Sweep of the Heart (Innkeeper Chronicles #5)(28)

The otrokar and the vampire stared at each other, and I saw the precise moment they both realized that whoever spoke first would get greeted first. The Horde and the Holy Anocracy were at peace, but their rivalry was alive and well. They opened their mouths at the same time.

“Greetings, honored guests!” I said before they decided to get offended and start a brawl.

The otrokar got there half a second earlier. “Winter sun to you. So good to see you again, Dina.”

The vampire knight clamped her mouth shut. He shot her a triumphant glance.

Yes, we have met before and know each other. No need to rub it in.

“Winter sun to you also, Under-Khan Dagorkun. How are your mother and father?”

“The Khan and Khanum are well,” Dagorkun told me. “My mother recalls you fondly and has tasked me with delivering this tea to you.” He produced a small ornate box.

“I’m deeply honored.” I bowed my head and let a tendril rise out of the floor and swipe the box from his hands.

The vampire knight rolled her eyes.

I turned to her. “Greetings…”

“No need for formalities,” the vampire knight said. “My name is Alvina, Lady Renadra, Commander of the Krahr Vanguard, Daughter of Soren and Alamide.”

Lord Soren? Oh. Oh!

“You may call me Karat,” she said, hammering every word in like it was a nail in Dagorkun’s coffin. “I am Arland’s cousin. His favorite cousin. And I am your sister’s best friend.”

She pulled a small packet from the inside of her cloak. “Lady Helen sent these treats for the feline creature. She also sent you a hug and a kiss, but you will have to imagine it. I do not go around kissing random humans.”

Karat tossed her hair back and triumphantly strode toward me, leaving Dagorkun behind.





The Throne Room was full. The guests murmured to each other in a dozen languages and traded dirty looks. Gertrude Hunt was on high alert, ready to snatch anyone who stepped out of line.

If I were to draw the Throne Room, it would look like a narrow rectangle. At the top of the rectangle was the massive door through which everyone had entered. Sean stood by it, wearing his innkeeper robe and holding his spear. At the bottom of the rectangle was the throne platform, where I now waited.

Large screens ran along the perimeter of the room, placed where the walls met the ceiling and tilted toward the audience. A swarm of small mobile cameras, ranging in size between a walnut and a plum, zipped above the crowd. The event would be broadcast across the Dominion. The Sovereign’s PR chief had installed a tight beam transmitter that actually shot the data from the inn through the portal to the Dominion to avoid any delay. I had no idea that kind of technology even existed. The cost had to be staggering.

The Dominion’s etiquette dictated that nobody could sit higher than the Sovereign. We solved that problem by raising the throne platform to six feet high and making two seating galleries, one on each side of it. I filled the galleries with cushy ornate seats arranged in three rows, packed the observers into the gallery on my right, and stationed Gaston there to keep things calm.

I spared the Observer Gallery a glance. Karat and Dagorkun sat in the front row, with Cookie between them. They left a seat open for Caldenia on Karat’s left. Her Grace was taking her time. I wished she would hurry up.

The gallery on my left remained empty. It was reserved for the Holy Ecclesiarch and his retinue and the Sovereign’s attendants, except for Resven and Miralitt, who had their own designated places.

I looked across the room, searching for Sean. He was still at his post by the far wall. Between us, the 12 delegations waited. We had arranged them in two columns, 6 delegations per column, each group segregated from others by a short decorative wall. We put the four most volatile delegations in the first and last row, so both Sean and I could keep a close eye on them, and sandwiched the less troublesome delegates between them.

The row directly in front of me held the otrokars and House Meer.

The otrokar delegation was on my right, decked out in traditional otrokar green and Southern red. Otrokars biologically adjusted their bodies for their chosen role starting at puberty. For example, Dagorkun was a general and a strategist. He had aimed for versatility and a balance between speed, strength, size, and durability. The majority of the otrokar diplomats were strategists as well. One would expect most of the members of the otrokar delegation to look like Dagorkun. Only two of them did.

Of the 20 otrokar delegates, excluding the candidate, 6 were over 7 feet tall, with huge shoulders and massive chests, the bruisers who would charge into the fight first, smashing through the enemy’s vanguard. Another 6 were lean and fast, likely swordsmen or other close quarters combatants, ready to become a coordinated whirlwind of steel, capable of precise and rapid carnage. Of the remaining 8, 3 were likely marksmen, 2 were medics marked by long green sashes, 2 looked like Dagorkun, and the last otrokar was a shaman in a ceremonial kilt, with an exposed torso, a mane of ruby hair so dark it was almost black, and a dozen thin leather cords and chains dangling with charms and pouches wrapped around his waist.

This wasn’t a diplomatic party; this was a Southern otrokar warband. Even the two strategists looked battle ready. Their candidate, a tall, powerfully built warrior, might have lacked the bruisers’ bulk, but he would snap any adult human male in half like a twig. He moved like a leopard, every rippling muscle perfect, and the way he glared at Dagorkun didn’t bode well.