“I can still fly this vessel,” the Teacher compy offered. “Its systems are functional. I am perfectly capable of guiding it out of the fire.”
Estarra felt a surge of relief. “Of course you are, OX!”
The compy placed his polymer hands on the crystal knobs and accessed the complex etched circuitry. The hydrogue engines made no sound; there was no roar of liftoff or blast of rockets, but the small sphere heaved itself up from the ground. OX guided them higher, above the conflagration, above the torch trees.
Across the sweep of the canopy Estarra spotted other islands of fire where faeros had caught on specific trees, perhaps weak points in the telink network, or places where Yarrod’s green priests had inadvertently created a vulnerability. But most of the worldforest had not yet succumbed. It was bad, she knew, but it could have been worse.
Past the circle of fire that had trapped them, they saw many Therons running to scattered Roamer cargo craft. “Better land among them, OX,” Peter said, his eyes darting from side to side as he raced through possible options. “We might need those vessels to take people to safety.”
“Eleven large military ships have just arrived in orbit, King Peter,” the Teacher compy announced. “They belong to the Earth Defense Forces.”
Estarra felt sick inside as she jumped to the obvious conclusion. “The EDF is attacking us now?”
Peter’s left hand unconsciously tightened. “Damn the Chairman! Send a message, OX. Tell them that we intend to vigorously resist any Hansa aggression. Don’t let them think we’re vulnerable.”
An older woman’s voice replied to the transmission in a hard drawl; Estarra recognized Admiral Willis. “King Peter, I’m not here to give you a black eye — I came to offer a helping hand. Looks like you could use it, too. My ships and I no longer serve Chairman Wenceslas.”
“That’s good news, Admiral, but as you can see, we’re in the middle of an emergency here. I don’t have time for formalities.”
“Then I’m glad we got here when we did. I’m coming down in a shuttle — if you promise not to shoot me out of the sky.”
“That’s a promise.”
OX guided the derelict into the open area among several intact worldtrees where Therons had gathered. Peter and Estarra emerged from the hatch and tried to organize all the people. Before long, an EDF command shuttle descended toward their position, alarming many of those gathered there, especially Roamers, but Peter called for calm.
When Willis disembarked, she ran an appraising eye over the royal couple. She straightened, gave a salute, then a bow, as if she wasn’t sure which gesture was expected. “I was hoping to be a bit more diplomatic about this, King Peter, but the circumstances are unusual. The eleven capital ships under my command have come to throw in our hats with the Confederation. Could you use a few battleships?”
Estarra couldn’t believe the offer, especially considering what she’d expected. “We certainly wouldn’t turn them down, Admiral — but right now we’ve got our hands full with other problems. Can you help us?”
Peter added, “I don’t suppose you have any experience with wildfires?”
Willis answered with a shrug of bravado. “How about we consider this our first assignment on your behalf?”
9
Nira
As the only green priest imprisoned on the Moon with the Ildiran captives, Nira felt cut off, unaware of what else might be happening in the Spiral Arm. The base commandant kept them separated in randomly chosen groups “for security reasons” — guard kithmen, Solar Navy soldiers, attenders, bureaucrats, even Rememberer Vao’sh and his companion Anton Colicos.
The rock walls of the lunar base were cold and dry, sealed with transparent polymer, but Nira tasted dust in every breath. The lights were painfully artificial, too bright, too white. She longed for something green and alive.
But she felt a much greater concern for the Mage-Imperator than for herself. She could see in his red, haunted eyes and jerky mannerisms that Jora’h was desperate and lost. Her heart went out to him, filled with love, fear, and indignation at what Chairman Wenceslas had done to him — and Nira’s pain could be only a whisper of the ragged agony Jora’h must be feeling through the thism. His people needed him!
The Mage-Imperator knew that Rusa’h and the faeros had unleashed an inferno in the capital city of Mijistra, driving Prime Designate Daro’h out of the Prism Palace, and destroying many warliners in Adar Zan’nh’s Solar Navy. When the fiery attack had begun, Nira had briefly received information through a treeling aboard the warliner. Through his thism connection, the Mage-Imperator had sensed the panic and death of many Ildirans. And just when the people needed their leader more than ever before, Chairman Wenceslas had seized Jora’h’s warliner and brought them all here as political prisoners. Hostages.
“I can still feel it,” Jora’h said to her. The star-sapphire glint in his eyes showed an edge of frenzy. His hands trembled, and his long braid had begun to unravel. “Ildira is wounded.”
The Chairman refused to set him free. Though he knew the faeros were attacking Ildira, he remained oblivious to the urgency — or perhaps, Nira thought, he was well aware of the situation and was using it for his own purposes.
The dozen bestial-looking guard kithmen growled and flexed their clawed fingers as they prowled the perimeter of the former mess hall where the hostages were allowed to gather. Though stripped of their crystal katanas, the hopelessly outnumbered guards were ready to tear the humans apart, given the slightest signal from their Mage-Imperator. Nira tried to calm Jora’h, and as he relaxed, so did the guard kithmen.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Jora’h turned to whoever was coming, setting his face in a hard, commanding expression. Even under these appalling circumstances he clung to a pride and dignity that Nira admired. She moved next to him, offering all her support.
Five EDF soldiers with rifles on their shoulders marched to the doorway and stopped. Base Commandant Tilton, a man with large, slightly bulging eyes, entered next and scanned the chamber to assess where everyone was. He had a weak chin that seemed designed for a beard, despite EDF regulations prohibiting facial hair. When Tilton finally spoke in a reedy voice, he addressed someone behind him in the hall. “The room is secure, Mr. Chairman.”
Basil Wenceslas stepped in alone, wearing a business suit that set him apart from all the military personnel. The guard kithmen closed in around the Mage-Imperator, and Jora’h did not tell them to back down. He coldly faced the Hansa Chairman, refusing to address his supposed counterpart with any title or formalities. “My Empire is under attack. Millions, if not billions, of my people are dying because you keep me here. Release me.”
“Certainly . . . provided you agree to a few simple terms. I thought I had made my expectations perfectly clear.” He responded with an obviously false smile. “Break your agreement with Peter and the outlaw Confederation. Declare that he’s a rebel and publicly support me. You can do it all in a single speech.”
Jora’h’s voice was ragged and distraught. “I am the Mage-Imperator. My promises are more than wind. By holding me here, you have declared war on the Ildiran Empire. My Solar Navy will hold you responsible for every Ildiran death that — ”
The Chairman gave him a dismissive wave. “Your Solar Navy is in a shambles. Bluster all you like, but now that I know your battleships are busy fighting the faeros, I have even less to fear from them.”
Jora’h’s journey to Theroc to cement an alliance with the Confederation had been a dramatic move. He had admitted the errors of previous Mage-Imperators, and King Peter had suggested that the two great races put their pasts behind them. New leaders, new times, a new future.
But now the relationship between Ildirans and humans — at least these humans — had forever changed.
Ironically, Nira realized that Jora’h’s father, like Chairman Wenceslas, would have betrayed anyone necessary to achieve his own ends and to protect the Empire. He would have had no qualms about br
eaking his alliance with the Confederation and making a pact with the Hansa if it served his purpose; nor would he have balked at breaking the newly made pact to be safe again. Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h had kept many secrets from the Ildiran people and even killed his own rememberers when they discovered too much.
Jora’h, however, was most emphatically not his father. He would never give in to the Hansa’s coercion.
Chairman Wenceslas continued to prod him. “Where is the Confederation now? Are they here to help you? Have they responded to your alleged crisis on Ildira, or have they left you entirely alone? Why remain loyal to such fair-weather friends. Why not end this? You can be on your way in no time.”
“I don’t believe he has any intention of freeing you, Jora’h,” Nira said. “His actions speak clearly enough.”
“I agree. It makes my decision even more straightforward.”
The Chairman was not impressed. “In the meantime, we’ve finished an analysis of your flagship. Or should I say the newest addition to our fleet? Since the Earth Defense Forces have been severely depleted, we need every viable ship. Enemies continue to abound . . . in all directions.”
Jora’h said in a cool voice, “Then perhaps you should not have made so many enemies. I will not permit you to incorporate part of the Ildiran Solar Navy into your military.”
The Chairman shrugged. “It’s a perfectly functional ship. I can’t let it go to waste.” He turned to Commandant Tilton. “Send word to Admiral Diente to prepare for a thorough test cruise.” Recognizing the name of the man who had ambushed the Mage-Imperator’s warliner on its way from Theroc, Nira scowled.
The Chairman flashed Jora’h a distasteful smile. “Admiral Diente will take your ship far outside our solar system to see what it can do. And, since you still need to come to your senses, I have decided that you will accompany him — all alone, so you’ll have uninterrupted time for contemplation.”
“If you isolate him from all Ildiran contact, he’ll go insane,” Nira cried. “Even the Mage-Imperator can’t bear that.”
“Oh, dear. That hadn’t occurred to me.” The Chairman’s voice was rich with sarcasm. “He can change his mind anytime he likes.” He waited, but Jora’h did not respond. Annoyed, Basil Wenceslas shook his head. “I am so tired of people being obstinate and intractable instead of pulling their own weight to solve a crisis that affects us all.” As if a timer had gone off, he signaled the guards in the hall. “That is all the time I can devote to the matter. I must get back to Earth. Admiral Diente has his orders. Enjoy your solitary journey, Mage-Imperator. I trust it will help you to think more clearly.”
10
Prime Designate Daro’h
Mijistra was on fire, and the faeros reveled in it.
Thanks to the sacrifices of countless guard kithmen, Prime Designate Daro’h had escaped from the Prism Palace along with his sister Yazra’h and Nira’s five half-breed children. They had barely gotten away from the flaming avatar of Rusa’h as he surged through the crystalline corridors, destroying everything in his path.
On a barren hilltop far outside of Mijistra, Daro’h ached as he observed the sprawling shape of the glorious city. In the distance, the faeros continued to bombard the Ildiran capital.
To save as many of his people as possible, the Prime Designate had commanded a mass exodus, ordering all kiths to flee into the countryside while fireballs continued to hover over the skyline. Crowds of refugees streamed into the open hills, following rivers, looking for places to hide. Several Solar Navy warliners cruised low to the ground, delivering more survivors and supplies.
Next to Daro’h, Yazra’h also stared at the spectacle, her eyes like hard chips of topaz. His sister’s mane of long, coppery hair drifted in the breeze. “Clustering together makes the people vulnerable. They have no defenses if the faeros decide to incinerate them. They cannot fight.” Although one of her Isix cats had been burned to death during Rusa’h’s conquest, the remaining two prowled around her legs.
“So far the faeros have not chosen to attack,” Daro’h said. “I must postulate — I must believe — that annihilating the Ildiran people does not serve the faeros plans. Rusa’h seems to be in control of them. He wants something more — the Mage-Imperator, perhaps.”
But their father was not on Ildira. In fact, no one knew where Jora’h was.
Yazra’h crossed her arms over her chest. “Nevertheless, I will not let you stay in one of the open camps or exposed villages, Prime Designate.”
“You want me to hide.”
She gave him a hard look. “I want you to survive. I swore an oath to protect you.” With the Mage-Imperator missing, Ildirans had no one else to look to; Daro’h was their de facto leader.
Yazra’h had found a set of deep caves and mining tunnels in the mountains not far from Mijistra. “I have chosen the best defensive location I can. Adar Zan’nh is anxious to take you there.” She glanced uneasily up at the sky. “He feels you are too vulnerable out here, and so do I.”
Daro’h held his overwhelmed emotions in check, so they would not bleed into the thism. “Although it pains me to surrender our city to the faeros, we must choose our battles wisely.” He took a last look at the troop carriers and supply streamers crisscrossing the skies. “I will do as you suggest. Summon the Adar.”
Riding aboard a small, swift cutter, Daro’h sat next to one of the windows, staring out at the landscape, shocked by how much it had changed. Osira’h and her half-breed siblings had joined him as well, singed and bedraggled but very much alive.
“We are establishing as many camps as we can,” Zan’nh reported, piloting the cutter himself. “The Solar Navy is delivering food, medical supplies, tools, and prefabricated shelters.”
The Adar had already learned that his warliners could not fight the blazing ships directly; to extinguish a single fireball, he had sacrificed two warliners with their full crews. Now only five warliners remained of the septa he had brought to Ildira. The rest of the Solar Navy, the ragged remnants of his cohorts that had survived the climactic battle against the hydrogues, were dispersed thinly across the Ildiran Empire to watch over all the splinter colonies. Tabitha Huck and her work crews had been rapidly assembling new warliners in the orbiting industrial facilities when Rusa’h had arrived.
And so Zan’nh had explicitly instructed the captains of his few ships trapped at Ildira not to engage the faeros in direct conflict. Solar Navy ships returning from their routine patrols received transmitted orders to station themselves at the edge of the star system, waiting for an opportunity to move. They could not win, and he could not risk losing more warliners. Daro’h knew how much it galled Adar Zan’nh to issue those “cowardly” orders; nevertheless, the warliner captains obeyed and kept their large vessels ready — and safe.
“With your permission, Prime Designate, one of my captains has requested to take a warliner filled with refugees and attempt to flee this planet.” Zan’nh turned from his piloting controls. “We can load ten thousand of them from the most exposed camps and fly them to safety.”
Daro’h considered. “That warliner would not be able to return. Can we afford to lose it?”
“My warliners cannot fight the faeros, Prime Designate. At least this could save ten thousand lives.”
“Then it is a good choice. Tell the captain he has my blessing to make the attempt.”
The cutter flew toward the barren cliffs, and Daro’h saw small holes in the overhangs, caves accessed by wide gravel roads laid down centuries ago by digger kithmen. They landed on a broad rocky ledge. “Tal O’nh and Hyrillka Designate Ridek’h are already in the tunnels,” Zan’nh reported. “They have begun to set up the necessary equipment for our new command center.”
Daro’h emerged from the craft, looking in dismay at the round tunnel that was to be their new home for now. Yazra’h gave him a scolding look before he could say anything. “For all its magnificence, the Prism Palace is merely a structure. Remember, you are the Prime Designate. Y
ou are currently our leader. You matter more than Mijistra.”
Daro’h tried to convince himself that it was true. He had to make sure he was worthy of that faith in him.
11
Faeros Incarnate Rusa’h
Rusa’h settled into his rightful place like a bright coal at the heart of a blazing bonfire. With its towers, minarets, and gemlike ceilings, the Prism Palace was meant to be his — not for his own ambitions, but for the Ildiran race . . . and for the resurrection of the faeros and the bright igniting of the universe. Rusa’h had taken action for his people, for Ildira, for all those who had lost their way to the Lightsource.
Once he was ensconced in what remained of the skysphere, his power should have begun spreading like wildfire. He had tried to weave another thism web, to save some Ildirans by the necessary purging and sacrifice of others. But this new victory was not what Rusa’h had expected. Though bright soul-threads bound him to the faeros and the Ildiran people under his care, he still felt alone.
Although the faeros had helped him, they wanted more . . . always more. Every combustible object in the Palace had already burned. If he gave them free rein, the fireballs would surge across the landscape consuming everything, stealing every Ildiran soulfire they could find in order to spark new young faeros. He did his best to prevent a total Armageddon.
Rusa’h had shown the flaming elementals how to defeat the hydrogues. He was the faeros incarnate, but he was also the savior of the Ildiran Empire.
At the moment, his faeros were sweeping around the Spiral Arm to reclaim their cold, dead stars. The fiery elementals had already extinguished a major concentration of wentals on Charybdis and, thanks to the discovery Rusa’h had shown them, newborn faeros had raced along soul-threads of thism/telink to Theroc. The battle with the worldtrees was already raging, burning . . . burning.
But Rusa’h had to keep at least part of Ildira intact. He had to hold the faeros in check.
The Ashes of Worlds Page 5
