“By Aurynth, Brödre.” Luscia squinted against the sun’s glare and adjusted the sheathed kuerre. “Nearly.”

FOUR

Zaethan

   Climbing the stairs to the royal apartments, Zaethan gathered his thoughts, the gravity of the coming threat magnifying with each step he took. The lingering voice of the Khan River faded with his memories of hunting boar and quail, replaced by the haunted corners of Marketown.

Kumo had said it best; the emerging procession of slain children paved the way for the y’siti’s arrival like an offering of blood. Her party was due to arrive in Bastiion within the week, and Zaethan didn’t believe in coincidences. He needed to convince Orynthia’s prince of the same.

The years of merciless training and discipline hummed in agreement, though he knew Dmitri would have difficulty accepting the witch as a threat to the crown. Despite the laughable accords holding the Ethnicam together, Zaethan would not fail his House, or his king.

He’d just rounded an ornate landing that opened to a wing of guest suites when a string of girlish giggles reached his ears. The nauseatingly familiar sound echoed off the walls, breaking his concentration.

Shtàka! Not now, Zaethan thought furiously. With difficulty, he mastered his scowl into a dashing grin, bracing himself for another tiresome exchange.

A flurry of lavender skirts rustled in his periphery. The heap of fabric belonged to a young Unitarian woman, recognizable by her tan, glossy skin and shinning auburn hair, which tonight sat pinned atop her bobbing head. Fluttering lashes drew his attention—albeit reluctantly—to her large amber eyes.

“Oh! Lord Zaethan, I didn’t see you! How silly of me. I was just returning from dining. Such a lovely spread!” she announced in her tinkling voice. “You were missed by many, of course!”

“Ah, Flourette. I’m sure your practiced allure was too preoccupied with your usual victims to register my absence,” was his best attempt at pleasantry.

He didn’t have time to flatter Flourette Hastings. Nor did he care to.

“Lord Zaethan! Stop it, you are too charming!” she exclaimed as her palm brushed his arm flirtatiously, too obtuse to hear the barb in his bland tone.

Removing her hand, which had begun trailing patterns across his tunic, Zaethan reminded himself that insulting the Haidren to Bastiion’s only daughter was not the smartest venture, even when she clearly required it. Zaethan thanked the figurative Fates that her brother, Ira, was Gregor Hasting’s firstborn, as opposed to Flourette. Otherwise, Dmitri would’ve had to draft strict rules regarding physical contact between his al’Haidrens.

“As much as I’d enjoy discussing all of your colorful thoughts, Flourette—for I’m sure there are many—I must be on my way,” he managed, as Flourette’s face lit up at some compliment only she could find. “Please give my regards to Lord Hastings.”

Zaethan bounded up the stairwell in escape, only stilling floors higher at his destination. Flourette was an attractive girl, but a vapid one, and he half expected her to come skipping after to assault him with further courtier babble. The last time she’d successfully cornered him was during her own Ascension earlier that winter. She’d pulled him into an alcove and barraged him with intermittent kisses, while simultaneously recounting the latest innovations in embroidery.

It had been torture.

Zaethan briskly passed the guards on duty and made his way into Dmitri’s apartments, pressing his back against the door in relief. This was one of few places he alone was permitted, and no one else—including Flourette Hastings.

“Lord Zaethan, how pleasant of you to drop by.” Eugenio, Dmitri’s valet of twenty years, surveyed him critically as he added, “Unexpectedly.”

The old crow never managed to hide his displeasure over the prince’s friendship with Zaethan. Regardless of his station, evidence of it leaked into even their simplest exchanges.

“Eugenio, always such chipper reception! Tell me, have you gotten into our prince’s southern bwoloa again?” Zaethan cheerfully provoked. “One sip too many this time, my friend?”

“I would never lower myself to the thievery and drunkenness of the outer Houses,” Eugenio muttered with indignant pride as he gathered Zaethan’s riding coat to hang, clearly horrified by the state of it.

“That’s the spirit,” Zaethan called over his shoulder, leaving the valet standing in Dmitri’s lavish foyer, still muttering to himself.

Striding through a slightly open set of doors, a wave of heat met his face. A fire so large wasn’t needed this time of year, even in the late evening, but his friend always preferred the apartment remain oppressively hot.

“Must you make a habit of tormenting my staff?” came a tired voice from behind a collection of papers. “If Eugenio spat in your growing collection of liqueurs, I wouldn’t hold it against him.”

Dmitri lounged on a plush emerald sofa, his untidy carob hair floating above the document he studied. He must have been waiting there a while, Zaethan surmised. An array of essays and reports cluttered the floor underneath Dmiri’s costly boots, which were propped contently upon the serving table in the middle of the large receiving room.

“I don’t expect you to understand the bond Eugenio and I share. It’s the truest of friendships, founded on a mutual disrespect,” Zaethan said airily, crossing the room to a small bar cart beside the crackling inferno. He poured himself a glass of Darakai’s favored bwoloa, knowing well enough not to offer a second to the prince, for he’d only decline.

“You’re later than expected. Trouble, or another productive hunt?” Dmitri inquired curiously, not bothering to look up.

“Business in Marketown, sentry replacements, Flourette Hastings,” Zaethan listed casually, taking residence on the matching sofa.

“A reprise of your stolen moment in an alcove, I suspect?” his friend jested, still engrossed in the same document.

“Depths, no!” Zaethan shuddered at the thought. “I barely escaped her the first time—I’d rather stab myself in the spleen than endure a second round of that scourge.”

At that, the parchment lowered to reveal a dubious expression distorting Dmitri’s refined features. The blazing fire ignited flints of gold in his hazel eyes, giving them more life than the intermittent pallor of his olive skin. A single brow lifted in doubtful amusement.

“I’m not exaggerating—you endure that prattling menace for an hour, and we’ll see how well you fare,” Zaethan challenged dramatically, inciting genuine laughter from his friend.

He sat back, content to hear Dmitri laugh, for he didn’t do it often enough. It was the reason Zaethan hassled Eugenio so intently—well, one of them, anyway. The sound reminded Zaethan of their many nights spent in this scorching room. In their formative years, Dmitri had insisted all his lessons be held in these very apartments, where they would sit like this, debating and unraveling the great mysteries with his Pilarese tutors. By accompanying Dmitri to nearly every lesson, Zaethan’s childhood became rooted in Bastiion, breaking from the balanced upbringing expected of an al’Haidren. Yet where Zaethan’s deviation had been educational, hers had been dangerous, secluded as she’d been in that y’siti cult they dared call a House.