Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (7 page)

“ . . . 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.

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.

Aisha gazed across the way at the Prime Minister’s booth, where the thickset, well-coifed man slumped in his seat, resting his drooping face against his fist, staring at nothing. Aisha had never met Elan Falco, but he knew how much the man loved his family—his sons mainly, but Sierra, too, he imagined. Aisha felt for him.

“Aisha!” Riahn called from the suite.

Aisha peeled himself away from the balcony, grabbed his tablet, and weaved through the glass barriers back into the suite. He brought up his notes as his lively, stout, curly haired boss pulled him into the circle of people. Aisha tensed in the crowd, even though they paid no attention to him, carrying on their own conversations instead. Without letting his relaxed face slip, Riahn leaned close to Aisha.

“A coalition is forming,” he whispered. “You’d do well to keep your eyes and ears open, my boy.” The minister took surprising joy in teaching Aisha the intricacies of their political system, sometimes more than the young curate would like.

Aisha nodded as Riahn put on a somber expression for a newcomer—Jeremay Effex, a councilman of the Universal House of Justice, enveloped in an aura of tranquility. His suit and hair were crisp, his dark eyes sad and far away. The man moved through the dense crowd with hands behind his back and returned a gloomy expression to Riahn. Aisha tensed up even more as the high leader in their religion approached.

“What a tragedy,” Riahn moaned, putting a ring-studded hand over his heart and shaking his head.

Jeremay nodded lightly, reluctant to speak, gripped by genuine sorrow. His eyes turned to Aisha, seeing the young curate in a way few men of importance ever did.

Riahn picked up on the councilman’s interest and put a hand on Aisha’s shoulder. “Your grace, this is my curate, Aisha. Studious young lad.”

Jeremay held out an open palm. Aisha swallowed and reached out to shake it.

“Aisha.” Jeremay dipped his head as an equalizing gesture. “Did you know Sierra?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Aisha pushed out. “I’m sure she was lovely.”

“She was,” Jeremay said quickly. “A true Carinian gem. Her efforts for peace were unparalleled.”

“Indeed, your grace,” Riahn said. “Her presence in the capital will be sorely missed. Uh, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

Jeremay’s hands remained behind his back as he addressed Riahn. “I’ve heard you’re meeting with party leaders, trying to coordinate a consensus.”

A soft laugh escaped Riahn, and his cheeks blushed. “Oh, yes. Merely advising, of course. Trying to help everyone understand the various perspectives.”

Jeremay nodded without smiling. “I came to remind you of the words of Abdu’l-Baha. ‘Concentrate all the thoughts of your heart on love and unity. When a thought of war comes, oppose it by a stronger thought of peace. A thought of hatred must be destroyed by a more powerful thought of love.’”

Riahn put on a warm smile. “Mmm . . . a message well-received, your grace.”

“I figured it would be beneficial for the Minister of Unity to hear at a time like this,” Jeremay said. “When anger runs hot, it’s easy to forget all peoples and nations are one family, children of the same Father. Peace be with you, brother.” The councilman bowed his head and slipped away.

Aisha couldn’t help but smile as he eyed Riahn, who slowly let his fake smile recede.
About time someone spoke some truth
, he thought.

Riahn’s face turned to a scowl. Aisha had only worked for the Minister of Unity for a few months, but already he realized the man was far more complex than his public image would suggest. His shrewdness often got in the way of his principles, but only the few who worked for him could discern that.

“Not an easy task, pleasing everyone.” Riahn put on a lax smile as a representative from the Unification Party entered, an old friend, apparently. “Lola, my darling, you look lovely. Horrible about Sierra, isn’t it?”

Aisha glanced between the tight groups of politicians, aides, and lobbyists locked in serious discussion. More talk of implications mixed with whispers of possibilities. He noticed the room was mostly Unificationists with a handful of Dominionists and a few Reformists—the three largest parties. Aisha wondered about this coalition that Riahn seemed so animated about. The Minister of Unity—technically a Unificationist but far too concerned with people-pleasing to be a hardliner—worked his way through the room, shifting deftly from hopeful to doleful depending on his audience. No one spared Aisha a glance.

Back in the main chamber, a new speaker took the podium. To Aisha, that held far more interest. Out there, he felt the pulse of political life in a way that made sense: statesmen and women would debate, exchange ideas, speak for entire planets—some of them thousands of lightyears away.

Aisha weaved through the packed gathering and returned to his place on the balcony.

Ulrich Morvan, Minister of Arms, stood behind the lectern, looking as suave and polished as ever. The popular Dominionist leader bore a slight, confident smile and a knowing gleam in his eyes. His ink-black hair was slicked back to a tight point at the nape of his neck, and his dark eyebrows came to sharp tips. The collar of his suit sat stiffly around his neck, while his wide, glossy lapel flared out to his waist. He exuded an air of calm, of poise, of elegance. His very presence on the podium made Aisha lean closer, hoping to hear the way forward.

Prime Minister Falco had not given any. Perhaps Morvan would.

The Minister of Arms took a short breath. “In the beginning, God created.” He paused, seemingly to let the rather innocuous statement sink in.

Riahn slid open the glass door of the suite and tapped the tablet screen in Aisha’s hands. “Take notes,” he whispered.

Ulrich Morvan: begins with appeal to True Religion
, Aisha entered quickly.

“And his creation was perfect,” Morvan said in a smooth, golden voice. “But man rebelled and has been rebelling ever since. Nevertheless, to those who would listen, God spoke.”

Aisha wondered why he had to take notes when Riahn was standing right beside him, listening to the speech in person—not to mention the fact that it would be recorded and played on every news channel in the republic.

“To Noah, righteous in an era of corruption, God spoke a merciful warning, and the ark-builder listened. He and his family were saved from the wrath of the seas.”

Anecdote of Noah—point?

Aisha noticed the teleprompters were off. Morvan gave the speech from memory, impassioned, as if he had been born to give it. Aisha made a mental note to find out if Morvan delivered all of his speeches this way.

“To Abraham, our forefather, God spoke, and the man of faith listened. Abraham trusted God when it took great courage and strength, and he was rewarded. His sons became the progenitors of great nations.”

The orator’s eyes swept across the house floor with a twinkle that gave Aisha confidence he would somehow connect all this back to the prima filia’s death.