CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Luscia

The vibration of Aksel’s snore lulled Luscia to sleep as her head sank further into the pillows of her lavish Unitarian bed. With a weighty sigh, she let go of the evening she’d spent at The Veiled Lady; her seductive song and ravenous banter, the skeletons her matron masked with desire. Troubled but limp from exhaustion, Luscia melted into the sea of sheets. At last, rest would come.

Rapid murmurs in the receiving room outside licked her ears. Rolling over, Luscia buried her face in a blanket.

“Claims it’s important, m-madam. I’m not to return without her.”

“I’ll say it again. The al’haidren is not to be disturbed at this hour. Now go, you little twit!”

Groaning, Luscia swung her feet to the ground, much to Aksel’s dismay, and cracked her bedroom door. In the foyer stood Dmitri’s young page. Shakily, he extended a sealed scrap of parchment to her enraged lady’s maid. Tallulah ripped it from the timid boy and studied the impression in the wax. Straightening her nightcap, the older woman looked up, bewildered.

“Ock, why’d you not show me this ten minutes ago? Making me all upset when the prince’s seal was in that sorry pocket of yours!”

“It’s okay, Tallulah,” Luscia said with a yawn, making the maid jump. “Let’s have it,” she added, reaching for the correspondence.

“Oh, Lady Luscia, I’d have woken you if I thought the boy was speaking truth! This foolish lad here, he—”

“Wem, the prince’s message, Tallulah. Bolaeva, please.”

“Ah.” She handed over the crisply folded note. “Right.”

Luscia,

Another five. Please, it is urgent.

Yours, Dmitri

Pushing the unbound hair from her face, Luscia caught the page’s eye and nodded. “Allow me to prepare myself and we’ll depart immediately.”

Retreating to the privacy of her bedroom, she rushed to complete the tedious steps necessary to produce the requested vials. Repeating Alora’s bizarre instructions in her mind, Luscia took the edge of a knife and crushed the ennus thorn, releasing its savory odor. Scraping the chalky powder into a mixing glass, she carefully poured nixberry oil into the beaker and held it over a candle until it boiled. Hastily, she stirred in eüpharsis extract, encouraging the thick, bluish serum to slide into the bubbling liquid. Luscia rested the elixir on her dresser and tugged at the long, gilded chain around her neck. Using the sharp bone key, she added the final ingredient from her index finger.

Five drops of Tiergan blood—no more, no less.

Dividing the liquid between a set of vials, Luscia quickly set them aside and ground the poultice for her finger, dabbing it onto the wound. Tucking the vials in a pocket of her dressing robe, Luscia thrust her feet into a pair of upturned boots and returned to the foyer. If Dmitri’s page questioned her appearance, as it hadn’t improved during the time she’d made him wait, he didn’t voice it as they traversed the halls of the palace. When the page turned down an unfamiliar corridor, Luscia grabbed his arm to correct their path.

“P-please don’t hurt me!” The boy shook in her grasp.

Luscia released him. “I’m not—I just…” She rubbed her temples, cursing the Unitarians for their tales of Northern witchery. “Isn’t His Highness’s suite in the southern wing?”

“The prince asked that you meet elsewhere, m-m’Lady al’Haidren.” He ducked his head and gestured to a stairwell.

“Of course.” Luscia made to comfort the nervous page in some fashion, but faltered. “Thank you…Callister, isn’t it?”

Callister murmured something affirmative in response and signaled for her to descend the stairs, apparently alone. As she neared the base, an exquisite set of crystal doors came into view. Though night had long fallen, torches lit a curving path through an impressively manicured garden on the other side. Luscia hadn’t a chance to visit the famed gardens herself, though had heard many stories of their beauty.

Unsurprisingly, a trim Darakaian was stationed to the right of the entryway. A spray of Southern coils flanked his stern expression. Luscia lifted her chin as she entered the maze of trimmed hedges and flowering towers, painfully aware of the unspoken implications of her ill-suited attire.

Handsomely wrought sconces painted amber patterns across the back of Dmitri’s crushed velvet jacket and played with the edges of his dark, wavy hair. Seated on a bench, the prince perched against his gleaming cane with an intent expression, as if he contemplated the universe. Hesitating to interrupt his ponderings, Luscia stopped just short of the bench and waited.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Dmitri angled his face as he peered into the flickering darkness. “I often come here to think when sleep evades me. It drives my guards mad. Will you join me, Lady Boreal?”

Wrapping her dressing robe tighter, Luscia dutifully took a seat beside her sovereign. She felt in her pocket for his vials, the faint clinking of glass disturbing the quiet.

“Five, as requested, Your Highness.”

“Dmitri.” When the prince shifted to retrieve them, a noticeable tremble ran through his fingers. Without hesitation, Dmitri brought one to his mouth and swallowed, pressing his eyes shut. “Shtàka, that is vile,” he said, coughing.

After a few measured breaths, Dmitri faced Luscia. His cheeks showed little color, which was ironic, for his Unitarian skin was shades darker than her own. Higher, a plum hue cradled his lashes. Wan lips twitched sheepishly as he regarded the four remaining doses.

“I am indebted to your promptness, Lady Boreal. I apologize for calling you from your bed.” Dmitri glanced at the hem of her robe. “I know I am not your favorite person as of late,” he noted, keeping his gaze fixed there. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“It’s true I have been…cross with you.” Luscia chose each word prudently. “But you are my future king. You are owed promptness.”

He nodded, yet seemed displeased by her reply. Luscia didn’t know what else to say. The prince of Orynthia refused to fight for the children of Boreal as they were slaughtered in his own city, and she could no longer expect him to. Luscia wouldn’t be so naïve again. Justice for her cross-caste brethren floating in the bay, massacred and strewn in the streets, demanded vigilance. And if such vigilance demanded an illicit alliance with the al’haidren to Darakai, then so be it.

“Do you like my garden?” Dmitri waved to the manicured landscape around them.

“It—it’s lovely.”

He chuckled. “But?”

“It is lovely, really,” Luscia insisted as his brow rose. “I just prefer the way things are out there, within nature. Free, I suppose. When something grows amidst adversity, it becomes strong. Place it in a stone box, and it remains stunted. Frail, like a bird with its wings clipped.”

“Fascinating.” Dmitri sat forward in thought. “You exhibit such masterful self-discipline but prefer a wild beauty to a cultivated one.”

“What you are insinuating, Your Highness?” Luscia crossed her arms before quickly uncrossing them again. Best to keep defiance under the skin, where it could not be seen, at least when it came to discussions with her aunt.

“I simply appreciate the irony. Here, you can’t stand to see even the most delicate of things, such as a flower, trapped in a controlled environment, yet you control yourself meticulously. What contradiction your entire being must hold together every day. But”—Dmitri gripped his cane to stand, extending Luscia his arm before she could protest—“enough of that. Come, I want to show you something.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Rising, she warily took the arm of his expensive coat. His cane rapped the cobblestones as they walked the exterior of the vast gardens. Pointing out his preferences, the prince notated each uniqueness and rarity of origin. Confined as she’d been to the peninsula of Boreal, Luscia had never travelled beyond its borders, excepting Bastiion proper. Her eyes widened at the High One’s imagination. There was so much mystery to the shapes and colors he’d crafted, the artistry he’d etched across a world she’d never seen.

“Look, there’s yours.” Dmitri moved to a pair of modest, thorny blossoms. Their petals were a radiant pearl under the moonlight, apart from hints of yellow at the edges. “The noculoma-anastasis is always overlooked in these gardens. We don’t have many, only this pair and the third in your possession.”

“I’m honored.” Surprised, Luscia studied the plant and asked, “What inspired you to uproot it?”

“I wished for the third to dwell beside its match, as the other pair. Like you, I suspect, it will continue to bloom even when the light seems lost. Most especially when it is lost.” He ushered her onto a narrower walkway, past the noculoma-anastasis. “Almost there—this way.” Distracted by the bordering procession of shrubs, fashioned into every type of creature, Luscia felt Dmitri’s hand tighten around her own on his arm when he lifted a finger to his mouth.

“Wait,” he whispered, pointing ahead to the sentries posted outside a smaller, more secluded garden within the walled paradise.

Luscia could not see who occupied it at this hour, but the list of court residents with royal sentries was quite short. Beside her, Dmitri stared at the mossy gate, a tendon skipping along his jawline as his lips pursed crookedly. Cane in hand, he fiddled with something in his pocket, but ceased when the gate creaked open and a slim woman emerged.

Dmitri stood a fraction taller as his mother tucked away her handkerchief and lowered a lace veil to cover her glistening, tear-stained face. Without a glance toward where her son stood silently in the dark, the elegant queen lifted her head and mutely left her guard to somberly follow. As the prince watched his mother disappear behind the maze of hedges. Luscia swallowed and looked away, suddenly feeling as if she were intruding on something immensely private.

Moving more slowly now, Dmitri led her into the little garden. After locking the gate, he directed Luscia to a bench in the center of the rounded landscape. Encircling the bench were an array of toy replicas carved from stone: a horse, a chess piece, a soldier, a rabbit. Nine in total, bedded in the flowering groundcover.

With the aid of his cane, Dmitri bent a knee to the earth and produced a carved wooden bird from his pocket. Heaving a breath, he blew bits of sawdust off its tiny beak, as if it’d been carved by his own hand. As he placed it gently beside the marble rabbit, Luscia realized the bird was not alone—similar objects littered the soil, time-weathered and dressed in foliage.

These were not children’s toys, she realized.

They were graves.

Coming to sit beside her, Dmitri exhaled as he began, “I brought you here because…because it is unfair of me to ask for your trust, without first offering my own.” The prince kneaded one of his palms and considered the marble rabbit in the dirt. “As history tells, the line of Thoarne has ruled the last centuries during steady conflict. Reasonably, it’s difficult to produce heirs during wartime. Over those years, the line became ever narrower, most monarchs lucky to sire two healthy children. Eventually, each sired only one, generation after generation.

“My father accomplished what no other could. He secured Orynthia’s peace. Yet here we sit, at the start of an age that ought to be defined by renewed vitality…among my nameless brothers and sisters, who will never see it.”

Luscia’s forehead furrowed as she followed his line of sight to the carved figures.

“My mother became skilled at hiding her pregnancies while I grew up. The court couldn’t be allowed to see a pattern, lest the Peerage lose faith in our line. The youngest of my siblings would’ve turned five this summer, had he or she lived to their birth.”

“Dmitri, I…” Luscia knew loss intimately, but struggled to form an adequate response to his pain. “My brother, Phalen, is everything to me—everything left of my mother. I cannot imagine the agony of losing him. But…” She paused, genuinely baffled. “I still don’t understand. Why entrust me with this secret?”

“Because Accords are capricious things, Lady Boreal. Since my Ascension, I’ve made a practice of studying our own. Not just what was written long ago, but the things unwritten… things not written at all. Our forefathers, yours and mine, they concealed a loophole for the outer territories. You see, the Accords between Orynthia and the Houses are not tied to the realm, or even to Bastiion. They are tied to my line, to the descendants of Thoarne himself.

“My closest cousins are so far removed from the original line, chaos would ensue if they were to fight over the regency. Now self-sustained, the Houses would pull away to solidify their independence. Broken into factions, our insecure borders would lure neighboring kingdoms to action. Prudently, our allies to the east would invade Pilar before Darakai could assume it.” Dmitri’s disheveled hair brushed his cheeks as he shook his head. “The realm as we know it would collapse entirely.”

“So, you produce an heir of your own,” Luscia concluded aloud, familiar with the burden of carrying on one’s lineage. “With an heir secured, those dangers are easily circumvented.”

“That is the logical solution, yes. The Peerage favor Bahira’Rasha, heir apparent to the Queendom of Razôuel. They believe a union with the Zôueli princess would yield the strongest heir in a century. It’s why we’ve formally invited Bahira’Rasha and the Zôueli queen to join us during the solstice.”

Luscia searched his eyes and the foreboding sadness hidden within. “Then there is no need for distress. Your heir will follow in your footsteps, as you will after your father.”

The prince looked wistful. “That is such a wonderful dream. A favorite, when sleep permits it.”

“Your Highness, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Dmitri fiddled within his pocket, pulling out his elixir, and peered into the empty vial. Then, looking up, he smiled at her. Uncertain, her smile in return faltered.

“I’m dying, Luscia.”

Slowly, Luscia’s eyes abandoned Dmitri’s and dropped to his chest. Rustling leaves, the company of evening crickets, it all faded as her gifted ears sought only the sound of his inhale and exhale. In, then out; a smooth, uninterrupted rhythm. Back and forth, like a rocking cradle, cocooning her mind as it spun. Luscia felt her head shake.

“Niit,” she heard herself say, having gone numb. “No, no. There are tonics. Boreal has a remedy for everything—”

“I’m dying, Luscia,” he repeated. “It’s all right. Luscia, look at me.” Dmitri reached over and squeezed her fingers. “It is—it’s all right. I’ve known for a few years. Alora has known even longer, I assume.”

“Alora…?”

“She saved me. When I was a boy, about six or seven, I became very ill. Dangerously so. When the court physicians failed to find a solution, Alora came. I’m told she spent days, even nights at my bedside. When I finally woke, my parents were told my ailment had been cured. To this day, they still believe it was.

“Alora concocted a multitude of therapies throughout my youth. This elixir sustains me, but the dosage increases as I grow older. I feel…I feel myself dying, a little more each day. I don’t know exactly what these contain”—Dmitri set the empty vial on the bench between them—“and I don’t need to know. But Alora’s predictions proved more than accurate. Your mixture offers me more longevity, like a spike with a slow taper. However, it too is only temporary.”

“Niit, we will keep trying,” Luscia protested, a new kind of defiance rising in her chest. “There is an answer, a different substance or ratio—”

“We’ve accepted there is no cure. I will die, Luscia. Perhaps not this year, or the next, but the night approaches when I won’t be able to wake up.”

A single bead of moisture trailed down her cheek and splashed her knuckles. Against logic or reason, Luscia suddenly felt very alone.

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need time,” he said gently. “I need you to continue giving me that, just long enough to produce an heir to the Orynthian throne.”

“Who else knows of this? Suspects it?” Luscia cataloged the obstacles in keeping such a secret.

“After tonight, Alora and yourself. My mother can’t bear the burden of knowing the truth, and my father won’t hear of it.” He rubbed his forehead. “The Peerage cannot be allowed to sense a weakness in the line. At best, each noble would use it to his own advantage. We need the Peerage behind the regency to protect my heir during the rest of my father’s reign, and to uphold the Accords once the child takes the throne.”

“What will you tell the Quadren?”

“Nothing. Ira will likely inherit leadership of the Peerage after his father. It’s typical for the haidren to Bastiion to hold the majority seat, thus becoming minister by default. Sayuri…well, it’s better Pilar believes the facade than learn the reality. Pilar would exploit Bastiion’s weakness, rather adeptly I fear.”

“And Darakai?”

Dmitri diverted his gaze and straightened his shoulders. “Zaethan will not learn of my condition. I have my reasons for that.” A sudden tension pinched the prince’s neck. “Reasons which are not eligible for discussion.”

Luscia slid her hand across the bench to console him, then remembered her place. “I’m sorry, Dmitri, for what it’s worth. I am so very sorry.”

“Tadöm,” he whispered in her native tongue.

They sat in the quietness of the garden together, each lost in their own thoughts. Dmitri stared at the bird he’d carved, perched in the dirt.

“I know I’ve become a disappointment to you these past weeks,” he said at last. “Since your arrival, really. I hope you understand now.” Rotating toward her, Dmitri’s face fell in defeat. “There can be no hint of favoritism. I cannot overturn jurisdiction for Boreal, however much I wish to. You have to know that I would tear apart this entire city to avenge those children. But I must support the Accords—they alone hold the realm together after tragedy, when tensions rise. The Accords must endure after I’m gone. For the sake of my child—Thoarne’s child—they must.”

“Then, se’lah Aurynth.” Luscia released a breath of apprehension, her decision made. “I am at your complete service. I’m with you, Dmitri Thoarne. Until Aurynth.”

“No.” The tired prince scooped her fingers off the stone and into his own. He brought the inside of her palm to his lips for the gentlest of touches, then pressed it against the uneven beat of his heart. “The fate of Orynthia, my very life, rests in your hands. Luscia, it is I who am with you.”

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