The Exiled Fleet by J. S. Dewes

Author:J. S. Dewes [Dewes, J. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250236364
Google: pQP6DwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1250236363
Publisher: Tor Books
Published: 2021-08-16T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Seventeen years ago at Legion HQ, Oculus Adequin Rake reports to her first posting.

Shafts of sunlight cut through the high glass dome of the Citadel’s grand solarium. Outside, glittering planetary rings carve out a striated sash of burgundy across an invariably flat blue sky. It’s only rained twice since she arrived ten weeks ago, but every day, she acclimates. Her lips and skin and cuticles have gone from desiccated to merely parched, and her once-daily nose bleeds are now only weekly.

She follows her assigned senator across the vestibule. He is a young man elected mere weeks prior following the unexpected death of his predecessor. He is well-supported by his people on Artora but an unknown in the Quorum, and they treat him like a puppy needing to be housebroken.

His heeled boots clack against the expanse of white marble, emerald cloak flowing out behind him, his sage stole emblazoned with the Artoran seal. She subconsciously slips into step with his footfalls. If she’s learned anything the last ten weeks, it’s how to keep pace with the person beside her.

They reach the far side of the hall, and the senator pauses at the base of a towering glass staircase. His gaze drifts up, so her gaze follows.

On the landing stands a woman, queen consort of one of the five royal families comprising the Allied Monarchies. She is surrounded by a cadre of attentive escorts, both seasoned Legion officers and royal guards. The queen is engaged in conversation with a pair of senators. Her attentive eyes are the same vivid blue as the stretch of sky overhead. The circlet tucked in her gray hair is nestled so deep, it would be difficult to see if not for the small turquoise jewels catching the light along with each polite head nod.

The young Artoran senator leans in and mumbles the monarch’s name. His tone is a mix of reverence and contempt.

She nods and stares at the woman. She has never seen a member of a royal family before. She would like to think it the same as seeing any other human, but it isn’t. It also isn’t like the imitations presented in serials. At least this one isn’t.

This one’s posture is relaxed, agreeable, patient. She interacts with the calculated patience of a tutor of the very young—effortlessly conveying simple concepts without contempt or arrogance. Her hair is drawn back into a simple chignon, her gray suit and necktie practical and unadorned. If you plucked the circlet from her hair, she could disappear into a mass of businesspeople hurrying down any city street.

The woman’s poise is infectious.

Seventeen years later and ninety-three million light-years outward, that woman’s grandson saves Adequin’s life as she’s falling, without harness or tether, into the Divide.

“You need to have a good hold on me,” he insists. “All the strength your Imprints can muster.”

He’s right, but all she can think is how free she feels, weightless and unburdened, completely unable to affect the course of things. For the first time in decades, she is truly untethered.

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