhaled and rubbed his right temple. Then his gaze turned sharp, and he squinted at the scabs over Zaethan’s knuckles. “Might I ask what happened to your hand?”
“Just keeping your loyal subjects in line. Some real class acts loitering around Bastiion these days.”
“I do hope they remained loyal after you were through.”
“Stop distracting me,” Zaethan grumbled. “My pryde’s patrolling isn’t the issue. The issue is that creature upstairs.”
“I wish for this argument to end. My al’haidrens are equal in my eyes, so they should be in yours as well,” the weary prince stated with finality.
Zaethan opened his mouth to reply, but tempered himself as Dmitri’s father burst into the war room. Behind him were a pair of solemn, Southern-skinned men speaking to each other in lowered voices as they trailed their king.
“Dmitri, my boy!” the king said joyously. “Congratulations at last!” Korbin Thoarne rounded the spherical room and headed straight for his son. Outstretched hands engulfed Dmitri’s thin shoulders and shook them with gaiety. “Your final al’haidren’s arrival…what a splendid day this is!” he exclaimed, looking proudly into the face of his only heir.
Zaethan could see occasional similarities between them, enough to prove their relation, though it was Queen Lourissa who shone through Dmitri most. Her aristocratic nose, delicate bone structure, and lighter frame contrasted with his father’s substantial brow and brawny stature. But while only a few might pick out Dmitri as the son of Korbin Thoarne at first glance, none could dismiss the same beaming grin they shared. It was sad, Zaethan often thought, that though all Orynthia associated that memorable feature with their king, rarely did they comment upon it in their prince.
Clapping his son on the back, nearly pushing him off-balance, the king made his way around the table to where Zaethan held the rigid position expected of a Darakaian alpha. A hefty palm landed on his left shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze.
“A splendid day, indeed!” King Korbin repeated, smiling widely. “For you, too, Zaeth. A complete Quadren!”
Zaethan had expected his exuberance. While Dmitri’s denial of the y’siti threat was due to sheer optimism, Zaethan had learned throughout the years that the king’s regard for Boreal was downright delusional. Like most of the nobility, Korbin Thoarne classified the Boreali as archaic mystics who, like oil and water, would just never fully blend with the rest of the realm. Zaethan, of course, maintained the same judgment as most of the Ethnicam: y’siti were vile, and their witchery was from the Depths.
Nevertheless, he summoned a pinched smile and nodded at the king’s statement.
“Still keeping my son out of trouble?” He raised a bushy brow mischievously, suggesting he believed Dmitri spent more time in taverns than he did reading dusty literature.
“Trying to, sire,” Zaethan replied. “Regrettably, he tends to admire the trouble.”
The king rolled with laughter, pleating the skin around his spirited, forest-green eyes. Zaethan relaxed a fraction and chuckled at the prospect of Dmitri wasting an evening in a place like The Veiled Lady. Knowing his friend, Dmitri would be more likely to tutor one of Salma’s night-callers than employ one for his own pleasure.
Looking away from the prince in question, Zaethan’s eyes found Darakai’s chief warlord.
Hints of revulsion were hidden throughout his father’s demeanor as he casually peered over the sea of Orynthian maps. It was disguised in his unblinking, hard black eyes. In the tautness of his shoulders, as his stance wordlessly proclaimed dominance. In the slight snarl that pulled one nostril up into a pockmarked cheek and melted into his shaved skull, etched with the scars of his victories.
In an instant, Zaethan swallowed his amusement, adopting his previous posture, and lowered his gaze to the table. Whether it was the king’s affection for Dmitri’s childhood friend or Zaethan’s own conduct that had triggered his father’s ire, he couldn’t tell. Either were certainly enough to incite his father’s anger, when Zaethan’s birth was itself a disappointment. As the thief who stole his mother’s last breath, Zaethan had long accepted that a man like Nyack Kasim could never deign to love him.
“Shall we begin, Majesty?” Zaethan’s father asked, his voice smooth like Galina wine. “As mentioned, there’ve been displays of rebellion along the borders of Hagarh. Here and here,” he tapped a forefinger at various points near the Yakov River, “the mudmen have begun tempting the perimeter. It seems these leeches are no longer content with our agreement.”
“They claim we’ve kept control of the Mirajii Forest for too long, and that the land is rightfully theirs to take,” General Lateef interjected, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the notion.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“Hmph.” King Korbin studied the areas mentioned. “The mudmen haven’t troubled us in ages…what do you think provoked them after so much time? They must realize how easily Orynthia could subdue an uprising.”
“Apparently they say that ‘the wind told them.’ That ‘it was time.’” Zaethan’s father’s upper lip curled with disdain. “As if Orynthia would bend to the will of a marsh-wader.”
“But the Gulgons carry sticks and spears. They still coat themselves and their weaponry in muck, so what could they possibly hope to gain in a standoff?” Dmitri wondered aloud. “We’ve held the bulk of Mirajii, aside from their remnants, for centuries.”
A fist the shade and texture of charred bark struck the table, causing Dmitri to jump, and landed in the center of the marked wetlands.
“Because they are savage resisters!” Zaethan’s father declared. “And resisters must be broken, or they’ll continue to revolt!”
The king and General Lateef readily nodded their consensus with the commander’s harsh words. Privately, Zaethan agreed. The Gulgons, called mudmen for obvious reason, weren’t a substantial threat to the perimeter, but if the prydes didn’t push back, towns like Rian and Port Khmer would pay the price. However, it was also true that the Mirajii Forest had been in Gulgon possession when Orynthia first seized it.
“I agree,” the king confirmed. “As commander of my armies, I trust you’ll handle this swiftly for me, Nyack. As always.”
Zaethan watched a flicker of anticipation flash through his father’s onyx eyes before they waned into deadness again. For a moment, he absorbed the gravity of the king’s blanket trust in his father’s methods. With such a simple statement, the commander of the Orynthian forces was given permission to rain the terror of Darakai down on Hagarh, if he so wished it. Knowing too well the pleasure Nyack Kasim gleaned from wielding violence, Zaethan suspected he wished it very much.
Unlike any Darakaian before him, Nyack Kasim wielded a trio of powerful titles. Being the firstborn of his generation, he held the office of haidren to Darakai by virtue of his bloodline and valor. But in addition to representing the Darakaian’s interests in Bastiion, Nyack had long reigned as chief warlord in the House of Darakai, the elected leader over their tribes. Last, in recent years, he had acquired the most powerful title of all: Commander Supreme of the Orynthian armies, which by royal decree enabled him to exercise nearly all the same privileges as Dmitri’s father, excepting the ability to declare war.
This trinity of authority had made the Ethnicam increasingly wary of Nyack Kasim of late. Zaethan could understand why—he too was uncomfortable seeing that much power in the brutal hands of his father.
His father instructed General Lateef to brief the king and the prince on recent developments in the other port towns, as well as the expansion of Orynthia’s naval fleet, currently stationed in Lempeii. Having already heard the information, Zaethan’s mind returned to Hagarh. The mudmen were superstitious wanderers, as Dmitri had stated. Superstitious, but rarely a group of aggressors. By nature, their community waded seasonally throughout the wetlands in migratory patterns, keeping to themselves. It was strange that they’d shift to the offensive without being provoked. Besides, who listened to the wind?
Just swamp-speak, he told himself. Nonsensical kakk.
“Zaethan. Report,” his father ordered across the wide table between them.
Clearing his throat, Zaethan launched into a standard report, commenting on the adjustments to the guard and changes to their training regime. After proposing an additional trading regulation to enforce within the Drifting Bazaar and Bastiion’s Marketown, Zaethan took a deep breath before concluding his summary.
“Lastly, my own militia, in addition to a handful of prydes monitoring the plains, have reported a series of Boreali cross-castes said to be missing or, if recovered, found dead. Barbarically, I should add. Those discovered were either completely drained of blood, or their bodies…their bodies desecrated. Most of them have been young children.” He paused here, knowing he should stick to reporting only facts of significance. His father would perceive any emotion as weakness, and Zaethan hadn’t been named alpha zà over the Darakaian militia prydes for his ability to empathize. “With such a clear pattern,” Zaethan continued, “I’m wondering if the al’haidren to Boreal’s Ascension has inspired civil unrest among the Unitarian provinces. Perhaps the locals are lashing out against the y’siti influence?”
General Lateef and Zaethan’s father snickered contemptuously. No concern for the slain cross-caste children could be found in their eyes. Taken aback by their reaction, he looked to Dmitri, who’d gone pale as he processed the news. Yet the severity of the situation had only shaken one of the Thoarne men, as the king slowly mirrored his subordinates.
“That’s ridiculous,” his father dismissed. “The y’siti do this to each other. It’s just who they are. It’s more likely the najjan have taken their witchiron and begun hunting down their own breakaways. Some punishment for abandoning the clans.”
“Probably gathering fodder for their next moon ritual,” the general spat.
“I’ve never known a Boreali to be so vicious…or vindictive, for that matter,” Dmitri added, scratching the back of his neck.
A mask of forced deference turned to the prince as Zaethan’s father tilted his head to the side. “And because you have not met every y’siti, my resources should not be wasted on the testament of a few,” he said, in the manner one might speak to a child, before adding a prudent, “Your Highness.”
“Fhàdda—sir,” Zaethan rushed to correct his informality, but not without catching the irritated buckle through his father’s nose. “I urge you to reconsider. Kumo and Takoda have been tracking the incidents for months now.” He pointed out the connecting trails across the map of Bastiion. “The most recent victims were discovered closer together these last three weeks, within the proper.”
Zaethan risked raising his eyes to his father, hoping to effectively convey the importance of the deaths. He felt it in the nausea that came with the replaying pictures in his mind. The victims his pryde had unearthed—children barely into adolescence, shoved into the damp, forgotten corners of Bastiion’s twisting streets. Frail little bodies forever mutilated by horrific markings that ribboned their flesh to the bone. Their mixed lineage was only recognizable by the hair—darker than that of a full-blooded y’siti, yet significantly lighter than that of a Unitarian. Each victim outside the proper had been found ripped apart, but those within mirrored the most recent boy discovered. Zaethan had held his tiny, limp hand as the pryde tried to make sense of the meticulous slits along his wrists, neck, and ankles. The cross-caste had been bled dry.
Zaethan managed to not throw up, before Kumo had pulled the colorless, broken boy from his protective arms. He’d been no older than eight, perhaps nine years at most.
These were not meaningless patterns. It was only a matter of time before the killer grew bored of pale flesh, already the shade of corpses, and began to crave the children of Bastiion, painted in livelier skins of gold, bronze, and copper.
“I think my son has uncovered some alarming facts,” his father announced to the group of men. Zaethan’s chest rose hopefully. The edge of his mouth started to lift at the rare display of his father’s recognition. “But since he allowed his pryde to become so distracted during these crucial months, by what are clearly misguided priorities, I’ve decided they would better serve our king where reinforcement is actually needed—at the border, near Hagarh and Port Khmer.”
Zaethan’s stomach dropped, as did any trace of his smile.
“Zaethan, you will remain at court. In my shadow as al’haidren to Darakai, you must. Choose fifteen to go and five to remain in Bastiion. Bring me your list by tomorrow morning,” Darakai’s chief warlord concluded, letting his penalty settle heavily into the silence.
He stared at his father’s tunic, covered in honorary fragments of metal and bone. Medals both Unitarian and Darakaian. A formidable picture of success who’d just publicly humiliated his son. By syphoning Zaethan’s personal pryde and scattering them, Nyack Kasim would send a message to the House of Darakai that his son was unfit to lead. That Zaethan did not deserve to be called alpha zà, chief alpha of the prydes, and that Zaethan retained the title by birth rather than might.
It was a symbolic castration.
King Korbin, his father, and General Lateef continued their conversation after an awkward moment passed, but Zaethan only heard rushing in his ears. His resentment threatened to boil over, but gradually retreated, dissipating into a somber disgrace. He noticed Dmitri trying to word something, worry pinching his expression. With a quick jerk of his jaw, Zaethan motioned him to drop it. He would not humiliate himself further by mimicking a dog, cowering before its master.
Squaring his shoulders, Zaethan lifted his chin to follow the king’s exit once their meeting adjourned. He stepped forward, but his father’s voice pierced his ears, halting him.
“Stay.”
Zaethan watched the others depart. King Korbin, oblivious to the conflict, walked beside General Lateef and inquired further about his new naval fleet. Dmitri hesitated, but had learned many times over that it was best to leave Zaethan to fight his own demons.
Fixing his eyes ahead, Zaethan listened to his father’s stiff boots striking the masonry of the floor as they traversed the room. The loose fabric of the wrapped gunja pants his father wore beneath his form- fitting military tunic concealed the preserved vigor of his middle-aged physique. Standing scarcely taller than Zaethan, his leathery, corded neck came into view, the side of it riddled from past trauma and poorly healed war wounds.
Zaethan didn’t flinch when the force of his father’s hand collided with the right side of his face.
Nor the left.
“For questioning me,” his only living parent stated.
Head upright, Zaethan refused to wipe the blood off his splitting lip. His father reached out and roughly smeared it away to assess the damage. If, for an instant, Zaethan hoped it to be an act of affection or remorse, the thought died with his commander’s parting advice.
“Put camilla root on that lip and hide your weakness before the y’siti’s reception. You will not shame my name again today.”
Zaethan hid his pain and peered into the starless black pools looking back at him. The commander seemed to hesitate as his eyes traveled the panes of his son’s face, so very much like Zaethan’s mother’s, rather than his own.
After a few tense breaths, his father deliberately dropped his fingers and wiped them clean against the fabric stretching over Zaethan’s chest. Marking his defeat.
Nyack Kasim then turned abruptly and left his bloodied son behind.
[https://i.imgur.com/BpjLzYf.png]