CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Luscia

Inquisitive, arctic eyes charted the training space as Luscia tallied the new additions to the formerly forgotten, dirty chamber. Where yesterday lay battered mats and dingy cushions, durable leather replacements rested in their place. Gone were the musky rags that had littered the multiple corners of the room. Instead, various pieces of freshly polished equipment were positioned along the walls, ready for her enlistment.

He’d been busy, this Zaethan Kasim. Luscia peered down at her lycran, her lone confidante, and heaved a sigh.

“What say you, Aksel?” she asked, depositing the wooden globe she carried onto the edge of a mat. “Wem, I concur. This is a wretched idea.”

An energetic swish of his lush tail conveyed her wolx was in higher spirits that morning than she. Unlike her canine accomplice, it was Luscia who’d agreed to commit some degree of treason. But had she not, defiance of Orynthian legislation could have brought charges of sedition against the entire House of Boreal. After all, each member of her party had concealed additional weaponry in their arrival to the city. Conversely, committing infidelity to Boreal by allowing this adulterous handling of luxiron would implicate Luscia alone, though the disciplinary action would surely be severe.

In an unexpected moment of demarcation, she’d chosen to defy her own House—a feeble attempt to save it from her own folly.

Planting her feet hip-width apart, Luscia rolled her shoulders and initiated a series of standard stretches. A shrill yip pierced her ears. Upside down, she turned to watch the lycran’s enormous body spasm theatrically. Opening his elongated muzzle, he released a pink, textured tongue from behind his serrated fangs. Luscia rolled her eyes when he started panting.

“Niit,” she chastised, and extended her body to the opposite side, savoring the sting of her muscles as they embraced the day. “You are not dying of thirst, you manipulative ogre.”

Aksel’s rump thumped against the mat in a slobbery huff. Byrnnzite monoliths and unfamiliar scents were not the only elements of life in Bastiion the animal was adjusting to. Though in Aksel’s defense, he’d spent the majority of his existence traversing freely, drinking from every body of water he happened upon. Luscia hated instructing Mila to limit his consumption while they resided at court, but she’d hate the inverse exponentially more.

Natural adaption, boosted by the hints of metabolized lumin that bridged the genetic rift between fox and wolf, gave the Orallach hybrid a knack for marking pack territory throughout even the iciest winters. Unfortunately, Aksel refused to accept that it was not wintertime in the highlands, and the last thing Luscia desired was for her apartments to smell like his urine during the heat of a fast-approaching Unitarian summer. Being noxiously pungent, a single accident could take months to dispel from her quarters.

Snaking into her next pose, a distant succession of steps pricked Luscia’s ears. “Aksel, heh’ta.” Recognizing the vexed tempo of the harried pace, she prepared herself for company. “You are late, Lord Darakai,” Luscia remarked as he eased the aged door open.

By his abrupt muteness, she imagined his Southern features warping suspiciously at her foreknowledge. She’d never know if it was an accurate assumption, as she didn’t bother to face him.

“Wicked y’siti ears,” the al’haidren cursed under his breath. “Damn you all to the Depths.”

“Nii’tadöm,” Luscia rotated her stretch to reply. “I’d rather not visit this time of year.”

His uncommonly jade gaze narrowed as he greeted her with an unfriendly snarl. It would be tedious to avoid riling him during their sessions. Even in her limited time at court, Luscia had already discovered that it took very little to arouse the temper of Zaethan Kasim. Keeping him in a calm state of mind would be akin to waltzing through a forest of wind chimes in silence—highly problematic, but not impossible.

“I see your witch flesh survived first light.” He eyed her arms as if they were combustible. Perhaps he thought they were.

“Highly observant of you,” she stated, dodging the barb. “Shall we begin, or would you prefer to spend our time admiring my flair for punctuality in your absence of it?”

His nostrils, the same hue as her morning Viridi tea, flared as he constricted his fists. He flicked a glance at the wooden sphere beside her feet. Interesting, what motivated this man.

“Where are the wraiths?” Kasim surveyed the room. “We had a deal, you and I—unless you’ve decided to withdraw your trade? Our king takes his breakfast early and is not difficult to track down.”

“Luxiron will be of no use to you today.” Luscia’s hand shot out to hush a second threat. “I promised to teach you how to wield the crescent wraiths, and I will. But first, we must prepare your undisciplined Darakaian body to do so.”

“The House of Boreal has restricted witchiron for centuries,” the opposing al’haidren cautioned. “My undisciplined Darakaian patience has run its course.”

“Yet I wonder, in all of those centuries, did Darakai share their prized stallions with the rest of the realm?” Luscia countered.

“Our Unitarian prince rides the twin of my own.”

“Wem, but your House has never shared them with Boreal.”

“And we thought the y’siti would never deign to ask for anything.” His ample upper lip curled back to reveal a row of immaculate, well- bred teeth as the obscenity passed between them.

“The point remains,” she finished, eager to begin his lesson so she might sooner conclude it. “Do not begrudge the House of Boreal for protecting what they hold sacred. Luxiron blades are far more valuable than a horse.”

“Have you ever run an Andwele stallion? I doubt there could be anything more sacred.” A distant ember sparked behind his verdant irises, momentarily melting his hostility.

“Then your definition of ‘sacred’ is rather grounded, Lord Darakai,” Luscia added dryly. She bent to pick up the wooden globe and repositioned it at the center of the largest mat.

“As much as yours is vain, Lady Boreal,” Kasim muttered, following her lead. “I assume your little ball is supposed to prepare me, then? Did you bring the henchman’s stick, too?”

Impatient hands rested on his narrow hips. The other al’haidren was dressed strangely that morning. A trim but breathable linen vest freed his arms from constraint, whereas his legs stood swathed in draped, loose fabric that tightened at the waist and ankles. Truthfully, it didn’t matter what attire the man selected, however bizarre, as long as it allowed him to move.

“The bomaerod is not necessary for your kind,” she noted, anchoring the sole of her foot on top of the globe to keep it upright.

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“My kind?” Kasim’s features darkened.

“Wem. That is what I said, were you not listening?”

It was not an untrue statement. Naturally, Darakai’s fickle al’haidren would interpret offense where it didn’t exist. A najjani bomaerod was not meant for his kind, or any other, as it would deliver him nothing but a migraine, an affliction Luscia was rapidly developing herself.

Kasim’s ears were not attuned to the many layers of sound that drowned the senses of the Boreali. During advanced training, the children of Boreal required a tool like the bomaerod to focus that clamor by honing it to a limited sphere of impact. Each beating reverberation maintained a field of range. It concentrated one’s attention solely on the indicators of activity immediately surrounding them. This aid was particularly essential for Tiergan ears like Luscia’s, which were far more sensitive to the constant, buzzing disharmony than those of her own guard.

Not that Luscia could clarify such things to the likes of Zaethan Kasim.

“This,” she established, rolling the object under her sole, “is called a klödjen. Stand upon it, so we may begin.”

Cords of ebony, braided locs swung to the side when he titled his head and assessed the klödjen. The fissures of his brow doubled the longer he studied it. Approximately the width of his shoulders, the globe was encircled by a lateral pane of Viridi wood, crafted just wide enough to seat a man’s boot on either side. Luscia grinned as he scratched the back of his neck before shifting to crack his knuckles.

“If you’d like me to assist—”

“Don’t touch me, witch,” he hissed and instinctively placed his right foot on the circular panel, weighing it to the mat.

Luscia didn’t stop him in his endeavor. She’d seen the routine before. His stubbornness deserved the multiple tumbles he was about to take.

Succeeding with the right, his left heel touched down on the opposite side, causing his arms to reach out into nothingness for balance. A proud smirk promptly replaced his scowl. He swung his head to boast in her direction, which disrupted his fragile balance atop the klödjen. In a clumsy dance, he plummeted to the mat, landing firmly on his backside.

“Again,” Luscia ordered, banishing her desire to laugh. It was going to be a long morning, and chuckling at his misfortune would only prolong it.

He snapped into an upright position. Darakaians despised postures of submission, much less at the feet of a small Boreali woman. Standing, he brushed off his pants and tried again, repeating his initial approach. This time, Luscia watched his knees bend beneath his abdomen, causing him to land directly atop the globe. Being male, she imagined that was far from pleasant and expected it to alter his methodology once he recovered.

It did not.

Again, he collapsed, but to the side this time, crashing upon his hip bone. Then to the other, nearly bending an ankle. He landed on his palms, dislocated his shoulder, and on one attempt almost shattered an elbow. His ordinary bones were so breakable, but he refused to stop.

“Heh’ta, enough,” she finally interrupted, weary from his failed attempts. “Crescent wraiths rely on three principles—predominantly, balance of the body and mind. The klödjen cannot be conquered unevenly. This,” Luscia emphasized, pushing one side of the Viridi panel to the mat, “will never work. You cannot center yourself upon a foundation of unbalance.”

“Then how do you suggest one mount your stupid klödjen?”

Luscia stilled her mouth. Due to his lingering Darakaian accent, he pronounced the Northern term more like “cloud-june”, which in Boreali loosely translated as master’s hog.

“You jump,” she answered, spreading her feet apart into a leveled stance. “The whole body must leap from one balanced position to another. Your entire form must commit in order to succeed.”

Bending at the knees, she pulled her shoulders back and evened her elbows. With an exhale, Luscia leapt atop each side of the wooden panel and dipped into a crouch to lower her center of gravity. Once secured, Luscia rose into stable position.

Hopping off, she returned to the edge of the mat and nodded at the klödjen. “Again.”

Grimacing, he mumbled foreign syllables but proceeded to mirror her example. With an angry grunt, he launched himself at the globe, almost overshooting it. Rocking back on his heels, he crouched deeply and waited for the swaying klödjen to settle before rising.

“Good. Waedfrel. Now, focus on your breathing. Uncontrolled, breath alone can undo this symmetry,” Luscia instructed as she moved to a wall that hosted an assembly of weighted discs. Selecting a few, she returned to his side. “In a moment I am going to touch you, and I’d prefer we not repeat the last hour. Do hold still.”

With a fleeting tap of her fingertips, Luscia nudged his forearms to open and extend outward. Choosing one of the discs, she slid the accompanying leather tie over his fist and upward, to rest upon the muscle. Observing he was right-handed, she switched to his left and did the same, yet doubled the weight on the weaker arm. She saw the veins in his forearm protrude beneath it while he adjusted to the difference in heaviness.

“Second, the wraiths demand a balance of strength,” Luscia continued as she added another disc to each arm, assessing his frame could handle more. “You have two arms. Both must carry the same burden. Your right is sufficient, but your left is too weak. Without balance of strength, there is no unity. Without unity, there can be no balance in your mobility. And as I said yesterday, neither of us would benefit from your self-inflicted beheading.”

The al’haidren snorted stiffly as he stretched his neck from shoulder to shoulder. “So considerate. What a puzzle, that a heartless y’siti would care about my possible decapitation.”

“Despite the bias of your first education, the Boreali are not sorcerers, nor are we heartless.” Luscia shook her head, picked up a bag of chalky gripping powder, and began to scatter it over the mat around the circumference of the klödjen. “On the contrary, we tend to feel a great many things,” she whispered to the floor.

“A bold claim from a House of creatures who hunt their own offspring.”

“The murder of our cross-castes is gruesome and tragic.” Luscia felt her teeth clench as she rose and positioned her face directly under his, more than a foot higher. “Had jurisdiction been extended to our najjan, the guilty party would’ve already been apprehended and brought to justice. Darakai’s delay is bought at the price of our innocents, not yours. Don’t you dare pretend these deaths are of any consequence to the House of Darakai.”

A flippant laugh broke free from his flattened lips.

“All I know”—Kasim grunted when his corded forearm constricted under the weight of the disc—“is that my men never found a slaughtered child floating in the water like another stall in the bazaar until your colorless kinsmen entered my city.”

A wave of vertigo washed over Luscia’s senses. Alora had never mentioned a body in the bay. His tone was callous, but lacked any trace of sarcasm. The al’haidren wasn’t misleading her; he thought she’d already known.

Luscia put space between them, as if his nearness made the words truer. Methodically, she dusted the gripping powder from her palms and clutched them behind her back to bridle their shaking. Luscia needed to inform Alora straightaway, but a rush to her side might solidify Darakai’s suspicion of Boreal’s role in the cross-caste deaths. An absurd deduction, but substantial enough to threaten her House’s insecure standing with the Ethnicam.

“The third principle,” Luscia managed, “is sheer endurance. The resolve of the wielder must be greater than the discomfort of his circumstance. The chalk will reveal how many times you dismount. Your objective is to do so only once, when you can endure no longer.”

“That’s it? This is your lesson?” The al’haidren scoffed, irritation calling a flush to his angular cheeks. “How much time do you expect me to waste standing here like this? An entire hour?”

“If you consider a mere hour the extent of your endurance, then wem. Yes.”

At her challenge, he sucked his teeth defiantly. “What is the record?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Hours?” The corners of his lips fell, teasing hers to rise. “Twenty. Six. Hours?”

“Darakaians really do have terrible hearing.”

Kasim blinked at her mutely. It was the most pleasant he’d been all morning.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve much to accomplish today,” Luscia offered in lieu of a farewell, and started toward the old door.

“You aren’t seriously going to leave me here, standing on this kakka- shtàka wooden ball!”

“The only assistance I could possibly provide would be to clean you once you’ve pissed yourself. But, since you’ve made it abundantly clear how you feel about my being—what was it? Ah, wem, a plague—I trust you’ll manage.”

With a snap of her fingers, Aksel trotted to Luscia’s side, growling at Kasim in passing. She wrenched the door open by its rusting handle, ready to be rid of him.

“The record,” he suddenly called out. “Which of Boreal’s men can claim it?”

“None.” Hesitantly, Luscia brushed her chin over her shoulder. “I do. Good day, Lord Darakai.”

Entering the solitude of the dank passageway, Luscia tore into a soundless race toward the Boreali suites, praying to the beat of her boots. Another cross-caste child, dead.

Aniell help them.

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