CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Zaethan

In a surreal sweep, Zaethan tugged the handle and stiffly latched the door to the Zôueli suite, locking the Western royals safely inside. He scrubbed the stubble on his face with his free hand and backed into the corridor.

Zahra and Kumo flanked the exterior of the sweeping entry. Neither his beta or his third said anything as they rigidly held their posts. Discreetly, both watched him from the corners of their eyes as Zaethan awkwardly readjusted the leather sling.

Neighboring sentries continued along either side of the corridor, forming a tunnel of security. Every man stood silent, the air hung with an unprecedented heaviness as he spoke for his pryde’s ears alone.

“No one comes in or out,” he murmured gruffly, glancing between them. “No one. Yeye qondai?”

“Uni zà, Alpha Zà,” Zahra and Kumo murmured in unison. Kumo angled his head to level with Zaethan in a wordless exchange.

Confusion and anger buckled the wide bridge of his nose. The last hour had been utter chaos, since the moment an elderly attendant discovered the king’s body, drooped over the arm of his reading chair, foaming from the mouth. His utterly unexpected demise had awoken them all to a new reality—a reality where kings were slain in the silence of their studies rather than amid the glory of a battlefield.

He clenched his fist and bounced it against Kumo’s chest. Pushing a knuckle into the muscle above his beta’s heart, Zaethan squinted at the row of sentries, and said, “Don’t trust them, cousin.”

Easing past Zahra, he took hold of her elbow and nodded to the guest suite. More perceptive than her counterpart, Zahra would note any unusual traffic in the vicinity. Her ebony lids closed, accepting the assignment. For it appeared that, under the guise of the solstice, Razôuel had traveled to Orynthian soil for a single purpose. After all, with Korbin removed, a union through Bahira’Rasha brought them one step closer to the crown. Zaethan recalled the trunks of Zôueli gifts and goods delivered to the king’s chamber upon their arrival. Any of them could have housed the means for his assassination.

Zaethan strode the passages toward Thoarne Hall with a palm tensed over his kopar. His locs swung like a pendulum as he hastened down the grand staircase, already delayed by his prior stop to rouse a sleeping Boreali. From shared reports between their men, he’d learned the other al’haidren had slept through most of the day, since her Captaen Bailefore snuck them back into the palace the night before.

A troubling realization struck Zaethan as he rounded the main corridor. If her najjan could bypass the guards, so could anyone. Even now.

Zaethan wavered before slipping into the hall. He rebound his locs nervously, pausing before everything changed. Shaking off his reluctance, he slipped inside, knowing it already had.

On the opposite side of the immense doors, the two generations of the Quadren formed a disorganized semi-circle, surrounding the base of the throne. Dmitri sat in his father’s place, his mother occupying her usual spot to the right. Zaethan’s stomach knotted, assessing his friend and charge. Dmitri’s left hand absently rubbed his forehead, while the other held onto his mother’s trembling fingers. Deep violet pits cradled his bloodshot eyes, emphasizing the sallow wash of his already poor coloring.

Coming to stand next to his father, Zaethan struck his chest and muttered a clipped, “Commander.”

Entrenched in hushed discussion with Gregor Hastings, Nyack Kasim ignored his son, folding his powerful arms and bending toward the other man as they spoke. Beyond them, the haidren to Boreal maintained a straight posture, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her niece, embodying the same stoicism, ignored some muted commentary from Ira.

Adjacent to them, nearest the foot of the platform, Sayuri’s face tilted as her uncle whispered rapidly into her ear. His steel nailpiece tapped her arm as he hooked her closer. She dipped her chin in agreement, painted lashes dusting her sharp cheekbones at his words. Zaethan sucked his teeth, observing them, knowing this wasn’t a promising sign from the Pilarese.

Zaethan nudged his father. “What’s happening? What are we gathered for?”

Fleetingly, his father and commander glanced backward. “Keep that quivering mouth of yours shut, and you’ll soon find out,” he hissed.

Barren of feeling, his eyes narrowed and scanned Zaethan, assessing him from head to toe. Finding his son wanting, the commander spun and resumed his conversation with Gregor.

Zaethan’s gaze flickered to the throne. The byrnnzite antlers reached for the domed heights of the hall, as if spindly wings sprouted from Dmitri’s lean shoulders. He did not acknowledge the intimate audience in any way. A tear trailed the prince’s gaunt cheek as he readjusted his grasp on Queen Lourissa, who muffled her sobs in an ornate handkerchief. For what seemed an eternity, Zaethan watched as his oldest friend plucked at the hairs of his brow, staring into nothingness.

In his periphery, Zaethan saw the Boreali suddenly spin toward the servant’s entry off the edge of the hall. The elder mouthed in witch- tongue to her niece. Seconds later, the modest door burst open, and half a dozen sentries entered the room, fanning out. Metal clinking echoed from the passageway, reverberating through the room, and General Lateef emerged at the tail of the procession. Trudging toward the front of the platform, he dragged a heavy chain, scraping it against the floor.

“We have the assassin in our custody, Your Highness,” the general announced.

Somber and still, Dmitri shifted. At his slow nod, General Lateef yanked the chain mercilessly, wrenching a shapely woman into the hall by a hefty collar around her neck. An excited glint filled the general’s eyes when he jerked the remnants of the chain more forcefully, bringing the prisoner to her knees underneath torn, velvet skirts.

A coldness shot through Zaethan’s legs when the prisoner’s mess of curls hitched aside as she clutched the collar, coughing into the floor. Wiping moisture from the corner of her mouth, Salma Nabhu’s ageless eyes scanned Orynthia’s elite.

“Ano zà, Jaha, it wasn’t me!” She petitioned him, stumbling to rise. “By Owàa and the Fates, I swear it!”

The general lashed the chain, lurching her forward. Salma slammed into the first steps as Lateef proclaimed, “Salma Nabhu, the notorious madam of The Veiled Lady, was caught smuggling Mworran pammu through the Andweles. In her black-market dealings, this cross-caste has circumvented the established cargo channels, directing dozens of shipments to this palace—many delivered straight to the king’s private collection.”

Bewildered, Zaethan gaped at his father. A small quiver pulsed through his pitted jawline; his only reaction as he listened to the general’s report. Retaining his unsympathetic scowl and composed stance, Zaethan’s father gave no indication of his foreknowledge, let alone the part he’d played in her systems of trade.

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General Lateef leered at the woman, tightening her metal leash. “A young sentry came across one of her opened bottles in your father’s study this evening and had a taste. He died shortly afterward.”

Zaethan flipped his palms over and examined the lines in his skin, wondering if he’d been the one who’d carried death to the king’s door. Raising his head in disbelief, he saw the al’haidren to Boreal watching him, likely pondering the same. Her hauntingly irregular irises narrowed suspiciously before she turned to face the throne. Guardedly, Zaethan followed suit.

Dmitri’s expression darkened as he reached for his walking cane, gripping it tightly. He released the queen. Steadying the cane between his legs, he sat taller.

“Orynthia hereby charges this debauched cross-caste as an enemy of the realm,” Zaethan’s father said, producing a packet of papers tucked into the back of his belt. “For her high crimes of civil lawlessness, organized treason, and the assassination of a sitting regent.”

“No! No, ano zà! I did not do these things,” Salma cried, and crawled to General Lateef across the marble, seizing his muddy boot. “I taste all my product, sample every batch myself. There was no poison—”

“The prisoner admits guilt in her black-market trade, Your Highness.” Zaethan’s father whipped his hand at the hysterical madam crumpled on the floor. “A cross-caste who has cultivated contacts from every corner of the realm, sowing her treasonous venom while they lie in the clutches of her whores!”

“Ano! I would never betray Korbin—”

The general kicked her in the ribs. The queen gasped and reached out for Dmitri when Lateef repeated the assault. Whimpering, Salma wrapped her already battered arms around her knees.

Dmitri thumped the cane between his feet. “That is more than sufficient, General.”

“We’ve received several reports from the sentry regarding this woman’s open disdain for the crown. My own son,” Zaethan’s father clapped his back paternally, “can corroborate these accounts of her insurrectionary rhetoric. He is known to frequent her establishment quite often.”

“Zaeth.” Dmitri’s eyes widened. “Is this true?”

His father’s hand engulfed Zaethan’s shoulder, considerably bruised beneath the sling and his loose, collarless shirt.

“I don’t…she…” Zaethan stammered, skeptical that Salma’s idle comments could ever support such drastic crimes.

His father’s thumb dug harshly into the sore tissue over his shoulder blade, and Zaethan suppressed a wince.

“Nabhu has previously mentioned her distrust in the Ethnicam,” he confessed, absorbing the unrelenting bite of his father’s grip. “But beyond that, I cannot bear testimony to anything more.”

“You see?” His father sneered, squeezing mercilessly before letting go and moving closer to the platform beside the general. “The traitor voiced her treacherous views in the presence of your own Quadren, without any fear of consequence. What would stop a corrupt cross-caste like this, without the proper governance of a House, from resorting to murder to achieve her ambitions?”

Zaethan’s forehead crumpled, confused as to why his father advocated Salma’s guilt with so little evidence. At that, the haidren to Pilar inched forward as well, the fabric of his pristine shoto robes wafting around his feet like a cloud. In his shadow, Sayuri appeared ill. Sweat beaded along her hairline and upper lip, as if she were about to double over any moment. Her uncle combed his sharp beard with his ugly nailpiece, addressing Dmitri and his mother.

“Perhaps our perspective is too shortsighted in this matter, Your Highnesses.” Tetsu Naborū paced toward Salma, huddled on the floor, favoring her ribs. “Perhaps another, much closer to us, plotted this violent scheme by simply adopting this woman’s channels of operation? Our allies may not be as faithful as they seem. Razôuel betrayed us before…turned against King Aquila during the Shield Wars. What would prevent history’s repetition, with a daughter of the burgundy sands just one contract away from where your mother sits now?”

Zaethan’s mouth parted, utterly shocked to hear Pilar voice his own theory. The Zôueli could’ve easily identified Salma’s pammu runners out of Calluc, or those through the Andwele Mountains. The king’s fondness for illegal imports wasn’t exactly secret. Instigators could have sent word to the Zôueli, informing them of his personal breach of their treaty against Mworra. The formidable queen of Razôuel was not one to overlook the duplicity of a king.

Dmitri sunk into the cushions of the throne and held his temples in one hand. He remained silent while Zaethan’s father glowered at Sayuri’s uncle. Then a peculiar exchange passed between the two men. Tetsu Naborū laced his hands together and pointed his fingers to the floor, staring intently at Zaethan’s father. His fingers altered, shaping his hands into another formation, and the corners of his thin lips smirked at the commander of the Orynthian armies.

His father’s nostrils flared. Snatching the chain from General Lateef, he cruelly heaved Salma forward by the neck.

“Regardless of any implausible partnerships,” he scoffed, hauling her up the first step, “Salma Nabhu has been found guilty of forging contracts with our enemies, managing the distribution of contraband throughout the territories, and—by the delivery of poison to royal chambers—is therefore responsible for the assassination of a reigning descendent of Thoarne!” Then the commander’s voice softened bizarrely. “Your father, the Fates escort his soul, would counsel you to avenge his untimely death. What will your people think, Your Highness, if you show leniency to his murderess? Is treason something the crown will tolerate during your reign?”

Dmitri’s eyes flashed open, darting toward the accused. His mouth creased into a flat line as his chest rose and fell with quick, harsh breaths.

“Salma Nabhu.” Dmitri spoke lowly, the sound hoarse and depleted. “You are hereby sentenced to death for the assassination of my father, Korbin Aquila Thoarne, a ruling son of Thoarne, the Stag King of Orynthia, and mighty sovereign of her four Houses.”

“Ano! Please!” Salma shrieked, scrambling to climb the steps. Zaethan’s father slung her backward and slapped her to the ground.

“Your death will be slow and arduous,” Dmitri continued, as if no one else was in the room. “Without a House to contest these charges, tomorrow you will be banished to The Wastes. You are to spend your final days alone, thirsting for forgiveness for your crimes. May the Fates show you mercy where I cannot.”

Her sentencing resonated through Thoarne Hall. The haidren to Boreal’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, the other wrapped around her niece. Stunned, Zaethan watched Dmitri heavily wave for Salma to be taken away. Zaethan’s father offered Naborū a triumphant grin before he towed Salma through the servant’s entry. The chains rattled down the dark passage as he disappeared.

As she crossed the threshold, Salma held onto the doorframe, refusing to leave.

“Jaha, please! Who else will protect my family?” Her curls stuck to her cheeks from tears and sweat as she wailed for Zaethan to save her, and those in her employ. “You know this truth, Jaha, you know—”

Her hazel eyes bulged when the collar bit into her flesh, suffocating her cries. Salma’s fingers went limp, and her resistance faltered. The sentries escorted General Lateef toward the passage, following their commander. The last one closed the door gently, as if the leaders of the realm were merely sharing a midnight cup of tea.

Moisture and warmth flooded Zaethan’s nose. Reaching back to clasp his neck, he felt the room start to spin. He could still hear Salma’s screams.

The queen turned and buried her face in the handkerchief, weeping uncontrollably. Dmitri once again closed his eyes, wincing at the tempo of her sobs.

“We must speak with the haidren to Bastiion on a matter of the utmost urgency,” he stated hollowly. “I request you all leave us and make for your beds. The royal guard will accompany you to your apartments now.”

Zaethan hesitated, wanting to console his friend, but made for the double doors. Sayuri clutched her middle as her uncle led her into the main corridor, clearly unsettled by the ordeal. Following her aunt, the witch was ushered into a semi-circle of najjan waiting directly outside the hall, each shadowman visibly more on edge than the next. Behind them all, Ira clumsily shoved his hands in his pockets and mutely departed with Zaethan, seemingly in a daze.

“Ira, I asked you to stay,” Dmitri called.

Zaethan and Ira shared a confused expression, spinning toward the prince. Dmitri perched forward on the throne, gripping his cane.

Gregor looked at his son and spread his hands. “Your Highness, Ira isn’t needed for these talks. Perhaps in time, he can attend these discussions—”

Shakily, Dmitri came to his feet, leaning on the byrnnzite handle of his cane for support. “I ordered an audience with the haidren to Bastiion, not the sil’haidren.” When Gregor sputtered, the prince cautioned sternly, “You are relieved from your duties on the Quadren, Lord Hastings. Orynthia thanks you for your years of sacrifice and service to the crown. Now, leave us.” His cane pointed to the corridor, then tapped his boot. “And please, Ira, don’t dawdle. We’ve much to discuss.”

Gregor reeled in place, dumbfounded. Outrage flushed up his neck, reddening the skin beneath his beard. Stalking past his son, Gregor grunted at Ira and slammed the door open.

Zaethan glanced back as he exited the room. The prince of Orynthia produced a dry handkerchief and leaned down to wipe his mother’s tears. Except, Zaethan realized, he was no longer looking at a prince.

Within the span of a few terrible hours, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne had become a king.

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