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.”
5
IN THE TWO WEEKS since the coronation, Tyrus had been busy.
For so long he had passed by, shifting with the wind, hiding his true beliefs behind a show of madness or whatever facade he required to evade death, that he seemed to explode with frantic activity upon reaching this destination.
He had become the Emperor of this galaxy, and he couldn’t move fast enough.
However late he’d been up the evening before, he was always awake by 0600. He no longer had two hours to exercise, so he threw himself into an hour of intense exertion, whenever he could snatch it. Then he attacked some other task over a hasty breakfast—listening to transmissions he’d received, sending off instructions to distant provinces, setting up meetings for the day. He read over reports from advisers as machines prepped and polished him for appearing in court, or recorded propaganda broadcasts to reassure the farthest domains of the Empire that their new Emperor was not, in fact, the madman of rumor.
Then, hours of wrangling with Grandiloquy, all vying for something from him, with the Luminar allies who’d aided him, all aiming to secure favors for their planet immediately, not content to wait. He fit in those social occasions undertaken less for pleasure than for practical reasons: events that meant to be entertaining, but were really more episodes of maneuvering relationships within his new court.
He partook of every narcotic offered rather than insulting those gifting them with refusals, and if necessary, he subtly extended his arm to a med bot to clear them from his system—without the giver’s knowledge. His watchful eyes always fixed upon those he spoke to, silently gauging their sentiments, their knowledge, their loyalty, all while wearing a disarming smile as though he were but a foppish young Grande enjoying the decadence about him.
Favor seekers dogged him everywhere. Grandiloquy sent messages and invitations, hundreds each day, always seeking a meeting, a discussion, following up on promises they claimed his predecessor had made, or referring to debts Randevald had incurred on behalf of all Domitrians.
Soon, even Tyrus’s single hour of exercise could not be done in peace. As exertion-averse as the Grandiloquy were, preferring to fashion muscles using bots rather than through actual physical use, a great flock of them suddenly took to adoring exertion. Steroids and amphetamines became the favored narcotics at court for these, and each Grande or Grandeé scrambled to create the best high-gravity exercise chamber for his or her ship. There was also a thriving trade in gravity reduction bands, rather defeating the purpose of these exertion chambers.