Sweep of the Heart (Innkeeper Chronicles #5)(74)

Sean stepped out from behind the throne like a shadow in a dark gray robe. It was his turn to babysit.

Gaston turned to Kosandion and waited. The Sovereign moved his hand. Gaston bowed and turned back to the arena. His voice boomed.

“Twelve candidates journeyed here for the Final Selection. One, brought here against her will, bravely reclaimed her freedom.” He pointed to the missing banner. “Eleven candidates remain. Today we must say goodbye to two more. It is heart-wrenching to part with them, but the Dominion has voted. Their voices guide us tonight.”

Gaston paused, solemn.

“The first delegation to leave us is…”

The arena held its breath.

For a man who grew up without commercial breaks, he definitely had a thing for dramatic pauses.

“The Children of the Silver Star,” Gaston announced.

I highlighted the Donkamin section and extended a ramp from their section to the center of the raised area below. The twenty-one Donkamkins rose and moved in an orderly line to join Gaston, the ramp folding behind them.

It was hardly a surprise. They had been notified this morning that they had garnered the least amount of votes from the Dominion. They had time to pack and prepare. There was always a chance that they would do something rash as a parting shot; however, it went against the way the Donkamins had conducted themselves so far.

The Donkamins faced the throne.

“Children of the Silver Star,” Kosandion said, his voice clear and strong. “You have honored us with your presence. We are grateful for the precious gift of your time and effort and for a chance to meet your civilization. What do you ask of the Dominion?”

Ah. The minor ask.

One of the Donkamins spoke. “The Silver Star wishes to exchange knowledge with the Dominion. We ask for the establishment of a scientific embassy on Teplaym.”

Teplaym was the Dominion’s most scientifically advanced planet.

“Granted,” the Sovereign said. “May the sharing of knowledge and exchange of ideas benefit both of our societies for centuries to come.”

He rose and bowed to the Donkamins. The Donkamins swiveled back. Their feet remained planted, but their heads, necks, and other parts twisted in weird directions. It was a display of respect that no Earthborn person could watch without flinching. I fought a shudder.

“A round of applause for our departing friends,” Gaston requested, and the arena obliged.

Twenty-one Donkamins turned, swiveled at everyone for the last time, and finally started across the bridge toward the portal.

Once this was over, I would expand the Donkamin entry in my innkeeper files. I had learned a lot about them, and any additional information about the guests benefited the inns. I had already started, and my contribution so far amounted to a single line in all caps: “DO NOT LIKE TO BE TOUCHED.”

The Donkamin delegation reached the doorway. The leading Donkamin’s neck spiraled out and paused six inches in front of me.

“Thank you for your hospitality, innkeeper. Be well.”

“Gertrude Hunt is honored by your presence. It was my privilege to host you.”

The Donkamins walked into the portal. As the last of them exited, I held the portal open, and a new group of visitors arrived—Vercia Denoma, flanked by four Capital Guards. She shot me an ugly look.

“And now for our final elimination of the day.” Gaston turned to the stone crag and held his hand out.

Orata rose and stepped forward. I lit the platform perimeter, and the massive screens zoomed in on the PR chief.

“My name is Orata Tavan. I serve the Dominion as the Sovereign’s Liaison. My left hand touches the Sovereign, my right touches the Dominion’s people, and it is my sacred duty to bring them together.”

Nicely put.

“When my office vetted the candidates for the selection, we discovered a terrible crime. One of the candidates was not who they claimed to be.”

The arena had gone completely quiet.

“Every delegation brought the best of the best, the exceptional, the honorable, the worthy. But this candidate was the worst of the worst. Dominion, what I’m about to show you is horrific. But you must see it for yourself, so you can do your civic duties and render your judgement.”

On the screens, Pivor of the Murder Beaks beheaded a child with a swing of his sword. His skin was a deep lavender, and his hair was long, straight, and dark, but it was unmistakably him. The smile was a dead giveaway.

“Behold, Cumbr Adgi ar’Muterzen,” Orata announced. “The third son of Gar Por ar’Muterzen, and fourth in line to lead the Vagabond pirate fleet. We know him as Pivor.”

In the Murder Beak section, Pivor tried to rise, but the floor swallowed his feet. I pulled the floor directly under him up, and his chair carried him fifty feet into the air, above the seats, leaving him trapped on top of a stone pillar. He gripped the armrest, trying to pull his feet free, but the inn held him tight.

The screens flashed with strategically selected shots, a gallery of Pivor’s atrocities.

The Murder Beaks screeched. I had interacted enough with them over the years to recognize the specific tone of their shrieks. It wasn’t a protest, it was surprise and outrage. They hadn’t known.

The morbid gallery kept rolling. Orata had removed the sound from the footage, and watching it in silence made it more horrifying somehow.

“When this vile deception was discovered, we faced the question of how to proceed. It would be a simple matter to reject his candidacy and expel the delegation sponsoring him.”