A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [195]
The problem had to be resolved. Somehow. And soon.
He sat grimly in his chrysalis chair, the loose fatty folds around his close-set eyes narrowed as he contemplated the wisest course of action. In a turbulent century of rule, Cyroc’h had faced many crises, but none that had struck so close to his heart.
He must either kill his eldest son, the only Prime Designate—or make him see the light.
After his confrontation with Jora’h, the leader refused to hold court under the skysphere. From atop its pillar of light, his benevolent holographic image still looked down upon the awed pilgrims, who had traversed the seven streams and climbed the steps into the PrismPalace, but Cyroc’h was unable to face his subjects while his mind roiled with a thunderstorm of doubt and indecision.
Because Jora’h had vowed to take a ship and go to Dobro, the Mage-Imperator grounded all vessels, thwarting him. He refused even to allow trade ships to leave Mijistra, regardless of the immediate cost to the Ildiran economy.
But such measures could never last. Jora’h was intelligent, resourceful, and vengefully determined. His defiant son would find a way to implement his wild and senseless plan.
Cyroc’h had to act soon. Any continued confusion or reticence on his part would be sensed by all Ildirans and create even more chaos than if he made the wrong choice. A Mage-Imperator did not have the luxury of feeling helpless.
Lances of pain raced uncontrollably through his dying nervous system, as if the predatory growths in his brain had gone rabid. He had to endure the agony, and pretend not to show it. It was not possible for the Mage-Imperator to consume drugs and pain-deadeners, not even stimulants like shiing. While they dulled his discomfort, they also made him lose his grip on the strands of thism. And that he could not allow.
In a hoarse voice, he called, “Bron’n, assist me! Bring the attenders.”
The burly guard shouted for the diminutive servants. Jabbering, small-statured attenders rushed in with no goal but to please and pamper the Mage-Imperator. Bron’n stood at attention, gripping the polished staff of his ceremonial katana. Its razor-edged blade glittered like a diamond in the light that ricocheted through the Palace’s transparent walls.
Cyroc’h activated controls in his chrysalis chair and its configuration changed, tilting forward so that it could be moved like a palanquin. The attenders bustled around him, applying salve to his skin, wiping smudges from the surface of the chair, adding blankets and cushions, propping up the Mage-Imperator’s head. Two attenders lovingly stroked his twitching braid.
When they were ready, Bron’n thumped his katana staff on the glossy floor, and they set off. “What is our destination, Liege?”
“I wish to visit the Hyrillka Designate.” He drew a deep breath, driving back disappointment and obligation. “Take me to the medical chambers.”
“As you command, Liege.”
They began an impromptu procession through arched hallways and descended past waterfalls that poured down gem-encrusted chutes. Courtiers, bureaucrats, and pilgrims stared in amazement and scurried out of the way.
Word traveled ahead of them, and by the time they reached the infirmary chambers, two medical kithmen came forward, proud but intimidated by the Mage-Imperator’s presence. “Has your condition worsened, Liege?” said one of the doctors, looking distressed. He flared his nostrils and sniffed, trying to detect any stronger hint of illness.
“No, I am here to look upon my son Rusa’h.”
“There has been no change in the Hyrillka Designate,” said another