A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [253]
Without a word, as the survivors on Theroc watched through smoke-filled skies, the faeros also departed. They had repelled the hydrogues, but they had left much of the worldforest in flames.
The war had just gotten far worse.
129
MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
Court musicians pounded drums that rumbled like deep bass thunder. Others played strange instruments in an uplifting yet mournful tune that combined grief for the loss of Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h and celebration for the ascension of Jora’h. The most talented Ildiran singers stood together, raising their voices in a keening note that played the nerves of the audience like musical instruments.
With a deepening ache in his heart, Jora’h took another step forward. The past surrounded him, full of memories and lost opportunities…and the future tried to suck him down with so many unanswered questions.
In a few moments, his days of sex and romance would end with the completion of the ceremony. But Jora’h‘s longing to see Nira again could not be so easily cut away with the silver slash of a medical kithman’s knife. He wondered if any of the Mage-Imperators preceding him had ever fallen in love. He grimly promised himself that not everything would change. Not everything.
How he had longed to rush to Dobro, to rescue Nira—but he could not, certainly not while the Empire simmered on the verge of panic, desperate to have their leader back. He must do this first.
But afterward…
Burly bodyguards accompanied his slow progress before all the spectators in the Palace. The drums pounded louder, echoing the beat of Jora’h‘s heart. Torchlike blazers shone multicolored glows that reflected on the crystalline walls, shimmering through the colored panes.
Jora’h climbed the dais under the yawning skysphere filled with birds and plants and flowers. Overhead, a blank cloud of mist hung atop a pillar of light, without a holographic image now that Cyroc’h‘s benevolent face could no longer look down upon petitioners in the reception hall.
Soon, Mage-Imperator Jora’h‘s own features would watch over the Ildiran Empire.
A lens kithman stood alone at the far end of the dais. Three medical kithmen formed a close triangle around the empty chrysalis chair. They wore impeccable white-and-silver robes. A table displayed their jeweled instruments, light sparkling off the razor-sharp blades. Jora’h glanced at the wicked-looking tools; then he fixed his gaze forward. Concentrating.
Every male in the Ildiran Empire had cut off his hair upon the death of the Mage-Imperator, except for Jora’h, whose hair now thrashed about, alive with agitation. Over the years of his reign, his hair would continue to grow, and he would eventually braid it into a single long rope, just as his father had done.
He stepped up to the platform and stopped. He squared his shoulders, turned his gaze up to the skysphere. Sunlight made star-sapphire reflections on his irises, but he could not see the thism, the soul-threads of the Lightsource. Soon.
He forced a veneer of calm upon himself. The Empire was watching.
Around Jora’h, the audience stared with fearful hope. Ildira and all the splinter colonies were in turmoil, the people lost without the telepathic safety net that bound them together. All of the Designates, sons of the dead Mage-Imperator, had rushed to Ildira from their scattered planets. Members of all kiths had crowded into buildings and gathering squares, seeking comfort. The whole race was on the verge of irrational panic and confusion. Soon, a racial lethargy or outright insanity might set in, sweeping across the Empire—unless he completed the ascension ceremony.
By becoming Mage-Imperator, Jora’h alone could once again bind the threads of thism. No matter what else he felt or feared, he dared not wait. Not even so he could see Nira again.
Jora’h raised his hands, and the drumbeats, singers, and musical instruments fell silent. He turned slowly, still without speaking. He gazed at the empty chair, which seemed oddly hollow without his corpulent father lying there.
The wide supporting