CHAPTER TWELVE: Luscia

A spicy, floral scent struck Luscia as an invigorating breath of rhali pollen filled her sluggish lungs.

Her eyelids cracked open. Bright, hazy light forced her to blink multiple times before her vision could clear. Pressure racked the base of her skull and spread forward, like webs of pain holding her hostage. An involuntary groan escaped her parched lips. Then, with a soft click, the aggressive aroma was capped and whisked away from her nostrils.

“There we are,” said a soothing voice.

A warm palm rested lightly against her forehead. Alora withdrew her hand and began sifting through her apothic instruments, but returned it more forcefully when Luscia tried to lift herself upright.

“Ah, ah…my Boreali niece should know impatience is never prudent. Keeping your Captaen Bailefore out of this room has alone proven cumbersome, so I’d appreciate some cooperation.”

Luscia huffed and pressed her aching head into the pillow.

“Tadöm,” Alora thanked her, combing through the boxed apothecary.

“How long?”

“About forty-eight hours. You’ve broken your record, lu’Lycran,” Alora answered kindly, though the use of Luscia’s childhood name betrayed her aunt’s attempt at nonchalance. She’d not uttered it in years.

Meaning Little Wolx, only Luscia’s father held onto the name his wife had favored. Luscia’s mother used to say their daughter was more lycran than al’haidren, whenever she found Luscia covered in mud or out of bed, exploring in the moonlight. Alora embraced it for a season after her younger sister, Eoine, was taken from them, but her aunt’s parental inclinations were much more reserved than the younger, whimsical woman who’d brought Luscia into the world.

Still, Alora became an essential figure during Luscia’s formative years. True to her sober disposition, hers was a distant love—ardent, but less concerned with impractical sentimentality than with Luscia’s birthright and blood-calling.

“I’ve been in this bed for two days?” Luscia sputtered, startled by the time lost. “I don’t understand how this happened. My vials ran out the night we entered Bastiion. A minor episode occurred once I initiated the Sight,” she added at Alora’s inquiring look. “But even so, my last dose was taken less than a week ago.”

“You waited that long to awaken your connection? Luscia…” Alora scolded, disregarding the topic at hand. “You were instructed to begin communing with the threads the night of your Ascension. I was hoping your Sight would be second nature by now. The threads discern for us. The High One speaks through the Dönumn and thus through the lumin. It’s your most vital gift as haidren to Boreal.”

She’d expected the lecture, but Luscia wasn’t ready to admit to the fear that she’d been vacant of the higher gifts. Or that she’d yet to commune with the threads since.

“Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere.”

“It is forgiven,” Alora dismissed. “Now, what of this minor episode you mentioned? I wasn’t aware there’d been another since your departure. Your fiery captaen only reported what transpired at your reception.”

Briefly, Luscia recounted what had taken place after initiating her Sight in the wood outside the proper. It didn’t make any sense; Luscia had never fallen victim to an episode so quickly after taking her standard dosage. Her aunt began brewing the medicinal treatments around the time of puberty, when an unknown, splitting head pain first took hold of Luscia. Neither Boreal’s chief healer nor her Clann Darragh were able to discern what had befallen their young al’haidren.

“Could this be because of my Ascension? The episodes used to be further apart, but they’ve intensified ever since,” Luscia posed.

“Niit. What’s more likely is, as you approached adulthood and entered into it, the occurrences are being triggered by external stressors. The episode in the wood and the reception were both evenings of extreme significance. The latter incredibly so. You attended without your haidren and were forced to participate in that ridiculous spectacle,” her aunt noted resentfully. “The thought of that court handling you like another plaything…”

Alora moved toward the windows of Luscia’s bedroom, where multiple, glistening jars had been set out upon the window ledge. She picked up a stone bowl and started grinding a complex mix of herbs together.

“Do you think”—Luscia stared at cracks in the ceiling—“maybe I’m like her? That I took after her somehow?”

“Heh’ta. Stop that.” The grinding paused before resuming at a calculated pace. “Assumption is not becoming on you, niece.”

Alora was truthful. Her mother’s madness hadn’t exhibited physical symptoms before…before it had suddenly worsened.

“I’ll simply increase the potency of your dosage as well as the frequency. You’ll soon find court life a continuous stressor.”

“What elements will you add to my treatment?” Luscia propped herself up on an elbow, genuinely curious.

“Many.”

Knowing Alora, the complication of its creation would likely double as well. Her aunt tended to implement herbal blends and methods most Boreali healers wouldn’t think to attempt.

“Ana’Mere, we need to discuss the nature of this elixir I’m to produce for the prince,” Luscia said. “He summoned for more the night I arrived and, frankly, it was dishonest to pretend I’d even known about it.”

“This is not the time for that conversation, Luscia, nor is it mine to have with you.” Alora positioned her back to Luscia as she worked. Her aunt would not give further comment on the matter.

“Will you at least share the cause for your delay, then?”

Luscia knew she was pushing Alora’s tolerance, but she deserved an explanation. Never had another al’haidren been presented to court devoid of their predecessor’s support. Begrudgingly, she’d sacrificed one of her mother’s consort daggers because of it. Her father had gifted Eoine with the set during their courtship, and now Luscia had forever separated the two blades. Meaning, Luscia lost two of his gifts to Bastiion, coupled with the kuerre.

Alora ceased muddling and set down the bowl of half-ground ingredients. “You are no longer a child, so I must resist treating you as such,” she confessed, threading her slender fingers together. “I was notified of a situation in Port Tadeas shortly before your party departed Roüwen. As you know, after declining allegiance to Boreal, cross-castes are not permitted to remain within our territorial borders. Most migrate to the port towns or all the way to Bastiion Proper. It is difficult to survive without the providence of a House, and recently, some of our cross- castes have gone missing.

“I instructed Emiere to reroute us near Port Tadeas so we could investigate. With an indication of darker crimes, the only option was to go and demand answers myself. I honestly don’t believe anyone would have found the boy if we hadn’t gone looking on his behalf.” Alora chewed her lip before continuing. “My guard discovered his body downstream in a hidden creek bed. He looked prepubescent, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Boreali- Unitarian descent. I will spare you the specifics—no one should describe that degree of desecration—but the majority of his body had been ripped apart. The markings resembled that of an animal attack, but from the pattern of victims, it’s clear that isn’t the case.”

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She met Luscia’s gaze, her aunt’s eyes full of an unspoken, depthless sorrow. “I am sorry for my absence, Luscia. You will soon learn that, as haidren, our lives are no longer our own. And as much as I wished to see you recognized by the court, that little boy needed his haidren to recognize him, too.”

It was difficult conversations such as these which made it impossible to stare into the twin cosmos under Alora’s thin brows and not see her mother’s eyes in return. They were Phalen’s eyes. Luscia’s eyes.

Tiergan eyes.

Luscia buried her longing for the past and seized the ire swimming in her chest. For centuries, the House of Boreal had been revered, respected for their unique service to the crown. Somehow, that respect was spun into envy, and envy twisted into suspicion—a suspicion that had led to Boreal’s complete defamation.

Still, the Ethnicam had never demonstrated such violence against their people before. Not after the signing of the Accords. Luscia couldn’t help but imagine the pale, withered frame of a child with walnut curls and vacant, teal eyes. One more relative to Mila, than herself.

“What was his—”

“Finnian Wollack,” Alora murmured before Luscia could ask the boy’s name. “The threads speak differently to each of us, Luscia. I, for instance, can see… climates about a person. The lumin around you pulsed with curiosity, one could say. It may take years for you to learn how to pass in and out of the Sight continuously, but eventually you’ll employ it on a daily basis.”

Alora patted Luscia’s hand and returned to the window to complete her concoction. Her hair shimmered in the sun, much like the sheen of Saoirse pearls, but concealed any emotion by hanging over her delicate face and cascading loosely down her shoulder.

“I need to speak with the prince. He’ll want to know this is happening to our people,” Luscia declared. “Ana’Mere, if you’ll help me out of this bed, Mila can assist in dressing me and I’ll be on my way.”

“Niit. Those feet aren’t going anywhere,” Alora ordered, seriousness altering her tone. “It is time to think, Luscia. Marching down Unitarian halls like some wild, Northern zealot won’t bring Finnian Wollack honor. Always think before allowing your emotions to dictate the path for you. I already brought the matter to the king’s attention when I gave an account of my delay. His Majesty wishes for the local military to handle it, and we are going to let them.”

“But Darakai controls the military. Any investigation for Boreal under their command will result in nothing!” Luscia argued zealously.

“Yet until it proves true, I cannot use that argument with his Majesty,” Alora stated, thwarting Luscia’s rebuttal. “You will not fight me on this. Our House is not in a position to make demands. My years of collaboration with Korbin Thoarne have been cordial, but we are no longer his priority now that the others have set their hooks in him. The louder Boreal screams, the more attention we bring to the fact that the Ethnicam does not see a need for us anymore. They do not know what they cannot know, Luscia, and we won’t resent them for it. Korbin hasn’t felt the threat of battle in decades. He has little experience in what Boreal means to his line, or the realm.”

Frustrated with their political predicament, Luscia lay in silence while Alora poured the modified treatment into a tray of cloudy vials. Accepting one of the doses from her aunt, Luscia drank the marshy fluid in a rush. A sour, bitter tang skimmed the back of her tongue and slid down her throat.

A telling screech came just before a hawk soared through the open window in a flurry of wings. Alora lifted an arm as Amaranth glided onto her master’s perch. A rolled piece of parchment was fastened to one of her legs. The hawk had always been a mystery to Luscia, as she was never privy to the information the lavender bird carried to her aunt, or from whom it repeatedly came.

“Allöh, my dearest. You’re late,” she cooed, stroking Amaranth’s feathers before she unraveled the parchment and scribbled a response to the message within. “Tredae’Aurynth.” She kissed the hawk’s beak gently. “And quickly.”

Three impatient knocks suddenly battered Luscia’s bedroom door, sending Amaranth shrieking back into the skies.

“Captaen Bailefore!” Alora spun and barked through the door. “If you persist in this endeavor to try my patience, then I will soon find some unpleasant use for your lack of it!”

Luscia heard another man clear his throat behind the dense wood.

“Ana’Mere…I’ve not come on my own behalf,” Marek answered nervously.

“Lady Haidren, I trust you’re having a lovely day,” a cheerful voice interjected. “I was wondering if I might share a portion of it?”

Luscia shot up in bed, dragging the blanket higher to cover her thin shift as Alora flew to the handle. Opening the door with poise, Alora revealed the Orynthian prince, who was carrying a thorny, flowering shrub. At Dmitri’s side stood the visibly displeased captaen, although Marek’s expression softened when he realized Luscia had awoken.

“Your Highness.” Alora’s hand braced her middle. “Meh fyreon. I apologize, we mistook you for our determined Captaen Bailefore. Bolaeva, do come in.”

Marek made to follow the prince, only to have Alora swiftly shut the door in his face.

“Your protective services are sufficient from the common room, Captaen Bailefore,” she added, aware he would listen even from a distance.

“Lady Haidren, it’s so good to see you,” Dmitri said, nodding respectfully to Alora. He glanced about the room before gesturing to the chair by Luscia’s bedside. “May I?”

“Wem, bolaeva!” Luscia blurted, realizing she’d spoken in her native tongue rather than his own. “Yes. Yes, please do.”

“Tadöm.” Dmitri grinned as he sat down, summoning the dimple in his right cheek with his surprising use of Boreali. “I’m learning.”

His face caught the afternoon light while he scanned her quarters. Again, Luscia noticed the improved vitality of his skin. Warm, mossy eyes bounced between the furs across the foot of her bed to the jars lining the edge of her open window. The incoming breeze disturbed his hair, freeing it from where it curled around his ears.

“I hope you find your apartments satisfactory. I held them specifically for your party, since there are so few facing northward,” he commented, pointing to the bay below.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Luscia said earnestly. “Our view of Thoarne Bay is quite captivating. I enjoy watching the drifting bazaar transform throughout the day. It’s quite eclectic.”

“Yes, I suppose there’s that.” He chuckled. “Mainly, I thought you’d appreciate the ability to look toward home whenever you find yourself missing it.”

Angling his head, the prince smiled sympathetically. His irises looked greener in the daylight against the contrast of his darker lashes. A spark of hope sprung forth that Dmitri Thoarne might indeed become the partner Boreal needed.

“That is incredibly thoughtful, Your Highness.”

“Oh! That reminds me. This is for you,” he said, clumsily handing the shrub he held to Luscia. “It’s called a noculoma-anastasis. They’re quite rare! You see, the buds bloom only after dark during nights with little to no moonlight. I had it uprooted from the royal gardens to keep you company while you recover from your ailment.”

Traces of dirt showed beneath the trimmed edges of his fingernails. The prince must have repotted it himself. Luscia found herself unexpectedly touched at the gift.

“It’s beautiful. I promise to keep Aksel from consuming it,” Luscia jested, setting the plant on her night table.

Alora pulled another chair around to the opposite side of Luscia’s bed and set a long, wooden box across her lap. Carved from fallen timber on the Isle, Viridi wood was prized for its deep amber striation and seldom traded with outsiders.

“Your Highness, I am deeply remorseful for my absence during Luscia’s reception,” Alora prefaced, placing the Viridi box between them. “Unfortunately, that also meant I was delayed in bringing you what is rightfully yours.”

Her small hands opened the case to reveal a brilliant luxiron sword, set in a lush bed of embroidered linsilk. The sword’s core emitted the same luminosity as Luscia’s confiscated kuerre, but didn’t curve as conventional najjani blades did. Built with an untraditional hilt, their luxsmiths had crafted the metal to resemble a dozen interlocking, golden antlers.

“The Stag Age commenced with your father, but it is our hope that under your stewardship, it will thrive,” Luscia explained her design. “This is hardly as historic as I envisioned, but I’m proud to reveal Boreal’s true offering—your Sword of Thoarne.”

Dmitri’s fingers brushed his lips in awe as he studied the blade’s intricacy. “I can’t help but feel there’s a great disparity between us,” Dmitri said in a melancholy voice, carefully holding the case open. “You’ve given me this sword when Bastiion has taken your own, though at least your mother’s dagger may remain in your care. Despite the commander’s rather… aggressive… objections, I managed to convince my father to consider it an exception to Gregor’s newest piece of legislation.”

“A kindness indeed, Your Highness,” Luscia managed to say. “Its name?”

“Communion. The state of things so held.”

Hesitantly, his thumb ran the length of the fuller in a reverent caress. “This is truly magnificent. Luscia, I have no words.”

He didn’t get an opportunity to form them, either, due to a loud crash from the common room. Multiple languages rang out in what sounded like a heated disagreement.

“Where is he? I demand you open that door!” a man shouted, emphasized by a compilation of what she presumed were Andwele obscenities.

Rising from the chair, Dmitri carefully latched the case and picked it up, along with his cane. “This has been a delightful visit, if cut short,” he said with a sigh, glowering at Luscia’s door. “I’ll forgive you your watchdog, if you’d be so gracious as to forgive me mine.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Alora assured him.

Meeting Luscia’s eyes once again, Dmitri added, “Truly, the sword…” He nodded to the box in his hand. “It will be cherished.”

“Just as we’d hoped,” Luscia told him with a heartfelt smile.

Reluctantly opening the door to her domed common room, the prince said farewell and quietly closed it behind him.

Too exhausted to protest the Darakaian intrusion, Luscia flipped on her side and admired Dmitri’s noculoma-anastasis upon her nightstand, for once content to let her guard protest it for her.

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