Sweep of the Heart

10

Our last inn-stalment delivered a long awaited Happy Ever After, the criminally fluffy Nuan Cookie and an inkling at the delights Orro is preparing in his new kitchen.

But it’s arrival day for our royal bachelor, his retinue, the candidates vying to be his spouse and observers from all the corners of the Universe.

Gertrude Hunt is the place to be, let’s head inside once more.

The portal’s rim flashed with green lights.

“Here we go,” I murmured.

The four of us waited, positioned around the portal, Sean and I directly in front, Gaston on the left, and Tony on the right. Sean and I wore our robes, Tony opted for a plain brown robe as well, and Gaston decided on black boots, black pants, and a black pirate shirt with a black high-tech ballistic vest over it. The vest, which must’ve been custom made to accommodate his powerful frame, fit him like a glove and did a good job of masquerading as fashionable accessory rather than impact-resistant armor. Tony asked him what his outfit was called, and Gaston told him that if he had to be menacing, there was no reason he couldn’t be dashing as well.

A giant snow globe emerged from the portal. Oomboles, as expected according to Miralitt’s manifest.

The eight-foot-wide bubble slid forward. It sat on a two-foot-tall ornate base fitted with a communication screen. The base concealed the moving mechanism and the filtration system, while the globe was a flexible hyper-durable membrane containing the precisely calibrated water particular to oombole oceans.

More globes followed the first, each holding a motionless four-foot-long fish. The globes were dark and translucent and the beings within were mere outlines.

We waited.

Oomboles didn’t deal well with portals. They always went into short-term sedation during transit, and their globes would attack anyone who approached.

All twenty-one globes completed the transit.

A minute crawled by.

The lights clicked on in all globes simultaneously, turning the membranes transparent and illuminating their passengers. The oomboles came in every color of the rainbow. They were covered with glistening scales, and their round heads with a slight overbite, big eyes and brightly colored snail-like antennae gave them hilariously comical expressions. The fringe of tentacles that sprouted under their chin and enabled them to wield specialized tools had been withdrawn into their bodies. Their incredible dorsal fins, disproportionally large with pronounced spines, lay flat.

The oomboles opened their eyes. Our gazes met.

All 21 dorsal fins snapped open, vivid with a multitude of colors and flashing with bioluminescent sparks that ran down the spines. The fins went flat, snapped open, flat, open, flat, open. Open, flutter, flat, snap flutter, snap…

The more agitated the oomboles were, the faster they talked with their fins, and passing through the portal must have discombobulated the oomboles beyond their capacity. It was like being greeted to a psychedelic display of jazz hands viewed at ten times the speed. The translation units built into the bases struggled to transform the rapid chaos of colors and movement into words, spitting out gibberish onto their screens. The screen belonging to the globe on the far left crackled and went dark. A small puff of smoke slipped from its edge.

I raised my hand. A wide length of carefully dyed fabric segmented by plastic spines snapped open above me, held up by Gertrude Hunt’s tendrils. I went through the folding and snapping sequence, assuring everyone that currents were calm and free of predators. We would have to rely on the communication screens for anything more complicated but greeting species in their own manner tended to calm them. It was a small gesture that went a long way.

The oomboles quivered, slowing to a somewhat calmer frenzy.

I took them to their suite, which consisted of a constellation of tanks connected by narrow channels. The largest tank was the size of an Olympic pool, complete with plants, corals, and custom lighting. The oomboles entered it, immediately formed a school around the spouse candidate, a spectacular orange specimen, and the fins stopped flashing.

The Donkamins were next. I braced myself.

For visually evolved species, sight was crucial. We evaluated everything, from the suitability of a potential mate to our offspring’s health, by eye. We noted the skin tone, the condition of the eyes, the sparsity or fullness of hair just so we wouldn’t miss that someone was deathly ill and would be able to avoid them in time or administer medical treatment. We made millions of assessments unconsciously during our lives, examining each other, our pets, and other animals, because fearing a rabid dog foaming at the mouth saved our lives.

Unfortunately, our perception was flawed. Our eyes had difficulties distinguishing between minor skin ailments, like ringworm, and a plague. Every year hundreds of people thought they saw a monster instead of a mangy coyote. Things that were just different enough often freaked us out, because when our rudimentary biological brain had no frame of reference, it interpreted everything as danger just to be on the safe side.

Donkamins tripped every human visual alarm sensor in existence. A relative newcomer to the interstellar scene, they were aggressively trying to expand and grab their own slice of galactic real estate. The first of their species had visited Earth roughly 200 years ago. An innkeeper urban legend said that the first innkeeper who opened the door to them took one look and blurted out, “Don’t come in!” which was how they got their nickname.

The light within the portal spun. Twenty-one Donkamins entered the arrival chamber in an orderly procession. They were eight feet tall, hairless, covered with pale pearlescent skin, and unmistakably humanoid, although they were not even mammalian. Their tall, thin bodies stood upright on two appendages that resembled legs. Their shoulders sloped very sharply down, as if their clavicles had been broken, and just kind of dangled there. They had two upper limbs, long and reasonably arm-like, and two hands with seven very bony long fingers without fingernails. Their round heads sat on seemingly human necks.

I glanced at Sean. He had gone still like a statue.

To start with, Donkamins were scantily clad. Their clothes consisted of lengths of gossamer fabric, strategically tied at some odd place they considered aesthetically pleasing. Then came the nipples. They were pink, incredibly human, and arranged in two rows that ran down the Donkamin chests all the way to where a human groin would be. They were not technically nipples, but they definitely looked the part.

The chests themselves appeared to be deformed, as if someone took a giant trilobite shell and stuffed it inside the Donkamin body so the ridges protruded under the skin. Then came the faces. They had large eyes that would’ve made any barn owl proud. Their nasal openings were shielded by a smaller version of that trilobite shell, and their mouths were very wide and lipless. The effect was at once revolting and horrifying, and it wasn’t even the worst part.

I took a step forward. “Greetings, Children of the Silver Star. Gertrude Hunt welcomes you.”

The leading Donkamin opened his mouth, a bright red, wet cavity studded with conical teeth. The ridges in his chest slid, elongating, and his neck stretched forward in an arc, covering the eight feet between us until we were eye to eye. His owl eyes stared at me unblinking.

Yep, that was the worst part.

“Greetings, innkeeper,” the Donkamin said. “We are pleased.”

I led them to their rooms. Technically, it was Sean’s turn, but he was still standing still, and I took one for the team.

The Kai were next. Short beings from a high-gravity world, they were covered in a natural armor of bony plates. They had six limbs and strange, snake-like faces with three protruding bottom fangs and pretty pink eyes. They were the first of the nonhumans to have brought a human-like candidate, a lean, beautiful male with silky blue hair, golden skin, and pink-colored irises. Clearly some genetic fiddling had taken place. The candidate’s name was Prysen Ol, and he spoke all three languages of the Dominion flawlessly.

Strictly speaking, a human-like candidate wasn’t required for spousal selection. Only the potential genetic compatibility mattered, and the economic and diplomatic benefits the union would bring. However, having a human-like spouse helped, something the oomboles and Donkamins had yet to figure out.

The Kai were a very formal species. They inquired about my health, Sean’s health, the health of our respective parents and siblings, and informed us about their health and their relatives’ medical issues. Sean barely had a chance to settle them into their quarters and get back in time.

The Dushegubs were next.

The portal swirled with light. A mass of dark tree roots slithered out of it.

I tapped my broom.

A gaping hole yawned in front of the portal. Two thick branches shot out of the ceiling, grasped the wriggling root ball and yanked it out of the swirling light and down into the hole. Tree limbs, trunks, and foliage plunged into the gap and the floor reformed itself. The Dushegubs were safely in their underground pit.

A lone human walked out of the portal. She was statuesque and very pale, with long golden hair that fell in ringlets around her shoulders, and big violet eyes. An elegant gown sheathed her frame, showcasing all the right things.

On the edge of my vision, Gaston raised his eyebrows.

“Greetings, candidate Unessa,” Sean said. “Your delegation is already in their quarters. I will show you to your room.”

She gave him a soft smile, the two of them went off, her high heels clicking softly on the floor.

“Trust is a wonderful thing,” Tony said when they were out of ear shot.

I nodded. “It is. Since she is the Dushegub candidate, she will eventually try something, and he can neutralize her faster than me.”

The portal flashed again. So soon?

Two beings emerged from the churning light. The one on the left was an otrokar, and a familiar one at that. Tall and lean, he held himself with the ease of a predator in a familiar territory. His skin was deep bronze, his hair dark, coarse, and short, and when it caught the light, it shone with vivid red. He surveyed the scene with sharp eyes, startlingly light green against his sun-scorched skin.

The last time I saw him, he had worn the full armor of the Hope Crushing Horde, a combination of braided leather and chitinous bony plates embedded with complex circuitry. Today he’d traded it for a lighter spacer armor woven of ballistic material that looked like leather but shielded like reinforced steel. A belt with pockets hugged his waist, supporting an array of wooden and bone charms dangling from it. A golden medallion, a sharp-rayed sun studded with jewels, hung from a leather cord around his neck, identifying him as the emissary of the Khan.

Now it made sense. These were the observers. Miralitt did say that they would pop through in batches between the formal delegations. One of the delegations was from a Southern otrokar clan. The Khan and Khanum were both Northerners and there were always tensions between North and South within the Horde. They had sent their son to see what happens.

Envoy or not, his knife was still with him, a long slender blade riding in a sheath on his thigh. He was deadly with it. Sean would just love this.

The other being was clearly a vampire. Vampire knights lived in their syn-armor, removing it only for the most private moments in the safety of their rooms, and she wore hers like a challenge. It was in excellent condition, so black it swallowed the light, and her long red cloak took it over the edge right into drama. She carried a blood sword in a sheath on her hip. A mane of brown hair dripped over her shoulders, inconveniently obscuring the house crest on her chest. Her face was beautiful and familiar somehow, although I was sure I had never seen her before.

The otrokar and the vampire stared at each other, and I saw the precise moment they both realized that whoever spoke first would get greeted first. The Horde and the Holy Anocracy were at peace, but their rivalry was alive and well. They opened their mouths at the same time.

“Greetings, honored guests!” I said before they decided to get offended and start a brawl.

The otrokar got there half a second earlier. “Winter sun to you. So good to see you again, Dina.”

The vampire knight clamped her mouth shut. He shot her a triumphant glance.

Yes, we have met before and know each other. No need to rub it in.

“Winter sun to you also, Under-Khan Dagorkun. How are your mother and father?”

“The Khan and Khanum are well,” Dagorkun told me. “My mother recalls you fondly and has tasked me with delivering this tea to you.” He produced a small ornate box.

“I’m deeply honored.” I bowed my head and let a tendril rise out of the floor and swipe the box from his hands.

The vampire knight rolled her eyes.

I turned to her. “Greetings…”

“No need for formalities,” the vampire knight said. “My name is Alvina, Lady Renadra, Commander of the Krahr Vanguard, Daughter of Soren and Alamide.”

Lord Soren? Oh. Oh!

“You may call me Karat,” she said, hammering every word in like it was a nail in Dagorkun’s coffin. “I am Arland’s cousin. His favorite cousin. And I am your sister’s best friend.”

She pulled a small packet from the inside of her cloak. “Lady Helen sent these treats for the feline creature. She also sent you a hug and a kiss, but you will have to imagine it. I do not go around kissing random humans.”

Karat tossed her hair back and triumphantly strode toward me, leaving Dagorkun behind.

The Throne Room was full. The guests murmured to each other in a dozen languages and traded dirty looks. Gertrude Hunt was on high alert, ready to snatch anyone who stepped out of line.

If I were to draw the Throne Room, it would look like a narrow rectangle. At the top of the rectangle was the massive door through which everyone had entered. Sean stood by it, wearing his innkeeper robe and holding his spear. At the bottom of the rectangle was the throne platform, where I now waited.

Large screens ran along the perimeter of the room, placed where the walls met the ceiling and tilted toward the audience. A swarm of small mobile cameras, ranging in size between a walnut and a plum, zipped above the crowd. The event would be broadcast across the Dominion. The Sovereign’s PR chief had installed a tight beam transmitter that actually shot the data from the inn through the portal to the Dominion to avoid any delay. I had no idea that kind of technology even existed. The cost had to be staggering.

The Dominion’s etiquette dictated that nobody could sit higher than the Sovereign. We solved that problem by raising the throne platform to six feet high and making two seating galleries, one on each side of it. I filled the galleries with cushy ornate seats arranged in three rows, packed the observers into the gallery on my right, and stationed Gaston there to keep things calm.

I spared the Observer Gallery a glance. Karat and Dagorkun sat in the front row, with Cookie between them. They left a seat open for Caldenia on Karat’s left. Her Grace was taking her time. I wished she would hurry up.

The gallery on my left remained empty. It was reserved for the Holy Ecclesiarch and his retinue and the Sovereign’s attendants, except for Resven and Miralitt, who had their own designated places.

I looked across the room, searching for Sean. He was still at his post by the far wall. Between us, the 12 delegations waited. We had arranged them in two columns, 6 delegations per column, each group segregated from others by a short decorative wall. We put the four most volatile delegations in the first and last row, so both Sean and I could keep a close eye on them, and sandwiched the less troublesome delegates between them.

The row directly in front of me held the otrokars and House Meer.

The otrokar delegation was on my right, decked out in traditional otrokar green and Southern red. Otrokars biologically adjusted their bodies for their chosen role starting at puberty. For example, Dagorkun was a general and a strategist. He had aimed for versatility and a balance between speed, strength, size, and durability. The majority of the otrokar diplomats were strategists as well. One would expect most of the members of the otrokar delegation to look like Dagorkun. Only two of them did.

Of the 20 otrokar delegates, excluding the candidate, 6 were over 7 feet tall, with huge shoulders and massive chests, the bruisers who would charge into the fight first, smashing through the enemy’s vanguard. Another 6 were lean and fast, likely swordsmen or other close quarters combatants, ready to become a coordinated whirlwind of steel, capable of precise and rapid carnage. Of the remaining 8, 3 were likely marksmen, 2 were medics marked by long green sashes, 2 looked like Dagorkun, and the last otrokar was a shaman in a ceremonial kilt, with an exposed torso, a mane of ruby hair so dark it was almost black, and a dozen thin leather cords and chains dangling with charms and pouches wrapped around his waist.

This wasn’t a diplomatic party; this was a Southern otrokar warband. Even the two strategists looked battle ready. Their candidate, a tall, powerfully built warrior, might have lacked the bruisers’ bulk, but he would snap any adult human male in half like a twig. He moved like a leopard, every rippling muscle perfect, and the way he glared at Dagorkun didn’t bode well.

The Holy Anocracy delegation on my left didn’t look any less menacing. The vampire society consisted of Houses, some large, some small, each with their own military force and territory. This delegation came from House Meer, an aggressive, formidable House with far-reaching ambitions.

House Meer and House Krahr, into which my sister was going to marry, were on the verge of becoming sworn enemies. Over the last few years House Krahr had grown in power, and House Meer was trying to keep them in check. During the Nexus peace summit, House Meer sent three knights to torpedo the peace talks, and Sean, in his role as Turan Adin, killed them in about two seconds, scaring the hell out of everyone. Very few people knew about Sean’s alter ego, so I didn’t worry about him being recognized, but the possibility did occur to me.

House Meer was not a fan of humans, inns, or me. The twenty of them loomed in their syn-armor like a solid block of darkness. Their candidate, a statuesque female knight with platinum blonde hair and the remarkably even skin tone particular to vampires, was sneering so much, her face was in danger of becoming stuck like that.

The fewer opportunities we gave House Meer and the otrokars, the better, which was why we put the Kai and oomboles in the second row as a barrier between them and everyone else.

The third row featured the two delegations from opposite ends of the Seven Star Dominion. They were the most likely to mind their manners, simply because they were representing the Dominion, but like all Dominion diplomats, they were also prone to murder, which was why we put the Temple of Desire and Donkamins in the fourth row to throw everyone off balance. Gaston referred to this strategy as eye candy and eye scary, and it seemed to be working.

The Temple of Desire was missing its candidate. According to their representative, Lady Wexyn Dion-Dian was indisposed after the transit and would join us shortly. I had glimpsed her only briefly. She rode in on an antigravity palanquin, hidden behind translucent curtains, a full fifteen minutes ahead of her scheduled time, and I passed her procession in the hallway as Sean led them to their quarters. Her attendants, both male and female, were also shrouded in shimmering diaphanous fabric that moved in the slightest breeze, delicately hinting that under all those gossamer-thin layers lay sexy bodies and amazing beauty. The Temple had elevated the skill of suggestion to a fine art.

The fifth row, behind the Temple and Donkamins, contained the feline Higgra and the elegant Gaheas, humanoid, with skin the color of amber and very long dark violet hair that reached to their knees. Of all the delegations, the Gaheas were the most striking. They looked breathtakingly beautiful, moved like flowing water, and spoke in melodious voices. They had also perfected psionic warfare and could melt a sapient mind with a focused thought. The bejeweled tiaras on their heads weren’t there for decoration.

The last row held more troublemakers. Murder Beaks were on the right, closest to Sean. Avian, flightless, and armed with huge beaks and powerful clawed feet, this species would’ve given Earth’s prehistoric Terror Birds a run for their money. They had a strong prey drive and killed for sport. Their name for themselves translated as Murder Beaks, and they insisted on the literal translation so the entire galaxy would know of their predatory awesomeness. Fortunately, they had tried to invade the Gaheas, who were their immediate neighbors in space. The Murder Beaks knew exactly what a focused mind wave could do to their brains. They minded their beaks and talons.

Finally, across from the Murder Beaks, the Dushegubs were a dark tangle of roots and limbs, shrouded in foliage, as if some nightmarish forest had magically sprouted in the corner of the room. They had large begonia-looking leaves, purple at the edges and brilliant blue in the middle, splattered with random patterns of the brightest Pepto-Bismol pink. Sean was standing across from them, and Tony had parked himself on the side, just in case they wanted to try anything. The gorgeous woman who was their candidate perched on a large Dushegub root like some dryad.

It was a lot. The variety was dazzling and confusing, but mostly very dangerous and anxiety-inducing.

The wall behind Sean parted, forming a tunnel. What was he doing?

Oh.

A huge lupine shape emerged from the tunnel and sat on his haunches by Sean. Sean lowered his hand. Gorvar sniffed his fingers and rubbed his shaggy cheek against Sean’s hand.

At my feet, Beast let out a quiet growl, just in case the oversized wolf decided to run across the ballroom and attack me.

A low trumpet sounded. Gaston cleared his throat, his voice amplified by a microphone and spilling from the hidden speakers. We needed a Master of Ceremonies, and he had enthusiastically volunteered.

“Her Grace, Caldenia ka ret Magren,” Gaston announced in a deep resonant voice. His High Galactic was excellent even without the translator. “Letere Olivione, Dystim Adrolo, She Who Controls Fate, the Light of the Midnight Sun.”

Caldenia walked into the room. She wore a magnificent formal gown, deep green accented with silver. An emerald tiara crowned her spectacular updo. Her makeup was flawless.

The ballroom went silent as a tomb.

Her Grace had taken three steps forward when her eyes finally registered the glowing symbols of the Dominion on the arched ceiling above the throne. For a fraction of a second, Caldenia froze. It lasted a mere heartbeat, and I committed it to memory, because it would likely be the first and last time I saw Her Grace lose it.

Our stares connected. I tried to warn you.

The miniscule moment of shock ended. She glided forward, a calm smile on her face.

Gaston moved away from the Observer Gallery on an intercepting course, approached Caldenia, and offered her a graceful bow. She gave him a smile and rested her fingers on his forearm. Gaston murmured something to her. Her eyes sparkled and she quipped something back.

What are you doing? Take her to her seat, quickly. We’ve talked about this.

The conversations resumed but at a markedly lower volume. Nobody had any idea what would happen next, us included. Sean and I had been given assurances, but no guarantees. I would protect Caldenia at all costs.

The trumpets blew a triumphant note. A man appeared at the entrance. His elegant white robe hugged his tall, muscular frame, its intricate embroidery luminescing subtly with pale gold. His skin was the darkest shade of black, with a shocking blue undertone as if someone had carved him out of onyx and dusted his cheekbones with sapphire powder. His hair, cut down to near stubble, was shaped with almost microscopic precision, and it shone with white, like swirls of the first frost on a window. His face was intelligent and long, his dark eyes bottomless, and when he strode into the room, there was no doubt that it and everything within it was his to command.

Caldenia froze again, her eyes wide.

“His Supremacy, Kosandion ka ret Maggran,” Gaston announced next to her. “Letero Kolivion, Dystim Arbiento, Sovereign of the Seven Star Dominion, He Who Is Immune to Fate, the Light of the Morning Sun.”

Caldenia’s fingers on Gaston’s forearm trembled. I had so wanted to spare her this, but she’d made it impossible.

Kosandion reached Caldenia. You could hear a pin drop.

“My dear aunt,” the Sovereign intoned, his voice a clear baritone that carried though the entire room unaided. “I haven’t seen you since you murdered my father. It’s been too long.”

Caldenia’s face snapped into a mask. “Greetings, dear nephew. You look well. The throne agrees with you.”

Kosandion nodded and ascended the twelve steps to his throne. Resven assumed his position by the throne and Miralitt parked herself to the right of the staircase.

Gaston gently steered Caldenia to her seat.

The Sovereign sat upon his throne. The glowing symbols of the Dominion above him pulsed with golden light and settled back into their light blue.

“I trust everyone has rested,” Kosandion said, his tone announcing that he didn’t require an answer. “Good. Let us begin.”