A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [228]
Jora’h grabbed the flaccid arm, as if there might still be hope, but he knew from the echoes of severed thism that his father was dead. The Mage-Imperator had fallen, returned to the Lightsource.
Jora’h grabbed the empty vial, saw a tiny droplet of acid blue liquid inside. “But why?” he demanded of the lifeless body. “Why would you do this, Father? I need your leadership. I need your guidance. How am I to lead the people now? I wasn’t ready.”
Then he did comprehend, and he had to hold the edge of the chrysalis chair just to keep his balance. This was his father’s desperate plan for him. Once all the strands of thism came to him, when Jora’h held the web for himself and connected with the trickles of holy light from a higher plane, then he would understand far more than the Mage-Imperator could have taught him.
“You should have prevented him from doing this, Bron’n.” He glared over his shoulder at the guard, who stood devastated at the doorway.
“I serve the Mage-Imperator,” he said again like a mantra.
“I am the Mage-Imperator now!”
“Not yet. Not until you complete the ceremony and control the thism. Until then, we have no Mage-Imperator.”
Overwhelmed and distraught, Jora’h began to grasp everything that would change now, all that he would have to do. As long as there was no Mage-Imperator, as long as the thism remained severed, the Ildiran race would be disconnected, wandering…and it would only grow worse with time. As a people, they would suffer incredible psychological damage—and perhaps more. They might all go insane.
He had no choice but to assume the role as soon as possible, though it would take days to summon all of the Designates here to Mijistra. Still, it must be done.
Jora’h turned back to the chrysalis chair and clutched his father’s sleeve. Cyroc’h had known he was dying, but this sudden decision that forced the Prime Designate to take over the Ildiran Empire—it was too much.
Then he realized with a terrible sinking sensation that with his defiance about Nira, his insistence on rushing to Dobro despite his father’s strict command, he himself had driven the Mage-Imperator to this awful act.
Now he could not possibly go to help her. He had to stay and do his best to hold the Empire together.
In the corridor outside the chamber, while the Prime Designate continued to grieve over the body of the great ruler, Bron’n stood rigidly at attention.
He had followed instructions, obeying his duty…but Bron’n also accepted his own portion of the blame. He extended his arms outward, tilted the katana spear, and brought the crystal point toward himself. Carefully, he placed the sharp blade against his uniform’s lower breastplate. He pushed it in far enough so that the point penetrated the armor and cut into his skin, drawing blood and a line of sharp pain.
Enough to know that his positioning was true.
Bracing the handle of the spear against the wall, Bron’n thrust himself forward, pushing his body with all his bestial strength. He coughed blood from his fanged mouth; then, growling, he shoved even harder until the katana blade penetrated up through his heart. His determination and his automatic muscles continued to move even after the mortal blow, and the bloody spearpoint sprouted out through his back…
When he heard the guard collapse, Jora’h ran out of the chamber to the fallen armored body. Understanding what Bron’n had done, the Prime Designate raised his eyes beseechingly toward the shining suns in the sky. But he could see little light, feel little warmth.
119
ADAR KORI’NH
The full cohort of Solar Navy warliners left the smoldering ruin of the uninhabited planet Dularix. Seven maniples, 343 vessels under the Adar’s command—and still it was another failure.
All vegetation on Dularix had been crisped and frozen, the continents rendered lifeless, down to the soil itself. The mountains were split apart, the landscape blistered, sterilized.
According to the records of old surveys, Dularix had been a pleasant wilderness with pristine