Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
“I am the true Imperator!” Rusa’h roared.
Thor’h sighed, leaning close to speak to his uncle. “He will never surrender the Prism Palace to you, Imperator.”
Rusa’h was saddened. “I know, and many Ildirans will suffer because of it.”
The guards held their crystal-tipped spears and glared at Pery’h.
So utterly abandoned and isolated, Pery’h found it difficult even to talk, but still he forced out the words. “Listen to me, Uncle. You were injured. Your mind must have been . . . damaged by the hydrogues. You have to see that this is folly—”
Rusa’h grasped the edge of the false chrysalis chair and hauled himself upright. His braid twitched and thrashed. “Oh yes, Pery’h, I can see—I see more clearly than any Ildiran. I have followed the soul-threads, witnessed how tangled and frayed they have become. Jora’h and our father before him caused a great deal of damage, but it is not too late to save our people. We must return to the proper ways.”
Pery’h raised his eyebrows. “Is it proper to speak treason against the Mage-Imperator who holds the thism?”
“I hold all the threads of thism here. You can sense it yourself.”
Pery’h could indeed sense it. The pain of emptiness seared his mind.
“Every person on Hyrillka is bound to me,” the Designate went on,
“and our enlightenment will spread across the Horizon Cluster and eventually to all Ildirans. Jora’h should not resist this change, but he is blinded and stubborn. After poisoning our father, he does not understand how far he has fallen.”
Pery’h looked into the eyes of the Ildiran doctors, the lens kithmen, the guards and courtiers. Even the pleasure mates, who had once been soft and beautiful women, now looked as hard as crystal blades. Worst of all, the Prime Designate’s eyes had turned stony; by his expression, Thor’h 386
seemed to know exactly what was about to happen—and had decided to allow it.
“You will be our message, Pery’h,” Rusa’h said. “Since you refuse to cooperate with us, you are a loose end of the thism. You must be separated from the trap that holds you.”
Claws of isolation pierced his mind, but Pery’h stood bravely. “My father is the true Mage-Imperator. I will never turn from him.”
Rusa’h smiled. “We don’t expect you to. That is why we will no longer even ask.” He raised a hand and signaled to the loyal guard kithmen. They all took an intimidating step closer to Pery’h.
“After this,” the Hyrillka Designate said, “Jora’h will be forced to respond. And we will be ready for him.”
The soldiers raised their crystal-tipped spears and, before Pery’h could so much as cry out, they struck him down. They thrust and stabbed, driving the Designate-in-waiting to the floor. Others took glassy alloy-handled clubs and battered him as he fell, breaking his skull, his bones. Pery’h’s blood splashed on the clean tiles. He could not struggle as the blades plunged into him again and again.
These were not his people. Pery’h felt no connection to them. The last face he saw was that of his brother Thor’h standing beside the facsimile chrysalis chair, watching calmly.
Sprawled on the floor, the young man reached out a hand to grasp at the soul-threads that glittered around him. Through his pain and disbelief, Pery’h clasped the single bright thread of thism that linked him to his father, and held it like an anchor line—until the light mercifully claimed him.
The spear thrusts and club blows continued to rain down upon Pery’h’s lifeless body for a long, long time.
M A G E - I M P E R A T O R J O R A ’ H
387
1055MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
Though Jora’h often sat in the confining chrysalis chair as was expected of him, he frequently climbed out of it and walked the corridors of the Palace. Twice now he had even appeared in the streets of Mijistra.
Ildirans were both amazed and horrified by this, but in such a time of chaos, Jora’h felt it was important for their rigid assumptions to be challenged. Over the centuries Ildiran traditions had become fossilized, yet they were not natural laws of the universe. The Empire needed to change in order to survive. Jora’h was determined to show them how to do it.
Today, after he had taken his usual place under the warm skysphere dome, the ornate doors opened for the day’s pilgrims. In the sun-dappled corridors, groups of awed Ildirans stood waiting, as they did every day.
They had all gone through the proper supplications, and Jora’h would reward their devotion with a blessing and a smile.
Yazra’h now stationed herself at the front of the dais with her cats, intense and alert. She had picked her own guards and had slipped into her role as his primary protector, though many Ildirans also muttered uneasily about this change in tradition. Jora’h could sense their confusion, but he knew they would have to adapt. His daughter stood beside him, meeting each pilgrim with her probing gaze.
First he greeted a troop of agricultural kithmen who stared at him with shining eyes and expressions of delight. They had come from the consolidated splinter colony on Heald, and the farmers assured Jora’h that they would continue to use their abilities and strength to keep the colony strong. Jora’h sent them on their way with a benevolent smile.
The second group of pilgrims consisted of eight doctors, pleasure mates, and lens kithmen, all of them gaunt and hardened, who had made a journey from Hyrillka. To his thism their minds were confused and blurred from heavy doses of shiing, which made the Mage-Imperator uneasy. This was the fourth such group of Hyrillkan pilgrims in recent weeks.
Why did so many supplicants come from there? And what homage could they hope to pay with their minds thus clouded?
388
As the gaunt pilgrims approached, Jora’h saw the shadows behind their eyes, the pain of their world’s recent horrific experience with the hydrogues. He welcomed the visitors when they came before him.
On impulse, the Mage-Imperator climbed out of the chrysalis chair and stood tall on the dais. The Hyrillkan pilgrims were astonished, even angered, to see him flouting sacred traditions, but Jora’h raised his hands.
“The people of Hyrillka have been through so much adversity, so much pain. It is not appropriate for me to recline in a comfortable chair when you have expended so much effort just to come and see me. I do you honor by standing here.”
The pilgrims looked at him, some with narrowed eyes, studying their great leader instead of admiring him. Jora’h was puzzled by their odd reaction, but because of the shiing he could read little from them through the thism.
One of the visiting lens kithmen bowed slightly. His words sounded flat and memorized. “You have made our journey here complete, Mage-Imperator. We have now seen what we wished to behold.”
Jora’h saw the shining detachment in their eyes, and he found it unsettling that —like Thor’h—these people had consumed so much shiing before appearing in the reception hall. Perhaps he should institute another remarkable change by telling his people to stop consuming the drug. But shiing was the predominant industry on Hyrillka, one of the few that had survived the hydrogue attack. He frowned, not knowing what to do. “I thank you for your visit to me.”
Jora’h’s smoky topaz eyes were still intent on the lens kithman when the assassin struck.
The third male in the line snatched out a long, razor-sharp crystal blade from each sleeve. The medical kithman knew exactly how to cut, where to strike. He bounded up the steps, leaping for the Mage-Imperator.
Both of the knives swept back as he raised his arms.
Yazra’h and her pets reacted instantly. She and her Isix cats shot forward like a flash of reflected light. Pulling the Mage-Imperator back with both hands, Yazra’h spun to interpose her body between him and the medical kithman. The would-be assassin missed his target with the double slash, ripping open only the colored fabric of the Mage-Imperator’s robe with one knife and slicing into Yazra’h’s arm with the other.
M A G E - I M P E R A T O R J O R A ’ H
389
Urging Jora’h into the shelter of the chrysalis chair, Yazra’h threw herself in front of the Mage-Imperator to shield him against other murderous pilgrims. She did not even try to stop her animals from ripping her father’s would-be slayer into bloody shreds. The muscled Isix cats bore down upon the glaze-eyed medical kithman. His screams cut off quickly. Only one of the three cats suffered a superficial cut as the crystal scalpels clattered out of the doctor’s lifeless hands.
Guard kithmen swarmed forward to seize the other pilgrim-assassins.
The Hyrillkans did not struggle. Their minds had been clouded, their thoughts manipulated. Two others were found to be carrying deadly weapons.
Ignoring the gash in her arm, Yazra’h stood menacingly at the front of the dais. Sweat glistened on her muscles. Droplets of the medical kithman’s blood spattered her skin. The Isix cats seemed particularly satisfied and intent on their feeding. With a sharp motion, Yazra’h called them back to her side, though she would have liked to let them finish devouring the traitor while the other captive Hyrillkans watched with appalled apprehension.
“We do not serve a false Mage-Imperator,” said one of the new captives. “You are blinded to the Lightsource. You must be removed so that Ildirans can follow the soul-threads again. Only Imperator Rusa’h can see the true path.”
“Imperator Rusa’h?” Jora’h asked, leaving the chrysalis chair again.
“What is my brother doing?”
Before anyone could answer him, the Mage-Imperator felt his chest clench, as if a crystal blade had pierced his heart after all. Another assassin? A hidden sniper? Pain and shock exploded in his brain. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor.
A shriek reverberated along the thism lines.
Pery’h.
Jora’h had recently detected fear and confusion from the Designate-in-waiting but had been unable to make out the details. As with the small group on Maratha, turmoil was occurring all across the Empire.
But now the worst had happened. It was inconceivable! The soul-thread that bound Pery’h to his father had been chopped away like a limb being amputated.
390
Vaguely, as if from a great distance, Jora’h heard the Isix cats snarling and pacing, looking for a new enemy to attack. Yazra’h herself, though reeling with disorientation from the severed connection with her brother Pery’h, knelt beside her father. Guards and courtiers raced up the steps to the dais, shouting their leader’s name, begging to know what was wrong.
But he could not respond.
Jora’h’s mind pounded with grief and loss. A part of his core was being ripped away.
“Pery’h is dead!” He squeezed his eyes shut and was instantly assailed by even more terrible revelations. His son was not only dead—he had been murdered! Betrayed. “They have slaughtered him on Hyrillka.”
Images of treachery and treason inflicted deeper wounds on his already agonized mind. When the horror finally faded to a persistent throbbing ache inside his skull, Jora’h blinked his eyes open to find aghast expressions on the people around him in the reception hall.
Yazra’h helped her father back up from the floor. He swayed for a moment, then planted his feet firmly and spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
“Pery’h has been assassinated. My own brother Rusa’h has declared war on the Ildiran Empire.”
1065ADAR ZAN’NH
On routine patrol with his maniple of warliners, Zan’nh demonstrated his resolve to the Ildiran people. He needed to be seen, to appear strong, though he was not at all sure the Solar Navy could protect the splinter colonies against the formidable enemies they now faced. But the people themselves must believe it, and so he would live up to their expectations.
He remembered when Adar Kori’nh had sat in his command quarters, A D A R Z A N ’ N H
391
earnestly focused on Zan’nh’s education. “Your doubt is an enemy’s greatest weapon. As Adar, you are a microcosm of the entire Solar Navy. If the leader himself is strong and confident, then so is the fleet.”
Zan’nh felt overshadowed by his great predecessor. The former Adar had been superior to him in tactical abilities and sheer courage, and it still hadn’t been enough to ensure victory. Kori’nh’s suicidal bravery had struck a great blow against the hydrogues, but he had not won the war by any means. The hydrogues continued to strike back.
Standing in the command nucleus prepared to give his next order, Zan’nh suddenly gripped the support rails, staggering with internal shock as he felt the powerful ripples of . . . Pery’h? His brother was dead!
When Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h had unexpectedly died, every living person in the Empire had reeled in utter disbelief, because the thism linked them directly to their leader. But the execution of the Designate-in-waiting sent only a shiver of unease through Zan’nh’s crew. He alone knew what the jolt signified.
“Prepare to change course.” His voice sounded strange and raw, but not broken. Decisive. “We must return to Ildira immediately! I have felt something through the thism.”
“Yes, Adar.”
The warliner’s bridge crew began plotting the course while they relayed Zan’nh’s command to the other forty-eight ships accompanying them. The well-organized maniple turned on its new course in perfect formation.
A clamor of alarms swept across the communications console. The surprised operator quickly responded. “You are correct, Adar. I’ve just received an emergency signal from”—he checked the details on his screen—
“from the splinter world of Hrel-oro.”
“Hrel-oro?” That wasn’t what he had sensed at all.
Zan’nh turned to the projected message on the main display screen.
The narrow reptilian face of a scaly kithman appeared, smoke-blackened and frantic, his slitted eyes blinking rapidly. “—attack. We cannot fight them! We don’t know what they want.”
Behind the scaly man came explosions and humming crackles. Overhead, a giant sphere drifted across the sky, and a few moments later five others came after it. Gouts of freezing icewaves flowed out. Colony build-