Horizon Storms - Kevin J. Anderson [12]
Treacheries, schemes, lies—how could he endure everything he knew? Jora’h was now the mind, soul, and figurehead of the Ildiran race. It was not appropriate for him to curse his father’s memory, but that didn’t stop him…
The previous Mage-Imperator had killed himself, seeing his own death as the only way to force his son to inherit the Empire’s cruel secrets. Jora’h was still reeling from the revelations. Much as he disliked what he had learned, he understood the rationale for those hateful deeds. He had never suspected the hidden danger to the Ildiran Empire or the slim, desperate hope of salvation, which could be achieved only if he continued the experiments on Dobro.
Jora’h was handsome, smooth-featured, with golden hair bound back into a braid that would eventually grow long, like his father’s. Over time, his classic features might change, too, as he evolved into his sedentary, supposedly benevolent role. His sheltered life as Prime Designate had not prepared him to imagine the awful things that were happening where he couldn’t see them. But now, through the thism, he knew everything. It was exactly as his father had intended, both a gift and a curse.
And now he was compelled to continue the same acts, when all he wanted was to see his beloved and imprisoned Nira again. If nothing else, he would free her. That, at least, he could do—as soon as he finished the transition of leadership and found a way to leave the PrismPalace.
Now, exercising extreme care, gaunt handlers washed the former leader’s heavy body, preparing it. Cyroc’h‘s ample flesh sagged on his bones like a rubbery fabric that would easily peel away from his skeleton.
Diminutive servants, gibbering with despair, pushed forward frenetically to assist, but they had no place here during this ceremony, and Jora’h sternly sent them away. Some of them would no doubt throw themselves from a turret of the PrismPalace in their grief and misery. But their misery could not compare to his own dismay at all he had learned. No one could help him decide how best to rule, or what to do at Dobro…
“How long will it be?” he asked the handlers.
The stony-faced men looked up from their work. Their leader said in a grim voice, “For an event of such magnitude, Liege, this must be our best work. It is the most important duty we will ever perform.”
“Of course.” Jora’h continued to observe in silence.
Wearing armored gloves, the handlers reached into pots and withdrew handfuls of silvery-gray paste, which they spread thickly and lovingly over the dead Mage-Imperator. They made certain to cover every speck of exposed skin.
Even in the dimness of the preparation room, the paste simmered and began to smoke. The handlers increased their pace, but did not grow sloppy under Jora’h‘s watchful gaze. When the Mage-Imperator was completely slathered, they wrapped his body with an opaque cloth, then announced their readiness.
“To the roof,” Jora’h said from his chrysalis chair. “And call all of the Designates.”
The dead Mage-Imperator’s sons, along with Jora’h‘s own children, assembled on the highest transparent platform atop the spherical domes of the Prism Palace. The dazzling light of multiple suns washed down on them.
As Jora’h waited in the bright sun, ready to fulfill his role in the ceremony, he scanned the faces of his brothers, the former Designates, who had come from splinter colonies around the Empire, regardless of the shortage of stardrive fuel. Jora’h‘s own group of sons—the next generation of Designates—stood grim and respectful beside their oldest noble brother, Thor’h, who was now the Prime Designate. Pery’h, the Designate-in-waiting for the planet Hyrillka, stood next to his brother Daro’h, the Dobro Designate-in-waiting; others clustered in ranks next to their uncles, whom they would soon replace.
Their awareness that the Hyrillka Designate could not attend and still