Scattered Suns - Kevin J. Anderson [235]
During the course of this rebellion, his brother had underestimated him, and now it seemed Rusa’h had made the same mistake. The Mage-Imperator’s control of the thism, though twisted, was powerful...too powerful.
How could the false leader control so much, if his understanding was warped, if he had gone completely astray? Why did the Lightsource not give Rusa’h, the true Imperator, a crushing retaliation to prove the validity of his claims?
“The forces of our enemy are strong,” one of his pleasure mates said, sidling against him, though her eyes and her body language were edgy and sharp. “Is there no way the Lightsource can aid us?”
From his ornate chrysalis chair, Rusa’h turned to the open sky, so that his retinas burned with Hyrillka’s blue-white primary sun. During his sub-thism sleep, he had seen the answers so clearly. He had walked in a realm of absolute purity; he had followed the soul-threads and knew their true pattern. His head injury had liberated him, enlightened him.
Rusa’h clenched his hands on the arms of the chair and stared into the dazzling light, seeking an answer, but he saw no clear paths anymore. He was sure that he had not been deluded. The thism threads were fading; he could not understand what the Lightsource wanted him to do now. The sun itself seemed to call him, showing him a way to protect himself. He must flee these slaves of a once-glorious Empire that was now based on lies.
One of his septars stood before him delivering a report. “Our citadel palace is entirely besieged, Imperator. All but Prime Designate Thor’h’s lead warliner and two others have been recaptured by the enemy.”
The other septar said, “We still have numerous loyal soldiers willing to throw down their lives before they allow the false Mage-Imperator through.”
Rusa’h pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, Jora’h has the soldiers and the weapons to break through whenever he chooses—if he is willing to accept casualties.” His pleasure mates stood close, caressing him, as he weighed the possibilities. “Will my brother make such a sacrifice?”
“Ildirans do not kill Ildirans,” said the first septar. “He will never attack us directly.”
Rusa’h narrowed his eyes. He had made that assumption before, and he had been wrong. “No. He will hesitate, but he will do it.” Rusa’h nodded. “Jora’h has already broken with many of our traditions. Look at him now at the bottom of the hill. He stands with his sacred feet on the ground like a common servant. Back at the Prism Palace, his own daughter, a noble-born female, is his personal guard. Since we have justifiably killed Ildirans, my brother will concoct a similar justification to do the same to us.”
“Either way,” said the second septar, “we have lost, Imperator. Hyrillka will fall. We do not have the personnel, the weapons, or the warliners to maintain our hold. We cannot get reinforcements from the other worlds that have joined our rebellion.”
Rusa’h listened to the military preparations outside, the sounds made by his own defenders and Jora’h’s far more numerous Solar Navy troops. Overhead, nearly four hundred warliners cruised and converged. Thor’h had only three ships left to stand against them.
Rusa’h could do nothing to salvage his crusade.
He drew a deep breath. “Let me speak with the Prime Designate. I have final instructions for him.”
Thor’h was barely maintaining control over his three warliners, while all of the other vessels continued to wear down the former Prime Designate. The Adar could have destroyed the rampaging rebel ship at any time, but for some reason Zan’nh held back. Jora’h had probably issued orders for them to capture Thor’h alive.
Perhaps Rusa’h would have enough time...
“Prime Designate, I had meant for you to be my successor to the true Lightsource, but we have failed,” the Imperator said over