Wicked Empress: The Onic Empire, Book 4 (22 page)

Tears fell from behind closed eyes as he mourned the loss of not only his friend and teacher, but also a great man. Finding a small measure of strength, he lightly gripped Bithia’s hand.

On a shuddering gasp, she placed her head gently against his chest. Tears fell onto his skin, confirming the truth.

Viltori was no more.

Drahka entered a massive circular room lined with chairs in ever-expanding rows. Some seats were low in the pit and others rose along the edges. Drahka thought the rings of chairs looked like flower petals. Cacophony dropped to sudden silence. He was aware of murmurings, subtly pointing fingers, but he didn’t care. His thoughts were far from this room. Beside him, Bithia moved with her arm linked through his, gently guiding him to the two highest chairs. He sat with grim dignity, his gaze on the far edge of the room. A few steps behind came Enovese, Bithia’s new protocol liaison.

“I call this meeting to order.” Bithia settled into her chair, Enovese stood beside her. A blue screen floated before Bithia, which might have impressed Drahka before, but now he did not care what it was or how it worked. Lighting crystals filled the room with pure, white light, but all he saw was darkness. Shadows had covered his heart, and not even the brightness of the twin suns could banish them.

As befitted his rank, he did not cry or let any emotion flicker across his face. That was reserved for alone-time with his chosen. He swallowed hard. Drahka finally remembered what the man in the rumpled suit had so elatedly told him—he was not actually Bithia’s chosen. Since he had not completed the ritual bonding, he was not actually her consort. They considered him only her lover, which held no status. Bithia had her protocol liaison working endlessly to have him reinstated, but so far, there wasn’t anything in her massive books that could fix the mess Drahka had made. If only he’d performed the ceremony the way Viltori had told him to, but he hadn’t, because Drahka desperately wanted to be alone with Bithia.

When he wondered why it mattered so much, Bithia told him that if he were not officially her consort, any child they created would be illegitimate. It took a great deal of time and effort for her to explain the meaning of that word. His tribe had no such label. The only way a child in his tribe could be rejected was by his or her own actions. The two people who created the child mattered not at all. Here, on Diola, the origins of the child mattered greatly, mainly to the empress. In her careful way, Enovese had explained to him how important legitimacy was for the royal line.

When he suggested repeating the ceremony, Enovese shook her head, making her fascinating hair dance not only around her shoulders but also all the way to the floor. “There is no protocol for that, but I am doing my best to find a solution.” Her voice held genuine regret that she couldn’t give him the answer he wanted. Softly she added that Bithia had already asked. Even if they could repeat the ceremony, Bithia and the heads of the Houses must agree on the appointment of a new magistrate. Until the issue was resolved, their relationship held no power, but Bithia refused to follow the dictates of her own laws. She continued to dress him in red and determinedly called him her consort. Bithia did this like a tiny hand attempting to grip the entire world. No matter how tightly she clung, she could not make her wishes so just by her will alone.

Still, her resolve and strength impressed him. At night, when they lay together in the big bed, bodies pressed tightly under the ruby covers, the scent of Viltori becoming ever more a memory, that was the only time when Bithia let go of her rigid control. Sobbing in great gasps, she cried herself to sleep against him, holding him firmly as he did the same to her. Mingling tears soothed them into slumber, but horrifying dreams ripped them right back out. Since he’d left the infirmary, they hadn’t been able to share their bodies. Each time they tried, Viltori’s absence hung over the moment, shrouding them in black.

“You violate the prophecy yourself!”

The accusation drew Drahka back to the present and the circular room, now stifling hot with so many bodies. While he’d been thinking, hundreds more people had pressed into the space, lining the walls and eating up every walkway between the chairs. In this one room, there were more people than in Drahka’s whole tribe. Colors glittered from very deep to very pale, making his eyes blink from overload. A multitude of distinct perfumes filled the air, invading his lungs, making him dizzy. Clinging to the arms of his chair, he fought through the nausea, determined to see the men who killed Viltori punished.

“We are not here to debate my actions.” Bithia lifted her entire body. She sat so straight her back didn’t even touch the padding behind her. “This meeting is about Blue-green House and the crimes the House committed against Viltori.”

“A citizen cannot commit a crime against a servant.” Blue-green House’s protocol liaison spoke with cool authority. Robed in copper, the man was almost entirely unremarkable but for a deep purple stain that ran from under his right eye to the edge of his mouth. He’d styled his long brown hair to the side, as if to cover the mark, but each time he threw back his shoulders, he revealed ever more of the splotch.

“Viltori was not a servant, but an acolyte.” Enovese’s voice filled the room despite her diminutive stature. Fascinated gazes ate her up whenever she spoke. Her beautiful hair fell over one shoulder, sparkling against her copper robe. As the bondmate to the greatest Harvester ever known, Enovese wore a highly decorative black sash that encircled her slender waist. The upper edge of the sash was trimmed in crimson, showing all that she was protocol liaison to Bithia. Drahka found her so much more pleasant to look at and listen to than the other liaison, whose sash was simple and medium blue-green.

“He was dressed in brown as a servant.” Stain-face spoke through his nose, which gave his voice a most annoying whine. “From readings in Kipfer’s unabridged Harvest Text, it’s clear that the color brown indicated his rank as a slave.” Smiling broadly at Enovese, the liaison pointedly asked, “You are familiar with Kipfer’s text, are you not?”

A great pause silenced the room as all gazes fell on Enovese. Drahka didn’t move, but internally he leaned forward, curious if she was as well-read as she seemed. He hoped so. He and Bithia needed a strong liaison to see them through the wealth of troubles that mired them.

“Kipfer’s in the ancient language?” Enovese turned, hefting an oversized book into her arms. Even a bare bit away, Drahka could smell the animal hide that bound the pages. “Or did you read the translation by Picer?”

Stain face’s nose twitched slightly. Just a bare wiggle caused by him lifting his lips and lowering his brows at the same time. Clearly, he’d not expected Enovese to respond as she had.

“If you read Kipfer’s in the ancient language,” Enovese said, “you would know that when a person is wearing mixed colors, the color of the highest rank takes precedence.”

There was a long pause as several people in the audience murmured quietly. Drahka couldn’t tell if they agreed or disagreed with Enovese.

“I don’t see how that applies here.” Stain-face spoke while holding his gaze steady on Enovese. In his eyes, Drahka saw he knew he was lying, but he had to follow the whispered urgings of the man beside him. As the higher-ranking member of Blue-green House, he had the right to prompt his liaison if he saw fit. Drahka noticed that Bithia did not do the same. She let Enovese speak freely according to her own mind.

“Viltori’s shirt was white, thus indicating his station as an acolyte.” Enovese returned the enormous book to the table behind her, but it was clear the other liaison would not win by knowledge alone.

Realizing that argument was lost, Stain-face turned to another disagreement. “There is no precedence for punishment of one who inadvertently kills an acolyte.”

“Then you concede Viltori was an acolyte?” Enovese lifted her nose as she peered down at the man.

“His station hardly matters.” Upper lip twisting in annoyance, the liaison nodded snidely. “However, for the sake of argument, Blue-green House concedes his rank as acolyte.”

Nodding, Enovese turned again to the table, this time picking up a loose sheaf of pages. Flipping through them, she asked, “Are you acquainted with the works of Esslean of Plete?”

Frowning, Stain-face paused before answering, “I know he established the rules governing recruits, but I don’t see what he has to do with this. We are not conducting an Esslean tribunal.” No one could miss the mocking in the man’s voice. He chided Enovese as if she were clearly out of her depth. Several people in the audience snickered behind cupped hands.

“Of course not.” Enovese smiled warmly. “The man you represent could hardly lift an
avenyet
let alone compete against other men in a fair challenge.”

Several people let out long, low
oos
of surprise that Enovese had tossed the insult at the man so effortlessly.

For the first time in a long time, Drahka felt a grin longing to spread across his face. Enovese wasn’t just beautiful, but she was smart and witty.

The mark on Stain-face darkened visibly while the man beside him sputtered, “I am better than any recruit!”

“Are you?” Enovese asked, tilting her head. Her hair glittered in the light.

Despite his liaison’s attempts to calm and still him, the man shot to his feet and bellowed, “That worthless
cratifan
dared to refuse me!”

Stain-face darted his gaze to Enovese, witnessed her slowly spreading smile, and then dropped his gaze to the floor in defeat. Shaking his head, he began to gently gather the papers spread out before him.

“You demanded sexual satisfaction from an acolyte.” Enovese lifted her brows. “Kipfer’s original, Kipfer’s translation by Picer, and the writings of Esslean of Plete all agree on one salient point: Acolytes belong to the gods. No servant or citizen, not even the empress herself, can
demand
sexual favors from an acolyte.”

Eyes wide and face suddenly pale, the man returned to his seat. By his own bold proclamation, he had destroyed his defense.

Desperate to restore some type of justification, Stain-face, said, “But he was confused by his brown trousers.”

“You already conceded that Viltori was an acolyte.”

The liaison’s mouth hung open, for he realized Enovese had subtly directed him along this path from the moment they started their debate. Ever so slowly, he closed his mouth, but Drahka saw how his mind turned the proceedings over, looking for some way to save the man at his side. Drahka had a feeling that if he failed, the liaison would lose face with his family.

Lifting her gaze to all those in the audience, Enovese said, “The prophecy regarding placing such a demand on an acolyte is open to interpretation, but the penalty for killing an acolyte for not performing a sexual act is clear.”

“He didn’t kill him because of that!” Stain-face blurted.

Face open and expectant, Enovese waited for him to continue.

Thinking quickly, he said, “He refused to give way.” Nodding quickly as if encouraging himself, Stain-face added, “He deliberately blocked the hall refusing to grant a citizen passage.”

“One man blocked an entire hallway?” Enovese considered for a moment. “Just how tall are you claiming Viltori was?”

Was.

Drahka lost whatever grin he’d gained. This wasn’t a joking matter. Viltori was gone and this man didn’t want to suffer the consequences of his actions. Worse, the liaison refused to even call Viltori by his name. Drahka sat and considered that the man Stain-face defended would probably be left alone at some point. Alone and vulnerable. It wouldn’t take much to kill him. But at least Drahka would give him a chance. He would fight one-on-one, not track the man down with a group of other men. No, Drahka would like to kill him with his bare hands.

Drahka returned to the current situation when a short, thin man dressed in a faded version of blue-green rushed to the table where the accused sat. Whispering into the liaison’s ear, he pulled back, then nodded profusely.

“The point ceases to matter because, technically, Viltori is not dead.”

A simultaneous gasp from the crowd echoed in the room.

Drahka’s eyes darted to Bithia, then away. He’d begged her, but she would not listen, and now her refusal to let Viltori go would allow his killer to escape unpunished.

Enovese quietly said, “For all intents and purposes, Viltori is dead.”

“He’s being held in stasis. Until that support is withdrawn, he’s considered alive. I can cite chapter and verse from several sources, as I’m sure can you.” Stain-face glared at Enovese as if it was her idea to try to trick him, but Drahka knew it was Bithia’s idea. “We will return to debating this matter when the man is actually dead.”

Smugly, the accused stood. His self-satisfied smile dropped suddenly when he met Drahka’s intense gaze. Making sure he was well-surrounded by his brothers, he left with a group of guards trailing him. He was afforded limited freedoms until the matter was resolved. To ensure he didn’t leave the palace, guards followed him everywhere. It kept him on planet but prevented Drahka from taking his own vengeance.

“I am sorry, my lady.” Enovese bowed. “I did my best.”

With a lifted hand in dismissal, Bithia turned her gaze to the people who slowly departed. Disappointment filled their faces, for they had hoped to see the matter resolved today. Possibly, they hoped for another bloody demonstration of the block. Wherever Drahka went lately, people couldn’t stop talking about what happened to Ambo. They acted shocked and disgusted, but he saw a curious bloodlust in their eyes, like the way his tribe had willingly watched his companion’s execution.

“Perhaps now you will let him go,” Drahka said softly, so only Bithia could hear.

Bithia barely moved her lips as she said, “Do not start that again, not here.” She rose with dignity, keeping her head held high despite the failure to get revenge.

Drahka followed her up. When she looped her arm through his, he gripped her elbow firmly with his other hand. “I will not permit you to go and see him again.” He found the situation morbid. Bithia would spend hours touching the glass coffin that held Viltori, but Drahka knew the man was long gone. What she held her vigil over was nothing but a shell. “He is no more. Clinging to the form he occupied is disturbed.”