Checkmate, p.5
Checkmate, page 5
“Gamgy District? What will they do about food then?” Luka asks.
Linne narrows her eyes. “What they must. They are barely citizens as it is. We already have an ample supply of Aiutani here, in the Abraxi District and the upper reaches of Cesscounthe. Surely we needn’t worry ourselves about any of the impyassi or humans that failed the Bombani Exam. They’re really of no use to us.”
“They were still born here, though,” Luka presses. “They still deserve our protection.”
“They are little more than animals with their poor intellect. They likely won’t even realize what is happening.”
“But –”
“Luka,” Carlo says softly. “Please don’t press your mother. She is already not feeling well. She is –”
“Carlo,” Linne cuts in. She dabs at her lips again, a green pallor creeping up her cheeks. “You… needn’t worry them.”
Luka glances at his mother’s plate, surprised to see she has little more than nibbled at her meal. He blinks. “Would you like me to have Mina fetch you some soup?”
“I’m fine,” Linne snaps, pressing a hand to her stomach. “I will be fine. Carlo, I told you not to say anything.”
Carlo shakes his head. “But Linne –”
Linne silences him with a look. “You must excuse me,” she says, rising from the table, her napkin falling to the floor. Mina rushes to collect it.
Cassian waits until Linne has left before stage-whispering to Luka, “Will you tell me about your matches after dinner?”
Carlo levels an unneeded warning look with Luka that Luka pointedly ignores. “Of course,” he says with an indulgent smile. “You’ll need to learn all the tricks when you’re grown.”
After Luka has walked Cassian through his moves, explaining the hidden messages he left for his opponents on the board – that is, the messages appropriate for a child’s ears – he rises to retire to his chambers. Cassian clings, batting huge dark eyes lined with soft lashes, begging for Luka to stay. When they were younger, they spent long hours in Cassian’s rooms, playing games and telling stories – and even before Cassian was old enough to be aware, Luka hovered, entranced by the magic that was his little brother.
But Luka has matches to win tomorrow – and a man to beat tonight. So instead of indulging his little brother, he kisses Cassian on the forehead and bids him goodnight. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I’ll teach you my top secret move then, alright?”
“I already know your top secret move,” Cassian replies, eyes gleaming. He’s remarkably wicked looking in the flickering gaslights, his halo of curls casting horn-like shadows against the blue walls of his bedroom.
“Well, I’ll show you how to perfect it then, you little prodigy.”
Luka is nearly out the door when Cassian calls, “Do you really think that?”
“Think what?”
Cassian pokes the Cesse board they have been playing with, lips tugging into a frown. “That I’m a… a prodigy.”
Something tugs on Luka’s heart. He shoves the feeling away. It doesn’t matter the situation; the emotion is unnecessary.
“Of course,” Luka says.
“Mamma thinks… she thinks….” Cassian takes a sharp breath and starts to put the Cesse pieces away. Good. He’s learning to control himself. But as Cassian’s hands shake, Luka is reminded of Evland’s words with a flicker of hot rage – the rumors that Cassian failed his Bombani Exam pretests.
Even now, memories of Luka’s own test haunt him – the examiner’s unwavering gaze, noting even the smallest furrow of Luka’s brow. The twisting and winding questions, like a path with no end.
“She’s worried,” Cassian finally says.
“She’s always worried,” Luka replies. “But you have nothing to worry about, fratenillio. I have seen you play all these years, and your Cesse is as flawless as mine. Better, even.”
His tutors only need to teach him control – then he will be safe.
Cassian attempts a tentative smile. “Really?”
Luka nods. “Really.”
It’s the truth. Though young, Cassian is bright and quick, picking up strategies and theories with little to no questions.
But Luka has also seen the pretest scores; he saw the look on their mother’s face as she pulled the letter free, the horror that carved her mouth into an “o”. Despite the words he feeds his brother now, fear gnaws on him.
“Do I look like Alessandro?” Cassian whispers, crawling into his bed and drawing the covers to his chin.
Luka freezes. “Where did you hear that name?”
“Papa mentioned it. When he came home from work the other day after a night shift.”
Luka grits his teeth. “What did he say?”
Cassian shakes his head. “He said he was just tired and we… we acted similar. That he was another framellio. Long before I was born.” Cassian toys with the decorative tassels on his comforter, drawing the golden threads taunt before releasing them. “Did you know?”
“I’ve only heard his name.”
“Papa said Mamma was so sad when he died.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Do you think… Do you think Mamma would be sad if I died?”
“Oh, Cassian,” Luka says. He steps into the room, sinking into the bed so he can stroke his brother’s soft curls. “She would be destroyed if anything ever happened to you – to either of us.”
“But –”
“I know things are confusing right now with her running for Council Member, but she loves us to the bottom of her heart. I swear on Cesse.”
Cassian covers a yawn with the back of his hand. “Alright. I believe you.”
“You better.” Luka pops another kiss onto his brother’s head. “Now go to sleep. You’re half in dreams already.”
Cassian mumbles something too soft to hear as Luka closes his door. He nods to the nursemaid sitting watch at the edge of his brother's chambers. “Light the incense for warding nightmares tonight,” he orders. The woman dips her head in acknowledgement.
Luka is lost to stormy thoughts as he crosses the compound, head ducked, thankful most of the other Aiutani have already retired for bed.
He had been telling the truth to his brother – mostly. He had heard of Alessandro before, not because of any slip of the tongue from his father, but because of his research.
Luka slows to a stop at his quarter’s entrance, drawing open a heavy door. He heaves a sigh of relief as he crosses the threshold; only a handful of days have passed since he last breathed in the soft smell of his rooms, but he missed it so much. Pine and cinnamon and sweet vanilla fill his nose as he lights the scented candles, passing through the emerald entry to the Cesse room overlooking the city.
Though lacking the view from the tournament competitors’ chambers, Luka far favors this; splayed below him, the Abraxi District glows and flickers, compounds bright like fireflies. Lights wink in and out as some fall asleep and others wake.
Luka sets his Cesse board, allowing his thoughts to drift – to his elder brother.
Alessandro had been three when Luka was born, and dead at seven.
Luka learned of his elder brother through a tucked away sketch, dim with age and creased down the middle, shoved in his father’s research books. He discovered a gap-toothed boy with curly hair so like his own. When he pressed his father – and then his mother – on the issue, both responded with varying degrees of animosity, forcing Luka to drop the subject.
But Luka did learn this: Alessandro had failed his Bombani Exam.
A shudder goes down Luka’s spine, and he shakes his head. He can’t think of this now – he needs to prepare for his match tonight. A match that might be interrupted because those Thought-damned Northerners are coming to ruin everything.
Luka moves his first Cesse piece forward and nearly leaps from his skin when something goes tap, tap, tap on his window.
Thoughts of muscled Northerners in their skimpy fur garb flash through his mind, and his fangs lengthen to his jaw. Luka flies to his feet, seizing the Cesse board and scattering pieces. He isn’t sure if he’s planning on cradling it to his chest protectively or throwing it at the source of the noise. He’s saved from having to decide when he sees Xyla Mobiele scowling at him through the glass.
Tap, tap, tap, goes her finger. She mouths obscenities at him and gestures for him to open the window.
Luka touches his fangs, automatic nervousness making his hands shake. But then again, none of that matters. Not with Xyla.
Nostalgia seizes him as he slides the window open. It has grown stiff from nearly half a year of disuse, and they both have to heave to open it wide enough for Xyla to slip through. It doesn’t help that Xyla’s generous hips always catch on the gap.
Once inside, Xyla levels a manicured finger with Luka. “You,” she hisses.
“Xyla,” Luka says, aiming for nonchalance and landing on breathlessness – which is entirely due to the effort he had put into opening the window, nothing more. “What are you doing here?”
Xyla’s pointed finger lands on Luka's chest with three sharpened pokes. Her eyes flash amber, her fangs growing to match his. By the final jab, her nail is more animal than it is human, and Luka cannot help but to wince.
“I told you not to do anything!” she growls, her voice no louder than a whisper. “I told you I could handle it.” Xyla spins, tossing her hands into the air as red fur ripples down her arms and then vanishes into her tan skin. She paces the length of Luka’s room, words diminishing to garbled growls. “But no! You had to go and protect me again! I have never needed your protection – not now, and certainly not when we were –”
She abruptly pauses, words jerking off and angry strides pulling to a halt. She has always been like that – a burst of emotions that is contained so rapidly, Luka is left with whiplash and admiration at her sudden control. Xyla swallows and spins to face Luka. Her eyes are pure animal as they meet his, and Luka finds it hard to hold her gaze. “You are not going to that match tonight.”
“I am.” Luka’s voice sounds distant to his own ears. He’s finding it hard to focus. The pull of memory is too strong with her here. He tucks his hands behind his back to hide the tremble.
“Luka,” Xyla begins, and he shudders. The sound of his name on her lips always did unkind things to him. Xyla looks him over. She presses her lips together. “Luka,” she tries again. “You know I love you –”
“Don’t say that!” Luka forgets to keep his voice low as he snaps the response, slashing his arm across his body as if to fend off an attack.
“I do. I just don’t think we’re… I just… you know the Toula is probably right. I don’t think we’re meant to be mated.”
Luka flinches at the words, his heart twisting. He resists the urge to look at Xyla’s hand, at her fingers – the lines on her palm that he thought told of their intertwined fates. The lines that the Toula must have misunderstood. His voice is reduced to a rasp when he replies, “I know.”
“I don’t need you defending my reputation. I told you that when I decided to tell them the truth about me – when I gave you that option, too. Besides.” Xyla’s pinched concern changes to an ironic smile. “You said you didn’t want that kind of attention on you, right?”
“I said I didn’t want them to know. I’m not like you, Xyla. I can’t just go telling everyone and anyone that I’m a…” The word impyassus is even impossible for him to say, so instead Luka closes his eyes and gestures at the disaster his emotions are rending on his body; to his nails, which have lengthened to claws, to the splotches of fur sprouting and dying on his arms and legs.
“You will be happier.”
“I will be forever shunned. You’re from the Mobiele family, your reputation is already sound, Xyla – you don’t understand.”
Xyla looks away. “I don’t know why I’m talking about this with you again. Stupid – I’m so stupid.”
“Xyla…” Luka shakes his head. “You’re not… that’s not… look, the reason I challenged Evland wasn’t for you. Well – it wasn’t just for you. He was saying things about my mother and about… about Cassian.” The last word is little more than an exhale.
Xyla blinks, the fur vanishing from her forearms. A worried pinch that Luka knows well – he has smoothed it from her brows so many times before – grows on her forehead. “Cassian? But Cassian hasn’t shown any signs, has he?”
“No. I’ve been so careful watching him, but he – no. Nothing.”
Xyla’s scowl deepens. “You know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he were one of us –”
“But it would, Xyla! I don’t see how you can’t ever see that.” Luka tangles his hands in his dark curls, shaking his head. “If Cassian is an impyassus, it will mean death to my mother’s political career – they will all think she cheated on my father with some monster. And worse – it could mean the end of the Lockehart line! No good blood to pass on our intellect –”
Xyla bares her teeth. “You realize it’s inherited.”
“And it skips generations. For centuries, my mother and the Lockeharts have kept it from their children… and now… we’re so lucky that Cassian hasn’t shown any symptoms.”
Xyla stares at him, the lines on her face softening from anger to something that looks alarmingly like pity. Her hand quivers at her side, half rising toward him, but then she shakes her head. “Fine. If that’s how you want to see things.” She turns to face the Abraxi District through the open window, the cool night breeze brushing auburn curls from her forehead. “I just came here to make sure you weren’t going to that silly challenge.”
“Oh, I am.”
“Luka! Kiterans are nearly upon us. It’s not safe.”
“Kiterans are nearly upon us,” Luka mimics, but now he uses the Kiteran dialect. His accent is poor. Xyla scowls at him, crossing her arms over her chest as she refuses to play along. She has always been better at him when speaking in the Kiteran dialect. She sounds almost native.
Instead, she says in a low voice, “You can’t do this.”
“What you said is true, Xyla: we aren’t together anymore. That means I won’t fight any matches in your honor. It also means you can’t stop me from doing something stupid.”
Xyla’s nostrils flare. “He’s already beaten you before – what’s to stop him from doing it again?”
Luka somehow manages to hold her gaze as he replies: “I know him now. I’ve studied his matches – all the silly little messages he tries to leave his opponents. I know the way he thinks.” His hands curl into fists, claws cutting into his palms. “I will go out tonight, Xyla. And this time I will beat him.”
The words sound so confident – so true to his ears. Luka must believe in them. After all, there is only one thing left for him in this world now, and that’s Cesse – a skill Luka has proven himself adept at with the Bombani Exam. He cannot let Evland Childes of all people take that from him.
Xyla crosses her arms. Luka continues, “And when I win, he’ll be done for. Defeat in a back-alley tournament by me? To the public, I’m still new to Cesse competitions. Evland will be forced to withdraw from the tournaments and face humiliation. It will be perfect.” Luka cannot help but to smile at the thought.
Xyla shakes her head. “It’s a bad idea. But… but you’re right. I don’t get to stop you now.” She sighs and slips through the cracked window. “Just don’t go alone, Luka. I don’t… I don’t want you hurt.”
Luka replies, “I’ll be fine,” but Xyla is already moving away. Luka presses his lips together. To avoid watching her go, to avoid the crumpling hollow in his chest, the empty ache that reminds him he is so alone, he returns to his Cesse board. He picks up the pieces.
He knows he will beat Evland in this game tonight. And Luka knows that he will win. Things will finally change for the better.
Luka is sure of it.
Chapter Four – Theo
The West is warm and golden and on fire.
“A flawless plan, Sevell Hunter,” a soldier simpers at Theo’s side. Theo doesn’t look at the man – boy would be a more accurate description. He looks a few years older than Theo was when he first took to the battlefield at eleven. The things Theo had to do to climb the ranks – and the boots he had to lick… Theo hides a smile as he raises his chin, observing the village. The wooden structures have crumpled beneath flame, and dark clouds of smoke billow toward the early morning’s horizon. The Siacchians evacuate into the welcoming arms of the Kiterans, eyes wide with animal terror, wrapped in patchwork blankets likely still warm from sleep.
See? Theo thinks as he looks below. Commander Jennison thought I couldn’t handle this. But I can.
A sigh escapes Theo in a frosty cloud, turned scarlet from the dawning sun and the flickering fire. He holds out his bloodied hands, his ankle-length fur cloak fluttering from his shoulders. “Water.”
The soldier looks left and right, hands patting at his leathers for a wineskin. Octavian appears at Theo’s side, pouring a steady stream over Theo’s sticky fingers.
“You’re dismissed. Take inventory of the villagers, but do not harm them. We can use them for later,” Theo says to the soldier, who bows and scurries away. Theo returns his attention to his hands, washing the blood away with Octavian’s water.
“You didn’t account for if they had a hopiar,” Octavian says when Theo’s hands are clean, voice cast low so the nearby foot soldiers won’t hear. “You smoked them out like a flock of hens. Had there been a fox in their midst, we would have taken enormous losses.”
“Sometimes it pays to take risks,” Theo replies, looking at Octavian out of the corner of his eye. The cut on Octavian’s neck is all but healed and he wears a new set of pale blue robes, standing out like a winter sky in a landscape of autumn golds and auburns.
“Yes,” Octavian says. “Sometimes you pay for the risks you take.”
Theo narrows his eyes. The memory Octavian refers to – the things Theo lost that day to the… the Snake of the South – burns still.
