The swell of Kasim’s throat shuddered as he swallowed and took a steadying breath, his eyes flitting back up to meet hers.

“The king is dead. We’ve been summoned.”

THIRTY-SIX

Zaethan

   In a surreal sweep, Zaethan tugged the handle and stiffly latched the door to the Zôueli suite, locking the western royals safely inside. He scrubbed the stubble on his face with his free hand and backed into the corridor.

Zahra and Kumo flanked the exterior of the sweeping entry. Neither his beta or his third said anything as they rigidly held their posts. Discreetly, both watched him from the corners of their eyes as Zaethan awkwardly readjusted the leather sling.

Neighboring sentries continued along either side of the corridor, forming a tunnel of security. Every man stood silent, the air hung with an unprecedented heaviness as he spoke for his pryde’s ears alone.

“No one comes in or out,” he murmured gruffly, glancing between them. “No one. Yeye qondai?”

“Uni zà, Alpha Za,” Zahra and Kumo murmured in unison.

Kumo angled his head to level with Zaethan in a wordless exchange. Confusion and anger buckled the wide bridge of his nose. The last hour had been utter chaos, since the moment an elderly attendant discovered the king’s body, drooped over the arm of his reading chair, foaming from the mouth. His utterly unexpected demise had awoken them all to a new reality—a reality where kings were slain in the silence of their studies rather than amid the glory of a battlefield.

He clenched his fist and bounced it against Kumo’s chest. Pushing a knuckle into the muscle above his beta’s heart, Zaethan squinted at the row of sentries, adding, “Don’t trust them, cousin.”

Easing past Zahra, he took hold of her elbow and nodded to the guest suite. More perceptive than her counterpart, Zahra would note any unusual traffic in the vicinity. Her ebony lids closed, accepting the assignment. For it appeared that, under the guise of the solstice, Razôuel had traveled to Orynthian soil for a single purpose. After all, with Korbin removed, a union through Bahira’Rasha brought them one step closer to the crown. Zaethan recalled the trunks of Zôueli gifts and goods delivered to the king’s chamber upon their arrival. Any of them could have housed the means for his assassination.

Zaethan strode the passages toward Thoarne Hall with a palm tensed over his kopar. His locs swung like a pendulum as he hastened down the grand staircase, already delayed by his prior stop to rouse a sleeping Boreali. From shared reports between their men, he’d learned the other al’Haidren had slept through most of the day, since her Captaen Bailefore snuck them back into the palace the night before.

A troubling realization struck Zaethan as he rounded the main corridor. If her Najjan could bypass the guards, so could anyone. Even now.

Zaethan wavered before slipping into the Hall. He rebound his locs nervously, pausing before everything changed. Shaking off his reluctance, he slipped inside, knowing it already had.

On the opposite side of the immense doors, the two generations of the Quadren formed a disorganized semi-circle, surrounding the base of the throne. Dmitri sat in his father’s place, his mother occupying her usual spot to the right. Zaethan’s stomach knotted, assessing his friend and charge. Dmitri’s left hand absently rubbed his forehead, while the other held onto his mother’s trembling fingers. Deep violet pits cradled his bloodshot eyes, emphasizing the sallow wash of his already poor coloring.

Coming to stand next to his father, Zaethan struck his chest and muttered a clipped, “Commander.”

Entrenched in hushed discussion with Gregor Hastings, Nyack Kasim ignored his son, folding his powerful arms and bending toward the other man as they spoke. Beyond them, the Haidren to Boreal maintained a straight posture, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her niece, embodying the same stoicism, ignored some muted commentary from Ira.

Adjacent to them, nearest the foot of the platform, Sayuri’s face tilted as her uncle whispered rapidly into her ear. His steel nailpiece tapped her arm as he hooked her closer. She dipped her chin in agreement, painted lashes dusting her sharp cheekbones at his words. Zaethan sucked his teeth, observing them, knowing this wasn’t a promising sign from the Pilarese.

Zaethan nudged his father. “What’s happening? What are we waiting for?”

Fleetingly, the commander glanced backward. “Keep that quivering mouth of yours shut,” he hissed, “and you’ll soon find out.”

Barren of feeling, his eyes narrowed and scanned Zaethan, assessing him from head to toe. Finding his son wanting, the commander spun and resumed his conversation with Gregor.

Zaethan’s gaze flickered to the throne. The byrnnzite antlers reached for the domed heights of the Hall, as if spindly wings sprouted from Dmitri’s lean shoulders. He did not acknowledge the intimate audience in any way. A tear trailed the prince’s gaunt cheek as he readjusted his grasp on Queen Lourissa, who muffled her sobs in an ornate handkerchief. For what seemed an eternity, Zaethan watched as his oldest friend plucked at the hairs of his brow, staring into nothingness.

In his periphery, Zaethan saw the Boreali suddenly spin toward the servant’s entry off the edge of the Hall. The elder mouthed in witch-tongue to her niece. Seconds later, the modest door burst open, and half a dozen sentries entered the room, fanning out. Metal clinking echoed from the passageway, reverberating through the room, and General Lateef emerged at the tail of the procession. Trudging toward the front of the platform, he dragged a heavy chain, scraping it against the floor.

“We have the assassin in our custody, Your Highness,” the general announced.

Somber and still, Dmitri shifted. At his slow nod, General Lateef yanked the chain mercilessly, wrenching a shapely woman into the Hall by a hefty collar around her neck. An excited glint filled the general’s eyes when he jerked the remnants of the chain more forcefully, bringing the prisoner to her knees underneath torn, velvet skirts.

A coldness shot through Zaethan’s legs when the prisoner’s mess of curls hitched aside as she clutched the collar, coughing into the floor. Wiping moisture from the corner of her mouth, Salma Nabhu’s ageless eyes scanned Orynthia’s elite.

“Ano zà, Jaha, it wasn’t me,” she petitioned him, stumbling to rise. “By Owàa and the Fates, I swear it!”

The general lashed the chain, lurching her forward. Salma slammed into the first steps as Lateef proclaimed, “Salma Nabhu, the notorious madam of The Veiled Lady, was caught smuggling Mworran pammu through the Andweles. In her black-market dealings, this cross-caste has circumvented the established cargo channels, directing dozens of shipments to this palace—many delivered straight to the king’s private collection.”

Bewildered, Zaethan gaped at his father. A small quiver pulsed through his pitted jawline; his only reaction as he listened to the general’s report. Retaining his unsympathetic scowl and composed stance, Zaethan’s father gave no indication of his foreknowledge, let alone the part he’d played in her systems of trade.