At the south side of the arena, an enormous stone doorway opened to a short passage leading to the portal glowing with pale green light. I stood just inside of it, out of view. Gaston waited next to me. He’d chosen another space musketeer outfit, this one a deep hunter green, and he topped it off with a brimmed hat with a ridiculously fluffy black feather.
At the north end, directly opposite the doorway, a stone crag thrust from the bottom of the arena. It had two small seating sections on each side and a stone staircase that led all the way to the top, crowned with a stone throne. Behind the throne, eleven enormous banners, each representing the remaining delegations, hung from seemingly empty air, stirring gently in the breeze. There was a spot for the twelfth banner, between the second and third banners from the right, but it was obviously missing.
Between the throne and the doorway, in the center of the arena, the raised stage waited. I had lifted it a bit higher and added some fog for atmosphere. Dark mist swirled along the bottom of the arena, sliding around the stone stage, lapping at the walls of the delegations’ sections, and flowing to the throne crag and back, like a turbulent sea. Occasionally tiny motes of golden light emerged from the mist and floated up slowly until they melted into the evening air.
It was as if the throne crag and the stage had risen from a bottomless chasm shrouded with mist. But the mist was barely three feet deep. I had bought it from Cookie, and he gave me a slight discount, which made his followers clutch their metaphorical pearls. It was still not cheap, but worth it. Orata had asked for "maximum drama." No innkeeper would shy away from that challenge. We lived for this stuff.
The arena hummed. The last delegation had been seated fifteen minutes ago, and they were getting antsy.
There was some minor commotion in the observers’ section. I pulled a screen up to take a closer look. Two of Cookie’s helpers dashed about, pretending to spar with two long daggers. Dagorkun looked like someone stomped on his foot, but he had to endure it, so he just let all the pain go to his face. Next to him Karat smiled and clapped her hands.
The smaller of the lees leaped into the air, bringing his dagger down in a sweeping cut. Oh! They were reenacting Karat and Bestata’s bout this morning. They must’ve seen the footage.
I knew Bestata was in trouble when Karat asked me to record their sparring session, because she wanted “an instructional video for Lady Helen.” All vampire houses prided themselves on their melee skills, but House Krahr had taken personal combat to new heights.
Like all vampires, House Krahr treasured their children. They knew for decades that they would have to send them to battle on Nexus, where anomalies made aerial warfare impossible, and so they turned Arland and Karat’s generation into expert ground fighters. My sister described her future husband as “a killing machine” and meant it, which Arland would’ve taken as a huge compliment.
This expertise came with a hefty price tag. Concentrating on ground combat meant less time for education in other aspects of warfare. For example, Sean warned me that if Arland ever had to fight a space battle without an admiral to guide him, he would lose. But it did make for remarkable duels.
I split the screen and checked Lady Bestata. The red streak across her face was barely visible now. I had convinced her to spend a couple of hours in the medward, because having a spectacular bruise across one’s face highlighted on the Dominion’s screens would’ve been a bad look. The welt on Bestata’s face could be healed, but the wound to her pride was permanent. Karat had killed her three times during that duel.
“A remarkable woman,” Gaston observed over my shoulder.
“Which one?”
“Both of them. Although Lady Karat is much more engaging.”
Aha. Engaging.
The inn chimed in my head. It was time. I dismissed the screens and grasped the arena with my power. This would require careful timing.
“Go,” I murmured to Gaston.
He touched the brim of his spectacular hat, flashed me a serrated-tooth smile, and marched through the doorway.
I flicked the lights on. Twelve clusters of flood lights, positioned at the ends of 100-foot poles along the perimeter of the arena, came on and tilted down, illuminating Gaston in the passage. We had gone full Monday Night Football.
The solid ground ended at the doorway’s threshold, but Gaston didn’t slow down. For a moment his foot in a dark brown boot hovered over the empty air, and then the first section of a stone bridge rose out of the mist to meet it. He took a firm step onto the stone. A row of small round lamps ignited in the rail of the bridge like runway lights guiding a plane to safe landing.
A hush fell onto the arena. Gaston kept walking. The light chased him, as if trying to catch up, all the way across the bridge and onto the central platform, where it dashed along the round stone rail, forming a complete circle. Gaston greeted the delegates with an elegant bow and a hand swish that had likely required ballet training in childhood.
The arena erupted in stomps, hoots, and applause. Gaston welcomed it all with another bow.
The noise swelled, then began to ebb. Gaston raised his arms and the commotion died. He smiled, the huge screens by each section zooming in on his face, and called out, “Let us begin!”
A massive bell rang through the arena.
At the base of the stone crag, Kosandion emerged from under the floor. He wore a brilliant white robe trimmed with deep blue. A long indigo cloak hung off his left shoulder. He looked majestic.
The light in the stone rail in front of Kosandion ignited, and the glow dashed all the way up to the throne. Kosandion started up the stairs. I added a bit of wind, and his cloak flared as he climbed.
The floor of the side sections parted. Nobody paid it any mind, because Kosandion was still ascending, and the entire arena missed Miralitt, Resven, and Orata emerging on the left and the Holy Ecclesiarch and two of his acolytes on the right. Orata looked in my direction and grinned. Apparently, the level of drama was sufficient.
Kosandion sat on his throne. A hundred feet above him, a constellation of the Dominion star systems sparked into light, suspended in midair. The silver radiance spilled over him. He looked like a glowing god ready to sit in judgement of mere mortals.
A hush fell.
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.