“My offering to you, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne, Crown Prince of Orynthia, is a single dagger,” she announced in a clear, strong voice. The y’siti lowered her arm and stroked the hilt, suddenly looking wistful. “Consort daggers are never to be parted, and this pair is the last remnant of my mother that I have. Its mate remains with me, as this blade will remain with you. It is named Benevolence.”
Dmitri leaned forward, entranced. “And the mate in your possession?”
“Ferocity.”
For an instant, her glistening, smoke-rimmed eyes blazed a searing light, but no one else seemed to notice. Zaethan lifted the knife out from under the napkin, looking around disbelievingly. Not even his father appeared to be particularly alarmed. Then, to his shock, the commander nodded jerkily to his sentries, who slowly back away from the y’siti, allowing her to rise and move toward the prince once again.
“Dmitri, I don’t think—” Zaethan began.
Yet Dmitri merely brushed him aside and stepped around the table, opening his palms to receive the y’siti’s Ascension offering. Zaethan held his breath, waiting for the witch’s inevitable attack.
The y’siti smiled at Dmitri, holding out the consort dagger, looking innocent as a doe. Then, without warning, she suddenly seized her head in both hands and screamed. The jeweled blade clattered against the floor as her eyes rolled back into her skull and she collapsed.
“Niit!” a panicked voice cried.
A blur of emerald and crimson emerged from the shadows, leaping over the tabletops. A Najjan ran toward her, dropping to his knees once he’d cleared the crowd. He skidded upon them across the smooth floor, catching the unconscious al’Haidren in his arms. Cradling her head, the shadowman panted in alarm. A swarm of nobles stood in shock, gasping as three more fully armed Najjan materialized to escort their al’Haidren’s body from the hall.
“Well,” Sayuri said with a pout, “that took an interesting turn.”
Zaethan slammed his fists down, causing cutlery to fly from the table, then stormed out of the room. There was no telling how many pale faces had infiltrated the corners of this palace. He realized then that the House of Boreal had not sent a mere sorceress into the heart of Bastiion, but a cancer. A weapon who’d bewitch their prince before slitting his throat.
The pang in Zaethan’s chest foretold that this would be the night he’d always look back upon as the moment when everything changed.
TWELVE
Luscia
A spicy, floral scent struck Luscia as an invigorating breath of rhali pollen filled her sluggish lungs.
Her eyelids cracked open. Bright, hazy light forced her to blink multiple times before her vision could clear. Pressure racked the base of her skull and spread forward, like webs of pain holding her hostage. An involuntary groan escaped her parched lips. Then, with a soft click, the aggressive aroma was capped and whisked away from her nostrils.
“There we are,” said a soothing voice.
A warm palm rested lightly against her forehead. Alora withdrew her hand and began sifting through her apothic instruments, but returned it more forcefully when Luscia tried to lift herself upright.
“Ah, ah…my Boreali niece should know impatience is never prudent. Keeping your Captaen Bailefore out of this room has alone proven cumbersome, so I’d appreciate some cooperation.”
Luscia huffed and pressed her aching head into the pillow.
“Tadöm,” Alora thanked her, combing through the boxed apothecary.
“How long?”
“About forty-eight hours. You’ve broken your record, lu’lycran,” Alora answered kindly, though the use of Lusica’s childhood name betrayed her aunt’s attempt at nonchalance. She’d not uttered it in years.
Meaning “little wolx,” only Luscia’s father held onto the name his wife had favored. Luscia’s mother used to say their daughter was more lycran than al’Haidren, whenever she found Luscia covered in mud or out of bed, exploring in the moonlight. Alora embraced it for a season after her younger sister, Eoine, was taken from them, but her aunt’s parental inclinations were much more reserved than the younger, whimsical woman who’d brought Luscia into the world.
Still, Alora became an essential figure during Luscia’s formative years. True to her sober disposition, hers was a distant love—ardent, but less concerned with impractical sentimentality than with Luscia’s birthright and blood-calling.
“I’ve been in this bed for two days?” Luscia sputtered, startled by the time lost. “I don’t understand how this happened. My vials ran out the night we entered Bastiion. A minor episode occurred once I initiated the Sight,” she added at Alora’s inquiring look. “But even so, my last dose was taken less than a week ago.”
“You waited that long to awaken your connection? Luscia…” Alora scolded, disregarding the topic at hand. “You were instructed to begin communing with the threads the night of your Ascension. I was hoping your Sight would be second nature by now. The threads discern for us. The High One speaks through the Dönumn and thus through the lumin. It’s your most vital gift as Haidren to Boreal.”
She’d expected the lecture, but Luscia wasn’t ready to admit to the fear that she’d been vacant of the higher gifts. Or that she’d yet to commune with the threads since.
“Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere.”
“It is forgiven,” Alora dismissed. “Now, what of this minor episode you mentioned? I wasn’t aware there’d been another since your departure. Your fiery captaen only reported what transpired at your reception.”
Briefly, Luscia recounted what had taken place after initiating her Sight in the wood outside the Proper. It didn’t make any sense; Luscia had never fallen victim to an episode so quickly after taking her standard dosage. Her aunt began brewing the medicinal treatments around the time of puberty, when an unknown, splitting head pain first took hold of Luscia. Neither Boreal’s chief healer nor her Clann Darragh were able to discern what had befallen their young al’Haidren.
“Could this be because of my Ascension? The episodes used to be further apart, but they’ve intensified ever since,” Luscia posed.
“Niit. What’s more likely is, as you approached adulthood and entered into it, the occurrences are being triggered by external stressors. The episode in the wood and the reception were both evenings of extreme significance. The latter incredibly so. You attended without your Haidren and were forced to participate in that ridiculous spectacle,” her aunt noted resentfully. “The thought of that court handling you like another plaything…”
Alora moved toward the windows of Luscia’s bedroom, where multiple, glistening jars had been set out upon the window ledge. She picked up a stone bowl and started grinding a complex mix of herbs together.