“Do you think I’ve come to replace her?” Seraphina asked.
Kastor turned toward the princess, keeping his eyes on her face. “I don’t know why you’ve come. But you should leave.”
She stared back at him with defiant eyes. “No.”
“I mean it,” Kastor said. “Leave.”
“I haven’t said what I’ve come to say yet.”
“Then say it,” Kastor replied. “And get out.”
Seraphina let out her breath and returned to the bed. Kastor looked away as she sat.
“I know the decision you must make,” she said.
Kastor shook his head. “It’s Radovan’s decision. I have no choice in the matter.”
“You always have a choice, Kastor. No matter how much talk of ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’ has been bored into your brain, it isn’t true. And until you see that, you’ll never escape the narrow confines of a black and white world.”
“Those ‘confines’ are what make us nobles,” Kastor said. “They distinguish us.”
“They imprison us,” Seraphina replied. “You know this. You did what you had to do in Zantorian’s court, but you knew it was wrong.”
Kastor ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. He pulled himself away and stepped to a closet door in the wall. “Sometimes it hurts to do what’s necessary.” He slid open the panel door, and a light flicked on. He removed a thin robe from the hanger and held it out for her.
“Don’t give me platitudes,” Seraphina said. “They don’t change what you know in your heart.” She snatched the robe and yanked it on, tying it at her waist.
Kastor felt a weight lifted from him. He could look at her now. Nothing like Pollaena. Softer. Skin that almost glowed, buffed and void of freckles. Narrow-boned and delicate. A walking crown, designed for ornamentation over utility. Shame crept back as his eyes lingered, admiring.
“Sure you didn’t come to convert me?” Kastor asked. “Recruit me into your lumis’s ranks?”
“He would be endlessly pleased if I did,” she replied. “That’s why my mother sent me. But no. I came to deliver a message of my own.”
Kastor crossed his arms and beckoned her to continue.
She straightened, as if preparing to make a formal speech. She didn’t, but spoke with confidence and conviction all the same. “You are the Champion of Triumph. There’s power in you. I’ve seen it. I’ve watched you from afar since the first day of the tournament. You were magnificent. In your hands is the capacity to change the galaxy, to shift the balance of power. And it’s not limited to Zantorian’s orders. You have other options.”
Kastor shrugged, unimpressed. “Such as?”
Seraphina trained her big, pink eyes on him. “Make your own way.”
Kastor almost laughed. “Are you some sort of oracle?”
“No.” A smile broke through her serious demeanor, but faded quickly. “I came to give a simple message, one you’d do well to heed.”
“Why would you want me to change the galaxy?” Kastor heard his voice soften. “You’re a noblewoman with a great heritage. You’re the jewel in Radovan’s scepter.”
“What happens when the jewel wants to be something other than a shiny object to be enjoyed? What if she wants to stop appearing naked in strange men’s rooms? What if she wants a different life?” She untied the robe and pulled it off.
Kastor turned away by reflex and faced the window again. “Perhaps she should gain a better grip on reality.”
“Or perhaps she makes her own way as well.”
Her voice receded from him, and when he glanced over his shoulder, she had disappeared—hidden in shadow. The robe lay across the bed.
“We’ll meet again soon, son of Eagle.”
The bedroom door clicked shut.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A violent rumble shook the bed and woke Kastor. He tossed himself onto his back and waited. Listened. Felt. Had he dreamed it? Perhaps the time spent on Triumph had accustomed him to feeling tremors at night.
Another burst swept through the room, rattling the light fixtures and rippling the curtains. A red line of light slid between the curtains as they swayed open for a second. Kastor thrust out of the bed and to the closet, where he had hung his clothes. Trajan burst through the door just as he finished his slapdash job of dressing himself. The retainer gave his master a once-over followed by an apologetic look. Rarely did a champion have to dress without assistance.
Another rumble shook the ground. Kastor thought he felt a deep crack somewhere far below. “Any idea what the hell’s going on?” he growled in a groggy voice.
“None, Master,” Trajan replied. His morning voice was high and nasally. “The palace network is down. I can’t get anything on my slate.”
“Rebels, then,” he muttered. “Must be jamming the satellites.”
Trajan hurried past him to the window and threw apart the curtains. Small craft whipped around the valley. They had dark-tinted windshields—manned shuttles—and chain guns welded to the underside of their wings. Triangular military drones zipped down from above, startlingly close to the window, making it shudder as they passed. The makeshift war shuttles engaged the drones. Bullets sprayed in every direction, making bright, flickering lines—a chaos of rounds flinging against the cliffs and into the pale red sky. Some tore through metal and sent umbrellas of debris falling to the basin. The drones whipped through the air with blinding speed, but the shuttles had stronger firepower and thicker armor. One shuttle took fifteen seconds of constant pounding from the drones before spewing smoke and spiraling downward.
Guarin and Guerlain rushed through the bedroom door, immediately entranced by the dogfight outside Kastor’s window.
“Shit,” Guarin hissed.
“Trajan,” Kastor said, thinking through an escape plan. “See if you can call up the shuttle. Have it ready—”
“Already tried that,” Trajan said. He pulled out his slate and tapped at its large screen. “Only way to contact them is through the palace network. And it’s—”
“Offline,” Kastor said, wincing at the connection he should’ve made.
Out the window, a line of rounds swiped a drone’s wing, sending it careening straight at them. It spiraled through the air, growing larger, creating a helix of smoke behind it.
“Oh, shit,” Guerlain muttered, getting louder as she continued. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Guarin and Guerlain dashed out of the room as Kastor sprinted to Trajan, grabbed his narrow frame, and hauled him further into the suite. The servant gasped as the incoming drone blocked out the light streaming in from the window.
A shockwave hurled Kastor through the wall as he shielded Trajan in his arms. Glass shot through the air and burrowed into furniture. Rock ground against rock. Lights sparked. Fire spread through every open space, growling like a team of lions, then receded, replaced by smoke and dust.
Once everything settled and Kastor realized he was still alive, the aches and pains set in. Mainly in his back and arm, where a shard of glass stuck out of his forearm. He rolled off Trajan onto his back and glanced around. They were in the next room over, where Trajan had slept. The place was wrecked, only the furthest wall recognizable.
Trajan panted and felt around his body for wounds. He had none. Kastor had made a decent shield.
The outside air rushed in, mixing with their breathable atmosphere. They would pass out soon without breather masks. Kastor gritted his teeth, grabbed the glass shard, and yanked it from his arm. Blood gushed from the hole, and Kastor growled with the throbbing sting. It would stop soon. He had worse things to worry about.
“Guarin! Guerlain!” he called out.
He heard coughing, then Guarin called back, “We’re alright. You?”
“Alive,” Kastor replied. “Find oxygen masks.”
He fought past the newfound kinks and stiffness in his back to stand, then helped Trajan up. Once again, the servant bore a look of shock. A moment of recognition passed between them. Ka
stor didn’t want gratitude. Trajan knew but nodded anyway.
Kastor led the way through the haze of dust and piles of rubble. A few small cave-ins dropped jagged rocks on either side of them. They found themselves on the intact half of the living room, where Guarin pounded his fist through a sheer screen in the wall and pulled out a handful of rubber masks. He tossed them to everyone. Kastor started to feel tingles of lightheadedness as he secured the mask to his face.
The door thudded from the inside and flew open. Nanoflex-clad men flooded the room, repeater rifles up and ready. Sylvan rushed in after them, even angrier than before.
“Sir!” one of the troopers shouted with professional stoicism. “Suite’s been breached. Air leaking in.”
“Canny observation,” Guarin muttered.
Sylvan nodded at the bloody gash on Kastor’s arm. “You need patchwork?”
Kastor shook his head. “We’re fine.”
Sylvan’s face hardened. “Follow me. Stay close.”
They filed out of the room, and the door shut behind them. One of the troopers grabbed a sealant can from a storage compartment in the opposite wall and sprayed some expanding substance around the door hinges. A quick estimation of Sylvan’s team counted twenty scattered through the hallway. The troopers on either end held their weapons ready, as if the rebels might show up at any moment.
Kastor ripped off his mask. “Have they breached the palace?”
Sylvan squared up to him. “Listen, offworlder, you are not my superior. Follow me and don’t ask questions.”
The thick-chested Upraadi whisked off. Kastor exchanged a glance with Guarin and started after him. Troopers fell in behind them, covering every angle. They moved quickly through the hallways as explosions below sent quakes through the floor. More soldiers arrived to flank plainly dressed nobles and escort them away. A crowd formed ahead of and behind Sylvan’s contingent, all flowing past a set of swinging doors to a wide stairway. Frightened nobility scrambled downward as soldiers shouted and motioned them on, voices blocked by a deafening alarm alternating between high and low notes.
A burly man with rosy cheeks and a heavy overcoat burst through a set of doors into the stairwell. His frantic eyes locked onto Sylvan’s troopers, and he threw off his cloak to reveal a much thinner man in a frayed tunic. The burly look came from a lumpy, black bomb vest. He gripped a detonator in one hand.
Kastor froze mid-step as the bomber spread his arms.
“Mors omnis regni!” the commoner shouted, and a fraction of a second later—
The fiery blast created an instant, powerful burst, dicing bodies to bits, incinerating flesh, throwing armored soldiers across the space. Screaming nobles in flames dropped across the railing and fell through the cylindrical corridor.
Kastor got up, ears ringing, and grabbed the nearest gun he could find, a banged-up repeater pistol.
Sylvan seized him by the arm and dragged him through a narrow door into an alcove. His troopers followed, dragging the other offworlders. Guarin had swiped a handgun as well and shoved it into his belt. Guerlain urged the trooper pulling her along to arm her, too—unsuccessfully.
Lights flicked on in the high ceiling of the maintenance corridor, a curving tunnel of concrete and exposed wires and tubes. Sylvan’s team had dwindled to fifteen or so.
“Where are you taking us?” Kastor demanded.
“To Radovan,” Sylvan replied without slowing.
“Why did they choose now to attack?” Guarin piped up from behind.
Sylvan blazed ahead, making clear he didn’t intend to respond.
“They think they can get a ransom for us,” Kastor said.
“Perhaps that’s why the chap blew himself ten feet from us,” Guarin sniped.
The corridor made a wide curve then stretched on for hundreds of meters. Sylvan stopped at a pale blue door and punched a code into the embedded screen. The door hissed open, and the group rushed through, down a narrow, dusty passageway lined with metal pipes.
“Network’s back,” Trajan said, looking at his slate.
Kastor slowed to match speed with his servant. “Call up the Aegis. Have two teams ready to drop on my command.”
A moment later, Trajan slapped the screen of his slate and shook his head. “Lost the signal again.”
“Rebels must be taking down the comm towers one by one,” Kastor murmured.
“We may have more leverage with Radovan now,” Trajan whispered. “The rebels have never attacked his palace.”
“Seems they’ve abandoned their guerrilla tactics,” Kastor replied. “They want to take out Radovan and scatter the nobility all in one stroke.”
“Then what?” Trajan asked sardonically.
“Not all commoners are as bright as you, good man.”
The servant grimaced. “But there must be brains in some of them.”
Trajan glanced around at the dark, dingy concrete, unaccustomed to the drab environs. It struck Kastor that he could endure far worse conditions than Trajan, despite his noble blood.
The group spilled out the exit into a spacious hallway built for the highborn of the frontier, well-lit and decorated with carved designs in the walls. Armed guards in rugged nanoflex armor lined the space, weapons pointed a single direction. Sylvan led the offworlders in the opposite direction, through an archway and into a wide chamber where dozens of technicians worked at mobile computers. Images projected onto the smooth cave walls. At the far end of the room, Radovan sat in glistening armor on an austere throne, clearly irritated. Guards covered in thick armor flanked the throne. On either side of them, clusters of nobles argued amongst themselves, eyes fiery and thirsty for commoner blood. Thick tapestries hung on either side of the throne.
Tapestries. The ‘Gooners and their tapestries.
Kastor stepped past Sylvan to approach the Frontier Lumis. His guards snapped the barrels of their heavy weapons at the newcomer. Radovan raised a hand to calm them.
“Your petty insurgency has grown into something else,” Kastor said with as much authority as he could muster. “How long before you accept the Grand Lumis’s offer?”
The nobles paused and turned their attention to the throne. Radovan inclined his head and glared at Kastor. “I take it you reject my counteroffer?”
Guarin glanced at Kastor in confusion.
Kastor hesitated, but only for a moment. Weakness would not overtake him. He set his jaw and bowed to destiny. “I was never in a place to accept it.”
Radovan let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, deepening the natural, stony lines across his temples. He stood and trained his blazing, white eyes on Kastor, face steely and cold. His shingly skin gave the impression of some creature from ancient mythology.
“Kastor of Eagle, Champion of Triumph,” he intoned with a full voice. “I hereby and immediately banish you, along with all agents and attachés, from the Regnum of Lagoon.” His gaze shifted to Sylvan. “Escort them to their shuttle and ensure safe passage to their ship.”
The Upraadi retainer nodded with a satisfied grin.
Kastor stepped forward, gripped by the heat of anger and panic. “Don’t be a fool, Radovan. You’re in no place to fight Zantorian.”
“If the Fox wants war with Lagoon, he can get in line,” Radovan said without hint of humor. “But the people of Upraad will never bow the knee to him.”
“Have you asked them?” Kastor countered.
Sylvan approached with clenched teeth. “He needn’t ask! True men of Upraad stand behind their lumis!”
“And how many ‘true men’ will remain when the dust settles?” Kastor asked.
“What does it matter to you?” Radovan replied, staying hard and steady. “This conflict is between Upraadi men. Triumph holds no stake in our affairs.”
Kastor shook his head, aware of his imminent defeat but unwilling to surrender. “Zantorian will turn Upraad to ashes before he allows you to remain in defiance of him.”
Radovan spread his hands and raised his voice.
“What defiance? When did the Fox invest in Lagoon? Has he ever touched foot onto Upraadi ground? And yet he claims title over my regnum? How? What justice gives him the right to rule me?”
Silence spread through the chamber. The noblemen and noblewomen nodded in agreement as technicians resumed work at their stations, talking in low voices. Rumbles of distant explosions sent shudders through the floor.
Radovan jabbed a finger at Kastor. “You chose the wrong side, Son of Eagle. You pledged your soul to a tyrant, even after what he stole from you.” The Frontier Lumis shook his head. “Get out of my presence.”
Radovan slumped back into his throne as Sylvan grabbed Kastor’s arm and pulled him away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sylvan and his team led them through hallways and down dim tunnels. Guarin and Guerlain bored holes through Kastor with their glowering eyes. The Upraadis had stripped them of their weapons and kept a close eye on them as they moved.
Kastor sulked and ruminated, replaying Radovan’s words in his head. Again and again, Radovan chastised him. Words lashed him like cords, because they bore truth. How much or little truth didn’t change the deeper fact that Kastor knew in his soul. He was born for a purpose, and if he strayed from that path, if he defied destiny, his birthright would be meaningless. Worse, it would be false.
Other words flitted through his head, words from an ancient tongue, long since laid to rest. The final words of the rebel bomber in the stairwell. Mors omnis regni. It took a moment to decipher its meaning, and when he did, Kastor almost laughed. It was a poor rendering of Latin, translated clumsily by someone who must’ve told the commoner rebels it meant, “Death to all regnums.” Any noble half-decently adroit with Latin would translate the phrase as “Every death is regnums.” The Latin should have been, Omne neci regna.
Still, it puzzled him. Commoners knew no Latin. How would a commoner even know of the ancient tongue’s existence? Most were illiterate. Their schools taught trades and craftsmanship, made boys into machinists and girls into artisans. How did the rebels know enough to spout even an awkward rendition of the noble tongue?
Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series Page 13
