CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Luscia

With the concentration expected of the most studious shoto, the prince slid his marble across the Zôueli playing board. Dmitri pocketed three others, plucking them from depressions in the lacquered wood, carved like eight-pointed stars. Among the spoils was one of Luscia’s own.

“Impressive, Prince Dmitri,” the board’s owner praised the maneuver in thickly accented Unitarian. Though they’d only met that morning, Luscia already enjoyed the way the princess’s Western lilt altered each syllable, bending their common language into an exotic chime.

“I did warn you, Bahira, I do love a good game.” Dmitri bit the tip of his tongue as he completed his second move, swiping two more marbles. “And I rarely lose.”

His dimple emerged as he smugly boosted off his forearms, bolting upright, thoroughly pleased with himself. His boasting turned a bit sheepish when he glanced at the princess in question, sprawled over the lavish cushions surrounding their game. Bahira’Rasha lifted a brow under a dangling string of jewels, challenging him in return.

Across the multicolored set, Sayuri wound her long, silken hair around her fingers. Tossing the sleek jet strands over her shoulder, the Pilarese al’haidren slunk forward, angling her lowcut bodice over the playing board.

“Neither do I, Your Highness,” Sayuri simpered, plumping her ruby lips.

Luscia let her lids close, steeling herself. Pilar’s al’haidren was relentless, even in front of company.

“Thankfully for our sake, you aren’t playing, Lady Pilar.” Dmitri responded awkwardly and picked up a glass of water, accidentally splashing his trousers.

Sayuri shifted closer, producing a dainty handkerchief and dabbed the inside of his thigh. “I never stopped,” she purred.

Gulping, Dmitri let out a shaky laugh and snatched the square of fabric from her, rising with vigor. As he meandered to the edge of the tent, which sheltered their gathering on the spacious lawn, Sayuri’s eyes tapered like a cat, sliding between Luscia and their foreign guest. Sitting back, she brought the goblet to her mouth and smirked over the gilded rim.

Luscia surveyed the princess nervously. It was unclear if, in her assigned role, she ought to condone Sayuri’s behavior or apologize for it. However, her concern was short-lived, for it appeared the Zôueli princess was not fazed in the least. Snapping a grape off its stem, Bahira’Rasha brazenly held the al’haidren’s stare and popped the Wendyllean fruit in her mouth. The marigold-colored grapes had been harvested from the Hastings’ private vineyard in Arune, and it was a blessing that Bahira’Rasha’s brother preoccupied Ira on the lawn, rather than inside the tent, for he would have thoroughly relished the visual.

“A sweet solstice you have this year,” the princess commented aloofly, seizing another grape. “Your summers are milder than Razôuel. More pleasant, I find.”

As a bead of sweat trickled down her neck, underneath the thin lace collar, Luscia attempted her most believable smile. It was feeble at best. She’d long since decided that a freezing Orallach blizzard was more favorable than the humid, hedged lawn the Unitarians had selected for this picnic. Even if Thoarne Bay were drained until its last drop, it’d be no match for the moisture that suffocated the plains.

“It’s best not to grow accustomed to it here,” Sayuri commented, gently fanning herself. “It could be years before you’ve the chance to return.”

“Tell me again, Lady al’Haidren.” The princess stroked Luscia’s arm lazily, the only indication she was being addressed instead of Sayuri. “Why does your prince need a Quadren if he’s not yet a king? All the chatter from your Houses, it’s so…meaningless, yes?”

Luscia shifted uncomfortably on the tufted pillow when the princess’s fingertips skirted away and returned to her own lap. Even by royalty, she did not like being touched so candidly.

“Our prince aspires to build something new during his reign.” Luscia nodded at Dmitri, who scratched his chin, apparently trying to make sense of Ira’s clumsiness outside the breezy tent. “By engaging his al’haidrens on a Quadren, albeit prematurely, he can leverage our strengths for the greater unification of the realm.”

The princess’s expression was skeptical beneath the emerald gems strung across her forehead. “And this…” She languidly pointed toward the lawn. “This is the strength?”

Following the angle of her forefinger, encased in stacked bands of rare metals, Luscia frowned as Ira thwacked himself in the eye while drawing his ornamental bow. Then, resituating the excessively feathered fletching against the bowstring, he somehow sliced his hand. Ditching both pieces, the al’haidren to Bastiion clutched his bloody palm and danced in place. At the sound of his yelping when he stepped on the abandoned arrowhead, his juvenile companion, Bahir’Tozune, ran to Ira’s rescue so it wouldn’t happen twice.

“Strength comes in many forms, Bahira,” Luscia offered weakly.

Gratefully, the princess chuckled and patted Luscia’s hand. “You, I like. You may call me Rasha, as friends do say. And I, to call you…?”

“Luscia.”

Over the gaming table, Sayuri gawked in disbelief. For a woman whose eyes seemed eternally narrowed, it was a sight to see them so enlarged. Luscia wondered how the Pilarese beauty would look were she not so discontented all the time.

“Loo-Shah…” the princess repeated, pronouncing her name as if unrolling a scroll from her tongue. “Loo-Shah of the Boreali highlands. Your people, the highlanders, come from the mist, yes?”

“Wem—yes,” Luscia translated, dabbing away the perspiration pooling in the crest of her upper lip. “Though I’m finding there is a different kind of mist here in the lowlands.”

Sayuri reclined on the cushions and ran a nail down her bare, copper-toned arm, kissed by her more accepted lineage. “You see how the Boreali putrefy under our sun, Rasha? It’s dangerous to even invite them to court.”

“Bahira’Rasha,” the princess sternly corrected.

Insulted, Sayuri pouted. Rising off the cushion, she strutted over to Dmitri, who continued to watch Ira from a shaded tent post, likely concerned for the welfare of his Unitarian al’haidren. Drawing close, Sayuri threw her shoulders back unnaturally, like a pole were wedged into the boning of her corset. Swift and ladylike, she took his arm, holding it snugly.

Feeling a tug on her scalp, Luscia turned to discover the princess playing with a strand of her hair.

“The color is gone?” she questioned inquisitively, and passed it under her jeweled nose, sniffing. “Because the sun is so mighty, or does it grow empty of life?”

Conflicted about whether to recoil or to laugh, Luscia politely slipped her palest locks through Rasha’s grasp. “My brother’s is even lighter.”

The princess beamed, her interest visibly piqued. It was remarkable how Luscia’s kind were despised by her own realm, when the heir to another wished to know everything about them.

“Call your brother to us, yes? Enough of the prancer,” she said, dismissing Ira.

“Regrettably, I cannot,” Luscia said wistfully. “Phalen is not permitted in Bastiion.”

“He…stays in the mist?” Rasha’s dreamy expression suggested she envisioned Phalen to be some woodland nymph among the toadstools, rather than a blade-laden luxiron apprentice. Peering through the wafting tent, Luscia considered Bahir’Tozune as he foraged Ira’s arrows, staked erratically throughout the grass.

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“He stays in the mist, with my people. Yours is a natural archer.” Luscia stood, offering Rasha her hand. “I’m sure your family is proud.”

The princess rose as well. “Tozune will be a fine general, like our father. He is ineligible to wear my mother’s crown, you know.”

Together they walked arm in arm, joining Dmitri. Recently, Luscia had read how the Zôueli regency passed from mother to daughter. Orynthia had no such constraints, yet as Thoarne’s descendants tended to be sons instead of daughters, the tenor of the Peerage mirrored the throne, favoring male delegates from the provinces. That same favoritism traditionally held less favorable for female haidrens, even when they occupied a coveted seat on the Quadren beside their sovereign. Although their policy and deportment couldn’t be more divided, Luscia and Sayuri were at least united in the disadvantage of their sex.

A fact the Pilarese had decided to use to their advantage, apparently, as Sayuri practically melted into Dmitri’s camel day jacket when Luscia and Rasha reached the perimeter of the tent.

Aksel might as well teach her to mark the poor man, Luscia mentally retorted, it would certainly be more effective. She couldn’t help but smirk at the notion, remembering the stench in Sayuri’s vacated apartments.

“Dmitri, tell me something.” The princess positioned herself between him and the tent post. “An Orynthian Quadren hosts four ambassadors, yet I’ve only met three. Where is the fourth?”

With a feminine confidence Luscia had never witnessed at court, Rasha exerted her supremacy by echoing his posture, not touching him in the least. Seconds later, Sayuri loosened her grip on his sleeve, doing the same.

Women were intricate, chaotic creatures, Luscia had decided long ago. Praise the High One her mother had only borne one. It was enough to dissect her own temperaments—navigating those of a sister as well would be an undertaking, indeed.

Dmitri unbuttoned his jacket apprehensively, waving the fabric to cool himself. “Forgive me his absence. My al’haidren to Darakai, Zaethan Kasim, informed me that he was to spend today familiarizing your Zôueli guard with palace protocols and procedures. You are to meet him tomorrow, though,” he assured her. “At the match. Bit of a confusing sport, motumbha, but he makes an excellence starter.”

Luscia’s stomach unclenched. At that moment, she realized how tense she’d felt all morning. Relieved she wouldn’t be seeing Kasim until tomorrow afternoon, she relaxed on her heels. After their final meeting in the training room, she still wasn’t ready to meet his knowing stare, both watchful and smug. Not after what he’d done, intentionally or not. Luscia didn’t trust that Kasim wouldn’t broach the subject again, or use its gravity against her. There were times when she forgot who his father was. That morning had not been one of them.

Absently, she scratched at her scar under the lace and swallowed. He said he’d found her weakness in combat, and she couldn’t face him because of it. Not after he might have been right.

“Is the Darakaian as nimble as your fellow Unitarian?” Rasha posed cynically, watching Ira while he wrapped his uncalloused fingertips where they’d split and swelled.

“Shtàka!” he hollered, losing the roll of bandages between his boots.

Luscia wasn’t sure of the alternative, but sober, Ira really was terribly unathletic. She nearly felt sorry for the yancy when he bit down to sever the mesh fabric from the roll. His feet unknowingly entangled, Ira tried to march toward their party and fell flat on his face, uprooting the sod.

As Ira brushed himself off, an imposing character strode across the lawn, directly toward their picnic assembly. As he neared, Luscia recognized the dark man, his notable height the first clue that Kasim’s beta approached in search of his alpha. The unyielding sun melded his countenance, until the trampled lines of his square features defined inside the shadow of the tent. Unsettled in some way, the beta’s forehead puckered as he bowed to their prince and beat his chest twice.

“Kumo,” Dmitri greeted him by name. “Is everything all right?”

“Your Highness.” He bent over a second time, thoroughly out of breath, and asked, “Is Alpha Zà with you?” As he spoke, the beta’s huge skull swung from side to side, surveying the protected field. Comprehending Kasim’s absence, the Darakaian rolled the twisted knots atop his head between his fingers anxiously.

“He was unable to join us, Kumo. Though I sense there is some urgency?” Concerned, Dmitri stepped forward, hands at his belt.

The beta leaned down to mutter in Dmitri’s ear. Shifting slightly, Luscia tuned her Northern ears toward the flutter of his full lips.

“Stable boy gone missing, Your Highness,” he uttered in a hushed whisper. “Boreali cross-caste.”

Dmitri lurched back in shock. Smoothing the lapel of his jacket, he lifted on his toes to whisper in return. “Here, on the grounds?”

As if he knew she’d overheard the report, Kumo’s hickory eyes slid to Luscia. Grimacing, he dipped his chin to the prince. The Southerner then offered her a look of pity, confirming his words.

Dread brought her hand to her stomach. Dropping it, Luscia straightened her posture, aware Rasha was studying the entire encounter. Despite the language barrier, the princess was more astute than she let on. Razôuel had no business decoding the peril of Orynthia’s downcast, and Dmitri couldn’t afford for them to find out.

A single weakness in the realm could became a weakness in a marriage contract. Their own Accords already posed enough.

“You should find Zaeth in the southern wing, around the Zôueli suites. Go, quickly now.” Dmitri patted the beta’s bicep, double the width of his hand, sending him off.

As Dmitri returned to their picnic, Ira came around from behind, his fine silk shirt covered in dirt stains. Holding a bowl of his Wendyllean grapes, he munched the remaining few, ogling the trio of women.

“Well, look at that. Quite a riveting sunset you’ve made, ladies.” His cloth-swathed hand gestured down their row, calling attention to the gradient of their skins. “What a shame so many clouds are in the way.”

Luscia ripped the bowl out of his grasp, covering her chest indignantly.

“I’m pleased to see someone tasted the fruits of my labor.” Ira winked at the barren vine. “I trust you found them pleasantly plump?”

“Compensating, Ira?” Sayuri muttered dryly as Dmitri reentered the tent.

The prince wicked moisture off his temples where they had started to glisten. Luscia wondered when he’d need his next treatment, assuming the heat hastened his metabolism of the elixir.

Sprinting up to them, Bahir’Tozune presented his sister with a pile of busted arrows, likely Ira’s doing. Luscia felt a pang through her ribs. He was old enough to work in the stables, like this missing boy. An image of the princess’s brother hemorrhaging into a stack of hay flashed through her vision.

Wetness suddenly bordered her eyes. Luscia turned around, searching for her men around the outskirts of the field. Declan held his post at one end, disguised within the brush, while Noxolo remained in sight beside Rasha’s quartet of guards. Luscia located Noxolo, a moonbeam among pillars of amber. Sensing her distress, his brow cinched over the bridge of his beaklike nose.

“Rasha, do you enjoy botanicals?” Dmitri asked as Luscia rotated forward, gathering herself once more. “Our garden is a bit of a wonder, and…” He trailed off when another visitor appeared, curtsying just outside the tent. The dainty lady’s maid lowered her abdomen, staying that way, even though the reprieve of the shade was inches away. Dmitri coughed and waved her in, clarifying, “You may enter,” when she failed to look up.

The Pilarese girl, concerningly slight in stature, curtsied another half a dozen times before she relayed a message to Sayuri in their Western tongue. Unexpectedly, Sayuri launched away from the post and tidied the top of her dress. An eager grin broke her smooth indifference as she snatched the girl’s wrist and moved to depart.

“Forgive my brevity, Highness. I’ve an appointment I cannot miss.”

“What did she mean, ‘procedure’? Or was that ‘pirouette,’ perhaps? I’m embarrassed my Pilarese is rather shoddy,” Dmitri explained to the princess, before rattling off distractedly. “‘Potbelly’…no, that can’t be right.”

Remembering Dmitri’s earlier mention of the gardens, Luscia leapt at the opportunity, eager to visit the stables, even if the najjan wouldn’t be allowed inside. “Why don’t you escort the princess to the gardens, Your Highness?” she suggested. “I’m sure she’d love to see the Byronia coming in. Very impressive.”

“That is true. Byronia lily, such a remarkable little thing,” he said, leading Rasha in the direction of the hedge maze.

Treading across the lawn past the archery targets, Noxolo’s long stride fell in step with Luscia’s. Under her breath, she relayed the beta’s report.

“On palace grounds,” Luscia murmured angrily, snapping more of Ira’s stray arrows underfoot. “How did this happen? Our najjan are concealed everywhere, both mine and those with Ana’Mere.”

At his silence, she halted their advance.

“Well, Ana’Sere, you’re the expert.” Noxolo exhaled sharply. “How do you evade us?”

Unwilling to answer, Luscia eased back, allowing him to lead the way through the lake of discarded equipment. Slower than before, her upturned slipper stepped over Tozune’s bow.

“Oh, Lady Boreal, I keep meaning to ask,” Sayuri called, towing her attendant along. “How is that y’siti mutt of mine serving you? Mira, Melda—oh, does it really matter?” Luscia stopped walking. Sayuri’s lips curled as she passed behind one of the targets. “Better for cross-castes to keep to their own kind…increased survival rate and all.”

Forgetting restraint, Luscia dove for Tozune’s bow in the grass. Nimble and true, she pivoted on her knee and released an arrow.

Sayuri screamed and grabbed her maid like a shield as the arrow splintered the wood of the target, striking the very top, right in line with her heart. Gasping, Sayuri shoved the girl aside and marched off, shouting in a Pilarese staccato.

At the smell, Luscia glanced behind the archery target. The small maid quivered as liquid seeped down her legs. The girl’s eyes shone with tears as she gaped at Luscia.

Frozen where she stood, Luscia wondered what she saw.

“Come, Ana’Sere,” Noxolo prompted her to rise. “You’re needed elsewhere.”

Forfeiting the bow, she quietly left the maid crying on the lawn, forcing Luscia to question if she was so different from the al’haidren to Pilar after all.