A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [226]
Cyroc’h raised his hands in benediction, using much of his remaining strength to sit up. The relentless, throbbing pain inside his skull never diminished. He gazed across the reception hall, drank in the details of the Ildirans who had come to gaze upon him. Overhead in the skysphere terrarium, birds and colorful insects flew about. Blissful, peaceful…but right now, the Lightsource seemed very far away.
As Mage-Imperator for a century, Cyroc’h had guided the Ildiran Empire along its path of destiny, and he had earned his place in the Saga of Seven Suns. His skull would rest beside all the others, glowing for a thousand years within the ossuarium. It was enough.
And if he delayed longer, then everything he had achieved would begin to fall apart. That must not happen.
“I will now retreat into my private contemplation chamber,” he said to all listeners in the hall. “I have given my people every scrap of my ability, and the Ildirans have proved themselves worthy of my leadership. They have repaid my efforts with extravagant works. Remember always that I have appreciated everything the people have done in my name.”
He signaled the attenders, who scurried forward to surround the chrysalis chair. Bron’n followed, obedient but troubled by the Mage-Imperator’s words. Once inside the chamber, the leader shooed away the attenders, who reacted with dismay, begging in high-pitched voices to be allowed to massage his skin, tend his long, lovely braid, apply oils to his hands and feet. But he insisted, “Leave me alone, completely alone.”
Bron’n gestured with his long staff, enforcing the command. He stood at the doorway of the now-empty chamber. The Mage-Imperator gave him a rare, tired smile. “You are my most faithful servant, Bron’n. Wait outside. Seal the door and let no one enter—except for Jora’h.”
Bron’n took one step out into the corridor. “Shall I summon the Prime Designate, Liege?”
The Mage-Imperator gave a strange smile and shook his head. “No need. He will come of his own accord.”
Bron’n asked no further questions but left the Mage-Imperator alone with his decision. Knowing that Jora’h was even now preparing to steal a vessel and rush off in an ill-advised attempt to rescue his lover on Dobro, Cyroc’h did not hesitate. There was no time to hesitate.
He opened a small compartment in his chrysalis chair and removed a vial of acid blue fluid. He had ordered it prepared several days earlier. It was the last service those medical kithmen had performed, questioning what the leader intended with such a deadly liquid. At the time, they had feared he might wish to euthanize the comatose Hyrillka Designate. But the Mage-Imperator had snatched the poison from the doctor’s hand without answering. Later, he had simply ordered Bron’n to arrange for the doctors’ quick and silent execution, thus eliminating all further questions.
Now he held the vial, admiring its beautiful color, which the red-tinted light turned purplish. He drank the poison in a single gulp.
It tasted like bitter fire on his tongue and in his throat. Closing his eyes, the Mage-Imperator lay back in his cushioned womb. The toxic substance would take effect quickly…
He felt the destructive current sweeping through him, eating away at his nerves and muscle control, finally replacing the agony of his tumors with a cold lack of sensation, and then a rush of ascending, hurtling upward toward an even brighter Lightsource.
Jora’h would soon understand his responsibilities—whether or not he wanted to know them. The thism would be merciless.
The Mage-Imperator had no other way to convince his successor. When he passed, the web of thism would be disrupted, the strands severed. The fabric would begin to unravel. Jora’h would be forced to take his place. Forced to do the right thing. He trusted his son to make the right choices.
He had to.
His long braid twitched and struggled, as if gasping for air.