Garden of Light: Beneath Devouring Eyes #1

Chapter 2 | Part 2

The enormous double doors at the tricliniaria hall's far end swung open. "All rise for Rex Decus Astralis," the herald called, her well-honed voice carrying over the crowd with ease.

Daedalus was not the only person who stood as instructed. Triclinums creaked and fabric rustled as fifty Promethidae found their feet in unison. As one, they placed a hand over their collarbones, obscuring the light of their laurels as the ruler of all Aquarius processed into the hall. The Rex's retinue trailed behind him in a sea of pale-gold and frosted-crimson fabric, glittering with rubies.

The ancient starholder—whose Nova Latina name meant "Splendor Revealed by the Stars"—possessed the sort of wizened beauty only achieved by elderly people with flocks of lifeholders maintaining their health as they aged.

Keen dark-brown eyes lanced through the souls of anyone who dared meet them in a mahogany face smooth of wrinkles. He wore his long white hair in the same tri-braid as Daedalus's own but adorned with a ruby-studded, rose-gold leafy crown. The Ruby Crown gleamed in majesty, a massive and more lavish version of the onyx and platinum one Daedalus would wear after his coronation. The Rex's pale-citrine paenula hung heavier than Daedalus's own, resplendent with rose-gold beads, diamonds, and sun-red rubies. Servants must have labored for hours to weave the matching beads and gems into his beard, which hung to the elderly man's waist.

The Rex recently trimmed it. Daedalus recalled watching the old man lift the beard aside just last week to avoid sitting on it... and countless other times over the years.

"Please, continue enjoying your meals," the Rex said with a graceful sweep of his arm to invite the crowd to return to their seats.

Daedalus did not sit; the Rex strode straight toward him.

He bowed his head over the hand atop his laurel and tried not to cringe as the starholder approached. A wave of authority rushed toward him, roaring just beyond his hearing like the sea, and crashed over him as the Rex arrived.

Even without the Trellis augmenting his sorcery, Daedalus could dissolve the promenia Decus controlled with a lazy flick of his mind. Any worldholder possessed the power to do so. However, he let it be and steeled himself to endure the sense of trembling awe that welled within him. There were certain things one did not do to one's liege.

"Basilicus," the elderly man said by way of greeting, his deep, rich voice far gentler than the cloak of power ringing around him.

"Augustus," Daedalus said, lowering his hand and lifting his head now that the Rex had addressed him.

The elderly man reached out and squeezed his shoulder. Daedalus scarcely felt the touch beneath the heavy stiffness of his onyx and diamond-crusted ice-blue paenula, but his body still relaxed under the compassionate gesture. "How are you holding up, Dae? You must be exhausted."

Exhaustion indeed weighed him down today, but hearing such acknowledged out loud by this kind old man made it a thousand times more intense. He stiffened his jaw and squeezed his shoulder blades together to keep from wilting as the mere words summoned a sickening wave of fatigue. His eyes burned, though he did not cry. Comitas always said only those too weak to address their sorrows in a proper manner cried.

"I am doing well," he said when he recovered his capacity to speak. "Considering." His voice did not waver.

He wondered if it was the promenia or the old man's natural presence that helped him bear this moment and pass through it without shattering. A starholder's strength made those nearby feel strong as well. At least, it could when the starholder wanted other people to feel confident and courageous. A starholder could also make one cower like a terrified little bug about to be squashed.

"Well, take it easy today, Son," the Rex said. "Between your grief and receiving the Trellis, you have been through a great deal."

Daedalus inclined his head. He did not need to be told such; he went through the gaping loss and the transfer fever himself. Out loud he merely said, "I will, Augustus, thank you."

The instant the Rex took his leave and proceeded to the next alcove, a loud exhalation burst from someone behind Daedalus. "That was officially the scariest thing I have ever felt in my life," Epileus said as Daedalus turned around.

Next to him, Gemma agreed with a nervous chuckle, a chocolate-dipped cherry still dangling, forgotten, from her fingers.

Daedalus nodded with a wry smile and gestured for his family to return to their seats as he did likewise.

The pair had of course been in the presence of a starholder before and witnessed the power the sorcerers wielded. Their father and younger brother were both such, after all. However, normal starholders, even experts like their father, bore little resemblance to the Rex. Not in physical strength. Not in mental acuity. Certainly not in force of will, the starholder's magical capacity to dominate others.

Daedalus alone bore the privilege and burden of carrying the Trellis itself, but the Rex and all three of Daedalus's fellow Princepses drew immense power from the arcane artifact. If he wished, the Rex could use the Trellis to command the whole world to turn on one another with murderous intent. Humanity would weep in fear and horror over the atrocity they were about to commit, but they would obey. Daedalus's foster father, a powerful starholder in his own right, could only exert that kind of influence over a small room of people.

Aquarius was fortunate a benevolent ruler governed the planet. Such had not always been the case, and more than one mad or vicious historical Rex had met with an unfortunate accident only after much suffering around the world.

"Are you going to eat?" his foster mother, Cercitis, asked, her voice far softer than those of her two children.

"I am not hungry," he said, hoping that would be the end of the matter.

It was not. "You need nourishment, Dae—"

"If you want me nourished so much, how about you cease nagging me for once in your life, and just use promenia to help?"

His words echoed as a hush fell over the alcove. His siblings and foster parents stared at him in wide-eyed shock.

"Daedalus," his father finally said into the uncomfortable silence. "You do not speak to her like that. Ever."

Heat crept into his cheeks. He hoped Comitas had not heard his words—or his father's reprimand—or he would receive an earful about the impropriety of both later. "I apologize. My words were uncalled for."

Cercitis's stunned expression gentled. "You know I would do so in an instant if protocol allowed. You have endured a hard day, and it is normal for your appetite to suffer."

He wished they would all stop hyper-focusing on him. Their overbearing attention made the weight of grief heavier, as though their collective fretting pressed him to the ground. "No, I am sorry," he said. "It was a rude thing for me to say, and foolish. I would never ask you to waste promenia on something so trivial."

"It is not trivial," she reassured him, but they both knew she would never use her magic in such a wasteful and careless manner. As a lifeholder physician, she possessed the power and skill to transform promenia in the air into raw substances to nourish Daedalus's body. But the grand old days of such casual promenia use passed long ago. Magic, so thin now in the modern age, grew ever more precious. Every Promethides with the power to use promenia also bore the duty to use the particles with wisdom and care.

And so Daedalus shoved his reluctance down and reached out to the table before him to pluck up a few cherry-speckled pork tarts and a small lemon pistachio cake. He glanced at his foster mother as he chewed.

Cercitis settled back in her chair with a mollified nod and Daedalus forced himself to swallow the rich foods of his supper.