CHAPTER THREE: Luscia
The brilliant midday sun glinted off the lethal angles of the kuerre Luscia held. Light bounced within the luxiron core and drenched the metal in a translucent opalescence, as if awaking it from a mortal slumber.
The sword was perfect in every way.
Luscia lovingly polished it in circular motions while her men finished their meal and allowed the horses to rest. Strategically weighted and diligently sized, the kuerre’s curved blade fell just below her knee when sheathed. Her father had commissioned the piece months ago as an Ascension gift for her, and Luscia couldn’t imagine a more befitting tool to take with her into adulthood.
“It suits you,” Declan commented. His hooded, steely eyes sparkled at her for a moment before he resumed packing the uneaten pieces of meat. “It will bring him honor for you to carry it when we reach the crown city.”
Luscia agreed, smiling in quiet contentment.
She caught sight of Aksel trotting in and out of the patches of sunlight piercing the dense canopy overhead. It illuminated the lycran’s pristine coat of white fur, emphasizing the russet streak running between his eyes to the base of his tail. An ache of gratitude settled in Luscia’s chest as she watched Aksel, who had been another gift from her father. The Clann Darragh knew his daughter well, and the tokens her guarded nature would need to move from one reality to the next.
“Hey!” sounded a frantic voice. Noxolo, sitting a few yards away, ceased digging his long fingers through a shallow satchel and frowned at the small grouping. “Who took my smoked muskrat?”
In answer to the distress contorting the najjan’s delicate features, Böwen chuckled and gave Noxolo a hard pat on the back. Creyvan, the more considerate of the two, offered him a questionable alternative from his own sack.
“This is a serious offense!” Noxolo shrieked, knocking the jerky out of Creyvan’s hand. “That was fresh from home! My sister Deirdre dried that last batch right before Lady Luscia’s Ascension. Jerky made to go in this belly, for this jaunt!” Nox marched about their makeshift circle, in hopes of detecting betrayal in their faces. His grey eyes bounced between the suspects, his silvery hair whipping with his hysteric gesturing. “This belly!” he carried on. “For this jaunt!”
“Shut it, Noxolo!” Declan shouted beside her. “Nobody cares about your sister’s muskrat…or any other piece of game on her.” His square face grimaced at his own imagination.
Luscia laughed openly for the first time that day. It was a witty, if sadly accurate observation, she had to admit. Before that comment, she would have listed Creyvan and his genial brother as their only source of levity. What a relief they were not unaided. Though by the horror that twisted Nox’s thin lips into a sour knot, it registered that only Declan earned his mention on her private list.
“Do not jest so crudely in front of the al’haidren.”
Her eyes snapped up to meet Marek’s across the small clearing as the men’s teasing trailed off. His admonishment was spoken to the others, but the look he pinned on Luscia implied it was she who should be dictating the definition of appropriate banter. An almost imperceptible narrowing of his bright eyes suggested that vulgarity was beneath her station.
Luscia concluded that, like Noxolo, Captaen Marek Bailefore would never make her list, either.
It was one of the many reasons she’d struggled to accept him as a potential suitor, despite her father’s urging, and another example of the High One’s unfathomable sense of humor. In Marek’s shadow, other men rarely approached to make any intention beyond friendship known. Most Boreali women, of any age, would’ve been elated to be tethered to the redheaded warrior—after all, Marek was one of the more attractive bachelors in Roüwen. However, Luscia felt that a strong jaw and piercing gaze couldn’t compensate for his domineering tactics and unwanted opinions.
Fortunately, Boreal’s Clann Darragh hadn’t assigned his protégée and favored captaen among the najjan as Luscia’s sole escort to Bastiion. For that, she would thank Aniell. Luscia was certain that, however much Orien Darragh beamed at the image of them together, her safety must have overruled any ceremonial agenda. Still, she’d long reconciled that a union with the captaen was inescapable. Luscia’s role as future haidren to Boreal would require she not only make a match to preserve the line of Tiergan, but a powerful one within the boundaries of their reclusive society.
Rebelliously, Luscia wondered if enough crass joking might cause Marek to reconsider just how much nonsense he’d willingly tolerate, and perhaps seek companionship elsewhere. But, as he’d already implied with his pointed look, it was her responsibility to set the standard for decorum. So, instead, she settled for staring imperiously until he lowered his eyes. He would, eventually. The dogmatic captaen might be the head of her private guard, but he held no such sway over the al’haidren herself, and in such moments, Luscia loved to remind him of it.
“It was probably just the lycran, Noxolo,” Marek stated with finality.
“Don’t blame poor Aksel for the grabby paws of men, Marek,” Luscia interjected as she packed the polishing cloth into her traveling case and stood to sheath her kuerre.
As if to make her retort more believable, the menacing wolx growled from his position at her side. Even sitting, his head perched well above her waist. At nearly two hundred pounds, Aksel was massive, even for an Orallach fox-wolf hybrid. His protective instincts had only heightened since crossing Boreal’s border and now showed in the way he bared his teeth at the captaen.
With pride, she clicked her tongue and chided, “Now, Aksel, we mustn’t lower ourselves to the beastly standards of others.”
It was petty, but she was incredibly bored. During the past fortnight of travel, the only occasion Luscia exerted effort to communicate beyond necessity was to stimulate her mind or distract it. Though there’d been no other sign of a threatening presence following them, excess boredom encouraged wary curiosity to drift into speculation about the patched gash down the side of her tent, or the dreams that still haunted her. Thus, being a perplexing product of logic and whimsy, with each trait warring against the other, she could only converse with herself for so long. If one virtue wasn’t fully engaged, the other would prevail, and Luscia wasn’t yet ready for whimsy to yield to cold pragmatism. Pragmatism inevitably sought answers—answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.
Climbing into the worn leather saddle, she dipped her fingers into an inner pocket of the satchel and swiftly drank one of her aunt’s prescribed tonics while the men were distracted by their departure. Her condition having been concealed by family since puberty, she aimed to prevent her next episode as long as possible. Discreetly, Luscia dabbed a drop of the liquid from her bottom lip after the others began to move.
Watching the line of najjan plunge into the wood, she again felt the crisp, sobering premonition each step toward the House of Bastiion incited. Lifting her chin, Luscia stared ahead, determined to ignore it.
“Noxolo!” she called with renewed cheer. “Tell us more of your sister’s muskrat. Our friend Marek here regularly enjoys game most tend to avoid.”
“Well, Deirdre uses a variety of techniques…”
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With a satisfied smirk, Luscia trotted her horse past the successfully mortified Boreali captaen.
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Humidity pressed against her skin like an unwanted kiss. It must have been the hottest day of spring thus far, and Luscia had long since done away with the magnificent fox fur she’d received upon her departure from Roüwen. Her Northern brethren refused to waste any aspect of a kill, viewing each as a sacrificial gift from above, and Luscia was usually more than happy to be a recipient of their resourcefulness. Furs were often worn throughout the cool, damp springs of Boreal’s highlands, but the climate had progressively shifted as they descended into Orynthia’s lower elevations.
Jerking his coat off each arm, Böwen seemed to share her disgust for the weather. In a huff, he shoved the Boreali jacket into a saddle bag and pulled most of his chin-length hair away from where it had begun to stick to his cheeks.
“I don’t understand how the Unitarians endure this soggy, sweltering pit every year,” he grumbled.
“Ana’Sere, will it be like this the entire summer?” Creyvan asked from behind.
“Wem,” she confirmed, “though worse, if I recall. However, my only visit was during autumn, to celebrate the prince’s Ascension.”
Unlike her predecessors, Orien Darragh had shielded his daughter from court life in Bastiion, relying entirely on Alora, the clan elders, and the Isle of Viridis to shape Luscia into their next al’haidren. During her entire seclusion, there was one sole event in Bastiion that had demanded her attendance: the eighteenth birthday of Dmitri Thoarne, crown prince of Orynthia.
“Do you remember him much, Ana’Sere? Prince Dmitri?” Noxolo inquired, turning in his seat to glance back from the head of the party.
In truth, her recollection of the experience was vague and admittedly useless. At twelve years of age, Luscia had hardly been politically savvy or socially fluent. Faint memories painted Dmitri Thoarne as being a kind and considerate, if somewhat frail, young man. But he was no longer eighteen, just as she was no longer twelve. Luscia grinned at that. Six years could change a person exponentially.
“He was a very gracious host,” Luscia said, aware of her ambiguity, but it wasn’t as if they’d been royal bunkmates at the time.
Clearly dissatisfied, Noxolo reluctantly faced forward, drooping his shoulders dramatically.
“What of the other al’haidrens?” Böwen asked. “You must have met them during his Ascension ceremonies.”
“Introductions were made, though more for formality’s sake than the purpose of actual acquaintance,” Luscia began, attempting to answer their curiosity as accurately as possible. Like her, they too had lived in seclusion most of their lives. “The al’haidren to Bastiion was pleasant, though often inebriated. Or missing altogether, allegedly seeking company in noble skirts.”
“Typical,” Declan retorted dryly, riding up alongside Luscia as the trail began to widen.
She nodded because it was an accurate estimation. While the Unitarian provinces provided the realm with various goods and reliable crops, Bastiion’s nobility rarely contributed anything besides excessive legislature and needless finery. In their quest for personal fulfillment, Unitarians occupied the remainder of their time in pursuit of the next pleasure, often on a daily basis.
“What about Pilar?” Creyvan yelled excitedly from the other side. “The Pilarese Beauty is famous, but I heard she has a tongue like a Tavish horsewhip!”
“Though not as lovely as you, Ana’Sere, of course,” Böwen rushed to counter his twin’s enthusiasm.
“Tadöm,” Luscia thanked him. “I’m well aware of my reflection, Böwen, but I do appreciate your reassurance.” Grinning in his direction, she found Böwen blushing behind his short, golden beard, barely longer than a day’s stubble.
Throughout her youth, Luscia had heard her physical beauty affirmed enough to accept the claims. Her fair eyes, one nearly the translucent hue of the kuerre, were prismatic like the warmed waters of the Dönumn, where the najjan tempered their sacred luxiron. Tiergan lineage was always self-evident to any who knew to look for it in the eyes. Accented by thick, distinct brows and crisp cheekbones, hers was a fearsome beauty. Glancing down, Luscia noted how the sun highlighted the palest tresses that framed her face like ribbons of bone, a stark contrast against her ferocious mane the color of driftwood.
Even from afar, the daughter of Orien Darragh was unmistakable.
The najjan favored women who bore sparks of Boreal’s otherness, so they celebrated a woman who appeared as hauntingly beautiful as their homeland. Yet Luscia was no longer in Boreal, and she wouldn’t blame the Eastern Unitarians if they didn’t share that same appreciation. At best, she imagined they might classify her Northern features as striking.
At worst, rather unsettling.
“I can’t attest to the rumors, Creyvan,” she said at last. “Frankly, the al’haidren to Pilar avoided me like war-taint.”
Which was probably a blessing, Luscia added silently.
From their brief encounter, she had surmised the Western al’haidren to be a perfect reflection of Pilar; cultured and steeped in snobbery. The House of Pilar operated as Orynthia’s center of learning. Devoting their lives to discovery and advancement, their shotos spent years studying and debating topics most in the realm couldn’t begin to comprehend. While Bastiion’s Peerage of Nobility functioned as Orynthia’s political network in the foreground, Pilar’s Shoto Collective supported it from behind a curtain of bribery and deceit. Backed by an economy stocked with rich mariners and continual profit from naval contracts, Pilar had become the wealthiest of the outer Houses, second only to Bastiion.
“Well, Darakai, then. Surely you remember that barbarian,” Declan rumbled.
It was true—Luscia would never forget the Darakaian boy, though she’d certainly like to. She could still hear his melodic laugh at her expense, one that crinkled a pair of eyes the shade of fresh sage. She recalled thinking they were lovely one night, while admiring the way the older boy’s glance caught a flare from fireworks shot across the water. Incredibly lovely, in fact. That is, until he deliberately pushed her overboard into Thoarne Bay. With Luscia’s transition through puberty unfinished, her bones hadn’t yet achieved their unearthly resilience. Her right arm had broken in the fall.
It had rapidly healed, of course, but that was hardly the point.
“Briefly and unflatteringly,” Luscia managed. “Ana’Mere swears he apologized, but I doubt there was any conviction behind it. The House of Darakai doesn’t apologize for what they’re proud of—like inbred brutality.”
The House of Boreal’s opposition to the House of Darakai was expected, and had been constant for many centuries. While both territories prided themselves on strength and their capability in battle, Darakaians reveled in the violence it required. Orynthia’s House of war craved bloodshed like a pack of rabid dogs, and their barbaric doctrine taught Darakai to misjudge Boreal’s self-restraint as weakness, and their ability to heal as mystic witchery.
“If Darakai is wise, that House will muzzle their ambassador.” Declan’s thumb stroked the exposed hilt of his dagger. “Ana’Mere is more merciful than the najjan. Unlike your aunt, we won’t hesitate to strike an animal when he refuses to heel.” The promise pinched fissures in his ginger brow, deepening as he stared into the distance.
A weighted emptiness resettled in her abdomen. Luscia had been trained for this honor, but the partnering burden became heavier with the surrounding air. The House of Boreal needed Luscia, their newly ascended al’haidren, to shift a generational bias by navigating a nest of vipers. The Quadren, consisting of one haidren from each House, operated as the most intimate set of advisors for each Orynthian ruler. The House of Bastiion completed their number by providing the fourth haidren, in order to offset an inherent bias. Though the royal descendants of Thoarne were also of Unitarian nobility, Orynthian regents could not personally represent Bastiion and still maintain an impartial posture toward the outer Houses.
Therefore, serving as both the legal and public representative on Boreal’s behalf, Luscia’s seat on Prince Dmitri Thoarne’s Quadren offered her unmitigated influence, as well as unavoidable expectations.
Being firstborn in line behind their predecessors, ties had already formed in her absence between the other al’haidrens and the prince himself. She had always respected her father’s choice to seclude her from court life, yet found herself increasingly disagreeing with it of late as she faced the ramifications. Her upbringing had been enriched by isolation but with great consequence. Luscia would be entering the walls of Bastiion essentially blindfolded, unaware of any preexisting dynamics within Dmitri’s Quadren.
Alora often alluded to hidden alliances between the active haidrens to Pilar and Darakai, but she couldn’t assume those had been adopted by their successors. All Luscia knew for certain was that the voice of Boreal had become discredited over the years, especially during Alora’s seat. Not a difficult task, if the opposing haidrens wished to achieve a mutual goal. With the House of Boreal’s reputation now plagued by jealousy, distrust, and wariness, the political road before Luscia would be riddled with unending hurdles.
Yet that had not always been the case. Though the regents seated on the Orynthian throne had begun to forget their shared history, the bloodlines of Thoarne and Tiergan were as intertwined as the mossy vines encircling the nearest pines. Luscia would have to find a way to remind Orynthia’s prince what had been forgotten, what remained, and what would always be.
“Ana’Sere.” Böwen gestured forward to a steep, rocky trailhead, where Noxolo had halted the line. “Are you ready?”
She regarded the winding trail that plummeted into the Valley of Fahime, steeling herself for the task ahead.
“By Aurynth, Brödre.” Luscia squinted against the sun’s glare and adjusted the sheathed kuerre. “Nearly.”
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