Sweep of the Heart (Innkeeper Chronicles #5)(117)

Kosandion was already on his throne, with Resven on one side and His Holiness on the other. Miralitt guarded the stairs as usual and Orata stood on the other side of the steps. All hands on deck.

Resven wore his usual robe. The Holy Ecclesiarch wore his white robes, but his overdress was gold. His cape was gold too, embroidered with silver accents. He stood firm, his shoulders straight, his gaze commanding. He held a long scepter in his hand, and he’d planted it into the floor at his feet as if it were a spear. The feinted frailty he had so carefully cultivated before was forgotten. The Dominion had started as a warrior civilization, and today the Ecclesiarch looked every inch a battle priest. But even with all his metallic finery, he couldn’t outshine Kosandion.

The Sovereign wore black. His outfit fit him like a glove, its lines severe, more a military uniform than civilian attire. His cape, a carefully draped long expanse of black, edged with a silver geometric motif, was the only concession to the typical Dominion’s garb he was willing to make. Kosandion was sending a message. He was ready to go to war.

Nothing about his clothes said groom. My last hope for the resolution died a sad death.

I entered the throne room. My long dark robe swept the floor as I walked. Behind me Oond’s fishbowl slid along the polished floor. The delegates turned to look. Gasps whispered through the room. They had seen Sean.

We crossed the throne room. Oond’s fishbowl slid to his designated place in front of his people. Sean stood next to him. I ascended the dais and took my place to the left of the Sovereign and slightly behind, between him and the Holy Ecclesiarch.

A soft melody floated into the room, led by a flute, a sad, archaic sound that reached into you and grabbed your soul. A female voice joined the flute, singing a wordless long note.

The air smelled of strange spice.

The melody turned vicious, no longer a beautiful song but a harsh, pained cry, filled with fury. A primal wail coming deep from an anguished heart. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

The Temple attendants entered the throne room. Burgundy dresses the color of old blood clasped their bodies, formed with lengths of diaphanous fabric, gathered and held in place by braided cords that crisscrossed over exposed midriffs and left muscular shoulders and arms bare. Their hair streamed down their backs, unbrushed. Some had painted bright red veins on their faces. Some had dark stripes across their eyes, others wore scaled veils covering only one side of their faces. They stalked into the room, a pack of insane wolves, flashing their teeth and ready to rip their target apart.

It was as if time had folded in on itself and spat out some ancient cult. The true face of the acolytes of Vengeance, mirrors of the souls consumed by their revenge, single-minded, half insane, bound yet unchained, and dreaming of blood and retribution.

The song howled, reaching a crescendo.

The acolytes parted, and Lady Wexyn appeared between them. She wore the same style gown, more elaborate but still ethereal. Snow white at her exposed shoulders, it turned a bright arterial red at the hem, as if she had walked through slaughter. A long, pleated cape rode on her shoulders, dragging five feet behind her on the floor. Bright red eyeliner bled across her eyelids. Her lips were black. A metal headdress crowned her hair, rising in an arc over her head, made with a multitude of long, razor sharp needles. When the supplicants came to the Temple and laid their hearts bare asking for retribution, this is who they saw if their request was accepted.

The Priestess of Revenge walked toward the throne.

Miralitt gripped her ceremonial sword. Oond shuddered in his fishbowl and Sean put his clawed hand onto the glass to steady him. The oomboles shrank from her as she came closer. The people of Behoun couldn’t, because the force field restrained them, but they tried.

Kosandion watched her approach. He must’ve seen her before like this when he’d visited the Temple asking her to join the selection.

On the screens, the crowds of the Dominion roiled like a living sea.

Lady Wexyn took her place. Her acolytes formed up behind her, their eyes wild.

“Let us begin,” Kosandion said.

The throne room went silent.

“People of Behoun,” the Sovereign said. “I judge your candidate guilty of treason. She has acted with your consent. How will you atone for her crime?”

Amphie stared straight ahead as if she hadn’t heard a word.

The leader of the delegation, an older woman, licked her lips. “We no longer recognize the authority of the Dominion.”

The screens blasted outraged roars of the crowds. I muted them.

“So your Senate has already informed me.”

“Even if you bring the entirety of the Dominion’s military, we will stand firm against your tyrannical regime,” the leader announced. “We will defend our liberty to the death!”

Kosandion remained unmoved. “I do not plan to invade Behoun. You have been sequestered, so I will let the Chancellor explain it to you.”

Resven spoke, hammering each word in.

“As of twelve hours ago, all current and future import-export agreements between Behoun companies and the Dominion have been made void. All Dominion aid, including categorical and block grants, revenue sharing, and programs supplementing health care, public education, community development, job training, and environmental conservation, have been canceled. The planetary defenses installed by the Dominion have been mothballed. The in-system defense fleet is on its way to the Behoun jump gate, and upon reaching it, they will return to the Dominion. All Dominion citizens currently residing on Behoun are urged to return home. All Behoun citizens currently residing within the Dominion are to be expelled and must depart for Behoun within the next twelve hours, after which Behoun’s access to all Dominion-controled planetary gates will be revoked.”