Chapter 57 Chapter 56: The Tetra's Gaze
The next hour was a masterclass in diplomatic theatre. We mingled, a small island of Polli-Nation moving through a sea of Sylvan business Nates, each one a potential gateway to new opportunities in the fragile event of a peace. They each had their share story, a tale of innovation, a lineage of craftsmanship, a monopoly on a rare resource. Lord Vincent seemed to lap it all up like a cat with a saucer of cream. He was in his element; his booming laughter and easy charm were a magnet. People loved him. He was loud and instantly likable, possessing a unique talent for leaving every person he spoke with feeling as though they were his new best friend, a confidant in some grand, shared enterprise.
All too soon, the moment arrived. A subtle shift in the chamber's atmosphere, a quiet directive from a robed official, and it was our turn to be informally introduced to the Exalted Emperor. The four of us, Ciel, Jode, Saul, and I fell into step behind Lord Vincent as he led our small procession back toward the dais and The Emperor's gilded stool, a throne in all but name.
Following Sylvan protocol to the letter, Lord Vincent prostrated himself fully before The Emperor's feet. We all followed suit, a wave of obeisance washing over our group. The cool marble pressed against my forehead as I heard Lord Vincent's name and rank announced in a sonorous voice. He then moved forward, pressed his lips to The Emperor's jewelled slippers in a gesture of ultimate fealty, and rose, bowing deeply.
"May the sun and the moon shine upon you, Exalted Emperor," he intoned with practiced grace. "I extend our best wishes on behalf of Polli-Nation."
But the Emperor's eyes were not on Lord Vincent. I could feel their weight, heavy and assessing, fixed on me as I performed a deep curtsy alongside my fellow delegates' bows. Once again, I was a stark anomaly, the only Polli in the entire court. I kept my gaze firmly downcast, fixed on the intricate patterns of the rug, not daring to meet this man's eyes. My studies had painted a vivid, intimidating picture: a rushém champion by the age of ten, a mighty warrior who had led countless Nates into battle and to their deaths; most of them, the texts suggested, his own illegitimate sons. He had twelve official wives, each of whom had borne him many children, and a harem of concubines so vast that the court gossip claimed if you hadn't been penetrated by his anther, you were likely one of his many sons. The man was a dynasty unto himself.
"A gift?" The Emperor asked, his voice half-mocking as he addressed Lord Vincent, his gaze still pinning me in place.
Lord Vincent glanced over his shoulder at me, a flicker of unease in his eyes before his jovial mask snapped back into place. "This is merely Nanda Stone, one of my aides," he said, the dismissal in his tone a carefully crafted shield.
It was then that Karn Isa leaned in from his position beside the stool. "Father," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for The Emperor, yet carrying in the hushed space. "This is the Polli from the incident at the Garden of the Last Moon we mentioned."
I stayed stock-still, my eyes cast down, my breath held. This was no time to throw myself on any sword, literal or figurative. The only strategy was stillness, a silent hope to be deemed unworthy of further attention from the most dangerous man in the Sylva.
“Come, Vincent. And you, child. Come closer so we might talk.”
The command was a silken leash. Lord Vincent bowed, and I curtsied again, the motion feeling more like a flinch. He then placed his arm on mine, a gesture meant to appear paternal, but which felt like a tether, and we advanced the final few steps to the base of the dais. The rest of our team was dismissed with a flick of The Emperor’s wrist, retreating to a nearby corner. I could feel the coiled tension in Saul as he passed us, a silent promise of violence held in check by sheer will.
“Isa and Zeb tell me you survived a terrorist attack, carried out in my land,” The Emperor stated, his tone making it sound like a personal inconvenience we had caused him.
“Yes, Exalted Emperor,” Lord Vincent replied smoothly, though I could feel the slight tremor in the arm linked with mine. “Yet it was your brave soldiers who came to our aid and escorted us to safety. We are in your debt.”
The Emperor’s gaze, which had been drifting, snapped back to me with unnerving focus. “And I heard you killed or severely injured six of them, Nanda. No mean feat for a Polli.” His eyes were not on my face, but fixed lower, on the dream stone amethyst nestled between my breasts, as if assessing a prize.
“Nanda is very capable, Exalted Emperor,” Lord Vincent interjected hastily. I could see a bead of sweat trace a path from his temple down his jaw; the air was thick with peril. We needed an exit, and fast.
“Let the Polli answer for herself,” The Emperor purred, the command cutting through Vincent’s defence. “You do have a tongue, child.” He managed to lace the simple sentence with a lewd, predatory intimacy that made my skin crawl.
Gathering every ounce of courage, I lifted my head and met his eyes for the first time. They were a deep mahogany brown, holding a clever, devious power with absolute command. This was not a Nate; he was a predator, a giant long fanged tetra of the south, and I was the prey he was deciding how to dismember. He was going to enjoy this.
“Yes… No, Exalted Emperor,” I began, forcing my voice to steadiness. “Only four were from my hand. The other two were stopped by one of your very brave citizens, Chup-chup. He saved my life, Exalted Emperor.”
“I have not heard of this Chup-chup,” The Emperor said, his eyes shifting dismissively to Zeb.
“No, Exalted Emperor,” Zeb replied, his head bowed. “He was her Sylvan chaperone.”
“Oh. I see.” He seemed bored again, yet his gaze returned to me, continuing its slow, methodical undressing.
“Lord Vincent,” he declared, his attention shifting with finality. “You will be my personal guest in the morning at my gallery. And I can assure you, young Nanda, there will be no need for fighting.” He laughed, a low, grating sound. “And before you take your leave, we must have a wager on a rushém game. Yours against mine. Tuesday morning, you will break your fast with me, and then we will play before I send you on your way. I believe tomorrow night you will be busy flirting with my aides.” He laughed again, and the entire court echoed him on cue, a symphony of sycophancy.
But then he added, his eyes locking back onto mine with chilling precision, “Do enjoy the rest of your stay, Nanda Stone. Make sure you come to the rushém match. We can get better acquainted while my champion thrashes yours.” It was not a suggestion; it was a royal command, a reticulated question to which there was only one acceptable answer.
We bowed and curtsied again, a final, jerky motion before retreating. Lord Vincent’s hand was a vice on my arm, steering me away. Only after we had put a good twenty paces between us and the dais did his body ease, his grip loosening to a mere guide.
“Well,” he breathed, a forced joviality returning to his voice. “That did not go too badly, did it, Nanda? And just as I was hoping, we have a private audience with him and a promise of one more, maybe even two.” His relief was palpable, but it did nothing to melt the ice that had formed in my veins. He saw a diplomatic victory; I had seen the eyes of a man who viewed me as both a curiosity and a possession.