Scattered Suns - Kevin J. Anderson [147]
Jora’h cursed Rusa’h and especially Thor’h for this insane revolt, when the Ildiran Empire faced a far more dangerous enemy in the hydrogues. What was more important, a civil war...or the possible extinction of the Ildiran race?
Nevertheless, he was already preparing. Tal O’nh had drawn together maniple after maniple of warliners from their patrols of Ildiran colonies, assembling a full cohort of battleships, which left other Ildiran worlds vulnerable should the hydrogues attack again.
By now the Dobro Designate would be en route to Hyrillka to deliver his answer to Rusa’h. Jora’h and Udru’h had discussed many possible strategies before deciding upon one of Udru’h’s suggestions. The tactic seemed unlikely to the point of foolishness, but it was a hair-thin chance. As far as they could judge, the next best solution would involve the deaths of thousands, perhaps millions, of deluded Ildirans.
If it came to that, the Mage-Imperator had made up his mind to stop this spreading cancer across the thism. Tal O’nh would command hundreds of ships with orders to do what they must. A bloody slaughter. Even if he crushed the Hyrillka rebels completely with superior military might, could the Mage-Imperator and the Ildiran race survive such a mortal wound to their psyche? He needed another way out.
Attenders had carried him here in his chrysalis chair, but Jora’h refused to sit in it. Alone in the private chamber, he paced the floor. He held one of the broken chunks of Theron wood in his hands, gazing into it as if it were an oracle.
His eyes sparkled with faint tears as he followed the woodgrain’s eerie convolutions. Most of the char had been cut away, leaving only a dark fringe on the side. No carver or artisan had shaped this wood; it was raw and primal material, broken from an ancient sentient tree that had once been a mortal enemy of the hydrogues. The patterns were hypnotic, strangely shifting, as if with a remembered pulse of sap or blood. Could these paths of grain be the artifacts of thoughts imprinted by the immense worldforest mind?
Jora’h turned the wood over in his hands. So much of the decor around the Prism Palace made use of colored crystal, angled mirrors, and prisms. The warmth of this wood would add an extraordinary touch. And the worldtree wood would remind him of Nira everywhere he looked.
As he gazed into the whorls and loops and delicate traceries, Jora’h recalled the beautiful green priest. How she had loved Theroc! How often they had held each other after lovemaking, while she told him of her youth as an acolyte, reciting stories to the trees, reading aloud from tales of ancient Earth. Those stories were what had originally fascinated her with the Saga of Seven Suns and why she had wanted to study the Ildiran epic. She and old Otema had busied themselves reading the Saga aloud to their potted treelings, so that the worldforest could share in the grand story.
Were some of these patterns the permanent marks of stories Nira herself had told? He ran his fingertip along the lines, tracing them as if he could pick up some sort of signal. Though the wood felt oddly slick and pliable to his touch, he received no direct communication from it.
He set the wood aside, still feeling the pain of Nira’s unexpected death, just when he’d meant to rescue her. He had believed his father’s lies about what had happened to her, and he had not thought to question Designate Udru’h about the sinister activities on Dobro. By being so gullible, Jora’h felt that he too had betrayed Nira. He should have been more suspicious, should have asked questions. He had learned the truth far too late...and now she was dead.
Grieving for so many things, the Mage-Imperator went to a curved window that was so sparkling clear it might have been formed of solidified air. He stared out at Mijistra, the ornate colors and sweeping architecture