Zaethan shuddered. Grass-nasties were small, ugly, six-legged creatures whose bites burned like the rumored fires of the depths.
“Uni, I distinctly remember the time you dumped a handful down my breeches. I don’t recall your being so thoughtful about the aftereffects ten years ago,” he clipped back, feeling his own lips quirking.
“Eh, kàchà kocho,” Kumo said noncommittally before he winked. “You weren’t so good-looking ten years ago. But you grew into that nose eventually.”
Zaethan gathered the reins and prompted Hellion to lead them out of the clearing. It was a stretch he and the stallion knew well, for the tail end of the Khan River beckoned a variety of game to her banks. The richly scenic ride along the edge of her waters, where pebbled offshoots fed neighboring flora, was his favorite trail apart from the one home to Faraji.
Hellion snorted in acceptance of the command, exuberant to move again. Zaethan had trained dozens of their revered Andwele mountain stallions, but this beast was the most feral he’d ever handled—far more wild than his twin sister, Harmonia. Breeding a set of twin Andweles was unheard of, and he’d intended to gift the male to the crown prince five years ago as Darakai’s offering upon Zaethan’s Ascension, following tradition. But even the most experienced riders struggled to hold dominance over Hellion—hence his naming—so Zaethan decided to give Dmitri the female, as the mare was significantly easier to manage. The prince had readily preferred Harmonia to her twin after witnessing Hellion’s violent temperament firsthand.
Throughout the hours of riding, the clouds overhead rearranged to paint the evening’s backdrop. Blushing skies streaked with splashes of citrine cast a warm glow over the open landscape. Zaethan pushed Hellion to run to the stallion’s content, lowering his upper body to rest along Hellion’s impressive frame, unifying them. He felt beads of perspiration escaping from under the horse’s steely mane, a match to the sweat trickling down his own brow. It was proving a warm spring, though nothing compared to the hot, stuffy air Bastiion harbored.
He needed this. This rush, this escape. Whether natural or created by their momentum, Zaethan savored the wind beating against his skin. It would be another age before either of them could have this, and somehow, the onyx beast sensed it, too. The angry stallion, his likeness in spirit, craved the same taste of abandon.
Zaethan didn’t know when they’d be able to feel such freedom again in the coming months, especially once she came. Ensuring the crown prince’s safety against her sorcery would overrule every personal desire once the al’Haidren to Boreal crossed their city gates. When they last met, she’d been too young to wield her unnaturalness against them, but her second coming would not be the same.
Closing his eyes, Zaethan tried to forget hers.
Zaethan’s pryde reached the inner Proper as Owàa bade his farewell and conceded to Àla’maia, his lover the moon.
Familiar scents from the market filled his chest as they rode through the streets: fine jasmine and bergamot mixed in a sickening cocktail with the stale aroma of butcher slabs. The distinct odors of old produce and imported drink mingled in the clouds of smoked pipe marrow escaping from dirtier, less frequented tents. Zaethan despised these smells, which told a story of waste and addiction, cheap trade and desperation.
This was Bastiion, the heart of Orynthia. The realm’s crown city, fueled by a commerce that was equal parts luxury and rot.
Regardless of Zaethan’s disgust for Unitarian custom and livelihood, the Proper was a home of sorts. Dmitri was here, and as future king, here he would remain. Over the years, the prince had grown closer to a brother than a charge, and regardless of Zaethan’s wish to escape what—or rather who—thrived in Bastiion, he had vowed to keep his oath to never abandon his oldest friend. Two yancies—rich Unitarian noblemen—crossed the street, each towing a pair of night-callers on their arms. The young women, faces painted with immaculate artistry and bodies draped in exotic textiles, laughed sensually with their benefactors. Their feminine chatter suggested a mutual pleasure, when the transaction couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Eh, Jaha! It’s been a while, no?” a throaty voice called from a crooked alley to their left.
Zaethan twisted in his saddle toward a woman wrapped in layers of ruby velvet, tailored to exaggerate her figure to perfection. Her lips parted slightly as she encouraged the material to fall down a bronze shoulder.
“How ’bout you men come see me tonight?” she proposed, her tone sultry. “I’ll make sure my girls show you extra love…extra papyon, yeah?”
“Salma. You’re looking lovely, as always,” Zaethan offered with an easy grin. “Unfortunately, I am otherwise engaged. Perhaps you can comfort Bastiion’s lonelier souls—a pitiful yancy has more coin than my poor Darakaian pryde.”
Every man in the Proper knew Salma Nabhu and, likely, most of her staff. She’d been the matron of The Veiled Lady for over a decade, and her decadent establishment was one of the most popular in the city—as were the many darker services it had to offer
“Uni, but none of the rich yancies look like you, Jaha,” Salma taunted.
The woman was old enough to be his mother, but Zaethan welcomed the sound of home. Pretty thing, she liked to call him. It was a useless seduction, yet hearing the broken Andwele roll off her tongue was a bittersweet memento of the mountains he’d not seen in months.
“You come see me soon, yeah?” she urged as they passed. “You bring me those eyes. Even Madam Salma gets lonely sometimes…”
With a final wink, she disappeared back inside The Veiled Lady. Music floated from the windows of the night den, though their thick garnet curtains hid Salma’s patrons from the eyes of Bastiion’s penniless voyeurs.
“A veiled lady indeed.” Zaethan chuckled.
He’d always liked Salma; she was an exception to the norm among those of her profession. Granted, her success was far from surprising when one considered how Unitarian ancestry colored her dewy skin and vibrant, hazel eyes, haloed by the tightly coiled raven hair that came courtesy of her southern heritage. Even past her prime, she stood out in crowded Marketown.
Darakaian cross-castes scarcely made a decent life in the Proper. The product of two Houses, cross-castes were unrepresented by the Ethnicam and without a seat at the table of the Quadren. Those of any origin claimed little to their names and even less in their pockets. The lucky ones found a glimmer of normalcy in trade or shop work, while the unlucky were often sold to the highest bidder.
Salma’s decision to position herself as the most infamous madam in Bastiion was a sensible gamble. Even Zaethan had to admit her brash candor was like a breath of fresh air in a land of stale aftertastes. Unitarian women of the court were haughty, tight-lipped creatures who used their beauty to ensnare men as politely as they discarded them. Meanwhile, Darakaian females exhibited the opposite extreme: fierce, beautiful warriors who boldly—and, at times, combatively—voiced their wishes. Hence Salma’s universal appeal.