House of Boreal: Bonus Chapter

“I’m starting to take this personally,” Zaethan muttered through terse lips.

As if to make his point, the clowder of cubs giggled mischievously where they encircled him. And grabbing another glob of muck from the leaf-trodden ground, a young boy smeared it down Zaethan’s outstretched forearm. A girl no older than five followed his handiwork and mashed dead foliage overtop the mud. 

 Zaethan looked down with a grimace. He resembled a swamp monster in the middle of Aksel’s Keep.

 “While I can’t begin to guess what this production is about,” Ira said, straightening his crude crown of twigs and lichen, “I must confess, the casting is sublime.”

“Ock, it’s just because the haidren is Unitarian.” Declan helped another to paint muddy swirls across the back of his freckled hand, chasing her dainty finger in circles. “Children are literalists.”

“The king of Orynthia is standing right there,” Zaethan replied and flippantly waved to his friend who had bundled himself against a nearby timber column.

Dmitri snorted, his eyes cool and fixed above him into the rising levels of the keep. “I’m off duty. Ira’s my understudy.”

“That’s terrifying…” mumbled Hachiro as he studiously tried to interpret a cub’s excited gestures and rushed Boreali storytelling. The shoto’shi stalled his quill before continuing the sketch, a confused rumple dividing his brows. Hachiro blinked multiple times at the sandy-haired boy when he growled, gnawed at his own arm, then fell back into the leaves in a fit of laughter.

Zaethan instead followed their king’s gaze skyward. There, behind the railing of the seventh story, paced the Haidren to Boreal. 

The colossal mutt with her.

Were he to air his own grievances, Zaethan wasn’t too happy with Luscia that morning either. The extraordinary, celebratory display from the night prior was already forgotten—the only remnant being the murky, colored powders they’d trampled underfoot. The strange and eerie lights that had burst through the haze, or the way the warming winds had opened his new journal to an ominously blank page weren’t what occupied Zaethan's thoughts.

Not even that slow, forbidden dance he’d shared with the Boreali haidren. Nor the dark grotto where he had left her wanting more.

Ano, the dawn had brought with it a brighter flash of reality: Darakaians were not guests in this ancient place. They were liabilities. 

It’d taken nearly as long to calm his bruised warrior to sleep after the clandestine beating he’d taken in the burrows. Though he was a member of Kai’s pryde, Zaethan was just as responsible for what had happened to young Tocho. Moreso even. As haidren, he’d brought them all there. And as alpha zà, he’d told them to stand down. Zaethan had left the warrior surrounded by angry Darakaians who, after losing too much, had no way to reclaim it. Tocho’s bruising, so deep and impossibly blue, would not be soon forgotten. With morale low, superstitions among the prydes were on the rise, especially after that kakka-shtàka light show called the Great Harvest.

Boreal was a land of mystery. But when the Boreali revealed one of their miracles, they always revealed themselves next.

And therein laid the problem.

The zealots were growing in number as quickly as their confidence. They were planted everywhere, like weeds in a frosted field. Like weeds, their malice spread from one Boreali to the next as they pushed their carts by the children’s improvised production along the edge of the courtyard. The sneer of a linsilk trader seemed to jump onto the mother of five, as she urged her curious blonde brood to hurry past Zaethan. 

The woman wasn’t too discriminatory, smacking her son’s hand when he reached out for Hachiro’s fluttering quill. At least she hated the Pilarese too.

Another glob of cold muck was pasted against Zaethan’s forearm. More giggles ensued. With an irritated sigh, his eyeline returned to the seventh story terrace. 

Luscia had stopped her pacing before a wide-open door. From the ground, Zaethan could only see the darkness lurking beyond its threshold into the master’s chamber. Her father, the clann Darragh, had exited its shadow. Through a broadening smile, he exchanged words with Luscia and her aunt, and made his way toward the terrace stair.  

Zaethan’s throat burned, and he forced himself to swallow as he watched Orien Darragh descend, then linger on the tallest steps. 

Every time the man encountered his child, he always seemed reluctant to let her go. 

Luscia disappeared into the blackness. The great circular door shut behind her and a loud boom ricocheted throughout the keep. 

“She better come through for us,” Dmitri murmured behind the wispy fur of his bundled cloak. 

“She will. Ana’Sere always does.” Declan boosted a redheaded girl over his stout shoulders. He stomped over toward Hachiro and the boy who was dictating to him in rushed Boreali. She laughed when he bent down as if she weighed a ton. Scoffing, Declan snatched the quill from the shoto’shi’s grasp and added to his drawing. “The other direction. Waedfrel, see? This is the Battle of Lux. I am Tiergan,” he said grandly, gesturing to the mismatched rugs slung over his arms, then pointed to Ira, “and he is Thoarne.”

Ira beamed magnanimously. “My most loyal subjects.”

“Well, what the Depths does that make me?” Zaethan demanded.

The yancy tapped one of Zaethan’s leaves using his scepter, which was a very gnarled twig. “A war-tainted beast, obviously.”

“War-taint!” Declan cried and leapt backward, slinging the chuckling girl to and fro. Shouting a command in Boreali, he sprinted in front of Ira protectively. “Save the king from the beast! Se’lah Aurynth!”

“Rul’Aniell!” a chorus menacingly chimed. 

Zaethan spun on his heel to find an army of children threatening sticks at the ready. It was an ambush. The mischievous Athdara brothers leading at the front. “Where did you come from?”

They charged. Mercilessly. Whacking their sticks across his legs, stepping on his toes, the cubs surrounded him. Their strikes took on a rhythm, timed with the orders Declan gave between chortles. Zaethan hunched. Crumpled leaves littered his boots.  

Joining the ranks, a byrnnzite cane rapped his bicep.

He swerved. Protecting his eyes, Zaethan sneered at Dmitri. “I thought you weren’t playing, Your Majesty.”

“You pose a direct threat to today’s youth, Zaeth. I’m afraid I must put you down,” his friend replied teasingly. 

“Ow. Doru, stop that!” He stole a stick from flaxen boy and snapped it in half.

The cub jumped instead, climbing up Zaethan’s back like he was a reingafier. His rider jerked his head back, tugging him by his locs. “Really?” He turned and asked Declan.

A team of cubs ran between them defensively.

Behind the amused shadowman, Ira laid a hand over his snuff canister. “I have never felt more important than I do in this moment,” he told his little protectors. “It’s my privilege to tax Orynthia’s bravest.”

Someone roared something from across the courtyard. A name, perhaps, given how everything instantly stopped. The slight weight slid off Zaethan’s back. 

He heard the boy begin to cry before his tiny feet touched the ground.

The name was barked again. Zaethan stood to his height and watched the cub run toward a group of men, about half a dozen all dressed in traditional wools garments; Elder Hinrük strode at the center.

Hinrük caught his son forcefully by the base of his nape. Without bending, he admonished him in witchtongue, though loud enough for his supporters to hear by their twisting smirks. Zaethan balled his fists. He knew public humiliation well. The boy’s head fell in shame, but his father forced him to keep walking in the direction from which he’d came.  

Declan whispered for the girl to hop off his shoulders. “Ock, it’s just a game, Elder Hinrük…” the shadowman started, trudging through their stick-wielding soldiers to greet him. 

“Just a game,” Hinrük sneered. It plucked at the lumilores embedded down his nearly translucent cheeks—talï, Zaethan had heard the stones called, a barbaric Orallach practice still held by Clann Ciann. Most of the zealots flanking him were marked with the same. “Now where have we heard that excuse before? Ah, wem, from the pagan.”

Off his sleeves, the tasseled yarns jostled with his gesture down at the mud smearing Zaethan.

“I would appreciate it, Ranger Athdara, if you wouldn’t stain my son the way you’ve stained yourself.”

Tears barreled down the cub’s round face.

Declan crossed his brawny arms. Where it pinned his cloak, the brooch of the Ranger Aelect shined. “Is that so?” 

“It was a sacrilege bringing them here,” Hinrük said lowly. The elder spoke as if the royal Quadren weren’t in earshot, yet plainly enough to hear his words. 

“The king of Orynthia cannot be barred from one inch of his own land.” Dmitri pushed by Zaethan and Declan’s youngest brother, who hid behind his thigh. “And this is my land, Elder Hinrük. Not yours.”

Hinrük arched his thinning brows. “A testament of parchment. You may be king here, but you are not the highest authority.” His chin tilted upward, toward Luscia tucked away in the master’s chamber. “A lesson you all must relearn…”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Zaethan tried to step forward. 

But Declan’s brother stiffened around this leg. Growling, Zaethan scooped him up and held him instead. 

Hinrük rolled his tongue as if he’d tasted something foul.

“It means it’ll be learned one way or another,” another elder warned. It was either Dagmar or Kalf. Both being from Ciann and in identical in dress, Zaethan could never tell the difference.

“I beg your pardon,” Dmitri protested, thumping his walking stick upon the spiraled cobbles. 

“Truth grants no pardons, Your Majesty, not even to a so-called cross-caste ambassador.” Hinrük leaned closer and captured Zaethan’s glare. Ice rimmed the other man's eyes. “Your kind will come to regret the day you corrupted our shores, Lord Haidren.”

Declan gripped Zaethan’s shoulder and spewed past him, “Was that a threat or a prophecy, Elder?” 

“Is it prophecy if it’s already coming true?” The talï glittered beneath his self-satisfied stare. 

Many of the men laughed behind him. One even made a poor attempt at covering his mouth. Zaethan’s angry gaze locked on his knuckles. 

They were scabbed. 

The Boreali healed fast—that had happened recently. Too recently. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Zaethan promised the zealot through his teeth.  

Dmitri pivoted in horror. “Zaeth!”

Elder Hinrük’s smile only stretched. Backstepping, he pulled his son closer and made to leave, extending a final piece of advice to Declan. “Tell the Lady Athdara to wash your brother seven times with the seven herbs, lest the pagan stench sink any deeper.”

The scabbed zealot guffawed harder as he followed his leader out across the courtyard and toward one of the meeting houses. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Zaethan repeated, impatiently bouncing the cub in his arms. “I am, I’m going to—”

“Niit. No, you’re not,” Declan said, offloading his brother from him. 

“What just happened?” demanded Dmitri as he thrust his walking stick over Zaethan’s chest, prohibiting him from storming after them. “Zaeth, what the Depths has gotten into you!”

“He was one of them—the gang who attacked Tocho.”

Dmitri tossed his hands. “Who is Tocho?”

“Shores of Aurynth…” Declan grumbled.

Zaethan struck his chest and swore. “I have to do something.”

“Correction, it is I who can do something,” answered the shadowman as he pinched his crooked nose.

“The details would illuminate my records,” Hachiro suggested from the rear. He tapped his thick journal expectantly.

Ira flitted his fingertips at the pages. “Make sure it says I was king.”

The rest of the cubs looked on, their faces confused and afraid, when Declan snarled and fished for his other brother’s hand. Clutching them both, he stormed toward the central stair. 

Zaethan dashed after him, to Dmitri’s many protests.

Scaling the steps, he told Declan under his breath, “Wherever you’re going, I am coming with you.”

The shadowman scoffed, then offered a tight grin to a couple of maidens descending on the opposite side. 

Waiting until the second story, Zaethan tried one last time, climbing higher. “Imagine it was Böwen, yeah? Or Noxolo. Tell me, what would you do? Let a foreigner handle your business? Ano zà.”

Declan stalled there on the landing to the third story. Scratching the freckles over his temple, he heaved a loaded sigh. His steel eyes rolled toward Zaethan.

“You can’t kill him,” was all he said.

Zaethan grunted. “Fine, uni zà, you have my word. Owàa’s chains…”

Declan backhanded his chest. “Neither can you blaspheme.”

He mock surrendered, showing his palms as he trailed the Athdara brothers to their crowded cottage. In front of the door, Declan deposited the youngest and directed them inside. Their mother screeched when she saw their grubby state.

“Go bathe,” the shadowman instructed the two.

It was Zaethan’s turn to backhand Declan, hitting him in the gullet.

“Ock, just the once!” he clarified. Shooing off his irritated mother, he closed the door and veered them around the spherical keep toward a less prominent stair. He bumped Zaethan’s elbow. “Seriously, you cannot kill him.”

 “I’ll try my Darakaian best.”

* * *

Even choked by mist, the noon sun cast a generous shade, enough for Zaethan to tuck his Southern frame under an overhang outside the meeting house where few would notice. 

Normally, that would not be the case.

But being the day after a holiday, even most najjan were drunk.

He hugged the entrance to a vacant burrow carved into the mountain. Declan said the wide tunnels wrapped around the keep, only accessible to those within. Though from the twinkle in his eye, Zaethan wasn’t sure that was entirely true. 

The tight-lipped shadowman had left him there to wait. For what, he didn’t know, except that he couldn’t openly walk into a gathering of zealots and expect to emerge victorious. Beside his shoulder, the iridescent rock glimmered in extraordinary striations to the tune of their jolly songs being sung along the other side. Hesitantly, Zaethan pressed his hand against the flickering wall. It was warm. And it was vibrating.

“Never gets old.”

Zaethan jumped in place. He loosed a breath when he saw who it was. “Neither does that.” 

Luscia’s brother grimaced in apology. “Meh fyreon, Lord Haidren.” Laying a palm over his heart, he offered a short bow. “Phalen Darragh Tiergan.”

“Meme qondai,” Zaethan said. “We’ve met—multiple times.”

“Best to never assume one is remembered. I’m told it can be quite haughty.”

“You’re one of the most famous people in your House.”

“Not nearly as famous as you, of late.” Phalen smiled brightly, speaking as if it were a good thing when it clearly was not.

Zaethan's mouth slackened, not knowing what to say, when someone suddenly hurled a body around the corner and into his hold. 

It was the zealot. Twisting his ale-ripe beard up toward Zaethan, he burped.

“Delivery,” Declan said, urging him deeper into the burrow. Noticing their unexpected conspirator, he asked Zaethan, “Shtàka, what’s he doing here?”

Dragging the zealot down the rock wall, he shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” Phalen’s opalescent iris sparkled as trotting alongside them, he explained. “Sometimes I go walking and it’s like a force just pushes me in the direction I ought to go.”

They both ogled Luscia’s brother when he absently began to whistle as if nothing was out of sorts.  

“Ock, this way. Hurry,” said Declan. 

The zealot burped again. “Why is he so drunk?” Zaethan asked.

“How else do you think I’d get him to come with me?” Taking him from Zaethan, Declan wrestled their captive upright against the wall. “Three avalanches down and sloshed it is.”

“Heh’ta, is this some kind of coup?” inquired Phalen. He tapped the smudge on his chin excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to be part of a coup…”

“Shh,” Declan warned, then in quick deference bowed his head. “I meant quiet, bolaeva, Ana’Brödre.”

“It’s just that I’m so sequestered in Roüwen—” 

“Bolaeva,” Declan repeated when the zealot started coming to.

Gleefully, Phalen’s eyes rounded and hushing, he granted them room. “Right, wem. Proceed with the coup.”

Amid the Boreali’s incoherent mumbles, Declan positioned himself between Zaethan and the wall. He patted the zealot’s studded cheek, encouraging him back to consciousness. “There we go. Come on, waedfrel.”

Whatever his response in Boreali, it did not seem to please Declan.

“The Darakaian last night. Allöh!” Smacking him harder, he gained his attention. “The Darakaian, who else was there?”

At the lack of response, Declan repeated himself in their native tongue. 

The zealot only snickered, partly vomiting in the same breath, which made him laugh even louder. “Tearlach.”

Zaethan didn’t know the name, nor did he care. That wasn’t why he’d come. 

Although, cracking his knuckles, Declan did. The shadowman pushed off the burrow wall. 

“You tell your—I’m talking to you!” Zaethan yelled. Taking Declan’s place, he leveled his face with the pale man. “You tell your friends not to touch another Darakaian. Do it again, and you’ll face a fate worse than the grave.”

“Graves aren’t the most effective threat to us—not important, never mind…” Phalen hastily inched away.

Zaethan twisted back toward the zealot. “Touch another Darakaian and I will kill you myself.”

Spit splattered his face. 

“You can try, pagan.”

Rage roiled within Zaethan’s chest, surging him forward in a red haze. But his world went upside down. Yanked by his collar with so much strength, Zaethan tripped backwards on his heel and skidded into the opposing wall. His spine thumped into the rock, splitting an ache down to his heels. 

The zealot had swung, his punch caught within Declan’s locked fist. He whimpered as the shadowman curled his wrist lower. However, not from the pain of the movement, but because of whom he would have hit.  

“Meh fyreon, Ana’Brödre. Meh fyreon,” the zealot rambled in fear. 

“This is awkward,” lamented Phalen where he stood, directly in line behind the thwarted assault. 

“This is amazing.” Declan grinned. Within the span of two blinks, he let go, wound back, and landed a strike right between the man’s eyes. 

The zealot slid to the ground, knocked out.

Zaethan pushed off the stone. Looming over the unconscious man, he speared Declan with a scowl. “Why was it ok when you did it?”

“Because I was protecting an heir of Tiergan.” 

“That is a wicked man.” Peering down as well, Phalen abruptly glanced up and squeezed Zaethan’s arm. “This was fun. It won’t be telling my sister.”

Declan groaned, beginning the trek back toward the daylight pooling the courtyard. 

“I don’t have to tell her anything.”

“Easy for you to say,” the shadowman remarked. His forefinger twirled the air. “If we don’t, something else will.”