A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [196]
“Nevertheless, I will see him.” Then he lowered his voice. “And as for my own body’s failings, if you speak of it aloud once more, I will have you executed.” Now, more than ever, the Ildirans must not know of their leader’s weakness.
The doctors, suddenly realizing what they had revealed, looked at each other in horror. Cyroc’h knew that Bron’n could be absolutely trusted, and he would see to it that this small group of attenders was quietly assassinated as soon as he finished this visit. Necessary decisions. The secret of his terminal illness could not be revealed—not yet. The people must not despair.
The attenders brought the chrysalis chair beside Rusa’h‘s motionless form so that the Mage-Imperator could gaze into the lost face of his third son. The Hyrillka Designate had been chubby and pampered, unhealthy…weak.
Jora’h, the eldest, had always been proud and satisfied, a dreamer—impractical and naïve. His second born, the Dobro Designate, was grim and staunchly devoted, though without much compassion. Rusa’h, on the other hand, had been spoiled and happy-go-lucky, without a care in the world except for food, drugs, and his beloved pleasure mates. When the hydrogues had devastated Hyrillka, the Designate had tumbled into an abyss, and he did not have the will or the mental strength to climb back out.
“You were always soft, Rusa’h…without a backbone.” He began to wonder if his son refused to come out of his unconsciousness simply because he couldn’t face harsh reality.
When he was younger, as Prime Designate, Cyroc’h had also loved many women, but counted only the offspring from the noble kith. Even so, he barely remembered Rusa’h‘s mother. By producing so many children with his bloodline, he was merely manufacturing tools for the Ildiran Empire…just as he himself was a tool.
And Prime Designate Jora’h was now the most important tool of all.
If only the Mage-Imperator had more time. If only the situation weren’t so urgent.
He scowled at his own fumbling weakness, the shooting pains tearing at the inside of his skull like swarming birds of prey. Jora’h must be shaken out of his naïve self-righteousness and take the necessary role of leadership. It was cruel, but mandatory. The Mage-Imperator did not have the time for sympathy.
He motioned abruptly to Bron’n. “What has happened to the Hyrillka Designate is a warning to us all. Our Empire can afford the loss of a useless, hedonistic Designate…but my firstborn son is far more vital to the survival of our people. I dare not lose the Prime Designate as well.”
He decided to order the execution of the two medical kithmen, for good measure. Tying up all loose ends. He would have no further need for doctors—what could they do for him now? Weak-willed Rusa’h would either survive on his own…or simply die in his sub-thism sleep. He was no longer relevant.
“Take me to the skysphere, Bron’n. I will hold court this afternoon.”
“Do you feel strong enough, Liege?” said one of the medical kithmen.
Cyroc’h glowered at him. “I must be strong enough.”
Only after the Prime Designate ascended to become the Mage-Imperator himself would all the soul-threads of thism come to Jora’h. Then the whole tapestry of plans would be revealed to his skeptical mind. Despite his innocence, he would comprehend the necessity of what his father and all the Mage-Imperators before him had done.
And then Jora’h would see that there was no alternative. None at all.
102
NIRA
Dobro had not seen such a terrible season of storms and fires in centuries. For six years now, Nira had watched the cycle of angry weather, using what she had learned as a green priest acolyte to understand the meteorology.
This planet’s climate was hospitable for many months, with sufficient rainfall and calm winds, but then the clouds vanished, the air became arid, and the hills shriveled to brown tinder. Weeds and grasses that flourished during the rainy season dried into a packed, flammable mat. It took