CHAPTER SEVEN: Luscia

Luscia simmered as she and the najjan were led along a wide corridor to her apartments. Being forced to surrender her father’s gift—her beautiful kuerre—was a grievous insult, but only in private confinement would she exhale the rage that could never fill these halls. Any heated, emotional response might invoke something worse than political friction, and Boreal had significantly more to lose than their precious metal. Still, while she’d been warned to expect disdain from other members of the Ethnicam, such blatant hostility was entirely unanticipated.

How long has Alora endured this? Luscia wondered. And why would she downplay these shocking conditions to the elders?

Hidden behind Declan’s wide breadth, Luscia tinkered anxiously with the thin bands of polished bone gracing her knuckles. Pride in her younger brother, Phalen, blossomed at their touch. He’d presented the radials to her as a farewell gift before she left Roüwen. Phalen had inherited his imagination from their late mother, who’d made every mundane thing somehow enchanting and beautiful when they were young. His recent apprenticeship under the najjani luxsmiths had given Phalen’s overactive mind an opportunity for innovative freedom, and his affinity for the dangerously practical was borderline genius. It was almost as if her brother had expected the confiscation of their weapons and crafted the perfect device to have on hand at all times, despite Bastiion’s pursuit to seize such things.

To anyone else, the tiny weapons would appear as nothing more than a pair of strange, three-fingered rings. But when engaged by an unseen catch near each thumb, a series of hidden luxiron blades opened in a fan-like design, providing the wearer with an advantage in hand-to- hand combat. They were fully collapsible when not in use, so while an onlooker might remark on Luscia’s odd choice of jewelry, they would never suspect to find the deadly arcs embedded within.

Flexing her grip around the delicate loops, Luscia recalled Phalen’s parting words when he’d slyly slipped them over her fingers. “I can’t add weight behind your punches,” he’d said beaming, cheeks covered in soot, “but I can give them sharper teeth.”

Luscia smirked to herself. Had Phalen been their family’s firstborn, he would’ve made an exceedingly cunning haidren to Boreal.

Fortunately, while her perfect kuerre was temporarily lost, Luscia retained his radials as well as the consort daggers riding her hips beneath the surcoat. She would have to be creative with their concealment, for those weapons were too dear to be surrendered with an attitude of civility.

“Ana’Sere,” Marek whispered, brushing her elbow, gaining her attention.

Luscia blinked at the palace attendant who’d been assigned as their midnight guide. She couldn’t remember his name, or if he’d even given one. The middle-aged man appeared as troubled as she felt. Perhaps her mute reflections encouraged his nerves.

“M-my Lady al’Haidren, your q-quarters...” the squatty attendant stammered, his small, beady eyes bouncing between Luscia and her possessive lycran. Face ashen, he directed them through a set of lofty, embellished doors.

Exhausted, Luscia was overcome with gratitude at the pleasant scent of the domed living space. Though her Boreali senses ensured an advantage in most circumstances, a heightened sense of smell while navigating the city docks had not been one of them. If her estimation was correct, the apartment faced north over Thoarne Bay, and Luscia had nearly convinced herself that even her private chambers would house the tang of Bastiion’s briny imports.

Instead, her nose was bombarded with traces of cinnamon, nixberry, and spiced vanilla. Stepping forward, Luscia angled her head to appreciate the details of the vast canopy above the cavernous receiving room. Candlelight flickered throughout the chamber, accentuating the subtle variations in the byrnnzite. Trimmed by a ring of granite, the new-world stone shone in a galaxy of copper, red, azure, and gold.

The palace was so very different from the village fortress Luscia had known for eighteen years. In Roüwen, her people dwelt within a refuge of aerial homes, suspended in the heights of Boreal’s ancient, towering trees. A carved city fixed between the treetops, like a hidden world known only to birds and men.

“Shores of Aurynth!”

A basket of linens went tumbling to the floor, dashing Luscia’s memories of home and drawing her eyes to a matronly figure. Several stray hairs escaped the woman’s blonde braid, liberally streaked with grey, emphasizing her ruddy cheeks and the strained rounding of her shoulders.

Boreali. One of Alora’s ladies, then, Luscia surmised. It certainly explained the presence of nixberry in the chamber.

“You must be Lady Luscia. Meh fyreon, Ana’Sere. We were not told you’d arrived!” She scurried about, talking in broken fragments as she checked to make sure all was in proper order.

“That’s quite understandable. Please, bolaeva, forgive our intrusion…” Luscia warmed her tone, humbled by the older woman’s frazzled state. “What is your name, so I may thank you properly?”

“Ock! Yes. Wem. I’m called Tallulah, and the little wisp milling about would be your resident attendant, Mila.” She glanced around. “Where is that girl?”

“Well, tadöm, Tallulah, for all your effort. From what I see here, you’ve made everything look very inviting,” Luscia extended.

Tallulah’s mouth broke into a relieved smile, exposing two very prominent front teeth, which for some reason made Luscia like her that much more. She half curtsied before vanishing into a deeper portion of the apartment, where she called for the “little wisp” to produce herself.

With a groan, the entry door reopened to admit a team of larger attendants, bearing her personal effects. Luscia scanned the items carefully until she at last located a small wooden chest, sleeved in linsilk to shroud its unconventional locking system. Alora had stressed its importance, though to Luscia’s knowledge it merely housed a rare collection of Boreali herbs and apothic materials for progressive remedies. Her aunt was Boreal’s most gifted healer, and at first, Alora had insisted Luscia follow her into the apothic arts. Apprenticing with her aunt through early adolescence, Luscia was initiated into the apothic tradition of herbaceous compounds and their unlimited application. But to her aunt’s vexation, young Luscia—like her brother, Phalen— displayed an early partiality for sharp objects, an attribute they’d most certainly inherited from their father. Abandoning the apothic arts, Luscia had sailed to train with the najjani order on the Isle of Viridis, leaving her tutor at odds with the mighty Clann Darragh.

Once the last articles of gear were distributed, the attendants made an eager exit. As they departed, a head of disheveled, blonde hair emerged through their stampede.

“Ana’Sere, the key to our luxiron has been delivered into the prince’s hands,” Creyvan reported in a huff. His dismay was evident, and inarguably represented their collective feeling of nakedness. Though her party still carried the standard iron blades typically traded with the other Houses, any najjan would ache for his specialized weaponry.

Tentatively—for she was not accustomed to initiating contact with men—Luscia rested a palm on his sturdy upper arm.

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“You did as I required.” She caught his gaze and held it intentionally, detecting his resentment. “You did well, Creyvan. Waedfrel, brödre.”

His focus drifted to the other four najjan, who’d begun shuffling items into different corners of her generous living space. Creyvan nodded his approval after taking in the beautiful stonework and magnificent view, as if to be certain it was worthy of her. Looking back to the doors, he ran a hand through his tangled hair.

“There are two Unitarian sentries outside, one stationed on each end of the corridor. The other suites we passed did not have watchdogs,” he said, mouth tight. “I inquired about their necessity and was informed they are ‘for the al’haidren’s safety.’”

Luscia considered the predicament. It was another deliberate test of wills. She sensed Marek surveying her reaction from the opposite side of the room, where he deposited a patchwork sack of mixed hides. The captaen tried to appear busy when she glanced his way.

He failed.

“Return to the hall,” Luscia instructed, “and tell them that if Bastiion truly insists on protecting the al’haidren to Boreal, then they would have given me six guards, instead of two. Tell them to think twice before insulting the Crown’s guest so thoughtlessly next time.”

Creyvan’s forehead scrunched, confused, before melting into mischief. His boyish features lit up as he reached for the bronze handle. “If they wish to treat you like a prisoner, we’ll make it inconvenient for them!”

Luscia closed the heavy door to find Marek smiling. His approval irked her as much as it pleased her, which was irksome in and of itself. Marek was an opinionated irritant, but she had to admit, his judgment was very credible.

“Lady Luscia! I found the wisp!” a jolly voice sang. Tallulah bustled into the great room with a slim girl in tow. The dark-haired attendant exhibited a shy, though not fearful demeanor as the older woman practically dragged her to where Luscia stood beside Alora’s wooden chest.

“This one’s Mila. She’s your resident lady’s maid, provided by the court,” Tallulah chattered in heavily accented Unitarian, for Mila’s benefit. “Well, go on,” she urged, pushing the timid girl forward. “Introduce yourself! The blessed al’haidren ain’t going to bite!”

Mila performed an awkward curtsy of sorts, tucking her chin until it met her chest. “Milady al’Haidren.”

The girl was of an age with Luscia. Her braided raven tresses shone in the light of multiple sconces along the curved walls, but that wasn’t what had Luscia’s breath catching in her throat as Mila rose from her curtsy. The girl’s chin lifted a fraction to reveal a set of cobalt eyes on a face of Boreali porcelain—Northern eyes that darted away as quickly as they met Luscia’s.

Luscia had only met a handful of cross-castes in her life, but never one with such contrasting features. It was remarkable. If she stopped quivering like a cornered mouse, Mila would be stunning. While the palace employed many out of Bastiion’s lower classes, Luscia was pleased to see the girl had been elevated to a decent position.

“Where is the rest of your party? S-so that we may prepare for them, my lady.” Mila spoke to the floor, but the question was sincere.

“The five najjan are my party,” Luscia replied, puzzled by the inquiry.

Before she could question the girl’s statement, a quick rap foretold Creyvan’s return. He strutted through the foyer a lighter man, smirking with genuine delight as he recounted what had transpired with the appointed sentries down the hall.

“‘—before insulting the al’haidren to Boreal so thoughtlessly again!’ You should have seen the blubbering yancy! And he asked, ‘Six men, she demanded?’ and I said, ‘Would you deem the al’haidren less worthy than half a dozen—’”

Creyvan suddenly broke off his enthusiastic recounting. It took hardly a moment to realize the cause. The imposing, flaxen najjan stood slack-jawed as he took in the sight of the lovely, skittish attendant. Mila didn’t notice his dumfounded expression because at his attention, she directed her own gaze toward her feet.

“Half a dozen, Creyvan? That was dutifully demanding of you,” Luscia said, in hopes of mending the moment. For his sake.

The najjan pulled his stare from the self-conscious maid. Even in the dimness of the room, Luscia saw pink stain his cheeks.

“Was there anything else?” she asked, growing weary, both mentally and physically.

“Oh—uh, wem, Ana’Sere. I found this chap waiting outside your chambers…” Creyvan managed, poking an arm through the cracked doorway. He reeled in a young page, his fingers gripping the boy’s deep blue tunic. “The prince sent him.”

The messenger shook in Creyvan’s clutches. It was almost as if he and Mila were partners in an involuntary dance of trembles.

“The crown p-prince, His Highness D-Dmitri Thoarne requests your presence, L-Lady al’Haidren.” The tiny ball of his throat bobbed sporadically with his sputtering. “‘No matter the hour,’ he said. I am to escort you to m-meet with him, as s-soon as you are able.”

Marek rounded the corner and crossed his arms. She knew her men were all absorbing the fact that Bastiion did not view Boreal’s haidrens with the respect the najjan would like to enforce. She was also aware that after weeks of travel, lack of sleep, and now being thrust into a den of enmity, each man was ready to snap.

Apparently, the night was long from over. Luscia summoned her remaining energy. She thanked Tallulah and Mila for the last time and, after assuring them she needed nothing further, urged the two women to get some rest.

“The same goes for everyone else,” she told the najjan. “Marek, I want two of your choosing to scout the apartment for vulnerabilities. The other three should retreat to their own rooms and sleep.” Marek scowled when she cut off his opposition. “Niit, Captaen. You are of no use to me if you are sleepwalking. Aksel and I will accompany the page to the prince’s quarters momentarily.” Luscia glanced at the boy. “If you’ll wait for me in the hall?”

The page bowed hastily and extended a piece of fine parchment sealed with copper wax. Luscia cautiously took the message and watched him depart. Once her quarters were free of Unitarian eyes, she popped the seal and read Dmitri’s brief, ominous script.

Bring it. Five vials will do.

“Ana’Sere, what does the prince say?”

Another identically handsome face appeared in their makeshift circle. Böwen’s concern grew as Luscia’s brows knit together in contemplation. She looked from the crisp note to Alora’s apothic chest, brushing against her traditional, upturned boots. The Viridi wood was whittled with Northern engravings, which twisted around its borders and encircled a lock made of bone. She didn’t know what animal it had been taken from, but it matched the key Alora had given Luscia before her departure—an obscure, skeletal thing no longer than an index finger. A key she wore now on a chain underneath her elegant surcoat.

Upon being questioned, the only information Alora would share was that the key would be safer in Luscia’s hands while she traveled off the main roads, ahead of Alora’s party, in a much smaller, concealed group. Yet Luscia suspected she was about to become more than just the keeper of the bone key.

“He sends his regards. Excuse me, brödre,” she answered her brethren. Without another word, she scooped up the medicinal chest and sought the privacy of her personal quarters.

Luscia locked the door to her bedroom and placed Alora’s apothecary upon the bed. She inserted the key, unlocked the chest, and assessed its contents. The chest emitted a familiar scent of Viridi bark before the expected aroma of roots and herbs bloomed through the room.

Leaning against the mattress in confusion, Luscia catalogued the rather ordinary collection of materials. Well, ordinary for Alora’s proficiency, at least. She couldn’t comprehend why an apothecary should be locked, unless Alora anticipated Boreali herbs being confiscated next.

Atop the myriad of glass jars and empty vials sat a small, folded scrap of parchment. Alora must have packed it last, so Luscia would find it right away. Hands that favored combat over the mysteries of Boreal’s apothic arts gently unraveled her aunt’s delicate folding.

Luscia,

Mix only in necessity. The crown prince will request at his need. This is now your apothecary. Be discreet. Hide it well.

Memorize this list of ingredients and instruction. Burn it.

Rul’Aniell,

Alora

Underneath the note, scribbled with an unusual sense of urgency, was another page, this one riddled with unfamiliar terms and complicated instructions. The list of essential components wasn’t very long, but it consisted of the rarest and most potent extracts native to her homeland. Ennus thorn, meant to improve immunity or lower one’s fever. Nixberry oil, for pain. Eüpharsis extract, used to treat insomnia and calm the nervous system.

Luscia read through Alora’s unconventional methodology, repeating each line until it was branded in her memory. She scanned the last few ingredients and felt her stomach churn.

Blood

(Five drops from the finger. No more. No less.)

Finally, she identified the ugly stain of darkened rust that decorated the sharpest point of the skeletal key. And for the first time in her life, Luscia dared to wonder if the rumors were true.

She flexed her palms, as if to ask the pulsing, sacred element held within them: “Are we witches after all?”

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