Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series by Austin Rogers Page B

across the ceiling. The sharp pulsing in his head receded to a dull ache.
    “ Kastor ,” Pollaena gurgled weakly. She reached out to him with a bloodied hand.
    He pushed himself to his feet and stepped to his dying maiden, sprawled out over the display of stars. He crouched beside her, took her hand, looked into her glassy eyes, sparkling like the clear seas of their homeland. She winced with pain. All hostility had drained away. Trembling, Kastor brought the back of Pollaena’s hand to his lips and kissed it, savoring her warmth. Her life. Then he plunged his sword between her breasts, into her heart.
    The only cry heard in the great hall of the Royal Court was his own. Kastor yanked the sword away and let it slide across the floor, keeping Pollaena’s lifeless hand in his. His heart splintered. His brain descended into chaotic fury. The ground quaked somewhere far under his feet.
    A Guardian of Court stepped into the circle, holding the Diamond Sword with both hands. The Grand Lumis took hold of the hilt and unsheathed it. The crystalline blade shone in glorious brilliance as Zantorian moved to Kastor.
    Kastor closed Pollaena’s eyes and set her hand across her stomach, then kneeled before the Grand Lumis. The heavy, translucent blade came to rest on one shoulder then rose over his head to the other.
    “Kastor, son of Tyrannus,” Zantorian uttered in a powerful voice, “you have proven your loyalty. Take your mark.” He hovered the blade edge in front of Kastor, who pressed his palm into the tip just hard enough to form a trickle of blood—the blood oath. He balled his hand into a fist around the drop of blood as Zantorian returned the Diamond Sword to its sheath.
    “Rise now,” Zantorian announced with pride, “as Kastor, Champion of Triumph.”
    Kastor rose to his feet amidst a rising tide of applause from the gallery, echoing through the great chamber, bouncing off the marble and stone and diamond until it melded into a clattering roar. All around, exuberant lords and matriarchs looked down on him with white eyes glowing through dark makeup. All those black spikes, brimming with exultant bloodlust—jabbing upward for the men, sideways for the women, curling for the maidens. The nobles praised him, worshipped him.
    But in his triumphant moment, Kastor felt sick. Hollow. Broken. He looked down at Pollaena’s blood, spilt over the display of the Sagittarian Regnum, veiling a hundred tiny stars, staining his hands. A sacrifice on the altar of glory.

The Curate

Chapter Eleven
    Carina Arm of the Milky Way, on the planet Baha’runa . . .
     
    Representatives from every planet in the republic packed into the airy, semicircular chamber of the Upper House floor. They sat at their desks, perusing data on table screens, while their staff bustled about, sharing rumors and whispering private messages to other representatives. All this while the spokesman from the Orleons Party delivered his arguments from the front lectern. Few paid any attention to the spindly moon man, everyone locked in their own tasks of fact-gathering and secret-sharing.
    Above the busy house floor, an undecorated level for press squeezed under a level of ornately carved balcony suites, protruding past the press level for a better view of the happenings.
    Aisha glanced over his shoulder at Riahn, the Minister of Unity, vigorously explaining something to the Reformist Party chairman as he snuck bites of cheese from the refreshments table. Various others surrounded them, listening or carrying on their own conversations. Everyone discussing the implications.
    Implications. Implications. Implications . Aisha had heard that word probably a thousand times in the past eight hours. It flittered through hallways and conference rooms and bathrooms. Everyone saying it, asking, what are the implications? Understandable, when the prima filia’s ship had just been discovered, blown to bits. Still, it seemed this time ought to be devoted to mourning rather