A white-wigged judge towers above us on a high bench, the Scales of Justice hanging over his head. Beside him is a rickety witness stand, and to the far left are twelve teenagers, squirming in squeaky seats and arching their necks in our direction.
On Cancer, House-wide trials require one juror from each of the Twelve Matriarchies. In the Zodiac, galaxy-wide cases require one juror from each House. The teens in this jury box look like Acolytes from the Libran Academy.
“State your case,” says the judge, his voice a low drawl.
“Hysan Dax, your honor, diplomatic envoy, representing Holy Mother Rhoma Grace, Guardian of the Fourth House, Cancer. She is being pursued by unknown assailants and has come here seeking refuge. I would like to grant her ladyship our Libran sanctuary.”
I stare at Hysan in bewilderment. He grins and wriggles his eyebrows back.
“That sounds rather reasonable,” says the judge. He turns to the jury. “What say you?”
The twelve teens—who have been staring at me with wide eyes—now turn to each other and form a circle, whispering in discussion. Almost immediately, a holographic question beams up from the jury box: “Why are assailants chasing the Cancrian Guardian?”
“Because she speaks the truth about a monster the Zodiac does not want to believe in,” says Hysan, winking at me. “They cannot judge her fairly because they will not accept the possibility of her story’s veracity. As we Librans know, those who think only in straight lines cannot see around a curve.”
A moment later, the teens disband and sit forward again. “Have you reached your verdict?” asks the judge, sounding bored.
“We have, your honor,” says the Acolyte closest to the high bench. “We believe the Cancrian Guardian should be granted sanctuary until her peers can embrace the plausibility of a wider worldview. Yet we would also remind Lady Rho that when we open our minds too wide, we risk closing them.”
“Very good.” The judge bangs his gavel. “Next!”
Hysan leads me through a small side door, and we step into a brightly lit hallway. The whole time, I’m staring at him in wonder. “That’s your top-notch security? I’ll be safe because your junior jury will rule against my would-be assassins?”
“If you saw all that security outside, would you really try to breach this place?” He laughs at the expression on my face. “If it makes you feel better, you were scanned the moment you walked through the door. All your information—name, astrological fingerprint, House, records, it was all processed. And the Knights outside are real Zodai.”
Knight is the Libran word for Lodestar. “Then what’s the trial for?” I ask, as we approach a pair of double doors at the end of the passage.
He freezes just shy of opening them and looks at me with concern. “Fun, my lady—though I’m seriously starting to wonder whether Cancrians are familiar with the concept.”
When our eyes meet, I sense more than fun behind the centaur smile. There’s a kind of serenity that’s surfaced in his stare, as though he’s close to the thing that anchors him—his Center.
A courtroom symbolizes a quest that is sacred to Hysan and his people: The pursuit of justice. Librans draw strength from this pursuit the way we Cancrians draw strength from the Cancer Sea, the nurturing Mother of all life on our planet.
Being in this place with him, I understand why Hysan’s dedication to our mission hasn’t wavered, even when he’s never been under any obligation to come. Beyond just believing Ophiuchus is real, Hysan shares my need for justice.
“Fun sounds fun.” As soon as I say the words, I cringe at how stupid they sound.
He chuckles softly. His hand is on the doorknob, but he still hasn’t opened it. Though neither of us moves, the space between us seems to shrink.
I feel his green gaze and golden glow heating my skin, and as he pushes open the double doors, I realize my dark mood is lifting, burning up in his radiant light. “Welcome to your Libran sanctuary.”
I step over the threshold, and Libra’s shocked me again. Their embassy is a ritzy, dichromatic hotel. The marble walls are white and the floor is black. There are bellhops (in black) and valets (in white) everywhere we look. The high-ranking Libran officials are in yellow, so they’re easy to spot. The lobby is a vast circular room that spans the height of the building, and the higher stories spiral up. All around us, help desks outline the room’s perimeter.
It’s probably the tallest embassy in the village, except for the Aquarian one. The upper floors ripple up in rings, about twenty stories high. We step into a humongous elevator, and Hysan tells the operator, “Penthouse suite.”
We immediately shoot up to the top floor, where I only see one door. “Will I need a map?”
A glint crosses Hysan’s eyes. He swipes an access card, and the door swings open on its own into a vast . . . workshop.