CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Luscia
As a woman under the immense scrutiny of her personal guard, Luscia found it mildly depressing that she was to spend her only hour of freedom at the behest of an ill-tempered Darakaian. With a slight twitch of her finger, she signaled Aksel, her sole confidant in all matters treacherous, to follow her descent down a grand, plunging staircase. In an abandoned training room floors below, Kasim awaited her, no doubt brooding over things he didn’t understand and never would.
She’d argued to Marek, rather tersely, that her station warranted the right to some privacy, be it a mere walk during waking hours in the company of her own thoughts and restless wolx. As such a walk encapsulated the miniscule hour of solitude left at her disposal, she hoped one day the entire House of Darakai would appreciate the sacrifices made to hone their meddlesome al’haidren into a decent excuse for a warrior.
In Marek’s lingering anger, the evidence of which balanced on the hard set of his shoulders, they’d quarreled at Luscia’s exit, his words both detached and taciturn. The captaen of her guard still refused to look her in the eye after the profound bite of Alora’s rebuke, for though the weight of their haidren’s disappointment fell on Luscia, her criticism had settled on the men as well, casting a net of shame far beyond herself.
Lost in thought, Luscia passed under a narrow arch and entered a less occupied corridor with her head hung low. She wished she could have explained the events of that evening to her aunt, but even more to her guard. Disagree as they may, Alora was right in her assessment of the najjan and their sacrifice. They’d traded their own lives for Luscia’s, in more ways than one. It was the call of the five, just as it was hers as future haidren for their people.
That very call, in methodology rather than ideology, had splintered Luscia from her predecessor. Like Alora, she too hoped to submit herself for the sake of Boreal, but not by way of surrender to the will of the Peerage or the prydes. They had no right to speak for the maligned and forgotten, the trafficked and sold, the innocent and the unascended. There wasn’t room for Alora’s passivity in a city where people’s lives held less value than the political entanglements of men unburdened by the death of Boreal’s children.
Even still, her convictions didn’t change the fact that Luscia was not haidren to Boreal yet, and it had been wrong to elevate herself in such high esteem. In that, Alora had spoken the truth twice over. Luscia had become blind. Because of her pride and therefore disloyalty, Aurynth would sing of her unworthiness; a melody Luscia, like the five, could never unhear.
And yet…
Out in the world, there was a cross-caste boy, both frail and frightened, who had lived to see a new morning. Bittersweetly, the corner of Luscia’s mouth curled, though the smile quickly retreated.
A muffled, mouse-like whimper tickled her ear when she stepped onto a lower landing. Frowning at Bastiion’s fondness for public trysts, she looked to the lycran and remarked sarcastically, “And here I thought Unitarians couldn’t function this early.”
Her excuse for a smirk fell at the low growl from Aksel’s underbelly. Changing course, she entered a narrow, shadowed corridor to the east of the landing, the highlander wolx several paces ahead. What at first had resembled a stifled moan rolled into a shuddered sob, and Luscia hastened after Aksel, following him around the bend into an even darker hall dotted by a dozen cutouts built into the stone archways along either side. A silver tray and its fine contents laid strewn across the marble floor near the farthest alcove.
Without hesitation, Luscia sprinted down the hall in search of its owner. Inside the alcove, a lady’s maid was pressed against stone wall, buried under the heaviness of a tall nobleman.
“Niit, heh’ta! Get away from her!” Luscia shouted as she slammed into his body. Gripping the folds of his velvet waistcoat, she used her weight to reel him off the maid. Halting her momentum when the Unitarian’s back hit the wall, Luscia released the trigger of Phalen’s radials with each thumb. Furiously, she anchored her left blade against his gut and her right beneath his chin.
The dark-haired maid slumped in the corner. Torn fragments of her dress slipped off her slight shoulders as they lifted around her crumpled form, hiding herself as she wept.
“I know you…” The yancy’s throat bobbed carefully against the edge of the radial as he glanced down. “We don’t have to keep meeting like this. Bastiion houses better places meant for your kind.”
“Lord Ambrose.” Luscia spat the name when she recognized him as the same nobleman she’d seen with the haidren to Pilar, in another dark corridor weeks before. In the softer light of the snug alcove, his complexion was wanner than expected, lacking the warm radiance attributed to Unitarian blood. “You will never touch another lady in this palace again,” she instructed, pushing the radial through the outer layers of costly material around his waist.
“That y’siti mutt is no more a lady than you are, dirty highlander witch.” Ambrose sneered as Luscia realized he was referring to the young woman crying on the floor, not the snarling beast at her heels.
“Mark my Boreali witch-tongue, Ambrose. If you touch one of them again, I will gladly spill your entrails and serve you at a Mworran feast.” Luscia dropped her left radial from his navel and slid it below his belt. Ambrose shuddered as a bead of sweat dripped from his walnut waves and past his protruding brow. “Or…I might just serve them another local delicacy.”
Felix Ambrose stared at Luscia, locking on her Tiergan eye, and twitched in a manner she took for a nod. Backing away, she shielded the maid and ordered Aksel to let the yancy pass.
Stopping under the archway, Ambrose paused and licked his lips. “You smell delicious when you’re angry, Lady al’Haidren.”
Luscia stomach roiled as she took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. “And you smell like carrion. Leave us!” Aksel snapped at his ankles, yipping as he urged the noble further down the hall.
“M-Milady.” A familiar, delicate hand touched Luscia’s leg.
“Mila!” Luscia fell to the marble to aid her lady’s maid. “Meh fyreon, I didn’t even realize it was you!” Her hands went to assess the state of the girl, but slowed, remembering it was best not to touch right away. “Are you injured? Can you walk?”
Shakily, Mila guided herself upright and wrapped her arms around her chest, shaking her head. “He…you were in time, milady.”
A blossom of indigo was already spreading across Mila’s jaw.
“Not soon enough,” Luscia remarked angrily. “Come with me. I’m getting you out of this place.”
Removing her outer sparring tunic, she wrapped the garment around her young friend and guided her to the safety of the Boreali suites.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Back in Luscia’s apartments, she inspected Mila’s surface wounds, knowing it would take far longer to heal what lay underneath.
“Böwen!” Luscia called while Tallulah fetched warm cloths. “Böwen, where is Ana’Mere? I need her. Now.”
“Ana’Mere is meeting with the Peerage this morning, Ana’Sere… about a boy the night before last.” Luscia felt a bittersweet sting at the mention of the little boy they’d saved. Böwen’s eyes darted from his al’haidren to the solemn girl in her care. Mila hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the apartment. “From there, Emiere said they were to spend the evening in the outskirts of Wendylle. Meh fyreon, Ana’Sere, her guard didn’t share anything more.”
“Shtàka,” she cursed. “And Marek?”
Returning, Tallulah tried to tempt Mila with a cup of water while she cleaned the shallow scrapes down her forearms.
“The captaen took the others to speak with the prince’s sentries in preparation for the Zôueli arrival. They stepped out after you left with the lycran earlier this morning.”
Uncertain, Luscia bit her lip. “Mila, you said your mother works in the palace laundry, correct?” she inquired. “What of your sister? Is she in the palace as well?”
Mila’s chin trembled as she nodded. “She’s nine years old,” was her only comment.
“Wem, I recall.” Getting up, Luscia snatched a quill and parchment. “Your father was a trader from Roüwen—give me his name.”
Luscia glanced up at the silence. Mila stared down at a bruise forming across her wrist.
“Mila.” Böwen knelt at her feet and rested one of Tallulah’s cloths over the bruise. “Yeh fappa…his name?”
“Caellaigh. Mac Caellaigh,” she managed as a tear trailed down her porcelain cheek and splashed Böwen’s hand. “His parents disowned him for marrying an outsider, before—before he died.”
“Caellaigh,” Luscia repeated as she scribbled a plea for her father’s aid. Folding the parchment, she sealed it in wax and handed it to her najjan. “Böwen, I need you to escort Mila, her mother, and her sister home to Roüwen. Bring this to my father. Our Clann Darragh will ensure the family takes them in.”
Luscia sent up a prayer to the High One on their behalf. It was common knowledge the Boreali were a closed-off people, a fact that had surely defined Mila’s upbringing in the proper. They would need Clann authority to ensure the Caellaighs opened up their home voluntarily. One would think that, under the circumstances, Mila’s grandparents would eagerly welcome the sight of their granddaughters on their doorstep. Regrettably, even the House of Boreal had its faults. Thank Aniell that Luscia’s father had the influence to lessen their sting.
“All the way to Roüwen, Ana’Sere?”
“Mila is an unascended Boreali cross-caste, her sister even younger.” Guilt drove Luscia to look away. “Today was the wickedness of one man, but tomorrow could hold even worse. I’m ashamed I didn’t think to remove them from the present danger until now.”
Picking up an untouched piece of bread from her morning tray, Luscia wrapped Mila’s hands around it. “You must eat, Mila—no more of this courtier nonsense. We eat to become strong. Böwen, I want you to train her in the evenings. Her sister, too.” She met his sea-green eyes, begging. “Bolaeva, Böwen. Like they were your own kin.”
With that, she reached into her upturned boot and retrieved a hidden pocket blade from her youth and placed it into Mila’s open palm. “So it won’t happen again.” Luscia squeezed the young woman’s hand tightly and stood up, moving toward the door. “Leave as soon as you’re able, Böwen. Get them out of Bastiion. Far, far away from this evil.”
He nodded silently, likely shaken by the turn of events and his new charge. “Will you not see us depart, Ana’Sere?”
Luscia heard the pain behind his question. None of her najjan would feel right about a separation, especially in such a tempestuous season.
She walked back to the sandy twin, sitting somberly without his mirrored image by his side, and cradled his boyish features between her hands. Luscia bent down and placed a gentle kiss atop his golden locks. “Tredae’Aurynth, Ana’Brödre. The High One watch over you day and night until we meet again, in life or in Aurynth.”
She grabbed her cloak and snapped for the lycran. “We must go, I’m quite late.”
Böwen raised his head. “Late?”
“Wem, brödre. It’s time to clean up my mess.”
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Storming into the training chamber, Luscia wasted not a second to rectify the dangerous situation at hand.
“Our bargain is over, Kasim.” She stopped at the edge of the mat. In the center, he’d begun returning their gear to the trunk, apparently having given up on the notion she would eventually arrive. “It’s reckless and a risk neither of us can afford any longer.”
“Think again, witch.” Kasim jerked the trunk up off the mat and rose to his feet. “Oaths might be meaningless to the y’siti, but a Darakaian keeps his word. You will keep yours, uni. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Run along to your boyhood companion. Tell him all about how you’ve betrayed him and his crown multiple times since I’ve arrived. Wem, yes.” She fanned a hand in the direction of the southern wing. “Let’s together inform the prince of all you’ve done behind his back.”
“Isn’t that from where you just came?” He leered, letting his gaze make a show of its voyage over her figure. “Did dressing make you late, or am I just keeping you from bewitching the next poor yancy?”
“You don’t want to do this, Kasim. Not today,” she warned. Luscia retreated to the door of the training space, intending to leave him to wallow in his next tantrum without an audience.
“You will teach me the wraiths as promised, or from the Depths, you will regret it.”
“I won’t come back tomorrow, Kasim, and neither should you.”
A slight shift in the air preceded the curved training baton, warning Luscia to duck as it soared past her face and splintered against the door. Shocked by his unhinged behavior, she pivoted to face the al’haidren to Darakai.
“You’re weak,” he instigated. “Scared, pathetic. Why is the realm so frightened of you pitiful creatures?”
“Because you should be,” she growled, breathing slowly so as to not be bated by his foolish ignorance.
Kasim kicked another baton over to where she stood. “Prove it.”
Luscia bent to seize the weapon, traditionally used by children on Viridis, and vaulted herself at Kasim, bypassing him to slide behind and knock his legs out in one swing. As he fell to the mat, she seized the curved baton from his grasp, claiming the complete set of beginner wraiths.
“But you’re slower, heavier, and still unbalanced.” Luscia scoffed as he grimaced but returned to his position. “Your ears are indifferent. They haven’t listened to a thing I—”
A leather cord lashed her side, and she cried out at the unexpected pain. Taking advantage of her surprise, he tossed the feidierdanns aside and scrambled to the corner of the mat, grabbing the Boreali staff. Fearlessly, he ran toward her and, in midair, used both feet to kick her in the middle, launching Luscia across the room—a move he’d witnessed the day he spied on her and her five.
Aggravation spilled from her throat as Luscia rolled, reclaimed the batons, and made impact with the staff. He kept pace with her until she smashed a set of his fingers, though he refused to drop the weapon.
“You’re holding back,” he taunted. “Is the witchling too tired to play after a night under another yancy?”
“If you don’t hold your tongue, I might just cut it out!” She struck his thigh with one baton and the side of his head with the other, then stepped back to calm herself.
“I was taught y’siti never grew tired.” His eyes sparkled viciously as he blinked the pain aside. “Is it the heart or the lungs your mother eats after you’re born?”
Her jaw clamped shut, veins filling with fire. She cracked her neck and stepped away. “These lessons are over.”
When her boot met the stone, she turned her back to Kasim, eager to shake off his insults, but he only chuckled. It was a cruel sound, like that of his father when they’d met on her first night in the city.
“You’re getting flushed, you know. I hear Boreali flesh isn’t so corpselike when it’s flushed. They say it burns quite beautifully in the heat of passion. Uni, like a yaya between some yancy’s legs.”
Luscia froze. The horrific scar tissue on her neck throbbed as she thought about Ambrose and his body pressed against Mila. The pulsing changed to a scald as her mind flooded with images she’d ached to forget and a sensation she’d strived to wash away.
“Ah, is papyon what makes your kind come alive, little y’siti?” She heard Kasim’s poison over the rushing in her ears. “A pair of soft, Unitarian hands all over your body—”
Luscia screamed with a waking wrath that consumed her entire being. She spun in place, pulled her mother’s consort dagger from its sheath strapped across her thigh. Nearly jolted by an outbreak of light, she threw Ferocity along the threads of lumin, aiming straight for Kasim’s skull.
With a clatter, the dagger hit the wall and jangled against the floor. The threads shuddered at the sound and coiled in a makeshift fence surrounding them.
She tasted iron on her tongue when his fingers wiped blood away from a cut near his temple. To her shock and dismay, he grinned at the sight.
“There you are.”
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