“I do.”
“Then swear your oath, warrior,” Tal said. “As Lancer, I stand in representation of Alsea.” She drew her sword grip from her belt and held it out.
An audible gasp rose from Ehron, the thirty warrior Councilors in attendance, and many in the visitor and guest galleries. To swear with the Lancer’s sword was an immense honor, one Tal had never before offered for a public oath.
Ekatya accepted the grip with a steady hand. Half a moon of daily practice paid off when she flicked her wrist to the side, extending the blade level with the floor, then executed a precise maneuver to bring the sword up and in. Holding it aligned with the center of her body, she spoke in a voice that penetrated every corner of the chamber.
“I stand before Alsea with a clear heart and an honorable name. I wish to serve her in any capacity I am able. I place my strength between Alsea and harm, my sword between her and her enemies, and my last breath between her and death. This I swear in Fahla’s name. I am Ekatya Lucia Serrado, and I ask this gift of Alsea: Will she accept my service?”
She let the blade fall, catching the flat of it in her other hand, and held it out as she dropped gracefully to one knee.
For a moment, Tal could not speak. After all their practice, the sight of Ekatya kneeling before her was no longer startling. But the sight of her doing it here in the chamber, in full warrior regalia and as part of a formal oath, had stolen her breath and her voice along with it.
An empathic nudge from Salomen aided her swift recovery. She plucked the sword from Ekatya’s hands and retracted it, hoping her hesitation would not be noticeable on the vids.
“Please stand, Ekatya Lucia Serrado.”
No amount of emotional control could keep the smile from her face as Ekatya rose. Reaching for her hand, Tal placed the worn grip across her palm.
“You offer a sword extended, and I return it to you sheathed. Alsea accepts the gift of your service with a glad heart, and trusts that you will stand between her and harm. Should your last breath be expended in her defense, I swear to you that your name will be honored to the utmost power of the state, and the flames from your pyre will reach the stars themselves.”
She stepped back, leaving her sword grip in Ekatya’s hand, and said the words she had long thought a fantasy.
“Welcome to the Alsean Fleet, Admiral Serrado.”
48
AFS Phoenix
Despite having a front-row seat at a ceremony that would surely be remembered for the next five hundred cycles, Lanaril could not keep her mind on the proceedings.
Officially, she had come to the Phoenix as Andira’s guest. Unofficially, she was here as a hero of the battle, even if classification of details meant very few would ever know it. Andira had met her protestation that she was no hero with a simple question: Would Ekatya have succeeded without her words?
Words, Lanaril thought. Such a tiny contribution compared to those who had risked or lost their lives.
She had always viewed the spiritual world as a system in equilibrium, where tragic events were balanced by positive events elsewhere. At an individual level, it was rarely fair, but on a systemic level, it evened out.
The first true challenge to her faith came when Lhyn was tortured. How could anything be positive enough to balance such an egregious wrong? How could Fahla allow such suffering to be inflicted on one she favored?
Yet Lhyn’s trauma was the reason Ekatya had discovered the true strength of their bond. That strength had then bound Andira and Salomen, enabling the four of them to save Alsea and topple an empire.
Throughout that test, Lanaril had kept her faith. It was justified in one glorious, explosive burst of light and power. She had even been gifted with her own part in the miracle.
And in a small, separate miracle, Fianna had come home to her, a moment she would forever remember as a voice in her earcuff: Lanaril. She’s all right. Successful and not even a stain on her uniform.
Andira had taken time out from directing the most intricate and critical battle in Alsean history to give her that assurance. Not until afterward did Lanaril understand that in order to do so, she had temporarily muted her com call with all those involved in the battle effort and opened a connection just to her. It was a stunning act of thoughtfulness, leaving shame in its wake. How could she have lost trust in such a friend?
She was ashamed a second time when Fianna arrived at the temple the following day, exhausted yet glowing. After a mutual shower and a joining that never made it to the bed, Fianna related her tale. Proudly, she added that she had brought her entire team home whole and unharmed, “except for Senshalon, the grainbird.”
Before that moment, Lanaril had not even remembered the thirteen warriors who flew with Fianna into that ship. She had been so focused on her own fear, and then her private miracle, that she had given no thought to the many loved ones who had lived through an equally terrifying day.
Nor had she thought of those whose fear did not end with a miracle. While the fatality list was exceptionally short, limited to a handful of fighter losses, that was no consolation to those lighting pyres at the state funeral.
She had attended, as was her duty. It was not her duty to offer personal counseling services to the mourners, nor could she have found the time had all of them accepted. Four did, and they were the most difficult sessions she had ever undertaken. The grief crushing these patients felt like a living entity that watched her with a knowing smile. I missed you by the width of a fingernail, that smile said, and you did nothing to deserve your good fortune.
Systemic balance was more difficult to accept when she was a participant in its fundamental unfairness.
“Please stand for the raising of the shields.”
Prime Warrior Ehron’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She stood automatically, turning toward the wall opposite the exit tunnel.
Now facing Andira’s back, she saw Salomen a head above, her dark hair twisted up into an elegant formal style. Lhyn’s height topped even Salomen’s, blocking Ekatya from view.
When appearing in public together, the four of them invariably arranged themselves in this order. Lanaril had thought it was dictated by their divine and normal tyree bonds, but Fianna argued differently. If that was the case, she asked, why didn’t they ever see the two warriors in the middle?
That was when Lanaril learned that warriors positioned themselves on the outside to protect their bondmates. It was also when she noticed that Fianna did the same with her.
She leaned to the side to see around Salomen and Lhyn, revealing Ekatya in the position closest to the center aisle. Across the aisle stood five of the six Primes, each having already had their part in the ceremony. Ehron was on the temporary stage, leading this final piece.
Well above the heads of the crowd, the shuttle bay office took up two decks, its transparent wall crowded with guests who had not qualified for the seating here on the deck or in the risers. They had enjoyed an excellent view for most of the ceremony, albeit with the sound piped in. For the culminating moment about to take place, they would have to watch the vidscreen behind the stage.
The rustling of people standing and turning faded, leaving an expectant silence in the vast bay.
Lanaril shivered at the pensive opening notes of the Ballad of Blacksun. Though her throat grew tight, she dared not clear it. When the voices around her lifted in song, hers was not the only one made unsteady by emotion.
On the second verse, the wind instruments swooped in, swelling the music. Her voice swelled with it, and the banners began to rise up the wall.
It was a brilliant display of Alsean colors and tradition in this alien place: the builder, crafter, and scholar caste shields on the left, the Shield of Alsea heading for its higher position above the shuttle bay office, and the warrior, producer, and merchant caste shields on the right. Together, the seven banners took up the entire width of the bay.
The percussion roared to life on the fourth verse, and now Lanaril sang
with abandon. Behind her, Fianna sang slightly off-key but with no less emotion, her hand warm against Lanaril’s hip.
The banners arrived at their destinations in a triumphant crescendo of music and song, the culmination of moons of planning, preparation, sacrifice, and at least one miracle. Lanaril poured her heart into the final note and took a shuddering breath, her throat closing once again.
The Phoenix was now officially commissioned into service in the new Alsean Fleet.
As the wild applause and shouts of “For Fahla and Alsea!” rang through the bay, Fianna leaned over to speak in her ear.
“I never dreamed of seeing this. Not even when I took the bridge of the Vengeance. It hardly seems real.”
Lanaril turned to drink in the sight of her, whole and happy and a vision of unearned grace. Though her front was up, something must have shown on her face, for Fianna’s euphoric grin shifted to a curious smile.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that someone writing a manuscript titled The Book of Verity should be open to her own truths.”
“What truths?”
“I’ll tell you after.”
Andira was mounting the steps to the stage, her cape swaying with the movement. She acknowledged Ehron’s salute and turned to the crowd as he strode back to his seat.
“How does it feel to be standing in the middle of history?” she asked.
The cheers and applause, which had begun to die down, immediately leaped to their prior level.
Andira laughed. “I feel the same.” She allowed the noise to continue for half a tick before holding out her hands, palms down. “We have one more piece of business to conclude. Please be seated.”
The applause gave way to rustling and murmurs as the audience retook their seats.
“Those of you who shuttled in today may have noticed the new identity code on this ship’s hull. For those who were here before that change, or who didn’t see it, here it is.”
Behind her, the enormous vidscreen switched from a view of the newly raised banners to one of the ship’s bow.
“AFS Phoenix, identity code SC zero zero two,” Andira said. “The second ship of this class in the Alsean Fleet. I’m sure you can guess what the number one is reserved for.”
“The Caphenon!” several voices shouted.
“Yes, the Caphenon. We’ll have another party when we bring her into space.”
That set off a new round of cheers.
“The discussion on what to name this class of ship was surprisingly short. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the war council agree on anything so quickly.”
Laughter rippled across the crowd, Ehron’s being among the loudest.
“There will only be two ships of this class in our fleet. We will build our own warships, and take this design as a guide, but we will not copy it. That makes the Phoenix and the Caphenon unique. We needed a class name that fit this unique nature.” She looked down at Ekatya. “We couldn’t name it Serrado class, since we’re already using your family name for our two-seater fighters. Fortunately, you have another name. SC zero zero two means this is the second ship of the Savior class.”
Though Ekatya strove to keep the emotion off her face, everyone in the first ten rows surely felt it as the shuttle bay rang with enthusiastic applause.
“Now, we have a commissioned ship in our newly established class.” Andira spoke over the cheers, quieting them. “We’re missing one thing. A commanding officer. Admiral Serrado, please come to the stage.”
Ekatya stood up, resplendent in her one-of-a-kind uniform. It bore the hallmarks of the Alsean Fleet design, with its light blue and black colors representing both sky and space. But where the uniforms normally featured a swirl of small blue triangles on the black torso, Ekatya’s triangles were silver. The band encircling her collar was also silver, as were the chevrons on her sleeves and the braid at her left shoulder. Combined with her crimson cape and its fully embroidered black-and-silver warrior caste shield, she was an impressive sight.
More impressive still, Lanaril thought, was the sight of her and Andira together on the stage. Andira’s dress uniform was crimson and gold, presenting a striking contrast of colors between them.
“So much better than Protectorate Fleet uniforms,” Fianna whispered.
“They are rather subdued, aren’t they?” Lanaril carefully did not look at the Gaian officers sitting in the second row.
Fianna gave a quiet huff. “I think you mean dull. She’s far better served by Alsean style.”
“She’s better served by Alsea.”
Lanaril watched Andira accept Ekatya’s salute and wondered how that was working between the two of them. Having a built-in power disparity was a challenge for any relationship, but theirs had just acquired the additional weight of formality and caste expectation.
Then again, who had more practice at separating public and private than these two women? They even surpassed her.
“In the Protectorate Fleet,” Andira said, “tradition holds that an admiral does not command her own ship, though she may claim one as a flagship. That is not our tradition. The Mariners believe that a ship’s commander is a ship’s commander, regardless of rank. Thus there will be no captain of the Phoenix for as long as Admiral Serrado remains in command.”
She faced Ekatya. “Admiral Serrado, at your oath ceremony yesterday, you swore to protect Alsea, her people, and the ideals for which we strive. Today we ask a different oath from you: that you will look upon the crew of this ship as your highest responsibility, second only to your oath as an admiral. That you will protect this ship and crew as you would your family, for in many ways, they are. That you will lead with honor. And finally, that you will treat all members of this crew equally, be they Alsean, Protectorate, or former members of the Voloth Empire. Do you accept these duties?”
“I do,” Ekatya said firmly.
“Do you agree that service is a gift to be earned, not an obligation to be abused?”
“I do.”
Lanaril sensed the ferocity of that agreement as strongly if she were in skin contact. Though it had been two moons since Ekatya was freed from Greve, his influence remained clear in her emotions. She would be relentless in rooting out abuse, not only in her own crew but also in those of the four destroyers. According to Fianna, with the number of former hangers and slaves serving on all five ships, such abuse was virtually certain. Ekatya had her work cut out for her.
“When the Protectorate Fleet conducted its ceremonies last moon,” Andira said, “we paid close attention. One tradition in particular struck the war council, and indeed the High Council itself, as one we wished to keep.” She turned toward the audience. “First Guard Rahel Sayana, report to the stage.”
Boot heels sounded at the back of the bay, and every head turned to look. Dressed in an Alsean Fleet uniform with a producer-green band on each arm, Rahel strode down the central aisle. She held the grip of a sheathed sword in one hand while its tip rested on the palm of the other, a visual reflection of the oath-taking pose.
From the stage came a wave of shock that spun Lanaril back in her seat. Ekatya was watching with wide eyes, one hand covering her mouth. “Is that—?”
Andira smiled at her. “Under normal conditions,” she said for the audience, “this ship’s sword of command would have gone back to Tashar with the historical conservation shipment. The Alsean government asked to keep it as part of our negotiation for the Phoenix. Dr. Lhyn Rivers, will you join us on stage to narrate this tradition?”
“Ha,” Lhyn said as she rose from her seat. “She never even guessed.” Beaming, she waited for Rahel to pass and followed her up the steps. While Rahel circled around to stand behind Andira and Ekatya, Lhyn moved to the side.
“Alsean crafters no longer produce non-collapsible swords for working use,” she began. “They’re viewed as artifacts of a more primitive time. But this sword is special, crafted for the Phoenix by a master swordsmith on a distant planet. Its
sister sword was recently discovered aboard the Caphenon, safely in storage but unrecognized until now. There will only be two Savior-class ships, thus there will only be two of these swords in the Alsean Fleet.”
“First Guard, present the sword of command,” Andira said.
Rahel moved forward and offered the sword, still in a horizontal position. Andira accepted it in a two-handed hold, flipping it upright as she turned to face Ekatya.
“This sword represents the commanding officer’s responsibility to her ship and crew, to protect them, guide them, and lead with honor,” Lhyn said. “Lancer Tal will now inspect the sword.”
“She’s using the same motions Admiral Serrado used last moon,” Fianna whispered while Andira performed the first inspection. “Precisely the same. She must have watched the vids and practiced.”
Of course she did, Lanaril thought. What an irony, that Ekatya would spend half a moon practicing with an Alsean sword while Andira secretly practiced with a Gaian one.
“Before it can be entrusted to its holder, the sword must be in perfect condition. This symbolizes the Alsean Fleet’s commitment to both ship and crew.”
With crisp movements, Andira rotated the sword and inspected its opposite face, then straightened and sheathed it with an audible snap.
“The passing of the sword from Lancer Tal to Admiral Serrado represents the handover of command, with all the duties and responsibilities that entails.”
Andira stepped forward. Needing no guidance, Ekatya met her halfway.
“Notice how Lancer Tal and Admiral Serrado are keeping the sword midway between them while holding it firmly with both hands. At no point in this ceremony are there fewer than two hands touching it, but now there are four. This emphasizes the importance of command and the value of both ship and crew. They can never be treated lightly or left unsupported.”
Lanaril wondered whether that interpretation came from the Protectorate Fleet or if Lhyn had introduced an Alsean flavor. She would have to ask at the reception.
Alsea Rising: The Seventh Star (Chronicles of Alsea Book 10) Page 38
