CHAPTER TWO: Zaethan
A familiar blade landed inches from Zaethan’s left cheek and impaled the earth beneath him, still damp from the morning rain.
“As they say, ‘Every gain has a loss.’ Looks like the loss is yours, Ahoté!” Kumo Shà announced confidently as his massive weight pressed down on Zaethan’s chest. The white of his smile reflected the bright afternoon sun, shining boldly against the depth of his Southern skin while he boasted to the few spectators currently sprawled across the surrounding terrain.
Always putting on a show, Zaethan assessed.
Ignoring the mix of dew and sweat bathing his spine, Zaethan studied the other man. Showmanship continued to prove his cousin’s primary weakness, as much as it was his source of charisma.
“Uni. Yes, it does, my friend,” Zaethan promised under his breath, locking eyes with the proud victor. He permitted his cousin’s celebration a moment longer before slamming his forehead into Kumo’s.
His cousin roared with pain and surprise. Taking advantage of Kumo’s disorientation, Zaethan hooked his legs around the muscular torso that pinned him and rotated them both to the right. Before the maneuver was complete, he thrust the fingers of his dominant hand aside, stretching to find a hilt encased in worn leather. He freed the blade from the dirt and let it skim Kumo’s throat, just as his left knee hit the wet earth with force.
“A loss, indeed. But let us not forget an older saying, cousin,” Zaethan whispered into his second’s ear, just loud enough for the present members of his pryde to hear, and quoted with a devious grin. “Boast in your victory, not before it.”
Zaethan’s head still pounded from the impact, but upon assessing the pain clouding his beta’s face, he decided the drumming ache was completely worth it. He rolled and stood in one fluid motion. Flipping the blade to offer the hilt to its rightful owner, he extended a hand to the man on the ground. Kumo clasped Zaethan’s forearm with a grimace and climbed to his feet, gingerly taking back his favorite knife.
From behind, Zaethan overheard Takoda Muthwali snicker smugly.
Their other comrade, Jabari Ulumb, swore as he dropped three dromas into Takoda’s hand, the clink of each silver coin emphasizing the mistake in doubting his alpha. Zaethan hid his amusement, lightly brushing off the blanket of dust and grime his outer tunic had collected. After binding back the woven locs that had been freed in the tussle, reforming the fall of rope-like braids between his shoulder blades, Zaethan strode to his remaining men, congregated near the horses.
A small segment of his personal militia—his pryde—had ridden to the outskirts of Bastiion to hunt in the openness between the provinces of Galina and Agoston. At least, that was the generic excuse he offered to any who questioned his absence. Bastiion had been his second home since late childhood, but it was irrefutably suffocating. Having inherited the title of al’haidren, Zaethan Kasim was committed to serve the crown, but even after twenty-three years of partially living at court, his blood still ran Darakaian red. A blood that called to open spaces, like a hawk calls to its master.
His father—Nyack Kasim, chief warlord of Darakai, commander supreme of the Orynthian armies, and Darakai’s haidren under King Korbin Thoarne—was scheduled to return to the palace that afternoon. While his father’s visits tended to inspire Zaethan’s need for a hunt, a half-day’s ride couldn’t prevent their eventual reunion. Zaethan shook out his clenched fists as the thought itched the back of his mind.
“Are you never still, Alpha Zà? Doru, just stop. Take this.” Zahra Hanovi, his third, tossed a canteen in his direction, shaking her shaved head. “After all that commotion, you still jostle about.”
She said it in jest, for both knew Zahra was his third for good reason. Her loyalty had proven to be as reliable as her ruthlessness in combat. Even so, being a few years older than he, Zahra’s maternal instinct awoke once in a while, though Zaethan rarely minded. Her spontaneous displays were even comical at times, at least when Kumo was victim to the harsher sides of her Darakaian mothering.
Zahra would be a truly terrifying mother one day, if any man was ever brave enough to suggest it.
“That is why I call him Ahoté,” his cousin hollered, pointing his fingers against his cheeks to resemble the whiskers of a bobcat.
Nepotism had nothing to do with Kumo’s position at Zaethan’s side, either. His cousin was bred for war. Even covered in mud, anyone could see the corded musculature hugging his bones. With a neck the width of a small tree and legs like horse haunches, the man looked like a fragment of the Andwele Mountains come to life. Truthfully, Zaethan held the upper hand in combat simply because Kumo moved first with his fists, second with his mouth, and lastly with his brain. The moment his cousin let the latter lead him, he’d evolve into an unbeatable opponent.
“When did you become so eloquent, Kumo?” Zahra snapped. “It’s good to see that brain is finally trying to fill your thick skull. Eh, maybe you can give us all pet names.”
Her voice always seemed to drip a preferred flavor of sarcasm when addressing his cousin. After their years of forced camaraderie, she still harbored bitterness over remaining third and never second. Despite Zahra’s vicious strategies and insatiable hunger to win, Kumo’s size always named him victor in formal challenges for his position.
“Uni, yeah, I give you plenty of names, Zahra. You just haven’t heard them all yet,” Kumo managed, mumbling a string of curses in Andwele. He tightened the saddle fastenings on his mount with fervor, exerting his frustration on the leatherwork instead of the svelte, aggressive woman to his side.
It was a delicate partnering of wills Zaethan worked hard to marry, but even with their squabbling, he needed them both. Ironically, their dissimilarity made him stronger. It was a fact each contender recognized but refused to admit aloud.
“Quit your bickering,” Zaethan ordered, adding a pointed, “both of you,” when Kumo’s mouth dropped incredulously.
He didn’t have the energy to play the roles of both alpha and nanny today. Stepping into a stirrup, Zaethan swung his weight across the saddle, anxious to begin their trek back. He needed to meet with the crown prince before the evening was over, and he preferred to face his father in the morning, after a full night’s rest.
“What’s wrong?” Kumo waited, sensing Zaethan’s growing disquiet. His beta could be impulsive and unpredictable, but Kumo had grown sensitive to Zaethan’s moods. Seeing the warning in his alpha’s eyes, Kumo altered his tone. “Did one of the little nasties crawl up your behind during our tussle?” he teased mischievously. “Those bites can get ugly—not so good for charming court yancies.”
Zaethan shuddered. Grass-nasties were small, ugly, six-legged creatures whose bites burned like the rumored fires of the depths.
“Uni, I distinctly remember the time you dumped a handful down my breeches. I don’t recall your being so thoughtful about the aftereffects ten years ago,” he clipped back, feeling his own lips quirking.
“Eh, kàchà kocho,” Kumo said noncommittally before he winked. “You weren’t so good-looking ten years ago. But you grew into that nose eventually.”
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Zaethan gathered the reins and prompted Hellion to lead them out of the clearing. It was a stretch he and the stallion knew well, for the tail end of the Khan River beckoned a variety of game to her banks. The richly scenic ride along the edge of her waters, where pebbled offshoots fed neighboring flora, was his favorite trail apart from the one home to Faraji.
Hellion snorted in acceptance of the command, exuberant to move again. Zaethan had trained dozens of their revered Andwele mountain stallions, but this beast was the most feral he’d ever handled—far wilder than his twin sister, Harmonia. Breeding a set of twin Andweles was unheard of, and he’d intended to gift the male to the crown prince five years ago as Darakai’s offering upon Zaethan’s Ascension, following tradition. But even the most experienced riders struggled to hold dominance over Hellion—hence his naming—so Zaethan decided to give Dmitri the female, as the mare was significantly easier to manage. The prince had readily preferred Harmonia to her twin after witnessing Hellion’s violent temperament firsthand.
Throughout the hours of riding, the clouds overhead rearranged to paint the evening’s backdrop. Blushing skies streaked with splashes of citrine cast a warm glow over the open landscape. Zaethan pushed Hellion to run to the stallion’s content, lowering his upper body to rest along Hellion’s impressive frame, unifying them. He felt beads of perspiration escaping from under the horse’s steely mane, a match to the sweat trickling down his own brow. It was proving a warm spring, though nothing compared to the hot, stuffy air Bastiion harbored.
He needed this. This rush, this escape. Whether natural or created by their momentum, Zaethan savored the wind beating against his skin. It would be another age before either of them could have this, and somehow, the onyx beast sensed it, too. The angry stallion, his likeness in spirit, craved the same taste of abandon.
Zaethan didn’t know when they’d be able to feel such freedom again in the coming months, especially once she came. Ensuring the crown prince’s safety against her sorcery would overrule every personal desire once the al’haidren to Boreal crossed their city gates. When they last met, she’d been too young to wield her unnaturalness against them, but her second coming would not be the same.
Closing his eyes, Zaethan tried to forget hers.
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Zaethan’s pryde reached the inner proper as Owàa, the sun, bade his farewell and conceded to Àla’maia, his lover the moon.
Familiar scents from the market filled his chest as they rode through the streets: fine jasmine and bergamot mixed in a sickening cocktail with the stale aroma of butcher slabs. The distinct odors of old produce and imported drink mingled in the clouds of smoked pipe marrow escaping from dirtier, less frequented tents. Zaethan despised these smells, which told a story of waste and addiction, cheap trade and desperation.
This was Bastiion, the heart of Orynthia. The realm’s crown city, fueled by a commerce that was equal parts luxury and rot.
Regardless of Zaethan’s disgust for Unitarian custom and livelihood, the proper was a home of sorts. Dmitri was here, and as future king, here he would remain. Over the years, the prince had grown closer to a brother than a charge, and regardless of Zaethan’s wish to escape what—or rather who—thrived in Bastiion, he had vowed to keep his oath to never abandon his oldest friend. Two yancies—rich Unitarian noblemen—crossed the street, each towing a pair of night-callers on their arms. The young women, faces painted with immaculate artistry and bodies draped in exotic textiles, laughed sensually with their benefactors. Their feminine chatter suggested a mutual pleasure, when the transaction couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Eh, Jaha! It’s been a while, no?” a throaty voice called from a crooked alley to their left.
Zaethan twisted in his saddle toward a woman wrapped in layers of ruby velvet, tailored to exaggerate her figure to perfection. Her lips parted slightly as she encouraged the material to fall down a bronze shoulder.
“How ’bout you men come see me tonight?” she proposed, her tone sultry. “I’ll make sure my girls show you extra love…extra papyon, yeah?”
“Salma. You’re looking lovely, as always,” Zaethan offered with an easy grin. “Unfortunately, I am otherwise engaged. Perhaps you can comfort Bastiion’s lonelier souls—a pitiful yancy has more coin than my poor Darakaian pryde.”
Every man in the proper knew Salma Nabhu and, likely, most of her staff. She’d been the matron of The Veiled Lady for over a decade, and her decadent establishment was one of the most popular in the city—as were the many darker services it had to offer
“Uni, but none of the rich yancies look like you, Jaha,” Salma taunted.
The woman was old enough to be his mother, but Zaethan welcomed the sound of home. Pretty thing, she liked to call him. It was a useless seduction, yet hearing the broken Andwele roll off her tongue was a bittersweet memento of the mountains he’d not seen in months.
“You come see me soon, yeah?” she urged as they passed. “You bring me those eyes. Even Madam Salma gets lonely sometimes…”
With a final wink, she disappeared back inside The Veiled Lady. Music floated from the windows of the night den, though their thick garnet curtains hid Salma’s patrons from the eyes of Bastiion’s penniless voyeurs.
“A veiled lady indeed.” Zaethan chuckled.
He’d always liked Salma; she was an exception to the norm among those of her profession. Granted, her success was far from surprising when one considered how Unitarian ancestry colored her dewy skin and vibrant, hazel eyes, haloed by the tightly coiled raven hair that came courtesy of her Southern heritage. Even past her prime, she stood out in crowded Marketown.
Darakaian cross-castes scarcely made a decent life in the proper. The product of two Houses, cross-castes were unrepresented by the Ethnicam and without a seat at the table of the Quadren. Those of any origin claimed little to their names and even less in their pockets. The lucky ones found a glimmer of normalcy in trade or shop work, while the unlucky were often sold to the highest bidder.
Salma’s decision to position herself as the most infamous madam in Bastiion was a sensible gamble. Even Zaethan had to admit her brash candor was like a breath of fresh air in a land of stale aftertastes. Unitarian women of the court were haughty, tight-lipped creatures who used their beauty to ensnare men as politely as they discarded them. Meanwhile, Darakaian females exhibited the opposite extreme: fierce, beautiful warriors who boldly—and, at times, combatively—voiced their wishes. Hence Salma’s universal appeal.
If her invitation had caressed his ears another night, he might have directed the men to accept—Zaethan’s reputation certainly benefited from the exposure. Connections accrued in a smoky game of chance with the city vagrants often proved just as powerful as any alliance built upon a dance card, but he’d thus far avoided personally partaking in Salma’s offerings, much to her dismay. The madam’s selection of professional night-callers was certainly inspired, but acting on a momentary impulse was never the wisest use of her business. Many a yancy found himself owing Salma Nabhu enough coin to teach Zaethan he’d rather it be the other way around. And as haidren, the last thing Nyack Kasim would want to learn was that his son had tainted the line by siring an heir at a popular night den.
Besides, if The Veiled Lady housed the only parties receptive to his attentions, then Zaethan wasn’t nearly as charming as he’d been led to believe.
After an hour navigating the city, the pryde finally reached the palace grounds. Zaethan urged Hellion into a large stable connected to the exterior guard house. Dismounting, he stretched out his limbs, which had become tense during the ride through the cramped streets. Then he began the rituals required to ease Hellion into his stall. Running his hands along the stallion’s stunning frame in a series of swirling motions, Zaethan soothed the animal with gentle Andwele whispers. He’d bought Hellion three stall lengths, but the beast still hated being boarded. Perhaps he should incorporate Salma’s methodology and purchase a docile mare.
As he locked the stall, Kumo placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Come, Ahoté. We need to speak,” the beta directed quietly. He knew well that giving orders to an alpha had consequences.
Zaethan released a breath and brushed past. “Whatever it is, it can wait, cousin.”
Ignoring the command, Kumo rushed to follow. Falling in line with Zaethan’s steps, his broad, muscled arm swung out to stop him. “Doru, Zaeth. You’re upset—what’s wrong?”
Zaethan’s gaze traveled up the heights of the palace and lingered on the small wing of apartments that would soon belong to her. Inside, where she’d do the most damage.
“Word arrived late this morning. The y’siti,” Zaethan spat vehemently, “will arrive by week’s end.”
Kumo’s face went slack, the blood fading from his cheeks. “Shtàka,” he swore. “Now? I thought the ice-witch ascended in the summer—”
“We don’t have much time. I need to go.”
“You’ve got bigger problems at hand, Ahoté. The guard just found another one. This time near the docks.”
“A dead cross-caste?” Zaethan whispered. “One of ours?”
Kumo shook his wide chin. “Ano. Another y’siti mutt. A girl, only eleven years.”
The hazy image of a lifeless child hovered in Zaethan’s mind. Stepping around Kumo, he marched to the nearest entrance and paused, as the matter of the witch would have to wait. Zaethan’s pryde managed the security of the proper, so he and his beta needed to speak with the sentries right away.
Before retreating into the guard house, he glanced back toward the southern tower. To protect his friend and someday king, Zaethan would soon lock himself inside that stone cage with his father while her threat suffocated any illusion of his independence.
Every gain had a loss.
And he already hated her for this one.
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