The Shape of Surrender

Nalyra sagged in her seat. She felt like someone had hollowed her out, leaving only a gaping void inside her. Drained, perhaps. Of her sadness and anger and grief. Just the shell of Nalyra sat there, as brittle as an empty eggshell.

After her speech, the Queen had given a few words, then some of the local ministers, then finally Soreth had spoken last. For perhaps the first time, and likely the last as well, Nalyra had been glad of the woman’s presence. Orphila had no High Priestess of its own, making Soreth the highest-ranking clergy member currently on the planet. She had led the crowd through a few hymns to the Maker, and directed the crowd’s prayers, and then performed the final benediction of the ceremony. Despite herself, Nalyra couldn’t deny the grace and beauty of the woman’s hymns and prayers — a proper send-off for her older sister. Whatever faults and flaws Soreth had, her faith was not one of them.

After the conclusion of the ceremony, Nalyra and her entourage, now joined by over a dozen civil officers and ministers, had returned to the capital building. There was much to do, and more waiting after that. The Crown Daughter had already sat through three meetings, each one more tiresome than the last. Finally, a break had opened in the schedule, and she had appropriated an empty office, needing some peace and quiet. Her peacekeepers were outside in the hallway, keeping watch — she could hear faint murmurs of their quiet conversations through the closed door.

Tor’laen stood between her and the doorway, the watchful bodyguard as always. Mercifully, he wasn’t the type to fill the air with inane chatter or pointless conversation, something she thanked the Maker for.

She still wasn’t quite sure why she had requested he stay in the office. He had clearly been planning to stand guard in the hallway, but Nalyra had given him orders to the contrary. The Ydani had not questioned her, had not even hesitated, before securing the office and placing himself in a position to intercept any interlopers that might somehow make it past the peacekeepers.

It was like…having a loyal hound at hand, she supposed, her mind going back to the mavik hounds that many Zakkili nobles bred and trained. Generations of selective breeding had instilled an intense sense of loyalty in the creatures. Yes, that image suited Tor’laen quite well. Quiet, watchful, and ready to tear an intruder’s throat out the moment he sensed danger to his keeper.

Nalyra shook her head. She really was exhausted if that was where her mind was wandering to.

“Ydani.” She straightened up in her seat, the action taking no small amount of effort. “What did you think of the ceremony?”

An unnecessary question, at least under normal circumstances. However, Nalyra felt like remaining alone for too long inside her own head was strangely dangerous at the moment. Her bodyguard half-turned, that curious golden eye of his meeting her gaze.

“It was beautiful. Haunting, in a way,” Tor’laen said shortly.

“Do your people have mourning ceremonies like that?”

Why would she ask that? Of course, information gathering. Her mother wanted to know more about the Ydani. It was quite logical.

“Not…not like that.” He shook his head. “Our ceremonies are…I suppose you could call them ‘sharper’.”

“Sharper?” she echoed.

“Especially during the war, they were closer to promises of vengeance, rather than mourning and fond remembrance.” His voice was pensive, soft. “It was—it is an unfortunate habit. One that has persisted even after the end of the conflict.”

“A pity,” Nalyra said quietly. “No soul should leave on its journey without a proper send-off.”

A curious emotion started to bleed off him. Not disdain, not doubt, not even confusion. No, some kind of longing pulsed from his mind, as if he had just been offered something he had been seeking for ages. It vanished as quickly as it came, the Ydani apparently master of his thoughts once more.

Tor’laen was hesitating, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, the soft chiming of Nalyra’s communicator sounded, denoting an incoming call. The Ydani snapped his mouth shut. Nalyra slipped the device from her belt and held it to her ear.

“Crown Daughter,” Vessa’s steady voice came from the speaker. “I have something for you.”

“Go ahead, Admiral.” Nalyra placed the communicator on the desk, tapping the icon to make it project Vessa’s voice to the whole room. She didn’t want to have to explain things again to Tor’laen.

“The intel team has been going through Orphila’s financial logs, and now cross-referencing them against the civilian contacts we recovered from the terrorists,” the Admiral explained. “A few…discrepancies have come to light.”

“Such as?” Nalyra leaned forward.

“A minister ‘Nekiin’ in the economics administration recently received a large sum of credits, which he attributed to an inheritance from a deceased sibling.”

On the other side of the desk, the Ydani stiffened, clearly recognizing the name.

“And how is that a discrepancy?” Nalyra asked, drumming her fingers on the desk.

“The minister doesn’t have any siblings, Nalyra.”

That got the Crown Daughter to sit up straight.

“Then the timeframe…?”

“Lines up quite well with the murder of your sister, Highness.”

Nalyra was no longer empty. White-hot rage was slowly being poured into her vessel, a simmering hatred bubbling up just below the surface.

“A bribe?” she hissed, staring down at the communicator.

“It would seem so, Nalyra.”

The Crown Daughter was motionless for a few seconds, in disbelief of what she was hearing. One of Taira’s own ministers might have been part of the conspiracy to assassinate her? Fury raced throughout her veins.

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“Understood, Vessa. We will make contact and get to the bottom of this.”

“Yes, Crown Daughter. I will send you the other leads we have found, more discrepancies involving multiple civil officials.” The Admiral paused for a breath. “Take care, Nalyra.”

“Of course, Vess.”

She tapped the icon to end the call, and her gaze snapped up to the Ydani.

“Come, Tor’laen. We shall pay this minister a visit, and ascertain the…truth of the matter.” Venom dripped from her voice.

The Ydani’s face was a stern mask at this point.

“As you wish, Crown Daughter.”

Nalyra stalked into the minister’s office, not bothering to knock. Tor’laen remained at her side, his alien face stern, his eye narrowed. The room was significantly more luxurious than a standard office in the building, she noted. Decorated with hand-painted works and marble sculptures. Interesting.

The Zakkili man scrambled to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste.

“Crown Daughter! Representative! I was not expecting you! Was there something you needed? The next meeting is not for nearly a full bell…”

The minister’s nervous smile felt strained, greasy. It was all Nalyra could do to keep the contempt she was feeling off of her face.

“Yes, there is something I needed to confirm,” Nalyra almost purred the words, her voice low and dangerous.

“Certainly, Highness! Whatever I can do to help!”

His eyes were darting between her and Tor’laen, uncertainty bleeding off of him in waves. Normally such a strong bleed would be uncouth from a high-ranking civil official, but Nalyra found herself almost savoring it.

“A few spans ago, you received a large…inheritance, did you not?”

“I…yes, I did, Crown Daughter,” Nekiin said slowly, the color draining slightly from his face.

“An inheritance from…what, exactly?”

“My…my sister unfortunately passed…away…” His voice slowly trailed off as Nalyra stared at him.

“Really now?” Nalyra arched one sculpted eyebrow at the man. “And just how did she pass? What was her profession? Which world did she reside on?”

“C-Crown Daughter…I…” The minister shrank back, gaze darting wildly around.

“Enough. I tire of this farce.” Nalyra slammed her palms down on Nekiin’s desk, the sound making him flinch. “I have sufficient evidence of corruption. I will know the truth.”

“Wait! I-”

His voice cut off as Nalyra reached directly into his mind.

She was not gentle. She was not delicate. The Crown Daughter Delved deeply into the minister’s petty mind, tearing through his memories. The man was a pompous, self-serving little worm, that much was obvious. So much of his mind was centered on himself, to the exclusion of nearly all else. It was annoying, having to sift through so much dross, trying to find what she was seeking.

Finally, she stumbled onto a cluster of recollections, the last time the man had seen her sister alive. Nalyra raced along the connecting threads of the memories, blazing a trail deeper into his mind. She could feel him resisting, trying to push her out of the furthest reaches of his being.

He might as well be trying to push the Aegis out of orbit with his bare hands.

Nalyra found what she was looking for. The man had met with an odd woman, just a couple days before the assassination. She was Zakkili, but extremely slight of build, with a strange, placid face. Almost aggressively nondescript. Nekiin had met with her three times, the last one the day of her sister’s death.

Fury surged through Nalyra’s mind as she finished with the memories. He had done it. Directly. He had delivered the poison to her sister, hidden inside the cup of caff she drank every evening. He may not have known the full extent of its effects, but he knew it was laced.

Her breaking point was his memory of checking his account balance after the deed was done.

“YOU!” Nalyra thundered, breaking the psychic link between them. “YOU SOLD OUT MY SISTER FOR A MERE YEAR’S WORTH OF YOUR SALARY?” She slammed her fist on his desk, the sound echoing in the small room.

“SHE TRUSTED YOU! SHE ELEVATED YOU FROM THE PETTY LITTLE BUREAUCRAT THAT YOU WERE, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAID HER?”

The Crown Daughter’s fury had reached a breaking point, the minister shrinking away from her wrath.

She simply stared at the man, crownthreads quivering in her rage. His eyes slid between her and the Ydani, desperately looking for a way out, slowly backing away from the desk.

A change came over his face and mind, Nalyra keenly feeling the shift. His expression dropped, hidden behind a desperate calm, and he straightened up. The Crown Daughter eyed the shorter man, staying on guard. This was it. The last, desperate action of cornered prey.

“I will not beg for mercy, Crown Daughter,” he spat the words, his petty hatred and indignation obvious. “I was wasted here,” he spat. “Buried on this backwater, forced to smile at your sister’s foolish little dream while these lesser creatures were given power and privilege.”

His anger was almost endearing. Almost. The rambling of a petulant child, so sure of his righteousness. His future.

A future now measured in marks, not decades.

A small smirk touched her face, and it seemed to infuriate the man. Faster than she would have expected, Nekiin’s hand darted inside his coat and came out with a tiny holdout pistol — illegal for a civil minister to carry in the capital building.

Tor’laen gave a wordless exclamation, and started to lunge forward. He wasn’t close enough. The minister raised the weapon, training it on the tall alien, the most immediate physical threat in the room. A mistake.

With a thought, Nalyra Stilled the man, temporarily severing the connection between the minister’s mind and body. He stopped, frozen in place, weapon nearly raised. Tor’laen stumbled slightly, clearly surprised by the man suddenly becoming motionless. His gaze flicked to Nalyra, and she gently waved him off.

“Pathetic and disappointing to the last,” Nalyra sighed. Her fury had burned low, leaving her filled with nothing but disgust and contempt for the little man.

She walked around the desk, coming to stand in front of the minister. Casually, she knocked the weapon from his grasp, the small pistol clattering on the tiled floor. Wordlessly, Tor’laen bent down, retrieving the firearm, tiny in his grasp.

Slowly, ceremoniously, Nalyra drew her own sidearm, and pointed it at the man’s forehead.

“Minister Nekiin. I declare you guilty of High Treason, against the Crown and its Daughter. With my authority as Royal Hand, I sentence you to death, to be carried out immediately. May the Maker judge you suitably.”

The gunshot was loud, echoing throughout the small office. The sound of his body hitting the floor was less so.

Exclamations sounded in the hallway outside the office, and the head of her peacekeeper entourage burst into the room. Tor’laen intercepted the woman, explaining the situation quietly. The peacekeeper’s eyes flicked between him, Nalyra, and the body on the floor, before wisely retreating back to the hallway.

The Crown Daughter stared down at the body, feeling hollow once more. She should have felt vindicated, triumphant. She did not. Her sister had been undone by such a petty little monster.

Her eyes went to Tor’laen. She expected to find anger in his gaze, or perhaps disappointment. Condemnation. She did not.

“I suppose you must disapprove, Ydani,” she said quietly, walking away from the body.

“No.”

She glanced up at him, surprised.

“I have dealt with mutineers before, Crown Daughter.” His voice was low, tense. “It is not a pleasant or enjoyable act, but a necessary one.” His face hardened. “There must be…consequences, for certain actions.”

Nalyra merely nodded, too hollowed out to feel much at the moment.

“Come, we have more to do.”

She threw open the door.

“Seal this room. I will be sending soldiers down to catalogue its contents,” she ordered, barely glancing at the peacekeeper sergeant. “I have more leads, and now a face and figure to pursue. I will not allow this snake to hide from me.”