06 | a reputation to uphold

The High Lord Cielaré looked out over the city, mingled distaste and wonder in his eyes. From the view of the Imperium’s complex, the city spread out like a disease, crooked streets radiating outward like scars on the earth’s surface. How people could bear to live in this chaotic mess, which seemed to have no end, no order, was absurd. Already, just two hours after his landing, he longed for the Grand Centaurii City. Or even better, his own Miramoor Galaxy, which had neat orderly streets, industrious citizens, and beauty, real beauty, not any of this “character” that people claimed the island chain inspired.

It was distasteful, true, but a necessary job. As the Empress’s eyes and ears at the Federated Congress, the High Lord was conscious of the enormous power he wielded. And he had no qualms about using it. Two centuries of ruling Centaurii had made him subtle, calculating, adept to the sensitive shifts of intergalactic politics.

He cut an impressive figure, tall pale frame in perfectly tailored black three-piece suits, straight black hair flowing just past his shoulders, oval, high-cheekboned face with a sharp chin, and most prominent, his cold grey eyes. People said when the High Lord fixed you with those eyes, he was seeing into your soul, determining how you could fit into the complex calculus of his plots. It fit with the picture the history books had painted of him-the polymath architect of the realm, richest man in the universe, brilliant general, and the sole originator of Centauriian conservative thought.

But as the High Lord studied the movements of people from the long window, he could, for a moment, remember how small he was in comparison to the vastness of humanity. He could become an ordinary man.

With an effort, he shook himself from these thoughts. I have no cause to entertain such fancies. What has gotten into me?

It must be the impending marriage. Although, in a sense, this marriage would be no different then any of the other nine, his long fingers were still drawn to the rings on his left hand. After all these years, he would finally get what was due him. After all this waiting, he would finally get full control of the country he had built from nothing, the country that was an extension of himself.

He had given his soul to serve Centaurii. And though they had sometimes hated him for it, even still did, no one could deny how he had led the empire to prosperity. They had called him brutal during the Second Arkillion War, but when the Third Arkillion War approached, there was no one they wanted more to lead him. They would never love him, but they would always fear him, always respect him. He had served them well.

Now, it was time for Centaurii to serve him.

“My lord?”

The question startled him from his reverie. “Yes, Sebastian?”

“The Duchess Seonid and her bodyguard to see you.”

“Very well.” He settled himself at his desk. “Send her in.”

–

The Duchess Seonid was as the High Lord remembered her, short, a bit overweight, but with a sweet round face and an earnestness to her voice that made her instinctively likeable. Her politics did not align with his-not in the slightest. But talent was talent-anyone could see that, and he would be a fool to pass her up. She had brought House Onyx that little spark of diversity it was drastically missing.

Ruble would have loved her. But Ruble was gone now, disappeared, overcome with depression and drink. It was strange, lonely, to not have someone like that to spar with. The new head of House Diamond, Julius Mandragoran, had none of that brilliance.

But as the Duchess Seonid told her story, the High Lord found himself mesmerized, then alarmed, at the magnitude of her tale, of its implications, driving his old friend from his mind. She told it well, her hands clasped in her lap, not breaking her composure in the slightest even as she told of the High Lord’s death. A hard passing, for her, at least, as Dunavain must have been her mentor, but aside from a slight twitching around her mouth, she remained calm.

Centaurii had never been invaded since the First Arkillion War. A new invasion would mean catastrophe, Cielaré thought.

There were two possible solutions. One, invade his own empire with his own troops. The document they had, an obvious forgery, was missing Seonid’s signature, therefore they had no right to the galaxy. A simple solution, but one that would make them look weak. Plus, Seonid’s intelligence didn’t say how many of the invaders’ troops were in the galaxy. There could be a few…or a lot.

The other solution was to ask the Federated Union for help. An authorized multi-state task force could swiftly crush the invaders, but getting approval for such a force would need the Union’s say-so. It would still make the Centauriians look weak, but it would make them look willing to work with others, a valuable combination. Yes, it would be simple. Ask for a court audience in the Congress, allow Seonid to tell her story, and the Union would doubtless listen.

As Seonid concluded her story, however, alarm began to rise within the High Lord. The fact that someone had attacked her-that was disquieting. Someone did not want this tale to be heard. It is good she has that particular bodyguard, for I fear that is not the last. But a plan was beginning to coalesce in his mind. After all, he was the savior of Centaurii. And now, for the first step…

“There is one thing I must do, your Grace.” he told her. “As the last of your galaxy, you understand the position you are in. You are now the High Lady of the Rublex.”

She swallowed, but nodded, looking pale. It was peculiar, her reluctance to accept the power that was hers. He knew many that many others would be barely concealing their glee, himself included, regardless of the circumstances. For power was power, and who would not take such a position if it was offered? She is very different from the others I have Raised.

“We will get the galaxy back, never fear.” he told her confidently. “I will send the necessary papers to you for your ascension.”

And then I will need to guide you. I have made a grave mistake, keeping you from me. Your testimony will be instrumental in bringing these people to justice.

–

He sent for the bodyguard next, and she came, prompt as usual. He took in the sight of her-slim silhouette in black denim and canvas, red lips and long lashes framing large dark eyes, smooth black hair, caramel skin, the only change being the red scarf around her neck to hide her bandages. She bowed, and the light made her skin shimmer gold.

With an effort, he pulled his eyes away. There was something about this particular guard, a sort of quiet dignity, that made every move she made fascinating. It almost-almost-made him forget who she was.

Remembering the wreckage of a man they had found at the site of the assassination attempt, he was able to recall her purpose, and his as well. “You are well?”

She barely nodded, her eyes unreadable.

“Doubtless the High Lady was telling the truth about the Rublex,” he continued. “so there is no need to burden you with further questions."And then, in a more serious tone, he added, "Thank you. For everything.”

Her eyes widened a bit. The High Lord never thanked anyone for anything. In truth, he was surprised at himself. But it was perfectly natural, he thought, to tell her so for doing such a deed. After all, she had saved the High Lady’s life.

“Of course.” she told him. Her voice was a rich alto, and like everything else about her, irresistible. “It is the least I can do, for your kindness to me.”

No one had ever characterized the High Lord as doing anything kind, so that left him, who always had the right words to say to everyone, floundering. But he quickly compensated with a bow, which he realized afterwards was highly inappropriate, a High Lord to an inferior…but he was, after all, Cielaré, he told himself. He could do what he wished. Then he thought of it. “You are too generous. Any fool would have done the same. It is not a kindness, but a basic human right, that I have given you, Miss Blackwood.” The name, like so many of her other aliases, rolled off his tongue effortlessly.

“Not every other,” she said, smiling as if to herself. “In my experience, many men think they can help me, but few actually can. You are one of the latter, and for that, I do thank you. For your kindness.” she added firmly.

“Ah. It is good to see you again.”

She cocked her head innocently, which annoyed him more than he could say. “You mean, it is good to see Her Grace again.”

“Her Ladyship. She has assumed Dunavain’s old seat. And I meant what I said.”

Color came to her cheeks, and she rose, bowing as she exited. “Of course. How silly of me. You meant it must have been wonderful to see Her Ladyship again. Thank you, sir. Best of luck on your wedding.”

“Wait-” he started, but she was already gone, disappeared down the corridor.

It was a mistake, he decided, having her here. She would be a distraction, a beautiful, deadly distraction. And with the marriage coming…well, it seemed to him not so attractive as it had before. If she stayed longer, he might forget himself again. Better to send her away.

But here, under his eyes, she would be safer, much safer, if they started to come looking. And with someone trying to kill the High Lady… her talents would be better served here. No, she would have to stay, and he would have to control himself.

Sighing, the High Lord reached for the carafe of wine he kept in his office-the redder the better, the only sort worth drinking, in his opinion. Against his skin it looked like blood. He poured it skillfully into the glass, swirled it around, then drank deeply, letting the acid tones relax his jaw and chin. He poured a bit more, drank, filling his throat with a confidence he did not feel to avail guilt that would not go away, all to save people he could not protect.

Let them never know of my treason.