A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [55]
Zan’nh looked grim. “It would require months of concentrated work.”
Much of this skymine was dangerously unstable. People might fall through holes in the decks. Support pillars and derrick extensions might collapse. A loud groan echoed like the yawn of a giant Isix cat deep below.
“And we would never keep it hidden from the hydrogues, would we?”
Zan’nh shook his head. “Impossible, sir.”
The Adar turned as uneasiness swelled within him. He knew it was irrational, but he wanted to be back aboard the patrol craft, flying toward his warliner. He could not let his protégé see his nervousness, though.
“We have made a sufficient inspection. I will tell the Mage-Imperator that, in my opinion, the Daym operations are not worth pursuing.”
“I concur,” Zan’nh answered quickly.
The two of them moved at a rapid clip up the stairs and ladders to the platform where their ship waited, its contours softened by the encroaching cold mists. Although neither man broke into an outright run, they moved much faster than the situation required.
27
PRIME DESIGNATE JORA’H
When his father summoned him for a private consultation, Prime Designate Jora’h did not suspect that his entire world was about to change. Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h had ruled for nearly a century. He led with all the benevolence and wisdom necessary to keep the ancient civilization together. The Ildiran golden age had already lasted for millennia, as chronicled in the Saga of Seven Suns.
As the eldest son and Prime Designate, Jora’h often met with his father to discuss politics and leadership principles. Despite basking in the comforts and conveniences of his noble position, Jora’h had a good heart and wanted to do what was right, in its own time. History and destiny were slow, inexorable barges traveling down a calm river; there never seemed to be any hurry.
Now Jora’h entered the contemplation chamber, pleased to have a private moment with his father and interested in all that he still had to learn about the Empire. He had spent the morning with a delightful new lover from a kith that specialized in preparing food. She’d had a wonderful sense of humor, and he found himself in high spirits.
“Seal the door, Bron’n,” the Mage-Imperator said in a deep, ominous voice. “I want no interruptions.”
As the burly bodyguard sealed the chamber entrance, Jora’h noted the serious expression on his father’s chubby face. “What is it, Father?” Bron’n‘s murky silhouette, tall and monstrous, remained on the other side of the door.
The Mage-Imperator’s eyes were dark and glittering, set deep within folds of fat. “Hear me well, Jora’h. You have always known this day would come.”
The Prime Designate felt a queasy apprehension in his stomach. “What is it?”
“I am dying. Tumors have invaded my body, and they will keep growing until they choke me to death from within.” He said the words in a flat tone, as if issuing a minor proclamation. “I am already preparing myself for a final journey into the Lightsource. But you have even more work to do, for you will remain behind.”
Jora’h gasped, taking an uncertain step forward. “But…that cannot be true! You are the Mage-Imperator. Let me summon the medical kithmen.”
“Do not waste time or effort in childish denial. My life’s tale is reaching its end, and yours is about to begin a new chapter.”
Jora’h steeled himself and drew a deep breath. He swallowed hard, hoping some of the shock would fade. “Yes, Father. I am listening.”
“I have been unable to move from this chair in many decades—and not because of any silly tradition that the Mage-Imperator’s feet cannot touch the floor. A long-term insidious growth has infested my central nervous system, my spine, my brain. Already, the pain in my head is constant and growing steadily worse. Within a year or so, I will weaken to the point where I cannot breathe, my heart will not beat.
“At that time, you will be called upon to be the new Mage-Imperator. You will undergo the ritual ceremony and lose your manhood. My skull will go into the ossuarium to glow beside all