“What is, Your Highness?” Luscia turned to find him smiling warmly.

“Love. A leader’s greatest reprieve.” He removed his hand from her shoulder and returned it to his knee. “If incredibly uncommon. You should cherish it.”

At that, Lusica’s chin tucked to look back at Marek, where he stood at attention and attempted to force Aksel to do the same.

“Forgive, perhaps,” she added, and faced forward. “But never forget.”

“No. No, they don’t forget.” Dmitri tossed a twig onto the altar as his totem disintegrated. “It’s a blessing, though—their memory. Otherwise, what reason would we have to grow?”

Luscia exhaled and relaxed her neck, gazing up at the underside of the glittering, domed cupola. “Are you nervous, Your Highness? For her arrival?”

“Dmitri,” he corrected, then mirrored her posture, admiring the ceiling. “In truth? Absolutely.” They shared a communal laugh that loosened her limbs. “Razôuel is a daunting blend of Pilar’s splendor and Darakai’s strength. The Zôueli treaty provides us with a valuable ally, however Razôuel boasts that women are not only equal, but superior in all matters. It will be a fascinating marriage, should she find me favorable.”

“Is that what you’d want in a marriage—fascination?” Luscia imagined Dmitri pruning a faceless woman in a gardening pot.

“Sometimes fascination is all we get.” Dmitri looped a loose thread around his thumb. “And that makes fascination quite dear.”

Luscia’s thoughts returned to Marek, her father’s choice, contemplating the prince’s sentiment. It was unavoidable in their positions. Like Dmitri, Luscia didn’t have the luxury of her mother’s circumstance. Had Eoine been the elder daughter, she might have lived untethered, as Alora had chosen. Alora had never needed to produce a successor, as her younger sibling had rapidly produced two, securing another generation in the line of Tiergan.

“I’ve been studying the Zôueli, as requested,” she relayed, returning to the topic. “Their origins are curious. My knowledge of peoples beyond the Ilias is limited.”

“I’m sure the princess will be happy to illuminate you further. I think you’ll enjoy her company, from my recollection of when we were children. Rasha might bring a much-needed break from your experience here at court.” Dmitri wavered, pursing his lips. “She, too, will feel like an outsider in Bastiion. You have that in common.”

“Y-your Highness,” Callister voiced weakly behind them. “It’s time. The Zôueli are at the city gate.”

Dmitri motioned for a priestess and gathered his cane to stand. Holding his breath, he leaned down and allowed the priestess to waft her incense around his dark, unkempt waves. Rising, the prince pounded his chest at the puff of smoke.

“Pray to all of our majestic overlords, Lady Boreal.” He coughed and pointed to the sky. “We’re going to need it.”

A parade of starlight entered the southern gate to the inner Proper. Whirling flares and torchlight designs decorated the streets for the Zôueli procession. From the palace windows high above, the rolling tent housing the western royalty looked like nothing more than an oblong lumilore Phalen might have found shimmering at their feet by the edge of the Dönumn.

“It’s been a decade since Korbin hosted Bahira’zol’Jaell.” Alora fixed her eyes on the carriage as she spoke of Razôuel’s queen, unmoving at her niece’s side. “This is a pivotal moment, Luscia. Every maneuver must be wielded shrewdly and with unyielding precision. More than you realize hinges on the coming days.”

Luscia’s teeth set, following her aunt’s gaze.

“Your childhood must be laid to rest, Luscia. Further rebellion poses a risk to the prince now more than ever.”

“He told me.”

Alora spun away from the glass. The moon haloed her neat braid and betrayed the thinning of her cheeks, made more severe by the luster.

“The prince told you of his need for a wife, or his need for an heir?”

“He told me everything,” Luscia touched the skeleton key beneath the fabric of her dress. “It was not a tale for children, nor the responsibility of one. You can set your worry aside.”

She rubbed her eyes and clasped her hands together, regretting the curtness in her tone. Luscia felt her aunt reading the unseen threads around her. It was a new sensation, one she’d not noticed in the past.

“You are concerned for him, so I won’t take offense at your tone.” Alora’s pitch dropped to a level no ordinary human could detect as several courtiers passed by, eager to witness the extravagant display at the gates. “As well you should be. We must assume there is less time than he is willing to admit. Your elixir is potent enough to keep it at bay—for now. His complexion has already improved.”

“Why is my…” Luscia waited for a group of squealing attendants to drift on. “…my blood any different than yours? Do the elders know what we’re doing?”

“Niit. The elders know what is pertinent and have little need to know what is inevitable.”

She hated when her aunt answered straightforward questions as if they were puzzles. Their years together had taught Luscia when a boundary was established, and there was no use pressing through it.

“Ana’Mere.” She bit her lip as the tail of the Zôueli caravan moved out of sight. “How did you know our blood would save him?”

Alora’s pale brows crinkled, then plummeted, dissatisfied somehow. “History written, and history rings,” she quoted the ballad. “You should already know that answer, for it lies at the start.” Her aunt picked up her hand, tenderly pinching the healed spot on her fingertip. Then Alora let go and stepped back, tugging her linsilk shawl tighter. “If you can’t answer the past, you’ve no sense questioning the present.”

After a few steps from the tall window, Alora paused and turned back to her niece. “And I couldn’t save him. I only drew out his death. Goodnight, Luscia.”

Retreating against the glass, Luscia’s chest caved in. She wrapped her arms around her middle and stared out through the window, down at the gate. In a single breath, it seemed all the hopeful light had vanished.

TWENTY-NINE

Luscia

   With the concentration expected of the most studious shoto, the prince slid his marble across the Zôueli playing board. Dmitri pocketed three others, plucking them from depressions in the lacquered wood, carved like eight-pointed stars. Among the spoils was one of Luscia’s own.

“Impressive, Prince Dmitri,” the board’s owner praised the maneuver in thickly accented Unitarian. Though they’d only met that morning, Luscia already enjoyed the way the princess’s western lilt altered each syllable, bending their common language into an exotic chime.