CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Zaethan
Zaethan tapped the steel point of his quill pen against the blank parchment before him, rebelliously inclined to keep it that way. Dmitri had requested they each bring tools for notetaking, insisting there was a need. Even since their childhood education, Dmitri had loved writing down his thoughts, almost as much as he loved Uriel pie.
Zaethan hated Uriel pie.
Along with flamboyant pens.
“The gall, making us wait on her like this.” A swallow of citrus and sea salt caused him to cough when Sayuri leaned over the table to pour herself a generous flute of Galina wine. “Really, who does the y’siti think she is—the ghost of queens past?”
“That’s a bit rich,” Ira propped his chair on its back legs and blew a kiss, “coming from you, dear.”
“I’m sure she has good reason.” The prince licked his forefinger and turned the page of the ledger before him, otherwise engrossed.
Fleeting and foxlike, Sayuri’s eyes rolled under her lashes. Despite the al’haidren’s frequent dramatics, Zaethan found himself agreeing with her. He’d waited nearly an hour for the y’siti to show at the abandoned training room that morning. She never did. The witch had been dancing around their agreement for weeks by withholding the wraiths, but today had elected for complete absence.
There was a reason the others in the Ethnicam did not seek bargains with the Boreali: they never stuck. Zaethan stifled a groan and fidgeted in his seat. He’d been stupid to test history in the first place.
“As if I couldn’t possibly have other social engagements today. Dozens of invitations, callers, and don’t get me started on the appointments…” Sayuri ceased admiring her nails when the double doors creaked and parted slightly.
A sliver of the y’siti’s profile could be seen through the narrow opening. She paused in the doorway, appearing to argue with someone. A red-headed najjan—the captaen of her guard, Zaethan recognized— stepped closer, backlit from the hall. Their lips jumped furiously, but emitted no sound. It was a characteristic of witch-tongue Zaethan had begun to notice.
When the najjan disappeared, Sayuri tracked the witch like an archer as she seemed to float toward her seat. Her stride was fluid, strange in its unfamiliar grace, though each step was notably more reserved than her arrogance typically warranted. The bushy tail of her war-tainted crossbreed dusted the floor as he padded inches behind her, almost imitating his alpha.
“Finally decided to grace us with your undead presence?”
“Lady Pilar,” Dmitri cautioned.
“Well, I for one am pleased to see you, my dove.” Ira, slightly unbalanced, leapt to pull out her chair. “Life is just bl-bleak without your wintery radiance.”
“Rich, indeed,” Sayuri muttered flippantly.
“Per—” Ira hiccupped. “Perhaps, one day, I can undertake the duties of this chair.” Ira attempted to wink, his eye twitching, as he sloppily slid back into his seat.
The quill snapped under Zaethan’s thumb. He’d been breaking things a lot lately. “I’m going to find better things to do with this pen, Ira, if you don’t lock it up.”
“Meh fyreon. Forgive me, Your Highness, I—”
“Dmitri,” the prince reminded her.
“—overslept,” she finished, barely glancing toward the head of the table. The severe angles of her face were fully exposed today, as she’d donned no trace of kohl and contained her hair in an uncharacteristically tight braid.
Without her najjani mask, the y’siti looked emotionless. Zaethan was startled to realize how much she resembled her aunt.
“Completely understandable, Lady Boreal.” Dmitri perched forward and dropped his face to find hers, offering a smile. “You and I know more than most how difficult it is for sleep to find us.”
A shrill noise escaped Sayuri’s painted lips, as Ira started to snicker into his cup. Her glare seared an invisible pattern into the Northern al’haidren. Perhaps Zaethan hadn’t been the only one to hear of their midnight strolls. His pryde was discreet, not prone to common gossip. Unitarian sentries, on the other hand…
To Zaethan’s surprise, the y’siti turned to him. “How was your evening, Lord Darakai?”
Ironically, had she bothered to come to training, they could have discussed it. Zaethan would have relayed how he and Takoda almost lost the boy at one point from all the blood loss, or how his Unitarian mother had wailed through the night at the foot of his makeshift sling bed. And, more specifically, the distrust his Boreali father demonstrated after Zaethan mentioned the northern herbs and later pressed him for the origin of that knowledge before they’d departed the merchant’s home.
Zaethan twitched irritably when he realized the others had gone quiet. Sayuri crossed her arms, while both Ira and Dmitri listened curiously. The y’siti stared blankly into her empty glass, feigning disinterest for the sake of the others.
“It…” Zaethan cleared his throat and poured a shot of water. “It turned out exactly as intended.” With a cheeky smirk, he tossed the water back.
“I’m relieved to hear it.” She nodded solemnly and stroked the muzzle of the highlander wolx. His forelegs were folded under her chair in order to rest his oversized head in her lap.
“Here, here!” Ira splashed his glass with sparkling fluid and nudged a shoulder into Zaethan. “As did mine, my friend, as did mine. One of Salma’s finest!”
“Get your hands off me,” he snapped.
“You must not have felt that way last night.” Ira’s hands flew up in mock defense when Zaethan raised the pen. “Shtàka, so temperamental! Not that there isn’t a market for that sort of thing.”
“By the Fates, Ira, I’m about to—”
“Right. Now that we’re all settled, shall we begin?” Dmitri bookmarked the ledger and set it aside, replacing it with several pages of parchment scribbled in his own hand. “Last night, word arrived by courier notifying us that the Zôueli royals will arrive in a matter of days. Therefore, I’ve begun listing the arrangements we need to make. After all, their visit is more significant than a mere solstice celebration between allies.” Dmitri placed the parchment down and looked around the five-sided table. “I think it’s time my Quadren knew that we are courting Bahira’Rasha.”
“Princess Rasha?” Zaethan couldn’t help his surprise. After their recent arguments, he’d given Dmitri space, but he’d never imagined his friend would keep something so vital out of their conversations. “Are you courting her, or is the Peerage?”
“I’d prefer we use her Zôueli title. It might seem more welcoming,” Dmitri emphasized, for Zaethan’s benefit, no doubt. “Bahira’Rasha is a strong choice. The Peerage suggested the match, but I’ve…consented to their wisdom.”
“Courting?” Sayuri sputtered, the smooth perfection of her brow crinkling erratically. “For what?”
“Ah, the shapely lands of Razôuel.” Ira’s hands met behind his mop of hair. “Think you could handle a Zôueli queen, Your Highness? They’re so…bossy.” He grinned.
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Sayuri’s gilded features fell. “Queen…”
“Thank you, Lord Bastiion. That very attitude is why I’ve taken the liberty of drafting some assignments, if you will. Rasha’s mother, Bahira’zol’Jaell, will be accompanying her and her brother, Bahir’Tozune, to Bastiion. I’m told he is eleven or so. Ira.” Dmitri rapped the wood, “Write this down.”
“I’m certain even I can remember the name of an eleven-year-old.”
“Good, because he will be your charge.” Dmitri’s quill pen skirted over the folds in his parchment. “He enjoys riding and archery. As both activities require a sober mind, let’s start drying you out.”
Seizing Ira’s goblet in hand, Zaethan promptly replaced it with a glass of water.
“You want me to babysit—”
“A prince. Bahir’Tozune, precisely. Moving on. Zaeth…” He flipped to a second page of notes. “Have you prepped the palace for the Zôueli party? I believe they are to be housed in the eastern wing, is that correct?”
“It’s the most logical placement. We retain our ability to monitor their security, while they can enjoy the views. The western wing would be more secure, but I doubt their queen would tolerate the docks.”
Zaethan listed other provisions, sentry counts, and accommodations for the Zôueli guard. As he finished, Ira stifled a disgruntled yawn, while the y’siti caressed her mutt absently. Sayuri reclined in wordless disbelief.
There’s one benefit to this news, he thought.
“Most impressive, Lord Darakai. As always.”
Zaethan leaned back, pleased. It felt like ages since his friend had acknowledged his aptitude for anything. Dmitri referenced his final page. “Lastly would be Bahira’Rasha herself. My mother will personally host the queen, but Rasha may require a sort of…social escort during our festivities.”
Smoothing her inky hair where it slipped down her shoulder, Sayuri sat up a little taller. “I suppose I could introduce the princess into my elite circles.”
“Thank you, Lady Pilar. That’s very gracious of you,” Dmitri said, patting her jeweled fingers. “However, Rasha has evidently harbored a fascination with the lands of Boreal since girlhood.” Withdrawing his hand and glancing at the y’siti, he added, “Luscia, would you be kind enough to assist me? I fear she’ll quickly grow bored of my conversation, with my avid appreciation of herbaceous shrubbery and whatnot. Might you relieve her from time to time?”
Without warning, Pilar’s seat skidded backward as Sayuri stood and slammed her palms onto the tabletop in front of the witch.
Dmitri grabbed his cane, bewildered. “Lady Pilar!”
Her scrutiny narrowed as she inched closer to the y’siti. Amber against snow, their noses almost touched. “I know what you are doing, you putrid Northern whore! And you are going to regret it.”
The prince shot to his feet. “Sayuri!”
The y’siti’s strange eyes sparkled when she glanced up for the first time that morning. “Remember yourself, Lady Pilar. I won’t remind you again.”
Zaethan broke from Dmitri’s side when her war-tainted animal’s ears flattened, and his snarl revealed a set of elongated canines. Gripping Sayuri by the arm, Zaethan dragged her into the hall. Standing watch in the shadow of a column nearby, the najjani captaen stepped into the light streaming through the wall of windows. The highlander’s skin, normally so pale, now rivaled the shade of his hair, and his face was twisted with rage.
Briskly, Zaethan heaved the Pilarese al’haidren down the corridor and around the bend.
“Y’siti trash, all of them! He is utterly enthralled by her, Zaethan. Enthralled!” she shrieked. “Don’t you see it?”
“Depths, Sayuri,” he hissed, “of course I see it.”
“Then what are we going to do about it?”
“Shtàka.” Zaethan tossed her into an alcove. “We aren’t going to do anything.”
Her hands planted on the slight curve of each hip. “Something has to be done about the witch before her spell infects him for an entire lifetime. We both know what I’m saying is true.”
“I know, from experience, that you never tell the truth.”
Sayuri prowled toward him, as if another person—one who’d spare him such interest—suddenly occupied her skin. Warm breath puffed against his chin when she leaned in, coaxing, “I told you there would come a day when you and I would need each other, Zaethan. We could make a memorable alliance in this game she’s playing. Very memorable.”
He felt her nails skim the underside of his jacket when she reached around and dragged him against her. Zaethan suppressed a smirk and let his lips brush her ear.
“Dmitri chose a putrid Northern whore over you, Sayuri. Why would I want even less?”
Shoving her aside, he straightened his sleeves and headed for the war room, her petty scream echoing at his back.
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It was unclear what drove Zaethan to seek out Orynthia’s notorious war room, except his longing for an empty space, his desire to breathe, or perhaps its library of maps.
He rebound his dreaded coils as he marched through the palace. There were too many moving pieces on the proverbial board. Between the cross-caste killings, Dmitri’s sudden need for a wife, and Sayuri’s near descent into madness, Zaethan needed to clear his head before his fists found a simpler solution. With the openness of the plains out of reach, the vacant war room would have to do.
When Zaethan arrived at the ornate entry, he reached for the byrnnzite handle, then wavered. Masculine chatter trickled through the crack between the twin doors, though to his knowledge, no military discussions were planned for that morning. Confused and intrigued, he pressed an ear against the fissure.
“Nearly ready, coming to eighty warships…”
“Impressive, Lateef. Our navy will nearly double that of Razôuel.”
“My navy, Tetsu. Don’t forget where we stand, you and I...”
“Vessels may belong to you, Nyack, but they’re berthed in my waters...”
Pulling back marginally, Zaethan scratched the newly grown scruff at his jaw. The king’s contract with Pilar was for forty vessels, not eighty. He’d sat at the table, in that very same war room, when the agreement was signed.
If Zaethan’s father, both haidren and Commander of Orynthia’s armies, had negotiated a secondary contract with Tetsu Naborū, it was a deal between haidrens outside the crown’s awareness. Dmitri’s father was many things, but proficient in military dealings was not one of them. It was entirely possible the king would overlook additional warships stationed in Pilar, but the greater question was why the naval expansion had been ordered in the first place.
“…Prydes will handle that, when the time comes.”
“You speak as if you hold authority, little Alpha, whilst being no one with nothing to your name. Keep your pet in line, Nyack, or put him outside.”
Zaethan crammed his ear against the door again, wishing not for the first time that his hearing was cursed like the y’siti. Whatever bargain had been arranged between Tetsu Naborū, General Lateef, and his father, it affected the prydes. Zaethan’s prydes.
Except it wasn’t Zaethan at his father’s side in the war room. It was Wekesa.
“Place in Bastiion secured. Get used to it.”
“What about that son of yours, Nyack? He’s your al’haidren. Will that not spark trouble for…”
The tenor of a younger man snickered, dampening Naborū’s inquiry and his father’s reply. “…never worry yourself with insignificant details, Tetsu.”
Breathless, Zaethan stood mute in the empty hall, unable to move.
Like a satchel of stones, his stomach plummeted to his feet, numbing his toes. He knew he’d become a disappointment to his father. A reminder of his mother’s death; an ever-present barb in an unhealed wound. But at the very least, pain ensured his significance. Without that pain, Zaethan wasn’t sure if there was anything left between them.
In a rush, he rolled his body to the side when a click of the handle signaled their exit. As the doors pushed open, Zaethan sucked in air to flatten himself between the decorated slab and the cold stones at his back. Watching them through a thin crevice, they concluded their discussion.
“Order your men to be on watch. I don’t want any interference, yeye qondai?” Their commander instructed Wekesa as the pair followed General Lateef to the end of the corridor.
Even from the back, Zaethan could tell Wekesa had begun dressing in the finest Unitarian garb the Bazaar had to offer. From the fine wax coating his braids to the virgin leather of his boots, he’d thoroughly transitioned to life in Bastiion, and the bastard was enjoying it.
“Uni zà, Commander.” Wekesa struck his chest eagerly. “I will see it done.”
“Uni, that you will.”
Unable to look away, Zaethan’s jaw fell when his father lifted an arm, cabled in scars and muscle, and patted Wekesa on the back—a gesture Zaethan had never once experienced at his father’s hand.
Together rounding the turnoff, they were gone.
After a few moments, Zaethan shoved the door off himself and struck the bronze-plated wood with force. Knuckles throbbing, the door flew back on its ancient hinges, threatening to bust from the framing.
“One so insignificant should be quiet.”
Zaethan spun in place. Drowning under the snowy swell of his chancellor robes, the reedy and jaundiced haidren to Pilar waited patiently beside the archway. The tail of his pointed beard rotated like the hand of a compass when his head angled eerily, and he fixed his yellowing eyes intently on Zaethan.
“Just looking for my father. Jolly fellow.” Zaethan stretched out his shoulders, resisting the inexplicable urge to itch his exposed skin all at once. “Seen him?”
Tetsu Naborū’s chapped lips quirked at the sides before his head propped upright again. Zaethan had never taken to the man, and this sort of kakk was a perfect example why not.
“I have seen many things and foresee many things to come, young Kasim.” Naborū waltzed closer, accompanied by the reek of sour pipe marrow. “I foresee that an insignificance should be quiet. It doesn’t think.” He touched his metal nail-piece to his temple. “It doesn’t speak.” The tip dragged to his thin lips. “Not unless his master ordains it. So, run along, young Kasim—run to your master and heel.” He dropped his claw to his thigh and patted it, like one ordering a hound.
“Treat a man like a dog, Lord Haidren,” Zaethan folded his arms stiffly and stepped back, “and eventually, he’ll bite like one.”
Refusing to lower his gaze until he put his back to Sayuri’s uncle, Zaethan strolled to the turnoff, admittedly a bit faster than he’d intended.
“Oh, young Kasim.” He heard the Pilarese haidren call after him. “I’m counting on it.”
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