Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (32 page)

“Damn,” Davin said. “Bright son of a gun.” For the first time in a while, he noticed Jai’s face—haggard and spiritless. “Jai, you look like shit. Go get some sleep.”

Jai nodded without hesitation and navigated himself out of the med bay.

Strange reached down to a magnetic board above Sierra’s head and plucked off a thin, glossy, wood-handled knife. “What’s this?”

“Jai found it on her,” Davin said. “Don’t know where it came from. Never used it, though.”

“Huh.” Strange lowered the knife back to the board and let magnetism grab hold of it.

For a minute or two, both of them floated and said nothing.

“We gave up a lot of money for this girl,” Strange said.

“
I
gave up a lot of money,” Davin corrected. “You, Jai, and Bron had it stolen from you.”

Strange shrugged, pretending it was less than it was. “It’s alright. I’ll sleep better this way. It’s Jabron you gotta worry about.”

“He still pissed?”

“Jabron’s got a sharebuck sign tattooed on his ass,” Strange said. “What do you think?”

The mental image assaulted Davin’s brain. “When have you ever seen Bron’s ass?”

Strange shook her head. “Long story. Point is, you should talk to him. He’s not gonna see things your way, but you should talk to him anyway. I don’t like it when he’s quiet.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

For a while longer, silence returned as Davin and Strange stared at their priceless, unconscious guest. Her gentle face could launch a thousand ships—or hold them at bay. It surprised Davin to realize which of those outcomes he now preferred.

Strange broke out of the trance first. “Gonna go check the news, see if they’ve figured out who we are yet.”

“Syd—” Davin rarely called her by that name, but when he did, he felt like a turtle with his soft underbelly exposed. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

Davin felt his lips crack upward. “Yeah. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

It was a meaningless saying, but somehow, in that moment, it meant a lot.

Sagittarius Arm, on the planet Triumph . . .

Kastor stood in the center of the Royal Court, alone.

All felt cold in the vast chamber. The murky colors and static air, the gleaming mosaic floor, which once shimmered with Eagle blood. Pollaena’s blood. His hands felt weak, unable to form fists. His legs swayed.

The Lord Generals lined the balcony, looking down on him with suspicious, black-lined eyes, each wearing a ceremonial uniform unique to his region. Somewhere in that mass of military minds lurked the Lord General of Eagle. From brief glances, Kastor hadn’t spotted the distinctive umber regalia with the white trim and epaulets. Officers blended together more than they did in Vradiman’s era or the early years of Zantorian. Every man wore the crest of Sagittarius in the Royal Court rather than the crest of his region. On Triumph, one’s homeland mattered less than the Regnum.

No man in this great hall knew that more intimately than Kastor. His fingertips still felt slick and warm. Pollaena felt close.

“I
demand
he speak of Guarin!” Lord Freyz of Swan shouted from across the cavernous space, on the steps of the dais where Zantorian sat on his throne. His voice echoed in the marble and diamond chamber. His finger was trained on Kastor. “My heir and finest warrior is sent on a special mission to look out for
this
brigand, this petty excuse for a champion, and he doesn’t return. He is pronounced dead.” The Swan Lord General, thin yet sturdy like a steel beam, spat vitriol at Kastor even while he addressed the Grand Lumis. “No proof. No body. Just your
champion’s
word that Guarin is dead. I demand an explanation. I
demand
it!”

A reflexive response materialized in Kastor’s head, but he lacked the energy to utter it. His will to fight had been drained the moment he stepped into this chamber. Sapped further by the secret knowledge he held from Upraad, of Guarin and Guerlain, of Seraphina and Abelard, knowledge he would take with him to his death.

If the court knew Kastor had been complicit in the Swans’ deaths, Zantorian would dismiss him to keep peace in the Regnum. Kastor’s role as champion was fragile enough already.

Zantorian raised his hand to prevent Lord Freyz from launching into another tirade. “Kastor, what answer have you for the Lord General of Swan?”

Kastor took in a breath. His shoulders felt heavy and cumbersome. “Guarin fought bravely and remained loyal to the Regnum, even unto death.”

Lord Freyz waited for more, then heaved a dry laugh and spread his hands. “That’s it? That’s all the Eaglespawn has to say to the Lord who lost two of his finest? Not just two of his own finest, two of the
galaxy’s
finest warriors?” It wasn’t grief in the Swan Lord General’s voice, merely anger.

“Speak, champion!” Zantorian exclaimed. “I command it.”

Kastor clenched his jaw. “Sometimes the details of war are improper for a genteel court.”

“You do not stand before a council of ladies-in-waiting,” Zantorian replied. “Speak freely.”

“I have spoken as freely as decency will allow.” Kastor shifted on his feet, using as confident a tone as he could muster. His voice still rang soft and weak in his ears. “The broad strokes of the story, everyone here knows. It became clear Radovan would not pledge allegiance to the Grand Lumis under any circumstances, even after the commoner rebellion began. I, along with Guarin and Guerlain, offered a temporary alliance to Abelard and the commoners in order to depose Radovan. We were successful, but in the process, both Guarin and Guerlain were killed.”

“How did they die?” Freyz demanded. “I do not believe for a
second
my warriors would perish while you live.”

After a pause, Kastor looked at Zantorian. “My lord, with respect, I decline to speak further about the Swan warriors.”

Freyz became incensed. “
What
? What gives you the right to withhold—”

“Silence!” Zantorian commanded, eyeing Kastor closely. “My champion has spoken.”

Kastor felt a burden lifted. It surprised him. The Grand Lumis was the last person he expected to come to his defense.

Lord Freyz looked back and forth between Kastor and Zantorian, growing angrier each second. Finally, he screamed, ripped off his one-shoulder cape, and stalked across the length of the court, pausing by Kastor. “Your secrets will not remain so forever. I
will
find out.” With that, he continued on to the court doors, each footstep clacking and echoing through the hall.

Zantorian nodded and the Guardians opened the way for Freyz’s exit.

In the Swan Lord General’s absence, Aermo stepped to the middle of the court by the dais. “Hotheaded though he may be, the Swan’s concerns are legitimate. Let us not forget that our Lord’s champion partnered with
commoner
revolutionaries. He helped to install an anti-Sagittarian government in Lagoon. Its seat of power, Upraad, is controlled by commoner radicals. The Regnum has moved no closer to vassalizing the region. In what way is this an improvement on the previous situation?”

The balcony stirred and muttered in agreement. Some clinked their hilts against their hips.

“On the contrary, my lord,” Kastor announced above the noise. “Abelard, leader of the rebels, has promised to pledge allegiance to the Grand Lumis.”

Laughter swept across the balcony, like pinpricks against the champion’s pride.

“He gave it in exchange for my help in defeating Radovan,” Kastor continued defensively.

Aermo’s laughter rose above the others. “My young friend, you’ve been bamboozled. You were sold a chimera. Why would Abelard hold to his word? He’s a jacobin. A
commoner
jacobin. He told you whatever was necessary to gain your support.”

“Were it any other commoner, I would agree. But there was something unique about Abelard, a pragmatism, an opportunism. He wants power for himself as much as for his commoner brethren. Perhaps more.”

“Are we to shape our strategy around the young champion’s testimony alone?” Aermo asked.

“No,” Zantorian boomed. “Our strategy will be shaped around
my
testimony.
My
will.” Zantorian pushed himself to his feet and drifted his gaze across the chamber. “This court has taken each issue surrounding Lagoon in turn. We must address them as a whole.”

He stretched out his hand and the floor beneath Kastor’s feet shifted into a presentation of the galaxy, trifurcated into colored boundaries. “Carina covets Lagoon. They have for a long time. That is clear to me now, where it wasn’t before. I assumed, like many of you, my best strategists, that Lagoon would be virtually worthless to all who looked upon it. There are other channels between the great powers, but Carina wants Lagoon—barren, irradiated, scarcely populated planets. Why?”

Kastor stepped out of the way so as not to block any of the map. He examined the area around Lagoon, near the coreward edge of the Sagittarius Arm. For hundreds of lightyears into Sagittarius from Lagoon, there lay nothing but colony systems and minor vassal states—nothing of significant value to the Regnum, nothing it couldn’t afford to lose before the armada had arrived. A few shipyards here, a few precious metal operations there, a handful of planets with populations over a hundred thousand. Pebbles compared to the inner-arm systems.

Kastor had never considered the idea that Carina would vie for Lagoon. Even now, it seemed absurd.

“If you’ve learned nothing else from Sun Tzu,” Zantorian said, “surely you’ve learned one thing about the nature of warfare: It is based on deception. My friends, Carina wants to draw away our attention. They want to divide our forces. Lagoon is a ruse. It is sleight of hand, meant to distract us from their serious play.”

“And what is their serious play?” bellowed a voice from above.

“Invading Owl?” another voice suggested.

“No,” Zantorian said. “Not Owl. That was the purpose of the colony wars in decades past. Carina cared nothing for gaining or losing colonies. They were feeling our border for weak spots.”

“And they found none,” Kastor added.

“That’s right,” Zantorian said, gazing down on the map. “So Carina’s real play will center somewhere else. Somewhere they perceive as weak.”

Aermo walked a few steps toward the throne dais. “My lord, if Carina does have designs on Lagoon, we must act
now
to crush the commoner rebellion. We will establish defenses and be ready to engage them. We’ll deal them a devastating blow when they enter our space. We can’t allow them to claim even a small victory over us.”

“That is precisely the reaction they want,” Zantorian replied. “They will support the commoners, one way or another. The Carinian people will sympathize with them. They will intervene to offer refuge. The commoners will accept out of desperation. Carinian ships will enter our space. From there, a single misplaced shot will be enough to earn their justification for war.”

“Carina won’t invade on their own?” Kastor asked.

Zantorian smiled. “Not if we give them no reason to.”

Sagittarius Arm, on the planet Triumph . . .

The automatic doors hardly slid open fast enough for Freyz. He stormed into the Swan embassy’s foyer, fuming, skin hot and pulse raging. The
audacity
of that fiend, of the Grand Lumis, of the entire court.

Freyz’s courtesan crossed the vaulted hall, weaved through painted vases and long-stemmed plants. She paused beside the crystalline sculpture at the center of the room, placing a tender hand on its curved beak. A silken sash fluttered around her dainty hips.

“Would you like some company?” she asked with a pristine smile.

Freyz strode past her, straight into his private office.. “Not now.”

At his desk, he pried the Sagittarius crest off his chest and tapped the smart panel. Its backlights awakened.

“Record audio message for the Master of Arms.” Freyz brushed back platinum locks hanging over one eye. He had become frazzled in his hasty departure.

“
Recording audio message
,” an automated female voice replied. The “recording” icon appeared on the desk screen.

“Asher, I want you to commence pre-muster. Tell the fleet commanders they are to be loaded for bear and ready to fly on my command. The target is Upraad, Lagoon. I want invasion proposals ready as soon as the damn strategists can make them. This is serious. Send.”

“
Sending . . .
”

Freyz took a moment to breathe, to calm himself. The next message would be the more important of the two. He could only stay silent for the length of time it took to plan his statement. An electricity built in his gut, making him jittery, demanding action.

“Record audio message for the Lord Regent of Swan.” He waited for the recording icon to appear. “My lord, the name of Swan has been insulted. Zantorian’s champion has refused to give an account of Guarin and Guerlain’s death, and Zantorian is protecting him. I suspect foul play. In fact, I’m almost certain of it. Justice requires vengeance, and vengeance requires truth. I must find the truth of their death, and for that, there is something for which I must request your permission. My lord . . . I know this is a grave request, and you must know it is not made lightly, but rather with deep consideration for Swan’s interests . . .”

Kastor paused in the doorway of Zantorian’s private study. A grand vista between spire columns displayed a vast expanse and distant horizon. Crystalline domes spread out around the Diamond Castle, glittering like wet stalagmites. Beyond them, leaning pillars of raw stone, veined with uncut diamond, protruded variously from the charred ground. A holographic message played above Zantorian’s desk, and it snatched away Kastor’s attention. It showed the scowling face of Velasco, Lord Regent of Swan.

The Grand Lumis stood off to the side at a white granite bar, pouring brandy into a diamond chalice. The Grand Lumis could drink from nothing less.

Zantorian didn’t seem concerned about the Swan Lord fulminating in the recorded holo. Instead, he splashed a bit of water and ice in his drink and swirled it, listening.