“He stays in the mist, with my people. Yours is a natural archer.” Luscia stood, offering Rasha her hand. “I’m sure your family is proud.”
The princess rose as well. “Tozune will be a fine general, like our father. He is ineligible to wear my mother’s crown, you know.”
Together they walked arm in arm, joining Dmitri. Recently, Luscia had read how the Zôueli regency passed from mother to daughter. Orynthia had no such constraints, yet as Thoarne’s descendants tended to be sons instead of daughters, the tenor of the Peerage mirrored the throne, favoring male delegates from the provinces. That same favoritism traditionally held less favorable for female Haidrens, even when they occupied a coveted seat on the Quadren beside their sovereign. Although their policy and deportment couldn’t be more divided, Luscia and Sayuri were at least united in the disadvantage of their sex.
A fact the Pilarese had decided to use to their advantage, apparently, as Sayuri practically melted into Dmitri’s camel day jacket when Luscia and Rasha reached the perimeter of the tent.
Aksel might as well teach her to mark the poor man, Luscia mentally retorted, it would certainly be more effective. She couldn’t help but smirk at the thought, remembering the stench in Sayuri’s vacated apartments.
“Dmitri, tell me something.” The princess positioned herself between him and the tent post. “An Orynthian Quadren hosts four ambassadors, yet I’ve only met three. Where is the fourth?”
With a feminine confidence Luscia had never witnessed at court, Rasha exerted her supremacy by echoing his posture, not touching him in the least. Seconds later, Sayuri loosened her grip on his sleeve, doing the same.
Women were intricate, chaotic creatures, Luscia had decided long ago. Praise the High One her mother had only borne one. It was enough to dissect her own temperaments—navigating those of a sister as well would be an undertaking, indeed.
Dmitri unbuttoned his jacket apprehensively, waving the fabric to cool himself. “Forgive me his absence. My al’Haidren to Darakai, Zaethan Kasim, informed me that he was to spend today familiarizing your Zôueli guard with palace protocols and procedures. You are to meet him tomorrow, though,” he assured her. “At the match. Bit of a confusing sport, motumbha, but he makes an excellence starter.”
Luscia’s stomach unclenched. At that moment, she realized how tense she’d felt all morning. Luscia relaxed on her heels, relieved she wouldn’t be seeing Kasim until tomorrow afternoon. After their final meeting in the training room, she still wasn’t ready to meet his knowing stare, both watchful and smug. Not after what he’d done, intentionally or not. Luscia didn’t trust that Kasim wouldn’t broach the subject again, or use its gravity against her. There were times when she forgot who his father was. That morning had not been one of them.
Absently, she scratched at her scar under the lace and swallowed. He said he’d found her weakness in combat, and she couldn’t face him because of it. Not after he might have been right.
“Is the Darakaian as nimble as your fellow Unitarian?” Rasha posed cynically, watching Ira while he wrapped his uncalloused fingertips where they’d split and swelled.
“Shtàka!” he hollered, losing the roll of bandages between his boots.
Luscia wasn’t sure of the alternative, but sober, Ira really was terribly unathletic. She nearly felt sorry for the yancy when he bit down to sever the mesh fabric from the roll. His feet unknowingly entangled, Ira tried to march toward their party and fell flat on his face, uprooting the sod.
As Ira brushed himself off, an imposing character strode across the lawn, directly toward their picnic assembly. As he neared, Luscia recognized the dark man, his notable height the first clue that Kasim’s beta approached in search of his alpha. The unyielding sun melded his countenance, until the trampled lines of his square features defined inside the shadow of the tent. Unsettled in some way, the beta’s forehead puckered as he bowed to their prince and beat his chest twice.
“Kumo,” Dmitri greeted him by name. “Is everything all right?”
“Your Highness.” He bent over a second time, thoroughly out of breath, and asked, “Is Alpha Zà with you?” As he spoke, the beta’s huge skull swung from side to side, surveying the protected field. Comprehending Kasim’s absence, the Darakaian rolled the twisted knots atop his head between his fingers anxiously.
“He was unable to join us, Kumo. Though I sense there is some urgency?” Concerned, Dmitri stepped forward, hands at his belt.
The beta leaned down to mutter in Dmitri’s ear. Shifting slightly, Luscia tuned her northern ears toward the flutter of his full lips.
“…stable boy gone missing, Your Highness,” he uttered in a hushed whisper. “Boreali cross-caste.”
Dmitri lurched back in shock. Smoothing the lapel of his jacket, he lifted on his toes to whisper in return. “Here, on the grounds?”
As if he knew she’d overheard the report, Kumo’s hickory eyes slid to Luscia. Grimacing, he dipped his chin to the prince. The southerner then offered her a look of pity, confirming his words.
Dread brought her hand to her stomach. Dropping it, Luscia straightened her posture, aware Rasha was studying the entire encounter. Despite the language barrier, the princess was more astute than she let on. Razôuel had no business decoding the peril of Orynthia’s downcast, and Dmitri couldn’t afford for them to find out.
A single weakness in the realm could became a weakness in a marriage contract. Their own Accords already posed enough.
“You should find Zaeth in the southern wing, around the Zôueli suites. Go, quickly now.” Dmitri patted the beta’s bicep, double the width of his hand, sending him off.
As Dmitri returned to their picnic, Ira came around from behind, his fine silk shirt covered in dirt stains. Holding a bowl of his Wendyllean grapes, he munched the remaining few, ogling the trio of women.
“Well, look at that. Quite a riveting sunset you’ve made, ladies.” His cloth-swathed hand gestured down their row, calling attention to the gradient of their skins. “What a shame so many clouds are in the way.”
Luscia ripped the bowl out of his grasp, covering her chest indignantly.
“I’m pleased to see someone tasted the fruits of my labor.” Ira winked at the barren vine. “I trust you found them pleasantly plump?”
“Compensating, Ira?” Sayuri muttered dryly as Dmitri reentered the tent.
The prince wicked moisture off his temples where they had started to glisten. Luscia wondered when he’d need his next treatment, assuming the heat hastened his metabolism of the elixir.
Sprinting up to them, Bahir’Tozune presented his sister with a pile of busted arrows, likely Ira’s doing. Lusica felt a pang through her ribs. He was old enough to work in the stables, like this missing boy. An image of the princess’s brother hemorrhaging into a stack of hay flashed through her vision.