by Rhonda Mason
Many grueling hours later, the last screen had been done, the last person admitted, and all other celebrants were constrained to watch the proceedings from beyond the basilica’s fence.
Now, mid-afternoon, Malkor glanced at his chronometer. Kayla, Ardin and Isonde should arrive soon. Would the security measures hold?
He couldn’t shake his foreboding. The memory of Kayla, trapped in biocontainment foam, clutching a canister full of the TNV, played over and over in his head.
Finally the horns sounded to announce the arrival of the wedding party. Everyone on watch, including Malkor, tensed. He saw hand after hand after hand check the readiness of a weapon one last time, and fought the urge to do the same. He was here as Ardin’s attendant. Ardin and Isonde needed him as a friend now, not an octet leader.
Kayla came down the long aisle first, every head swiveling in her direction. Her gaze found his and even across the distance her smile hit him straight in the chest.
Mine. My love.
The fierceness of the unbidden thought rocked him, as did the primal need to protect. She made the perfect entrance.
And the perfect target.
It took eons for her to travel the distance, and mere seconds. Then she was there, climbing the basilica steps and standing opposite him. She was no more protected here than she had been walking down the aisle, but at least having her close gave him the illusion of safety. Kayla would probably backhand him if she knew he’d spent even a second worrying about her.
“Any trouble?” she asked him in a low voice. Her smile softened to a vaguely pleasant look as she shifted fully into ro’haar mode.
“Not yet.”
“That doesn’t reassure me. The whole place feels… itchy.”
A second fanfare sounded, ending their conversation as they both turned to face the aisle.
Two of Ardin’s guards led the way, and then the royal couple appeared. Isonde looked magnificent in her pale gold gown. Wide skirts, an endless train, bodice sparkling in the sunlight and her auburn hair streaming down her back—she was a sight to behold.
Ardin was perhaps the only man majestic enough to escort Isonde at such a moment. With his height, wide shoulders, erect posture and bearing, he was royalty to the tips of his boots. He looked proud and pleased and utterly in love.
Everything else was forgotten as the crowd cooed and sighed in delight.
Malkor studied the gathering. All eyes were on the royal couple with the exception of the security battalion. No guest seemed particularly agitated. No one seemed to be secretly planning the doom of the wedding party.
He glanced at Kayla and found her doing the same thing he’d done, sweeping the crowd. Was she remembering those excruciating hours she’d spent trapped in the biocontainment foam at the last wedding, when they’d been certain she’d been infected with the TNV?
Ardin and Isonde reached the wide stone steps of the Basilica of the Dawn and waited at the bottom, as they’d been instructed to do beforehand by the Low Divine.
This was Malkor’s last chance to spot any danger. After this he’d have to turn his back on the crowd, take his part in the ceremony and trust his life to the army and his few octet members. Not an easy feeling.
He hesitated one final moment, then shifted to face the basilica. The massive steps topped off in a broad stone terrace, at the other end of which stood the still-shut doors of the basilica.
The crowd quieted, waiting.
An itch began between Malkor’s shoulder blades, begging him to take a more strategic position. Kayla, he saw, had already glanced over her shoulder twice.
At last the ancient triple-height doors of the Basilica of the Dawn creaked open with great ponderance. There was a flurry of fabric as everyone in the crowd bowed their head in real or manufactured reverence. One would expect a dragon or something of equal size and import to issue forth from such a portal.
Instead, a slim blonde waif walked unescorted through the giant doors. The Low Divine, a girl of no more than fifteen, strode slowly along the stone toward the most powerful couple in the empire. She brought with her an intense hush. No one dared breathe as she placed one delicate foot in front of the other.
As if she’d known what Isonde planned to wear, the Low Divine was dressed in gold as well. Whereas Isonde’s dress was a pale, malleable, mutable gold, the Low Divine’s dress was the fieriest golden hue of the sun at its zenith. She blazed with glory and power.
Malkor caught Isonde’s narrowed gaze, which revealed she knew she’d been shown up at her own wedding.
Nothing like a power play between two titans to bring out the romance in an event.
The Low Divine wore an ethereal smile as she reached the stairs. Her arms were wrapped from upper arm to wrist in delicate coils of golden filament, and the metal glinted in the sun as she raised her arms to the waiting throng. “Welcome all, to the Basilica of the Dawn.” The firmness of her voice through the amplifiers belied her small stature, and she was answered with a thousand greetings in return.
The Low Divine stood there a moment, arms still raised, her gaze taking in “her people” as she offered that soft, welcoming, oh-so-untouchable smile, before she finally acknowledged Isonde and Ardin.
Isonde had met her match in the Low Divine when it came to manipulating people and power.
The Low Divine beckoned the couple to ascend the steps. Isonde and Ardin went, hand in hand, smiles restored. No doubt the rest of the glory would be theirs. They stood together, an overwhelmingly beautiful pair that dwarfed the young girl.
As the balance of power changed to Isonde and Ardin, the Low Divine lifted her arms again and her section of the topmost stair rose, elevating her head and shoulders above Isonde and Ardin on a round platform.
Oh yeah, Isonde had definitely met her match.
The stage was set, the players all here. If a terrorist was going to make a move, now was the time. Malkor casually glanced over the left side of the crowd. From where he stood he could only see half of the gathered elite, no farther than that.
Damnit.
The Low Divine spoke and her voice rang throughout the yard. The audience hung on her every word, on Isonde’s and Ardin’s when they spoke their vows.
The questions were asked, the assent given. The vows pledged, the tattoos borne, the binding ribbon braided and the final blessing called for.
Then it was done.
Ardin and Isonde were one officially, and no one could sunder their bond without their consent.
The Low Divine quieted the voice augmenter to offer her final wedding blessing to the couple in “private,” and everyone had their eyes on her, trying to catch a word or two of what would be a famous speech, should the Low Divine or Isonde and Ardin ever choose to release it.
Kayla let out a sigh of relief that Malkor seconded. It was finally over. Their part was done. She smiled at him, one of her rare, special smiles. Before he could return it, Kayla’s gaze shot past him in alarm.
“THIS IS FOR ORDOCH!” someone screamed. Malkor whipped around to see a man standing on his chair in the elites’ section, pointing a pistol at the wedding party.
“Guards!” Malkor shouted, while the other man screamed, “FREE THE WYRDS! FREE ORDOCH!” in a high-pitched voice that carried over the crowd. The crazed man fired off three shots while Kayla dove forward to try to cover Isonde and Ardin.
Imperial army snipers fired on the man and it was over before Malkor could move. Those three shots and then SHIZZT—the man’s head was blown away.
Everywhere was shrieking and horror and chaos. Malkor rushed to Kayla, Ardin and Isonde, frantic to see who had been hit. Who had the gunman targeted? Isonde? Ardin? Had he hit them, or had Kayla died to protect them?
It took a second to realize all three were unharmed. Isonde and Ardin lay on the ground, Kayla on top of them as if her slim body could have covered them both. Ardin’s guards rushed in from both sides, righting everyone and forming a protective ring around them. Only after Ma
lkor registered their safety did he notice that the Low Divine’s platform was empty.
He sprinted around the platform, knocking guards out of his way.
There, on the ground behind it, the Low Divine lay on her back. Her fragile body heaved with coughs while her splayed limbs lay useless, neither flinching nor moving to help her. Red spittle flew from her mouth. Her eyes rolled in her head like the eyes of a spooked horse.
Malkor fell to his knees. This girl, this child, had been shot three times without error, center mass, making a crater out of her once delicate breast. Burnt flesh ringed a hole large enough for his fist, and her one working lung spasmed.
The Low Divine died as he watched, a sheen of blood and mucus covering her cheek as the last tortured breath was forced out and death was let in.
18
The newsvids had exploded. The word “uproar” couldn’t begin to describe the outrage sweeping the empire.
Authorities confirmed, after a search of the assassin’s comm banks, that the Low Divine had indeed been the target. The so-called Wyrd supporter had murdered the heart of the people.
Hours after the event, Kayla paced alone in Isonde’s townhouse’s back parlor, watching the news with impotent fury. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage. She wanted to flip back the clock and kill the bastard before he ever got a shot off.
This is for Ordoch! he had shouted.
What a crock of shit.
Of course the idiots of the empire were eating it up. News stories swapped between hundreds of thousands of citizens prostrate with grief over the murder of the Low Divine, and various politicians, diplomacy experts and talking heads weighing in on whether or not this was actually a Wyrd plot.
Bullshit. Anyone with a gram of sense would realize that Wyrds would never do anything to endanger what little goodwill they had inside the empire.
Raorin, Wei-lu-Wei’s Councilor Gi, General Yislan and Sovereign Councilmember Siminia were doing damage control as best they could, each making statements that they believed the gunman had acted alone, that the Wyrds—Ilmenan and Ordochian both—had no hand in this, but the opposition grew.
Kayla’s gaze focused again and again on the pistol in the assassin’s hand when the news feeds showed the fateful moment in a loop.
Same pistol of unknown design as Bredard’s.
Figured.
Isonde and Ardin had been moved to the palace immediately following the assassination. Malkor had seen Kayla safely back to the townhouse and left quickly after. He had too much to do to stay and listen to her rage.
Kayla was back in her working clothes—tunic, leggings, knee-high boots and her kris daggers—wanting to do something other than sit here. Sitting was her only option at the moment. As Lady Evelyn, she was near-powerless.
So she waited.
Nighttime found her seated in the blissfully quiet dining room, eating dinner. She’d switched off the news feeds long ago, unable to stand the constant loop of wild speculation and intense grief. Now she focused on thinking about nothing at all while eating.
Kayla had set the bank of vidscreens that ran the length of one wall to a view of space. Cold, calm, quiet space. The huge spread of stars drew her in, took her away from the chaos of the moment. Ever since her time on the perpetually hazy Altair Tri, she couldn’t get enough of seeing the stars, even the foreign stars of Imperial Space.
A tenderloin steak cooled on the table in front of her. Isonde’s chef was divine and the dish one of her best, but the roasted flesh looked so much like the Low Divine’s wound that even the promise of a perfect umami experience couldn’t persuade Kayla to eat it. Instead she picked at a bowl of greens and shaved truffles, enjoying the pungent, musky aroma that no synthesizer had ever been able to replicate.
The solitary meal and the view of space was surprisingly soothing. Kayla sipped at a deep red wine. Maybe she could stay in the silence and stillness forever.
The comm chimed. “Lady Evelyn, Senior Agent Rua is here to see you,” said one of the guards.
“Send him in.”
Malkor looked harried when he entered, still in his indigo and jade dress uniform from the wedding. A frown line seemed permanently etched between his brows, so unlike the way he could look, when the world hadn’t gone insane. He paused when he entered, and Kayla got the sense he was trying to decide if sitting next to her or across from her would be more appropriate.
She no longer played Isonde, but the mask of Lady Evelyn’s identity isolated her still.
The dining room was open on both ends. Anyone from the household staff to the guards could wander by at any moment. Malkor scanned the entrances, then chose the seat opposite her at the table.
Damn. Of course she didn’t want to compromise anything. It would have been nice, for once, to sit incautiously close to the man she loved, especially when he’d no doubt come with difficult news. Maybe—stars forbid—even offer a gentle touch of commiseration.
Instead, the silent gaze between them was their only emotional communication. He looked perfect against the backdrop of stars, and she realized he was part of her peace, a place where she could find contentment.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, breaking the moment, and reality crashed in. There would be no contentment for anyone today. Kayla silently lifted the decanter of wine in his direction. He waved it off. “Still too much to do.” He eyed her abandoned steak and he swallowed hard, pushing the perfectly roasted meat even farther away. “I have details.”
“Excellent. I’ve been stuck with nothing but the general news feeds all day.” She sighed. “Does it make me a bad person that my major concern over the Low Divine’s death is for my own people?”
“I feel the same way, and I at least knew her. You didn’t.” He shook his head.
“So what’d you learn so far?” She tilted the wine decanter and poured, sliding more ruby liquid into her glass.
“The assassin was from the province of Geth, and we still have no idea how he got his invite to the seated section of the wedding.”
She stopped with the glass halfway to her lips. Geth. Bredard’s province. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of him.”
“The gun’s make has yet to be identified. I’ve only had the newsvids to work from—the army has official control of the investigation and they pulled all available surveillance footage, including that belonging to the basilica.” Malkor seemed to be simultaneously talking and running through other things in his head, fingers drumming lightly on the table. Kayla caught sight of a bloodstain on his cuff. The Low Divine’s probably.
“The IDC’s not involved in the investigation?” she asked.
“We have no jurisdiction in this sort of thing.” His fingers tapped harder. “Parrel’s pushing for involvement, though, based on the interplanetary nature of the crime.” The frown lines on his forehead deepened. “We need in ASAP, since the army’s likely involved in the assassination. They controlled the security for the wedding, they’re the link between the assassin and the weapon.”
“I’ve seen the pistol before,” she said.
Malkor arched a brow, looking suddenly cautious. “Tell me it’s not actually Wyrd tech.”
“Not really.” More similar than she was going to admit, though, with her people accused of planning the assassination. “Bredard had something like it that first night he came to ‘visit’ me.”
Malkor still looked uneasy, and his voice had a hint of “official IDC agent” to it. “Is it possible it’s tech Ilmena developed, and you’re not aware of it?”
Did he really ask her that? “Wyrds are not involved in this. Period.”
“Kayla—”
“This is infighting and betrayal among your own frutted governments and agencies.” She set her glass down with a sharp clink.
“I suppose Ordoch had no infighting or betrayal whatsoever before we came along? We imperials corner the market? The Wyrds are too ‘advanced’ for that?”
That shut her up. The situatio
n on Ordoch had been… less than ideal long before the coup. Troubled and unstable, to say the least.
Malkor signaled a halt. “Wait. Sorry.” He sighed, sinking back into the chair. “That was uncalled for.”
“No, I was out of line; you’re right to look at every angle. I’m just on edge.”
“The entire planet is.”
Falanar, the Sovereign Planets—the entire empire was on edge.
“I’ve been listening to imperials malign my people all day,” she said. “As if the empire wasn’t the aggressor, as if you—they—hadn’t started all of this five years ago.” The hand not wrapped around the stem of her glass curled into a fist.
Malkor’s tired eyes reflected an old pain. Ghosts from the coup on Ordoch haunted both of them.
No time to wallow, Kayla. Focus. Basics, threats. “So. How could the assassin get the gun inside the basilica grounds?” It would have been impossible without inside help.
“One of two ways: either he walked in with it and someone at the gate let him pass through the weapons check, or it had already been stashed on the grounds by someone and he took the handoff once through the gates.”
Both plausible.
“Has to be someone in the army,” Malkor continued. “Other than my octet, only the soldiers and royal guards were armed. And the royal guards were stationed by the emperor, empress, Ardin and Isonde—they didn’t mingle at all.”
“I’m certain this was about framing my people,” Kayla said. “Raorin and I—well, Raorin and Isonde, I guess—” Stars, what a mess. “We were counting on the Low Divine swaying the general populace toward supporting a peaceful withdrawal from Wyrd Space.” Kayla made a swirly motion with her hand. “Something about it being better for their Unity of spirit, or some such. Raorin had been laying into the Low Divine pretty heavily about it, and she seemed to be buying in.” With incentives, of course. Kayla never asked what sort of deals Raorin made, though. “Now, if everyone believes the lie that a Wyrd was behind the Low Divine’s death, it’s pretty much a call to war.”
