CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Luscia

Luscia licked her forefinger and turned a page of the Zôueli compendium, fully immersed as she researched Bastiion’s guests in preparation for her first solstice at court. Razôuel was said to have been founded during the Sword Age by a vast wave of maritime wayfinders, in search of a home in the wake of the Forgotten Wars. It was unsurprising, then, that Razôuel maintained a fortified fleet barring their western border.

Luscia was unsure how that helped their fight against a cannibalistic enemy to the south. She made a note to ask someone later.

“Any word from my aunt, Tallulah?” she asked the maid as Tallulah entered the common room, tray in hand. Luscia wasn’t particularly well-educated on Zôueli affairs and had hoped her aunt might provide some guidance before the Westerners arrived.

Tallulah’s lip hugged her overbite apprehensively. “Niit, Lady Luscia. Her lady’s maid relays she’s been summoned by the Peerage again, been in their chamber all morning.” She placed the tray of small bites in front of the chaise and poured Luscia a fresh cup of steaming tea.

The vapor was a calming blend of eüpharsis and drösarra leaf, suggesting Tallulah’s own lingering anxiety. Still shaken from her altercation with Kasim, Luscia had prescribed herself a version of the tea for the past few days. Aside from clan leadership, only her men knew the origin of her ghastly scar, and now, likely the al’haidren to Darakai. Whatever had motivated him to revert to such despicableness, she’d shown her hand during their exchange. Feeling exposed, in more ways than one, Luscia drew the thin blanket higher and accepted the hot cup from the maid.

“Rul’Aniell…in and through Him, all will be well in time,” Luscia weakly assured the older woman, accepting the tea. “Tadöm, Tallulah.”

“Rul’Aniell.” The maid curtsied, nodding to herself. “Yeh’maelim, Ana’Sere.”

A timid knock came from the doors to the apartments. Wiping her chapped hands against her apron, Tallulah scuttled under the vast dome to greet their visitor. Before she could reach for the handles, Marek entered from a side hall and stopped her, seamlessly taking her place in the snug entry.

“Meh fyreon,” he apologized to the maid before cracking open the door. “What is it?” Luscia overheard him inquire of someone on the other side. “Fine. Stay here.”

Her captaen snatched the piece of parchment in his fist and closed the thin gap to the passageway. Wordlessly, he marched to Luscia’s side and offered it without looking in her direction. They’d barely spoken since Alora’s discovery of Luscia’s nightly departures, and his coldness had worsened after her recent decision to send Mila to Boreal.

Creyvan had not been a supporter of her decision, either. Luscia spied him through her unbound hair, where he peeled an apple in the corner of the room. His typically jovial features had waned into a slack apathy in his twin’s absence. She’d not heard his voice in days.

Breaking the prince’s seal, Luscia unfolded the note, scanning it quickly.

Luscia,

The Zôueli are reported to arrive by nightfall. Five vials would be prudent.

Yours, Dmitri

Crinkling the parchment, she rose from the chaise and immediately sought her bedroom. Luscia caressed the pad of her forefinger, the same that moments prior had embraced Zôueli history. Heaving a sigh, she gripped the skeleton key hanging between her breasts and sought her chambers.

----------------------------------------

They walked in silence, with only the clack of Aksel’s claws to break the hollow quiet.

“This is worse than a lecture,” she muttered, draping her arm to skim the lycran’s back. “Just say what you wish, Marek.”

Passing another column, Marek let the moment hang before he complied sharply. “You sent them without any clearance. Böwen is a critical member of this unit.”

“Your najjan report to me before they report to you,” she snapped back, keeping her voice below a whisper, “and are therefore at my disposal.”

His stride stiffened in step with hers as he bent to her height. “Escorting a stray cross-caste through the Valley of Fahime is not what the elders had in mind when choosing the finest najjan for your disposal.”

“Mila is not a stray!” Luscia tried not to shout. “How dare you question my intent—”

His eyes flashed ahead to Callister as he led them to the main floor. “There are elements of that journey which you are unaware of, Ana’Sere.” Marek maintained a lower volume to avoid the page’s ears. “Things even Böwen does not know—things he ought to have known before traveling with a woman and two unascended children.”

Luscia swallowed, her throat dry. She watched the tips of her boots advance across the stonework beneath her skirts. “I acted within my rights, Marek.”

“Just because we have the right to do something doesn’t always mean we should. A conversation would have been nice.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw clench bitterly. “I’m not asking to give you permission, Luscia. I’m asking to offer you counsel.”

Pressure filled her sinuses, suddenly overcome with worry and embarrassment. If she’d endangered Mila in an attempt to protect her…Luscia didn’t know how to begin fixing such a misstep.

Again.

“Callister,” she called, slowing at the landing. “Wait for us ahead. I need a moment with the captaen.”

The page blinked a couple times and continued, stopping short of their next turn, where he fidgeted in place. Luscia pulled Marek behind the nearest marble column and leveled with him.

“Should I send someone after them? Declan, perhaps?” She stared into his stern face until they locked eyes. She found sadness beneath their beryl and teal tones. “She’s not safe here. It’s this place, Marek. You don’t understand. I just…I need her to be safe. Both of them.”

Marek palmed the steep angles of his face. The shade of his stubble rivaled his crimson hair as it’d gone unshaven since he’d learned of her nightly departures. “They aren’t clear of danger yet, but Böwen earned his place beside you.” He raised his arm as if to comfort her, but let it drop and glanced away. “You can trust his instincts—just not everyone else’s.”

She reached out and grazed his chin with her fingertips, tempting it toward her. His stance froze, and his lips parted in surprise.

“Meh fyreon, Ana’Brödre.” Luscia kept her hand against the roughness of his cheek. “I am truly sorry, and…I will try to do better.”

“Tadöm. This thing between you and I…” Marek’s response trailed off as someone cleared their throat awkwardly.

Callister’s head popped around the column. “Lady al’Haidren, please. The prince awaits.” He shuffled aside, wary of the najjan’s distaste for intrusion.

Luscia smiled gingerly and skirted between them, rescuing the adolescent page from Marek’s intimidation as he readjusted the sheath at his hip.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

As the sun began to set, they entered a part of the palace foreign to Luscia. Through a series of ornate gates, walls of byrnnzite emerged to form a sort of temple, open to the elements. A dome of the same material covered a large dais, upheld by a series of statues, their figures undefined though no less imposing. At their feet, a healthy fire sparkled in individual altars encircled by plants, goods, and precious stones.

“You’ll need to remain here, sir.” Callister flinched slightly when the captaen leveled his glare at the page and growled under his breath.

“It’s fine, Captaen.” Luscia laced her fingers together and stepped beside the page. “I will meet with the prince while you and Aksel wait on the steps. You may go, Callister.”

Without further delay, the prince’s page scurried down the steps and back the way they’d come. With a nod to Marek, Luscia entered the odd structure. In front of the farthest statue, the prince sat on a stool in front of the largest altar. An empty stool waited beside him, his walking cane resting between the two.

“A bit humid for fires this time of year, Your Highness,” she remarked as she took up residence on the unoccupied stool.

Dmitri chuckled. Firelight danced over his olive cheeks as he toyed with a carving in his grasp. “I’m told the Fates don’t care much for the weather, and we must appease them regardless.”

“With flame?” Luscia wasn’t familiar with the fluidity of the Unitarian faith, much less the rest of the Houses.

“Actually, it’s the burning, I think.” Dmitri leaned over his knees, his richly embroidered vest crinkling with the movement. “The Fates prefer destruction to newness, so the burning keeps their lust at bay. That’s what the priestesses claim, at least.” He casually gestured to the women weaving incense around the temple, at an obvious distance from the prince. “I despise the smell of it. Why can’t they ever smudge roses?”

“Do your Fates have an objection to roses?”

The prince set his chin on a fist quietly. Angling his head, he replied, “You know, I’ve never thought to ask. I’ll burn them a bushel next time.” Sitting upright, he murmured conspiringly, “But not the Hildureans. Those took quite a lot of tending on my part.”

Luscia grinned and pulled his vials from a pouch sewn into her skirt—Mila’s handiwork.

“You’re quiet this evening,” he observed, pocketing the vials discreetly. “I now realize it might’ve been offensive to ask you to meet in this place. I hardly come myself, but when I learned the princess was nearing the city, I thought it best to, well…” Dmitri shrugged. “Just in case.”

Rigidly, he lifted himself off the stool and tossed the wooden trinket into the flames. Some inner pain tightened his mouth as he returned to the modest seat.

Luscia considered the prominent idol rising from the altar. “Your Fates are fickle.”

“Is your High One not?”

“Niit, not characteristically.” She shook her head and studied his totem turning to ash. He’d etched such detail into its creation.

“Interesting,” Dmitri commented, chucking a piece of lint into the fire. “Zaeth’s people believe in what they call jwona rapiki—fate writers. They propose that the rarest of men can ‘write over’ the will of the Fates.” He picked another collection of fibers off his vest and donated it to the hungry inferno. “Do you believe the same? Or are we all just subjects to destiny?”

Luscia laughed sourly. “I pray my actions are not that finite. How destructive it would be to hold power outside Aniell’s will.”

“So, you are a prisoner to destiny, as we are to the Fates?”

“No. Niit, I’m a…partner. To something greater.” Luscia brushed the tip of the solrahs in her septum. “I merely hope to be a good one, and not a disappointment.”

Dmitri pivoted on the edge of his stool, facing her. “Is that a regular concern of yours, Lady Boreal?”

She hesitated, wondering how candid she ought to be with him. Dmitri often made it second nature to forget his birthright in conversation. “My men hardly look at me anymore. Each time I attempt heroics, I somehow make it worse.”

Luscia resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder at the red-headed captaen on the steps.

“I can empathize with the feeling.” The prince sighed knowingly and smirked. “That’s the riddle of heroism, isn’t it? It is measured less by success, than it is our likeliness to fail.” His hand gently cupped her shoulder, avoiding her skin. An intentional awareness, she recognized, for her behalf. “They forgive us eventually, Luscia. It’s in the eyes.”

“What is, Your Highness?” Luscia turned to find him smiling warmly.

“Love. A leader’s greatest reprieve.” He removed his hand from her shoulder and returned it to his knee. “If incredibly uncommon. You should cherish it.”

At that, Luscia’s chin tucked to look back at Marek, where he stood at attention and attempted to force Aksel to do the same. “Forgive, perhaps,” she said, and faced forward. “But never forget.”

“No. No, they don’t forget.” Dmitri tossed a twig onto the altar as his totem disintegrated. “It’s a blessing, though—their memory. Otherwise, what reason would we have to grow?”

Luscia exhaled and relaxed her neck, gazing up at the underside of the glittering, domed cupola. “Are you nervous, Your Highness? For her arrival?”

“Dmitri,” he corrected, then mirrored her posture, admiring the ceiling. “Full admission? Absolutely.” They shared a communal laugh that loosened her limbs. “Razôuel is a daunting blend of Pilar’s splendor and Darakai’s strength. The Zôueli treaty provides us with a valuable ally, however Razôuel boasts that women are not only equal, but superior in all matters. It will be a fascinating marriage, should she find me favorable.”

“Is that what you’d want in a marriage—fascination?” Luscia imagined Dmitri pruning a faceless woman in a gardening pot.

“Sometimes fascination is all we get.” Dmitri looped a loose thread around his thumb. “And that makes fascination quite dear.”

Luscia’s thoughts returned to Marek, her father’s choice, contemplating the prince’s sentiment. It was unavoidable in their positions. Like Dmitri, Luscia didn’t have the luxury of her mother’s circumstance. Had Eoine been the elder daughter, she might have lived untethered, as Alora had chosen. Alora had never needed to produce a successor, as her younger sibling had rapidly produced two, securing another generation in the line of Tiergan.

“I’ve been studying the Zôueli, as requested,” she relayed, returning to the topic. “Their origins are curious. My knowledge of peoples beyond the Ilias is limited.”

“I’m sure the princess will be happy to illuminate you further. I think you’ll enjoy her company, from my recollection of when we were children. Rasha might bring a much-needed break from your experience here at court.” Dmitri wavered, pursing his lips. “She, too, will feel like an outsider in Bastiion. You have that in common.”

“Y-your Highness,” Callister voiced weakly behind them. “It’s time. The Zôueli are at the city gate.”

Dmitri motioned for a priestess and gathered his cane to stand. Holding his breath, he leaned down and allowed the priestess to waft her incense around his dark, unkempt waves. Rising, the prince pounded his chest at the puff of smoke.

“Pray to all of our majestic overlords, Lady Boreal.” He coughed and pointed to the sky. “We’re going to need it.”

----------------------------------------

A parade of starlight entered the southern gate to the inner proper. Whirling flares and torchlight designs decorated the streets for the Zôueli procession. From the palace windows high above, the rolling tent housing the Western royalty looked like nothing more than an oblong lumilore Phalen might have found shimmering at their feet by the edge of the Dönumn.

“It’s been a decade since Korbin hosted Bahira’zol’Jaell.” Alora fixed her eyes on the carriage as she spoke of Razôuel’s queen, unmoving at her niece’s side. “This is a pivotal moment, Luscia. Every maneuver must be wielded shrewdly and with unyielding precision. More than you realize hinges on the coming days.”

Luscia’s teeth set, following her aunt’s gaze.

“Your childhood must be laid to rest, Luscia. Further rebellion poses a risk to the prince now more than ever.”

“He told me.”

Alora spun away from the glass. The moon haloed her neat braid and betrayed the thinning of her cheeks, made more severe by the luster. “The prince told you of his need for a wife, or his need for an heir?”

“He told me everything,” Luscia touched the skeleton key beneath the fabric of her dress. “It was not a tale for children, nor the responsibility of one. You can set your worry aside.”

She rubbed her eyes and clasped her hands together, regretting the curtness in her tone. Luscia felt her aunt reading the unseen threads around her. A tickle in the air, coasting the gooseflesh of her arms. It was a new sensation, one she’d not noticed in the past, before crossing the veil.

“You are concerned for him, so I won’t take offense at your tone.” Alora’s pitch dropped to a level no ordinary human could detect as several courtiers passed by, eager to witness the extravagant display at the gates. “As well you should be. We must assume there is less time than he is willing to admit. Your elixir is potent enough to keep it at bay—for now. His complexion has already improved.”

“Why is my…” Luscia waited for a group of squealing attendants to drift on. “…my blood any different than yours? Do the elders know what we’re doing?”

“Niit. The elders know what is pertinent and have little need to know what is inevitable. Such revelation could divide them, before the time comes.”

She hated when her aunt answered straightforward questions as if they were puzzles. Their years together had taught Luscia when a boundary was established, and there was no use pressing through it.

“Ana’Mere.” She bit her lip as the tail of the Zôueli caravan moved out of sight. “How did you know our blood would save him?”

Alora’s pale brows crinkled, then plummeted, dissatisfied somehow. “History written, and history rings,” she quoted the ballad. “You should already know that answer, for it lies at the start.” Her aunt picked up her hand, tenderly pinching the healed spot on her fingertip. Then Alora let go and stepped back, tugging her linsilk shawl tighter. “If you can’t answer the past, you’ve no sense questioning the present.”

After a few steps from the tall window, Alora paused and turned back to her niece. “And I couldn’t save him. I only drew out his death. Goodnight, Luscia.”

Retreating against the glass, Luscia’s chest caved in. She wrapped her arms around her middle and stared out through the window, down at the gate. In a single breath, it seemed all the hopeful light had vanished.

[https://i.imgur.com/doAaFte.png]