If her invitation had caressed his ears another night, he might have directed the men to accept—Zaethan’s reputation certainly benefited from the exposure. Connections accrued in a smoky game of chance with the city vagrants often proved just as powerful as any alliance built upon a dance card, but he’d thus far avoided personally partaking in Salma’s offerings, much to her dismay. The madam’s selection of professional night-callers was certainly inspired, but acting on a momentary impulse was never the wisest use of her business. Many a yancy found himself owing Salma Nabhu enough coin to teach Zaethan he’d rather it be the other way around. And as Haidren, the last thing Nyack Kasim would want to learn was that his son had tainted the line by siring an heir at a popular night den.
Besides, if The Veiled Lady housed the only parties receptive to his attentions, then Zaethan wasn’t nearly as charming as he’d been led to believe.
After an hour navigating the city, the pryde finally reached the palace grounds. Zaethan urged Hellion into a large stable connected to the exterior guard house. Dismounting, he stretched out his limbs, which had become tense during the ride through the cramped streets. Then he began the rituals required to ease Hellion into his stall. Running his hands along the stallion’s stunning frame in a series of swirling motions, Zaethan soothed the animal with gentle Andwele whispers. He’d bought Hellion three stall lengths, but the beast still hated being boarded. Perhaps he should incorporate Salma’s methodology and purchase a docile mare.
As he locked the stall, Kumo placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Ahoté. We need to speak,” the beta directed quietly. He knew well that giving orders to an alpha had consequences.
Zaethan released a breath and brushed past. “Whatever it is, it can wait, cousin.”
Ignoring the command, Kumo rushed to follow. Falling in line with Zaethan’s steps, a broad, muscled arm swung out to stop him.
“Doru, Zaeth. You’re upset—what’s wrong?”
Zaethan’s gaze traveled up the heights of the palace and lingered on the small wing of apartments that would soon belong to her. Inside, where she’d do the most damage.
“Word arrived late this morning. The y’siti,” Zaethan spat vehemently, “will arrive by week’s end.”
Kumo’s face went slack, the blood fading from his cheeks.
“Shtàka,” he swore. “Now? I thought the ice-witch Ascended in the summer—”
“We don’t have much time. I need to go.”
“You’ve got bigger problems at hand, Ahoté. The Guard just found another one. This time near the docks.”
“A dead cross-caste?” Zaethan whispered. “One of ours?”
Kumo shook his wide chin. “Ano. Another y’siti mutt. A girl, only eleven years.”
The hazy image of a lifeless child hovered in Zaethan’s mind. Stepping around Kumo, he marched to the nearest entrance and paused, as the matter of the witch would have to wait. Zaethan’s pryde managed the security of the Proper, so he and his beta needed to speak with the sentries right away.
Before retreating into the guard house, he glanced back toward the southern tower. To protect his friend and someday king, Zaethan would soon lock himself inside that stone cage with his father while her threat suffocated any illusion of his independence.
Every gain had a loss.
And he already hated her for this one.
THREE
Luscia
The brilliant midday sun glinted off the lethal angles of the kuerre Luscia held. Light bounced within the luxiron core and drenched the metal in a translucent opalescence, as if awaking it from a mortal slumber.
The sword was perfect in every way.
Luscia lovingly polished it in circular motions while her men finished their meal and allowed the horses to rest. Strategically weighted and diligently sized, the kuerre’s curved blade fell just below her knee when sheathed. Her father had commissioned the piece months ago as an Ascension gift for her, and Luscia couldn’t imagine a more befitting tool to take with her into adulthood.
“It suits you,” Declan commented. His hooded, steely eyes sparkled at her for a moment before he resumed packing the uneaten pieces of meat. “It will bring him honor for you to carry it when we reach the crown city.”
Luscia agreed, smiling in quiet contentment.
She caught sight of Aksel trotting in and out of the patches of sunlight piercing the dense canopy overhead. It illuminated the lycran’s pristine coat of white fur, emphasizing the streak of ecru running from between his eyes to the base of his tail. An ache of gratitude settled in Luscia’s chest as she watched Aksel, who had been another gift from her father. The Clann Darragh knew his daughter well, and the tokens her guarded nature would need to move from one reality to the next.
“Hey!” sounded a frantic voice. Noxolo, sitting a few yards away, ceased digging his long fingers through a shallow satchel and frowned at the small grouping. “Who took my smoked muskrat?”
In answer to the distress contorting the Najjan’s delicate features, Böwen chuckled and gave Noxolo a hard pat on the back. Creyvan, the more considerate of the two, offered him a questionable alternative from his own sack.
“This is a serious offense!” Noxolo shrieked, knocking the jerky out of Crevyan’s hand. “That was fresh from home! My sister Deirdre dried that last batch right before Lady Luscia’s Ascension. Jerky made to go in this belly, for this jaunt!”
Nox marched about their makeshift circle, in hopes of detecting betrayal in their faces. His grey eyes bounced between the suspects, his silvery hair whipping with his hysteric gesturing.
“This belly!” he carried on. “For this jaunt!”
“Shut it, Noxolo!” Declan shouted beside her. “Nobody cares about your sister’s muskrat…or any other piece of game on her.” His square face grimaced at his own imagination.
Luscia laughed openly for the first time that day. It was a witty, if sadly accurate observation, she had to admit. Before that comment, she would have listed Creyvan and his genial brother as their only source of levity. What a relief they were not unaided. Though by the horror that twisted Nox’s thin lips into a sour knot, it registered that only Declan earned his mention on her private list.
“Do not jest so crudely in front of the al’Haidren.”
Luscia’s eyes snapped up to meet Marek’s across the small clearing as the men’s teasing trailed off. His admonishment was spoken to the others, but the look he pinned on Luscia implied it was she who should be dictating the definition of appropriate banter. An almost imperceptible narrowing of his bright eyes suggested that vulgarity was beneath her station.