Alien Chronicles 3 - The Crystal Eye (17 page)

“But, but—”

“Are you telling me the truth?” Ampris asked him. She stopped and gripped his face between her hands, wishing she could see his eyes in the darkness. “Are you?”

“You wouldn’t let anyone kill me,” Nashmarl said, but he did not sound sure.

Sadness curled around Ampris’s heart. “No,” she admitted. “I would not.”

He gave a little bounce and pulled back. “Then there’s nothing to be—”

“Nashmarl,” she said sharply enough to get his attention. She wanted him to understand this very clearly. “If you really did push that female to her death, if you really did it deliberately, then I would not let Harthril break your neck.”

He chuckled in relief. “I knew you wouldn’t—”

“I would do it myself.”

He froze in the shadows, and Ampris smelled his fear. He gulped audibly, suddenly panting. Ampris waited for what he would say.

Behind her, Elrabin gave her a nudge. “They ain’t going to wait much longer, Goldie.”

Ahead, through the trees, she could see Tantha on her feet, prowling restlessly. Harthril’s rill stood out stiff with annoyance. Velia and Frenshala were talking together in shrill voices. Ampris’s heart sank. No, it was not good to antagonize the council by keeping everyone waiting. Delay only made Nashmarl look guilty, but she had to have her answer first.

Nashmarl’s silence now left her awash in doubt.

“Well?” she demanded.

“What do you want me to say?” he burst out, sounding panicky. “I’ve told you the truth, but you keep asking and asking me. Don’t you believe me? Do you want me to die?”

She waited, but he said nothing else. The straight answer she’d wanted for reassurance was not going to come. All she had was what he’d told her on the ledge, and she hoped with all her heart that it was indeed the truth. But hope was never the same as certainty.

Elrabin prodded the back of her shoulder, and she trudged forward with Nashmarl in tow, coming into the firelight that filled the small clearing where the others waited to pronounce judgment.

In the imperial palace in Vir, Israi Kaa paced alone in the darkness on the balcony of her private apartments. Although it was night, the breeze flowing across the river held little coolness. It ruffled her gossamer-weight gown and scarves, and with a sigh she turned her face into it for a moment before resuming her pacing. With every step, the tiny silver bells adorning her slippers tinkled musically. Overhead, the city lights reflected off the night sky, obscuring the spangle of stars that had once marked the vast empire of the Viis. At the foot of the palace walls, the Cuna Da’r flowed sluggishly, its brown waters low from the continued drought. She could smell the stench of mud and dying fish from her balcony despite the cloying bouquets of flowers arranged everywhere to mask the unpleasant river smell.

Israi did not often leave the banquet hall early. She did not often find herself unable to sleep. But she had a decision to make, and it was not coming easily. From all her progeny, she needed to choose a sri-Kaa, her official heir. She was in the twelfth year of her reign, and the pressure to secure the line of succession was steadily increasing from her chancellors and court.

Her illustrious father, Sahmrahd Kaa, had been in the tenth year of his reign when he chose her to succeed him. This morning, she had learned that he selected another sri-Kaa before her, one that had died soon thereafter of some chunenhal fever. When Israi was born a few years later, she became her father’s next choice. This information had been most unwelcome, almost a shock to her. In her mind, she had always been her father’s favorite. To think that once he had doted on and adored another chune—even one who had died before she was ever born—upset her every time she thought about it.

Impatiently, she paused in her pacing and gripped the stone balustrade. Below, in her personal garden, the guard was changing, performing the required rituals with voices muted to avoid disturbing the imperial rest. Israi watched without seeing the cloaked figures. Her mind was far away, coiling around the problem.

Her chancellor of state had spoken with unaccustomed bluntness this morning, informing her in the privacy of her study that she could no longer delay making a choice. The populace was suffering many afflictions, especially those caused by the terrible drought and economic hardships, and it needed a sign of hope from the palace.

Israi resented such advice. “The Imperial Mother does not choose a successor just to improve the morale of her citizens!” she declared. “We are not public entertainment, to be paid for and watched.”

Temondahl, her aging, blue-skinned chancellor of state, bowed over his staff of office, but he did not relent. Through the years, he had served her competently and efficiently, putting up with her tantrums and willfulness. In exchange she had to endure a dry, stuffy chancellor who was tirelessly determined to persuade and cajole her into performing the countless mundane, boring bureaucratic chores required of the sovereign.

“The throne is never entirely secure,” he told her. Now well into his lun-adult life cycle, he regarded her through half-lidded eyes that might have looked sleepy and stupid but never missed anything. “Rumors are beginning to circulate that the Imperial Mother’s eggs are weak, making her unable to produce an imperial heir.”

Outraged, Israi could only stare at him as her hands gripped the carved arms of her chair. Her rill flared out, stiff and dark blue, while she gasped for an answer to such a ridiculous charge.

“It is only a rumor, majesty,” Temondahl said smoothly. “But rumors can sometimes do harm. This one should not be allowed to grow into general belief.”

“Our eggs are strong and healthy,” Israi declared, unable to get past the insult. “Always we have produced many.”

“A solid, consistent number,” Temondahl said.

It was flattery, but it was not agreement. Israi eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Surely the Imperial Mother realizes that while she produces excellent eggs each year during Festival, modern numbers cannot compare with those of earlier days when double or three times as many eggs were laid by—”

“History!” she said contemptuously with a sweep of her hand. “We are not interested in the past.”

“Then let us focus on the future,” Temondahl said. “A successor is imperative. Many citizens are losing hope. With the empire so shaken by a myriad of problems, there must be a firm sign from the palace that the future is secure.”

Israi sighed. Why did he have to make a speech about it?

“Three years into your Imperial Majesty’s reign, I urged you to choose a successor. You did not.”

“We want a perfect heir,” she said, flicking out her tongue in annoyance.

“A noble objective, but perhaps the standards should be lowered slightly.”

Her eyes dilated in shock. She could not believe Temondahl had said such a thing. “What do you mean? A less than perfect sri-Kaa? Unthinkable! You cannot be serious.”

“Perfection is difficult to find.”

Her rill raised even higher behind her head. “Are you now saying our chunes are substandard?”

The dangerous edge in her silky tones made Temondahl pause before replying. The look he gave her was cautious indeed, but he did not retreat.

“Not substandard.” he said. “The Kaa’s progeny are lovely creatures. But few chunes today exhibit the health and vigor of previous generations.”

Israi sighed impatiently. “All the old ones say that. It means nothing.”

“It means that our scientists still cannot find a cure for the Dancing Death. Nor can they bring back our—”

“We will
not
discuss plague,” Israi said in dismissal. “You worry about things that are not happening. This is a waste of our time.”

“Forgive me for straying too far from the subject,” Temondahl apologized smoothly.

She flicked out her tongue. “Besides, you say that we should name our heir, yet in the same breath you say that our chunes are not as vigorous as they should be.”

Temondahl puffed out his air sacs. “Majesty, let us not fall into semantics. I believe we agree that there is need for an heir. My other concern has to do with time. A sri-Kaa should have many years of training and education in order to be worthy of the position he or she will someday hold. Although certainly everyone at court hopes that the Imperial Mother will enjoy a very long life, we must . . .”

He droned on, but Israi stopped listening. Inwardly she fumed. He was right, curse him. Right as usual. But he did not understand the problem.

“We will consider your remarks,” she said, just to silence him.

Temondahl’s rill extended slightly. His tongue flicked out, and he said nothing.

His expression offended her, and her own rill stiffened. “What now? Would you have us choose this very moment? We have said we will consider the matter. Surely that is enough.”

“For how long will the Imperial Mother consider it?”

She felt the heat of anger course through her veins, throb in her rill. Her tongue coiled in her mouth. “We will not be rushed,” she said curtly. “We will not make an unconsidered choice.”

“There are presently twenty-five chunen and three hatchlings living in the palace,” Temondahl said. “All are exquisitely marked and colored. All show signs of intelligence and wit. Any would do, depending on temperament and—”

“Shall we close our eyes and point?” she broke in icily. “How dare you suggest this be done rashly! The succession is a matter of the greatest importance. Great care must be taken.”

“Yes, majesty. As long as the decision is made quickly.” Temondahl spread out his hands. “Fresh rebellion is breaking out among the rim worlds. Lord Commander Belz has already departed with the main flotilla of our warships to quell it, but a successor will make the throne look stronger.”

“Our throne is very strong,” Israi said angrily.

Temondahl bowed his head. “Your majesty knows what I mean.”

Israi felt driven into a corner, and she did not like the feeling. Yet she knew if she dismissed him. he would only return on the morrow and mention the subject again. If she continued to put him off, he might bring it up before a general meeting with all her chancellors and ministers. They would welcome a chance to meddle.

“I can question the attendants to learn more about the chunen’s personalities,” Temondahl suggested delicately.

Israi sighed and held up her hand. “We fear making the wrong choice. We believe the sri-Kaa should be a true reflection of our glory, evident to everyone immediately. We were chosen as sri-Kaa straight from the egg, within a few hours of our hatching. Yet none of our progeny has stood out so clearly.” She let her tongue flick out in momentary distress. “We wait, Chancellor Temondahl, for the right one to hatch. We wait and we wait, but no one equal to us has yet hatched.”

There, it was said. Her deepest fear, her greatest insecurity about her maternity. Why could she not produce a glorious heir? Why?

Temondahl regarded her in silence until she could no longer bear his scrutiny and rose from her chair. She walked to the window of her study and stared out it blindly. Her back felt prickly from his gaze. Seldom had she so openly exposed herself, yet there were very few of her secrets that Temondahl did not know.

“Majesty,” the chancellor said at last, measuring his words. “This fear should be put to rest. How natural that the Imperial Mother should regret the absence of a hatchling as glorious in beauty and grace as she. Yet, consider the matter from a different angle. When your father reigned, you shone as a rival star to the sun of his greatness.”

Despite her distress, Israi brightened. She turned and looked at the chancellor. “Really?”

His heavy-lidded gaze never wavered. “This your majesty knows to be true.”

She did know it. She remembered how the people had always cheered her as much as they cheered her father. The memory pleased her intensely, but then her spirits crashed again. “This is what I want in my own chune.”

“Ah, but consider. Does the Imperial Mother really want a rival for the people’s affections?”

The point he made startled her. She had never considered it that way. Flicking out her tongue, she gave him her entire attention.

“Does the Imperial Mother really want a sri-Kaa so beautiful the people weep and clamor for sightings? Does the Imperial Mother really want a sri-Kaa her equal in grace and ability? Does the Imperial Mother really want a sri-Kaa who will grow up impatient to rule? One who is so certain of the people’s favor, he or she constitutes a danger to the throne?”

His words soaked in. Israi recognized the oblique reference to her own days as an impatient vi-adult. She knew how often she had pushed her father, how often she had tried to reach for imperial privileges that were his alone. She knew also that had he not died young, she would have given him a great deal of trouble. For she had wanted the throne for her own. Wanted it with a desperate, burning, ambitious single-mindedness. Had he lived his full span of years, she could have become lun-adult while waiting to become Kaa. The wait would have driven her mad, or into committing treason. As it was, she had almost done the latter anyway.

Calculations ran through her mind. She saw the wisdom in what Temondahl advised, and she agreed to visit the imperial nursery to make a choice right away.

In the afternoon, she canceled her scheduled audiences and went to the nursery. Arriving with her entourage of Kelth heralds, richly dressed attendants, and favorite courtiers, Israi gazed at her hastily assembled chunen. How dazzled and wide-eyed they looked to see her. When permission was granted, they gathered tentatively about her, staring at her face, her complexion, the jewels sewn like stars across the full skirts of her brocade gown. She did not visit them often. In fact, as the tiny hatchlings drew back shyly from her, she realized with a guilty start that she had not visited since Festival that spring, when she’d inspected her newest offspring.

Her visits were too rare. The chunen barely knew her. She reached out to some of them, stroking tender rills and touching soft, perfumed skin. The chunen trembled beneath her caresses, some of them hardly able to breathe from awe.