“What worries you, my lord?” Kastor asked.
The Grand Lumis halted, hands behind his back. His eyes were as hard as the diamond leaf on his brooch, weathered with more years than Kastor could imagine. They cut straight through him. “You have designs for my throne.”
Kastor stepped back, taken off guard by the accusation. He didn’t know whether to lie or smooth over the truth. “My lord, I—”
“No use in denying it,” the Grand Lumis said, continuing to pace in a circle around Kastor. “I’ve studied you, your genetics, your conditioning, your training, your temperament. There were no flaws, and you never erred, never lost a battle, never lost anything. It would only be natural to believe yourself worthy of the Regnum’s highest title.”
“You’re not wrong, my lord,” Kastor said, taking a risk. “My history speaks for itself, and my birth is of the highest quality, but my aim is more modest than you suggest.”
“Enlighten me of your aim.”
Kastor shifted on his feet to remain facing the Grand Lumis. “I may have designs for the Diamond Throne, but nothing nefarious. Nothing the Champion of Triumph should not expect.”
“Expect?” The word halted the Grand Lumis. “You already have expectations of me?”
Kastor stood his ground. “Were you not the champion of Vradiman before he made you his heir?”
“Yes, and I earned it,” Zantorian said, his words picking up speed. “I fought and bled in Vradiman’s wars. I conquered. I sacrificed. And you? You win a tournament and you feel entitled to the Diamond Throne.”
Kastor’s jaw clenched.
“All your life, even from the days when you were nothing more than specks of DNA, you’ve suffered nothing but the best,” the Grand Lumis went on. “Everything comes easy for you. Doesn’t it?” Zantorian’s words were calm, coolheaded blows. “Have you ever lost anything of great value to you, young Kastor?”
Kastor let out a quiet huff.
“You feel entitled to my throne,” Zantorian said. “But you have no knowledge of the sacrifices the Grand Lumis must make.” He nodded at a Guardian before the obsidian doors. With a deep moan, the great doors crept open. The two Guardians from the foyer strode in, escorting Pollaena between them.
Kastor’s breath caught. His hand flinched reflexively to his hip, where a gun holster would normally be. Pollaena didn’t struggle, but her face showed sizzling anger and hints of fear. She’d been in the Royal Court many times. Kastor saw it in her eyes—no wonder or awe. But she’d never entered like this.
The massive doors rolled shut.
Kastor’s throat tightened as he met Pollaena’s eyes. She searched him for answers, but he had none.
“What is she doing here?” Kastor asked.
“I know who she is, young Kastor,” Zantorian said. “Pollaena, your fellow Eaglespawn, your cradlemate.”
Kastor fought to swallow his pride and restrain himself. Across the hall, Raza rose from her throne and walked down the steps, Diamond Scepter in hand.
“Every lumis needs his queen,” Zantorian said, then, over his shoulder, “Isn’t that right, Raza?”
Raza made her way to Zantorian’s side, the train of her robe stretching far behind. “Of course. But there is already a lumis, and he already has his queen.” Her feline eyes flicked to Pollaena, examining her impassively before turning to Kastor.
He had to act, had to do something.
Kastor twisted the ring bearing the golden Eagle insignia off his finger and tossed it onto the slick, glittering floor. He unpinned the Eagle brooch at his chest and dropped it before the Grand Lumis’s feet. He pried the gold buckle from his belt and let it clink against the hard tile. Trust would not come free and easy. So be it. Kastor would prove himself.
“My loyalty isn’t with Eagle,” Kastor said. “It’s with—”
“Loyalty,” Zantorian interrupted, “cannot be bought. Nor changed on a whim. It must be proven.”
Kastor’s jaw tightened. Teeth ground in his mouth. He took in a sharp breath. “My lord—”
“I have ruled the Regnum a hundred and twenty years,” the Grand Lumis boomed. “I can smell conspirators before they even begin to conspire.”
Kastor tried to protest, but Zantorian plowed on, pacing around him. “Many hounds have tried to catch the Fox. So many I’ve become familiar with their look, their demeanor, their schemes, their weaknesses . . .” He paused before Pollaena.
“We have no schemes against you, my lord,” Kastor said.
The Grand Lumis studied Pollaena’s resilient features. “Do you have schemes against me?”
“No, my lord,” Pollaena bit off quietly.
“No, perhaps not,” Zantorian said. “But that’s what you’re supposed to say. The script is already written. It’s written in your DNA, in your conditioning, in your training.” He pressed his fingers into the side of Pollaena’s head. “It’s burrowed into your brain.”
“What do you want from me?” Kastor snapped. This fox enjoyed the chase, but Kastor wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
The Grand Lumis faced him and smiled, spreading his hands. “I want you as my champion. I’d be a fool not to. The battles ahead will be too fierce for any lesser warrior.”
Kastor let his shoulders relax. Perhaps he had misjudged the old lumis. Perhaps this was all a tactic of intimidation—the Grand Lumis asserting his authority. But Zantorian’s sneer and Raza’s cold gaze said otherwise.
“Aermo,” Zantorian said, calling up one of his Guardians. “Swords.”
Aermo, tall and broad-shouldered with a bullet-shaped head, snapped at a younger Guardian, who brought forth two short swords in unadorned sheaths. Kastor’s heart raced as Zantorian took one. Aermo pressed the other into Pollaena’s hands. The Guardians moved closer to form a circle around them, keeping their automatic guns ready. Zantorian stepped before Kastor, close enough to hear him breathe.
“First I want proof,” Zantorian said, holding out the sword. “Prove your loyalty to me, and I will make you my champion. Prove your mettle, and you might even become my heir.”
Panic spread through Kastor like wildfire, burning him from the inside, tearing into his heart. There had to be another way. Any other way.
“My lord, please . . .” Kastor said, trembling as he struggled to think of an alternative. “Let me prove my loyalty another way. I . . . I’ll conquer the defiant systems. I’ll bring all of Sagittarius under your rule.”
“Indeed you will,” Zantorian said. “If you become my champion.” He shoved the sword against Kastor’s chest, forcing him to take it, and then stepped to the side.
All others backed away, leaving Kastor and Pollaena in the center of the circle, facing each other. She looked at him in shock and disbelief and, despite her best efforts, fear. Swords remained in sheaths as the cradlemates tried to communicate with their eyes, tried to find some way out. There had to be a way out. Somewhere. Somehow.
“My lord,” Kastor protested. “Pollaena is my lifemate, my maiden. She does not deserve—”
“Deserve?” the Grand Lumis repeated. “Something you must learn, young Kastor—neither of you deserve anything from me. You were born to serve the Regnum, not the other way around.”
“Why does the Regnum require this?”
“Because I am the Regnum!” the Grand Lumis thundered. “And I require it!”
Aermo stepped forward. “Draw your swords. Now.”
Neither drew their swords.
Zantorian crossed his arms, waiting. He took in a long breath. Kastor watched his maiden glance around at the circle of Guardians. They wouldn’t be able to fight their way out. Compassion welled in him. It wouldn’t be a fair match. Pollaena could nail a bullseye two kilometers out on a windy day, but her swordsmanship was lacking. Nothing like Kastor’s. He could deal a lethal blow in six moves. He knew dozens of sword tactics that she had never learned, that she wouldn’t be able to parry. A new weight dropped in him when he realized his thoughts, murderou
s thoughts, focused on Pollaena, his destined love, his maiden. He couldn’t do this. His heart ached, wanted to burst. How could he do this to her?
“Too bad,” Zantorian said dismissively, before swiveling and stepping away.
On impulse, Kastor’s sword sliced out of its sheath with a loud shing. Pollaena’s eyes bolted to him. A storm roiled inside him, and one last time, he met her gaze with love and tenderness, pleading for forgiveness for even this small gesture of betrayal. But she knew him. She knew him all too well. Their love, their history, their plans for glory—none of it meant anything anymore. He had drawn his sword.
Pollaena’s lips pressed together. Eyes hardened. Kastor watched as she forced all warmth from her face, all softness from her skin, all memories from her mind, until only the rigid core of the warrior remained. She drew her sword in a quick flash and tossed its sheath aside.
“If you’ve made your choice,” she said, her voice carrying no more life. “Then get on with it. But you won’t get it for free.”
Zantorian returned to Raza’s side, looking pleased and faintly amused. Kastor dropped his sheath, feeling his muscles flex and twitch involuntarily. His eyes wanted to cloud, but he steeled himself. “I love you, Pollaena.”
She let out a fierce cry and charged. Kastor recognized the tactic—her only hope relied on staying on the offensive. He raised his short blade, blocked her strike, then sidestepped and pushed her past him. She stumbled toward the Guardians before recovering, raising her sword. Once again, she cried out and charged, throwing two swings before he shoved her out of combat distance.
“Come on!” Pollaena shouted. “Fight me!”
Their blades met with echoing clangs, his feet shuffling backwards as hers shuffled forwards. Kastor allowed her to knock his sword to the side so that she would thrust at him. He dodged, grabbed her by the neck, threw her away, unable to force his blade through her precious skin.
When she wheeled herself around, her face displayed tearful rage. Her chest heaved for oxygen as she sucked air through locked teeth. “Take off your velvet gloves, old cradlemate. I’m no helpless child.”
Kastor’s heart slowly cracked. He couldn’t do it. His hands wouldn’t let him.
Pollaena ran at him again, swinging hard and fast. Kastor saw a new opening every few seconds. He could initiate a sequence and finish her in a handful of moves. And yet he couldn’t. An impassible mental block prevented even a flinch toward hurting her. Even as she grunted with the power of her blows, even as she exhausted herself from swinging, he didn’t make a single offensive move at her.
She pulled away for a breather. “Come on, you bastard,” she said between gasps. Then she calmed herself and pushed away the fiery anger in her eyes. “Kastor . . . son of Tyrannus . . .”
Pollaena swung from the side and Kastor blocked. Then from below. He blocked. From above. He blocked.
“ . . . warrior of Eagle . . .”
A flurry from the right and left.
“ . . . winner of tournaments . . .”
She sliced down from above, then thrust, and thrust again. He parried and dodged.
“ . . . champion of Triumph . . .”
Slower swings, to the sides, from above, from below. Easy to block.
“Take what is yours,” she said, exasperated. Then, after gathering air, she screamed, “Take it!” and heaved a sharp thrust at his chest.
He grabbed her wrist and cuffed her across the jaw with the hilt of his sword. Something jolted in him as if he’d been struck by an iron gauntlet, yet she hadn’t touched him.
Pollaena drew her hand away, wet with blood, and spat on the floor, which still displayed the huge image of the Milky Way. Her cold eyes glared at him. “Stop toying with me. You’ve made your choice.”
She attacked again, raining blows that were all too easy to parry, pushing him backwards, keeping him on defense. Then her stance opened as she thrust. Instinct took control of Kastor, and he watched—more than commanded—as his sword flashed downward, slicing through her thigh.
Instantly, Kastor felt a whip-like sting in his chest. The inner pain almost crippled him as Pollaena stumbled away, whimpering through clenched teeth, blood trickling down her deactivated nanoflex armor.
Without a break, she hobbled toward him with surprising speed and swung. He evaded and felt his sword slash through her side. Pollaena cried out and dropped to the slick floor, and Kastor sensed a corresponding sting—a sharp, stabbing pain in his rib cage, forcing him to take a knee. Pricks exploded through his brain, nearly blinding him. His hands shook. The academy had conditioned him against this, had designed his body and mind to feel pain as she did, to desire only protection and wellbeing for his maiden. It went against his nature, against everything he knew, against his very DNA.
But then came a worse pain: memories. Holding Pollaena’s hand when they ran the maze drill as children. Rubbing her fingers between his palms when she had hypothermia in arctic training. Seeing her naked for the first time at the lake, when she stripped off her clothes in front of him. A hundred memories assaulted him at once. Paralyzed him.
And now she lay on the floor, writhing and gasping as she held her bleeding side. Blood laced her teeth, seeped through the fingers pressed against her ribs. Kastor fought against the crushing weight in his chest. Against the thought of Pollaena watching over him with a sniper rifle from the tower. Of feeling her warmth against him at night. Of sprinting to the launch pad after morning drills to wish her goodbye before she left for Triumph.
Kastor forced himself to look away, across the hollow expanse to the marbled dais and the Diamond Thrones. Up at the gallery of nobles, huddled against the balustrade between gargantuan pillars, watching with serene faces. And higher, at the exquisite depictions of glory painted across the ceiling. The sharp pulsing in his head receded to a dull ache.
“Kastor,” Pollaena gurgled weakly. She reached out to him with a bloodied hand.
He pushed himself to his feet and stepped to his dying maiden, sprawled out over the display of stars. He crouched beside her, took her hand, looked into her glassy eyes, sparkling like the clear seas of their homeland. She winced with pain. All hostility had drained away. Trembling, Kastor brought the back of Pollaena’s hand to his lips and kissed it, savoring her warmth. Her life. Then he plunged his sword between her breasts, into her heart.
The only cry heard in the great hall of the Royal Court was his own. Kastor yanked the sword away and let it slide across the floor, keeping Pollaena’s lifeless hand in his. His heart splintered. His brain descended into chaotic fury. The ground quaked somewhere far under his feet.
A Guardian of Court stepped into the circle, holding the Diamond Sword with both hands. The Grand Lumis took hold of the hilt and unsheathed it. The crystalline blade shone in glorious brilliance as Zantorian moved to Kastor.
Kastor closed Pollaena’s eyes and set her hand across her stomach, then kneeled before the Grand Lumis. The heavy, translucent blade came to rest on one shoulder then rose over his head to the other.
“Kastor, son of Tyrannus,” Zantorian uttered in a powerful voice, “you have proven your loyalty. Take your mark.” He hovered the blade edge in front of Kastor, who pressed his palm into the tip just hard enough to form a trickle of blood—the blood oath. He balled his hand into a fist around the drop of blood as Zantorian returned the Diamond Sword to its sheath.
“Rise now,” Zantorian announced with pride, “as Kastor, Champion of Triumph.”
Kastor rose to his feet amidst a rising tide of applause from the gallery, echoing through the great chamber, bouncing off the marble and stone and diamond until it melded into a clattering roar. All around, exuberant lords and matriarchs looked down on him with white eyes glowing through dark makeup. All those black spikes, brimming with exultant bloodlust—jabbing upward for the men, sideways for the women, curling for the maidens. The nobles praised him, worshipped him.
But in his triumphant moment, Kastor felt sick. Hollow.
Broken. He looked down at Pollaena’s blood, spilt over the display of the Sagittarian Regnum, veiling a hundred tiny stars, staining his hands. A sacrifice on the altar of glory.
The Curate
Chapter Eleven
Carina Arm of the Milky Way, on the planet Baha’runa . . .
Representatives from every planet in the republic packed into the airy, semicircular chamber of the Upper House floor. They sat at their desks, perusing data on table screens, while their staff bustled about, sharing rumors and whispering private messages to other representatives. All this while the spokesman from the Orleons Party delivered his arguments from the front lectern. Few paid any attention to the spindly moon man, everyone locked in their own tasks of fact-gathering and secret-sharing.
Above the busy house floor, an undecorated level for press squeezed under a level of ornately carved balcony suites, protruding past the press level for a better view of the happenings.
Aisha glanced over his shoulder at Riahn, the Minister of Unity, vigorously explaining something to the Reformist Party chairman as he snuck bites of cheese from the refreshments table. Various others surrounded them, listening or carrying on their own conversations. Everyone discussing the implications.
Implications. Implications. Implications. Aisha had heard that word probably a thousand times in the past eight hours. It flittered through hallways and conference rooms and bathrooms. Everyone saying it, asking, what are the implications? Understandable, when the prima filia’s ship had just been discovered, blown to bits. Still, it seemed this time ought to be devoted to mourning rather than all this boisterous debate and political posturing.
On the floor, the debate pushed on about the proposed resolution to take defensive measures and, more practically, about whether this attack had been an act of war. “Sagittarians” was another operative word being tossed around. But the floor would have to wait for the significant speakers. House rules arranged the order of spokesmen from smallest parties to largest.
Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series Page 5