“What are those marks on your skin? Do you feel you’ve gotten a fever or other symptoms? Does the rash itch? Headache? Vomiting?”
Darren shook his head and looked down at his torso. Darker marks than his skin tone, they were like crimson tattooed shapes in a fine line that appeared on his shoulders and pecs. They looked good and he was proud of them.
“They’re mating marks, doctor. Dheltans get them when they bond to their life partner and she responds. It seems I have met my fated mate.”
He’d forgotten the most important thing; that Aelanna had told him she loved him. She told him before when they were on the ship, but now he had sunk to the lowest point in his life. He had nothing to offer her.Despite that,she loved him! Could he believe it?
That afternoon, a guard of four Ohirins turned up and took him out of the cell. The jailer tried to stop them and refused to unlock it, saying he didn’t have orders and knew nothing about it, but the leader showed him a tablet with the order on it and the jailer had to comply.
One of the party held a Dheltan jacket and singlet, which he thrust against Darren’s chest.
“Put these on.”
They frog-marched Darren out, bundled him into a transporter, and it set off, the guards with it.
“Where are we going?” he asked. He was afraid he was going to his execution. They’d kick his lifeless body into an unmarked grave and nobody would ever know. He wasn’t afraid of death, but he would have liked to prepare himself. When they didn’t answer, he insisted.
“I have a right to know what’s going to happen to me. If you’re going to kill me, my brothers have a right to know.” He knew that Ohirins valued family and he hoped to exploit that sentiment. “I need a lawyer,” he grumbled.
The leader was Ohirin as they all were. He was also a captain. He spoke from the front passenger seat, and he didn’t turn around to face Darren sandwiched between two guards in the back seat, his hands cuffed behind his back. The fourth guard drove.
“Silence, prisoner. You don’t have rights,” he replied in a flat tone.
They drove for minutes and arrived at the palace.
This can’t be right. The palace? Maybe the emperor’s in on the persecution of Dheltans.
The transport drove to the back of the palace. The leader and a guard hauled Darren, feet hobbled for good measure, through the kitchens, along servants’ corridors and into a state apartment.
For brief moments he thought he could attract attention, get somebody to listen to him, ask to see a lawyer, butservants scuttled by minding their own business and knowing better than to interfere. It showed on their faces.
Then he relaxed, reminding himself they hadn’t laid a finger on him and they weren’t likely to murder him in a state room. For one thing, there were witnesses; two footmen stood to attention by the double doors.
The palace was old and ornate, but the state room was modern and functional. He’d never been inside the palace before, and the first thing he noticed was the foliage in the room.
It was like a hothouse. The furniture — the few pieces there were — was all from bare, polished wood and stone, all natural varieties and colors, smoothed until they shone. There was wooden sectional seating in one corner with a few Ohirin silk pillows on it, a small concession to soft furnishings.
Plants were arranged in height, low to high, around an intricately carved throne in golden wood on a stone dais positioned in a space in the middle of the stone floor. Near it was a smooth, lizard-sized slab of sandstone. What its purpose was, Darren couldn't guess.
Darren waited patiently with his guard. He sweated it out. Literally. The room was too hot and humid.
What happened now?
The footmen opened the doors and an Ohirin swept in, followed by a retinue of servants wearing the palace leaf-green livery. The higher status they had, the more intricate the decoration on them.
The lead man had iridescent scales and wore a robe of Ohirin silk in a darker green, richly embroidered in a rainbow of bright colors. His tail swept behind him. He climbed up the three steps to the throne and sat down, legs covered by the robe, tail exposed at his side. He radiated authority.
Emperor Uchantik. Darren was sure to receive his official death sentence, but at least Aelanna and his brothers would know what his fate was.
He stood tall and proud, his chin raised, refusing to show a hint of fear. He would die a warrior’s death, noble and without fear.
“All hail the emperor,” an Ohirin shouted.The man was also richly dressed, though not quite as decoratively as the emperor. Darren guessed he must be the grand vizier. The Ohirins in the room inclined their heads. Some of them bowed. The captain nudged his ribs and Darren bowed also, prompting the emperor to gaze at him while his advisor whispered in his ear.
“You’ve brought me the insubordinate Dheltan,” the emperor boomed. Darren’s escort clicked their heels and snapped to attention.
Darren also stood to attention. He prepared to hear his fate. He would die with dignity; he would not be remembered as a coward.
The emperor held his hand, palm out, to the grand vizier. The advisor put a paper in it, no doubt Darren’s death sentence and how he was to die. He steeled himself for the bad news.
