"How much do you want to bet she'll show up with a bottle?"
"I won't take that bet."
Vasiht'h grinned. "Because I'd win."
Jahir sighed, smiled, and let the Glaseah lead him out. As the door slid shut on their temporary quarters, he wondered how long it would be before he was in something like them again. He was going to see old friends on an outing that he and Vasiht'h would enjoy, but he felt the shadow of the war like a coolth on his skin, and it prickled as if Lisinthir was kissing it.
CHAPTER 16
The base had a chapel. Lisinthir had not visited it during his first stay with the Pelted, but he knew about it, and when TrustBody released him from the hospital section it was his first errand. Entering it, he was surprised at how much it reminded him of the Eldritch ones he'd grown up with; for all its sleek metal alloys, the quiet, the closeness, even the smell of candle wax and incense, all of it seemed of one piece with the churches he'd known. And like those, there was a bank of candles, some lit, some nearly extinguished... some waiting. He found a wooden taper in a tray of sand and lit its tip from one of the strongest flames, then set it to the first candle. Raynor, he thought, whose decision had made their success possible. Danne, next... a Hinichi, that one, short and a wintry gray. He'd died with Raynor. Sarya, the engineer second, who had followed her chief into death: no doubt he was waiting to receive her with a hero's welcome. One by one, Lisinthir lit the candles, naming the Quicklance's dead. Then he began on the wounded, and since none of them had escaped without wounds, he needed the remaining pillars to do the work.
He touched one of the candles briefly, ignoring the sting of the hot wax. So bravely they'd fought, his Pelted comrades. He loved his Emperor and Queen, and thought there was value in some of the Chatcaavan beliefs. But that the Pelted were meek and unworthy... that one was completely wrong, and he was glad. Whatever gods those dead had served had surely gathered their souls to their breasts by now. Which left him.
Lisinthir faced the abbreviated altar, undressed save for a simple white cloth and the glowing sphere of light projected over it: small enough to be cupped with a single hand, and yet mesmerizing. He went to one knee, careful of his coat skirts.
What did he serve, anymore? And who would gather his soul when the time came? He recalled his whispered words to the Emperor, the morning after that fateful experiment that had changed the heart of a tyrant, and with it the course of history. I serve life, life, life.
"God and Lady, Living Air and Dying," he said, soft. "Be my company into battle, and my solace after."
There was no answer, but he was content with that. It was in silence that he found the freedom to move... for if the gods did not speak, it was so their children could find their own voices. And he... he was circumscribed, embraced on every side: Eldritch gods, and Chatcaavan, old and new.
Satisfied, he bowed his head once and went to the conference to which he had been summoned. The first act, he thought, was concluding. It was time to open the second.
The conference room was awash in Fleet's luminaries and the human Navy's, and no less than the head of Fleet, the White Admiral, had joined them—a human, Thomas Newell—as well the head of covert operations, the Night Admiral, a Hinichi who neither gave Lisinthir his name nor accepted his offer of a palm-touch. Lisinthir was more amused than offended; let the man keep his secrets. Lisinthir suspected they would become better acquainted soon enough.
The last of the group arrived, was introduced, sat down, and he found their attentions fixed on him. Some of them were better at hiding their curiosity than others; Lisinthir tried to imagine what they were seeing. One of the rare and reclusive Eldritch, and the only Ambassador ad'Chatcaavan Empire to ever accomplish anything productive for the Alliance. A man in a white coat edged in black, wearing black pearls in too-long hair, whose sartorial finery was as distant from Fleet's austere uniforms as could be managed without absurdity, who looked ready for a ball rather than a meeting this serious, saved only from that impression by the swords.
A man, Lisinthir thought, who knew things they didn't, and needed to. He recalled the reluctant words dragged from the dying technician on the Chatcaavan vessel... the dying Navy technician. The dragon hadn't intended to reveal anything, but he'd slipped too often, referring to them-the-inferiors when talking about other Chatcaava. That was all Lisinthir had needed to hear to put everything else together.
He remembered a map, and the light in the Emperor's eyes when discussing the size of the challenge involved in juggling all his many internal factions. One never rests, but one never grows bored. Thought of other conversations, confidences passed in lovers' embraces. The unity I could buy with a war against the Alliance would be a falsehood. Nor would it last long.
O my love, he thought, fighting anger... always anger, stronger than fear, hotter than blood. You have been betrayed, betrayed by the Navy you lifted to prominence. And now your enemies court a collapse of your Empire with their greed. I fear you were right: a war against us will destroy everything in the end. I pray you can bring the traitors to heel, that you will have the time to gather your power again. But if you can't....
But they were introducing him. "...just returned from the Empire with intelligence that may be pertinent to our operations. Ambassador?"
He stood and rested his palms on the table, considering them. Such faces, he thought. Good faces, for the most part. They would serve their people's need, and in that service, see to his own, see to his Emperor's, see to his Queen's. Would they be ready? Would their efforts be enough?
They were what he had to work with. Gods be with them all.
"Aletsen," he said without preamble. "There are signs that the Empire is poised to fragment, and therein lies our greatest peril... and our greatest opportunity."
Return to the Alliance
Amulet Rampant
Princes' Game Book 3
In an effort to stop a war and hold the Thorn Throne, the Chatcaavan Emperor has embarked on the bloody subjugation of the rebels who are tearing the Empire apart to serve their ambitions. He has left the palace in the hands of the newly christened Queen Ransomed and encircled her with his allies.
One of them is a traitor.
All the lessons the Queen has learned—in personhood, in agency, in courage—may not be enough to equip her for the challenges before her. Nor is she the only one facing a revelation that could shatter worlds: Lisinthir Nase Galare, newly returned to the Alliance, has invited his cousin to their promised assignation, and discovered by accident a weapon that could turn the tide.
Book Three of the Princes’ Game begins with a tryst and ends with a clarion call to battle. How many will answer the call? And will they see the end of the conflict unchanged?
Now Available.
APPENDICES
The Species of the Alliance
The Alliance is mostly composed of the Pelted, a group of races that segregated and colonized worlds based (more or less) on their visual characteristics. Having been engineered from a mélange of uplifted animals, it’s not technically correct to refer to any of them as “cats” or “wolves,” since any one individual might have as many as six or seven genetic contributors: thus the monikers like “foxine” and “tigraine” rather than “vulpine” or “tiger.” However, even the Pelted think of themselves in groupings of general animal characteristics, so for the ease of imagining them, I’ve separated them that way.
The Pelted
The Quasi-Felids: The Karaka’An, Asanii, and Harat-Shar comprise the most cat-like of the Pelted, with the Karaka’An being the shortest and digitigrade, the Asanii being taller and plantigrade, and the Harat-Shar including either sort but being based on the great cats rather than the domesticated variants.
The Quasi-Canids: The Seersa, Tam-illee, and Hinichi are the most doggish of the Pelted, with the Seersa being short and digitigrade and foxish, the Tam-illee taller, plantigrade and also foxish, and the Hinichi being wolflike.
Others:
Less easily categorized are the Aera, with long, hare-like ears, winged feet and foxish faces, the felid Malarai with their feathered wings, and the Phoenix, tall bipedal avians.
The Centauroids: Of the Pelted, two species are centauroid in configuration, the short Glaseah, furred and with lower bodies like lions but coloration like skunks and leathery wings on their lower backs, and the tall Ciracaana, who have foxish faces but long-legged cat-like bodies.
Aquatics: One Pelted race was engineered for aquatic environments: the Naysha, who look like mermaids would if mermaids had sleek, hairless, slightly rodent-like faces and the lower bodies of dolphins.
Other Species
Humanoids: Humanity fills this niche, along with their estranged cousins, the esper-race Eldritch.
True Aliens: Of the true aliens, four are known: the shapeshifting Chatcaava, whose natural form is draconic (though they are mammals); the gentle heavyworlder Faulfenza, who are furred and generally regarded to be attractive; the aquatic Platies, who look like colorful flatworms and can communicate reliably only with the Naysha, and the enigmatic Flitzbe, who are quasi-vegetative and resemble softly furred volleyballs that change color depending on their mood.
The Seven Modes of Eldritch Grammar
One of the unique features of the Eldritch language is the ability to modify the meaning of a word with emotional “colors.” In the spoken language, these are indicated by the use of prefixes, which can be used as aggressively or as infrequently as the speaker desires; a single prefix can color an entire paragraph, or the speaker can use them to inflect every word. Uninflected language is considered emotionally neutral. These modifiers are not often used in the written language, but when they are, they take the form of colored inks.
There are three pairs of moods, with the gray mode not necessitating an opposite. Each mood in a pair is said to be the ‘foil’ of the other.
Gray (normal) – No modifiers are required to denote the neutral mood, however there is a prefix associated with it, and using it can be interpreted as a way of calling attention to one’s lack of mood.
Silver (hopeful) – Silver Mode is the foil of the Shadow mood, giving a positive flavor to words. This is the color of hope.
Shadowed (cynical) – When Shadowed, most words bear a negative connotation, usually cynical, sarcastic, or ironic. It can also be used for dread/foreboding or fear.
Gold (joyful) – The best is always assumed of everything in the Gold mood, and all words take on that flavor.
Black (dark) – Black, the foil of Gold, tends to violent, angry, or morose connotations of words. Whole groups of words radically change definition when referred to in the Black.
White (ephemeral/holy) – Whitened words refer to the spirit, to the holy and pure. You often find this mood used for weddings and in the priesthood, and in the schools that teach the handling of esper abilities.
Crimson (sensual) – The carnal mood gives words a sensual implication, and inflect speech to refer to things of passions and things of the body.
About the Author
Daughter of two Cuban political exiles, M.C.A. Hogarth was born a foreigner in the American melting pot and has had a fascination for the gaps in cultures and the bridges that span them ever since. She has been many things—web database architect, product manager, technical writer and massage therapist—but is currently a full-time parent, artist, writer and anthropologist to aliens, both human and otherwise. She is the author of over 50 titles in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, humor and romance.
The Princes' Game series is only one of the many stories set in the Paradox Pelted universe; more information is available on the author’s website. You can also sign up for the author’s quarterly newsletter to be notified of new releases.
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