4
THE PENUMBRA was a tiny vessel, a fixture of the Chrysanthemum, and intended to be a domain solely of the vicars who served the imperial family. It had been donated to the faith by a long-ago sovereign, the pious Empress Avarialle.
I had no right to board it, but a threatening look toward those servants at the entrance stopped them from reaching out, from interfering. So I barged right into the vessel of holy sanctuary and found myself surrounded by clear walls that gazed upon the bright stars of the Cosmos, and tangled canopies of plants climbing over every surface.
Through that corridor of starlight and nature I strode, until I came upon the great central garden, lovingly tended by hand, not service bot. Hedges were crafted to mimic the traditional shape of stars—like circles with pointed rays jutting out from them.
And in the center of it all, the massive crystalline statue that gazed down upon it all. A depiction of a man, his bare feet so large that his ankles were at the same height as my hips. My gaze wandered up the crystal expanse and lingered on those features. A broad nose, heavy-lidded eyes. Flattened hair like a bowl over the head.
A distinctly ordinary-looking man, for his towering size.
Yet this was the same depiction I’d always seen of the Most Ascendant Interdict, the chief vicar of the Helionic faith. He was rumored to be immortal and dwelled in the Transaturnine System at a wondrous starlight realm called the Sacred City.
Donia had recited the accounts to me when we were both little, at first with reverence. And then, as she grew slightly older, with a tentative hint of uncertainty.
“Is it very bad of me if . . . if I doubt whether he really exists?” she’d asked me fearfully several times.
Nothing Donia could do was bad. That had been my belief, so doubting whether there was an actual Interdict seemed like it had to be a fair and just thing to do.
After all, no man was immortal.
“I should have expected you would have no respect for this sanctuary,” spoke a voice behind me.
Fustian nan Domitrian carried a jar of oil and a liquisilk rag past me, aiming for the statue.
“This is a holy space, and you are an abomination. From what I’ve heard, your disrespect has already been rebuked once today by our Divine Cosmos.”
“In fact, Vicar,” I said, watching him anoint those big toes with oil, “that’s what brought me here.”
“I do hope our young Emperor is well?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Quite,” I said between my teeth. “In fact, he meant to speak to you. But I wished to see you first. Alone.”
“And why would that be?” said Fustian, looking back at me contemptuously.
I smiled broadly. “Because Tyrus is often kind. I am not.”
Fustian’s hand stilled where he was anointing the toes. His gaze trailed past me, and I asked him, “Are you contemplating calling for help? Do you truly know anyone suicidal enough to protect you from me?” I shook my head. “No, no, Vicar. This is the time when I ask questions, and then I get answers. And if you will not talk at first, I will convince you in the myriad ways abominations are skilled at using.”
The vicar was trembling. I could detect that, practically sense his terror, and there was a part of me deep down that exulted, gloried in it. I’d been fashioned for just this, and every predatory fiber of my being enjoyed causing sickening fear in this old man who’d made himself my foe.
He’d abandoned the statue and now was on his feet, his back pressed against it as though the unmoving crystalline Interdict could shelter him. “What happened was the judgment of the Living Cosmos. You may harm me if you wish, you monstrous thing, but it won’t change anything.”
“I don’t think it was a coincidence that you were soon to be replaced as Vicar Primus,” I said quietly, “and suddenly a Great Heliosphere’s worth of people—including your replacement—end up scorched by a star. And I don’t believe that’s divine intervention.”
He paled. “You believe I did that.”
“I believe after I tear out every one of your fingernails and teeth, you will be able to tell me honestly.”
With that, I feinted toward him, and he shrieked, cringed back.
“It wasn’t me!” His hand flew up over his face. “The scepter. It was the scepter.”
He did know. He knew.
My blood raced with the need to lash out, to hurt. I circled him, keeping my aggression in check, and watched his shaking hand lower as he realized he wasn’t being physically tormented just yet.
“Explain it all to me. Now.”
He drew and released several breaths, gathering his courage. “This is not for you to know—”
“But I will know,” I roared at him, “whether now or after I’ve hurt you.” Then I drew so close to him, he backed into the statue.
I decided to test my theory. “Pasus betrayed you, you know.” It was a lie, but I meant to test him. “He told us you were the one to ask about the scepter. I know you are in communication.”
His eyes flew open. “He dared to share my words?”
So. So Pasus had been alluding to something this man knew. I just nodded, never blinking.
His mouth dropped. Then, “I was only partially responsible. It wasn’t me.”
“Keep talking.”
“Do not hurt me.”
“Tell me all you know, and I most likely will see no need.” I retreated a few centimeters, just to free him somewhat from the oppression of my physical presence.
His shaking hand reached back, touching the bare foot of the statue, as though it could lend him strength. “These are all ancient vessels. They fall into disrepair on their own and require constant maintenance. I sabotaged nothing. And . . . and if today there was a tragedy, it was the will of the divine Cosmos and”—he added that part quickly, eyes wide, for I’d stepped toward him again—“and because the Imperial Scepter requires more than a Domitrian’s blood to key into that Emperor. It needs the consent of the faith.”
“Your consent.”
“Not just mine! Of the body of the faith. And . . . and . . .”
At that moment, the stars outside must have shifted in just the right way, or perhaps the angle of the Chrysanthemum to the six-star system adjusted with gravity. . . . For the light struck the crystalline statue above us, and an eerie glow ignited from the top of that head, seeping down through the veins of crystal, striking out vibrant rainbows.
And Fustian nan Domitrian whirled about to see. The brilliant display seemed to ignite some fire of courage in his heart, and his face lit with pure joy. He dropped to his knees in reverence, and I knew then that he’d overcome his terror of me.
Yet as I, too, looked at the statue of the Interdict, a strangeness settled over me. My heart stilled, for there was something wondrous about how brilliantly it shone above me, like an apparition or a glimpse of another universe.
A moment later the light blinked away, the subtle angle of the stars having shifted once more, and the spell was broken. Fustian wore a beatific smile, his eyes aglow with a fanatic’s blind belief.
“How interesting it is, Nemesis dan Impyrean,” he said in a dreamy voice, “that so rare a moment—but a few occasions in a month—should happen while you were here. I think there is a portent in this. Perhaps the Living Cosmos is telling me I am at liberty to reveal this sacred mystery, even to the likes of you. Now I will do so: not out of fear, but out of duty.”
Whatever you must tell yourself, Vicar, I thought darkly. “Go on.”
My vision still was hazed by the light of the statue as Fustian straightened to his full height before me, smiling, transcendentally happy.
“I have been honored to carry a diode of fealty.” He spread his palm between us. “It was implanted in my hand by an aged vicar, who was given it by an elderly vicar before him. Upon every Emperor’s ascendance, the ones with these diodes must speak the words of consent to the rule of the new Emperor. A majority of those chosen to bear this honor must do so.”
I stared at his palm. “And how many of you are there?”
“I don’t know. There may be hundreds, there may be thousands of us. . . . Who is to say? All of us will join our voices and agree to the ascendance of this current Emperor. But each one of our voices is a small droplet in a larger body of water. Will it spare me pain to demonstrate now?” Then Fustian pressed his hands together and spoke: “May infinite stars bestow their blessings upon our new Emperor.”
I cast a gaze about, wondering if something more would happen. But the old man just looked at me, his eyes twinkling.
“And there you have the consent of one voice. But you need so many more. Far more. And no one can tell you how many, or who they are. The only means of securing support from these vicars lies in removing their grounds for objection.” His gaze lingered on me, the “grounds for objection.” “Now I ask you, Nemesis dan Impyrean, how many vicars do you think will approve of a union between an Emperor and a creature who does not even carry the divine spark of our Living Cosmos? An Emperor who, moreover, has openly spoken of his desire to propagate heresies. . . . How many voices will rise in consent?”
Few. None. I wished to strangle him, but there was no use in it now.
Fustian’s smile widened. “If you love the young Emperor, you will urge him to see reason. To right his ways. And then you will walk away from him and let him rule in peace. Otherwise, this tragedy today is the first of a great many to come.”
“Tyrus is clever. He can rule without that scepter.”
“Tyrus is a Domitrian, and the only strength of a Domitrian lies in the command of the Imperial Scepter—and all the machines it will control in his name. Without it? He is no Emperor. He is merely a boy in love with the wrong girl.”