“Ho’waladim,” Zaethan bit out, striking the shredded earth inches from Wekesa’s head. “That’s what’s due you.” He ran ahead to his team of off-duty sentries on the far side of the field.

One of Wekesa’s men hoisted the ball, preparing his serve, and howled for his archer. Zaethan searched the lawn for Jabari, whooping the same. Hailing an arc, Wekesa’s player aimed for the furthest basket in front of the royal pavilion. Zaethan rushed under Jabari’s arrow, trusting its trajectory. He might have been inexperienced in his youth, but Depths, the cub was a good shot.

The gong rang out, signifying the end of the match just as Jabari’s arrow spliced their opponent’s and impaled the hide victoriously into the third basket, stealing the goal. Zaethan rammed into Jabari and cupped his head of sweaty coils.

“Shtàka! Uni zà!” He shook the youngest member of his pryde triumphantly. “Rounds of bwoloa, as many as we can drink.”

“Owàa lent me his eyes, yeah?” Jabari’s fingers drew away from his face and toward the clouds. Strapping his bow to join the final arrow in the slim quiver, he trailed Zaethan to the secondary pavilion, where Dmitri watched the match with the Zôueli princess.

“Good game, Zaeth, good game!” Dmitri gripped his cane and stood, continuing his applause. “I tried explaining the rules of motumbha to Bahira’Rasha.” He colored slightly and waved to the exquisite woman lounging to the right of his seat, elevated from the others. “I fear I may have confused things further.”

“Bahira’Rasha.” Zaethan bent his knee, her Zôueli title feeling bulbous as it exited his mouth. Bowing to the woman, he recited Dmitri’s lines as promised: “We are graced to host you for the summer solstice. The sun shines brighter in Orynthia for years to come.” He doubted the last part sounded the least bit genuine, but offered a toothy grin nonetheless.

“I like this Darakaian arrowball, as you call it.” The princess didn’t get up, and seemed to enjoy the fact she didn’t need to. Zaethan straightened as she looked him over. “It is barbarous.”

Rasha elongated her figure as she reclined, in a way Sayuri never could. The Pilarese al’Haidren noticed as well and attempted to imitate Rasha’s gestures from the end of the row near Ira, who fished something out of his empty glass. The princess dripped gold and precious stones, and her entire being sparkled when she tossed her head and laughed heartily.

“Bloody and riveting, you are.” Her nose crinkled, jingling a chain that connected to a jeweled earpiece. She idly crossed her legs, enveloped in billowy pants beneath a type of skirt. Ironically, her feet were bare, though no less decorated than the rest of her.

Zaethan scanned the witch seated next to the princess. “I get that a lot. Lady Boreal, you’re looking well,” he offered lightly. Regret from their encounter lessened when he saw her ivory jaw was devoid of the lovely bruise he’d gifted it. “The sun does the Boreali good, after all,” he commented, noticing how gracefully her fractured wrist moved as she plucked a grape off its stem.

“I keep reminding you how resilient I am,” the witch said to the fruit.

“Ah, my new friend, Loo-Shah…” Rasha rolled her name and clutched the witch’s arm, drawing her closer. “This wit of the northmen, I love.”

“Won’t you join us, Zaeth?” Dmitri motioned to the empty place in the line of spectators. “I’ve ordered your favorite,” he added, gesturing toward an amber bottle on a valet’s cart.

In Zaethan’s periphery, players departed the field, equipment in tow. Passing the next pavilion, more prominent in scale and grandeur, Wekesa was called out of the pack. Breaking from the group, he sauntered up the steps and leaned into the shade for Zaethan’s father to relay something. Their commander’s fingers twitched as he went on in Wekesa’s ear.

“Alas, I must see to the guard.” Zaethan squinted under the sun. Dmitri grimaced, not entirely pleased, but ascertained the course of his thoughts, jerking his chin toward their parents.

“We’ll see you at dinner?” Though posed as a question, Zaethan knew better.

“Dinner,” he confirmed, and bowed to the princess. “Bahira’Rasha, shàla’maiamo.”

Zaethan picked up his pace as he walked in front of the king’s pavilion, pretending to ignore the closeness between his father and the other alpha. Tetsu Naborū appeared to offer comment on their discreet dialogue. Zaethan wondered how entangled Wekesa was in Lateef’s plan for additional ships stationed in Lempeii, or if the Haidren to Pilar had simply seized an opportunity to spew partisan poison to the closest party.

“Zaeth, my boy!” The king descended onto the lawn and slapped Zaethan across the back. “I put my auras on you. Sack of gold you just earned me!”

Dmitri’s father sloshed his wine as he turned to the Queen of Razôuel, who seemed disinterested in his royal pocketbook. The Zôueli regent wrinkled her hooked nose at a plate of Uriel pie an attendant offered, clinking an opulent set of chains across her cheek. He understood her reaction when she flicked a dollop back at the attendant, unimpressed. Uriel pie was already dreadful, made worse in the heat of summer.

Zaethan risked another glimpse into their pavilion. His father’s fist clenched and shook over the arm of his chair. Wekesa’s fat braids swung as he inched away.

“I think I earned a good washing, Your Majesty.” Zaethan mock scrubbed his middle and winked at the king. “I should take care of all this mud before charming Razôuel’s Queen.”

“Oh-ho!” King Korbin’s belly rumbled at the jest. Pulling the front of his thick belt into position, he again reached out and gripped Zaethan’s shoulder. “Just spectacular, my boy. Go, brush up and see to those yayas. Now, in my day…” His bushy brows leapt before his hand covered his mouth, remembering his wife beside the western queen. “Oh, on you go!”

Marching toward his office, Zaethan’s fingers tightened around the playing stick he still carried. He bid farewell to his teammates, grateful Jareth and Brandor had been available to leave their posts and put on a spectacle for Dmitri’s guests. They were his best Unitarian passers, not kakk squabblers like the rest of the sentries.

It was a good thing he still controlled their schedules.

Zaethan neared the hedge maze, intending to take a shortcut to the guard house. At its opening, Felix Ambrose sloshed his goblet and moved aside, off the path. Overly dressed, in typical yancy fashion, the noble dribbled sweat into his wine, intently staring past Zaethan. Looking back, he saw the noble’s gaze was fixed on the exotic princess as she rose from her seat and took Dmitri’s arm.

“She’s off limits, Lord Ambrose,” Zaethan warned the man, then coughed as he was hit by a waft of pipe marrow. “Depths, Felix, take a bath.”