“Are you going to void the selection?” I asked.
“I do not presume to speak for the Sovereign. Only he can make that decision.”
Argh.
“I will say this, however,” Resven said. “When the selection is declared void, all candidates who are still present receive their minor asks. Please do everything in your power to convince Oond to be present for the selection. If he withdraws now, his people will get nothing, and the Dominion will feel even more aggrieved.”
“Can you guarantee that he won’t become the spouse?” Sean asked.
“No. I also cannot guarantee that the First Sun won’t explode in the next ten seconds. However, it would be equally unlikely.” Resven smiled. “No matter what happens during the final ceremony, Gertrude Hunt has exceeded the Sovereign’s expectations. You have the gratitude of the Dominion. All of us will be delighted to return. And of course, the Dominion will grant you all the benefits agreed upon in our contract.”
They would cancel the current selection, make a new one, and they were counting on us to host it. Sean’s face told me he thought the same thing.
Poor Lady Wexyn.
“It is imperative that Oond attend the final ceremony,” Resven repeated.
“Very well,” I said. “We will speak to Oond.”
We had three hours until the final ceremony. Hopefully, it would be enough.
“I can’t do it.” Oond trembled in his fishbowl. “What if they kill me on the way?”
We’d been over it a hundred times. I’d tried everything: the soothing lights, the temperature setting, the right mix of plants, even a weak version of oombole-safe sedative. We’d gotten as far as the fishbowl, and that’s where things stopped.
The ceremony was due to start in three minutes.
“What if I die…？ Would they eat me? Would they cook my body?”
Sean stepped forward and pulled off his robe. “Look at me.”
Oond obediently stared at him.
Sean’s body blurred. An enormous alpha werewolf spilled out, seven feet tall and shaggy with dark fur. Golden eyes caught Oond in an unblinking predator stare. The oombole froze.
Please don’t faint again. Please don’t faint.
“Look at my teeth,” Sean said, his voice a deep snarl. He bared his fangs.
Oond stared at him, unable to look away.
“Someone trying to hurt you will have to get through me. I will kill anyone who tries to harm you. Anyone.”
Oond’s fins shivered a tiny bit, then finally moved. “You will stay with me? You will guard me the whole time?”
“The whole time,” Sean promised.
“I will go,” Oond said. “Let’s go fast.”
I opened the door and the entrance to the throne room rushed at me. I didn’t want to take any chances.
The throne room gleamed, awash in bright light. A swarm of Orata’s cameras spun and twisted through the air, capturing the scene from all angles. The final ceremony was broadcast live, and the video feed was already going out. The huge screens that ran along the perimeter of the high ceiling showed the city centers on the various planets of the Dominion. Crowds choked the streets. Beings of all the Dominion’s species stood, looking up, their faces tense.
Through the massive doorway, I could see the remaining delegates assembled in a semicircle, with a wide gap between the two center delegations leaving a direct path to the throne open. The Kai were on the far right, then Behoun, both delegations sectioned off by force fields. On the other side to the far left, the oomboles waited in a cluster of fishbowls. The Temple was still MIA, but they were moving toward the throne room at top speed.
Both Prysen Ol and Amphie were in front of their respective delegations, restrained in the high-tech medical-assist frames, held upright but unable to move.
The observers had already taken their place in the gallery, on their feet this time, with Caldenia in the center like a crown jewel in a midnight-blue gown that shimmered with tiny lights, as if she had bottled a nebula and poured it over her dress. The gown’s stiff high collar accentuated her neck, and large star sapphires of the deepest ultramarine shade decorated her carefully styled hair.
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.