The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [21]
And so Zan’nh had explicitly instructed the captains of his few ships trapped at Ildira not to engage the faeros in direct conflict. Solar Navy ships returning from their routine patrols received transmitted orders to station themselves at the edge of the star system, waiting for an opportunity to move. They could not win, and he could not risk losing more warliners. Daro’h knew how much it galled Adar Zan’nh to issue those “cowardly” orders; nevertheless, the warliner captains obeyed and kept their large vessels ready — and safe.
“With your permission, Prime Designate, one of my captains has requested to take a warliner filled with refugees and attempt to flee this planet.” Zan’nh turned from his piloting controls. “We can load ten thousand of them from the most exposed camps and fly them to safety.”
Daro’h considered. “That warliner would not be able to return. Can we afford to lose it?”
“My warliners cannot fight the faeros, Prime Designate. At least this could save ten thousand lives.”
“Then it is a good choice. Tell the captain he has my blessing to make the attempt.”
The cutter flew toward the barren cliffs, and Daro’h saw small holes in the overhangs, caves accessed by wide gravel roads laid down centuries ago by digger kithmen. They landed on a broad rocky ledge. “Tal O’nh and Hyrillka Designate Ridek’h are already in the tunnels,” Zan’nh reported. “They have begun to set up the necessary equipment for our new command center.”
Daro’h emerged from the craft, looking in dismay at the round tunnel that was to be their new home for now. Yazra’h gave him a scolding look before he could say anything. “For all its magnificence, the Prism Palace is merely a structure. Remember, you are the Prime Designate. You are currently our leader. You matter more than Mijistra.”
Daro’h tried to convince himself that it was true. He had to make sure he was worthy of that faith in him.
* * *
* * *
11
Faeros Incarnate Rusa’h
Rusa’h settled into his rightful place like a bright coal at the heart of a blazing bonfire. With its towers, minarets, and gemlike ceilings, the Prism Palace was meant to be his — not for his own ambitions, but for the Ildiran race . . . and for the resurrection of the faeros and the bright igniting of the universe. Rusa’h had taken action for his people, for Ildira, for all those who had lost their way to the Lightsource.
Once he was ensconced in what remained of the skysphere, his power should have begun spreading like wildfire. He had tried to weave another thism web, to save some Ildirans by the necessary purging and sacrifice of others. But this new victory was not what Rusa’h had expected. Though bright soul-threads bound him to the faeros and the Ildiran people under his care, he still felt alone.
Although the faeros had helped him, they wanted more . . . always more. Every combustible object in the Palace had already burned. If he gave them free rein, the fireballs would surge across the landscape consuming everything, stealing every Ildiran soulfire they could find in order to spark new young faeros. He did his best to prevent a total Armageddon.
Rusa’h had shown the flaming elementals how to defeat the hydrogues. He was the faeros incarnate, but he was also the savior of the Ildiran Empire.
At the moment, his faeros were sweeping around the Spiral Arm to reclaim their cold, dead stars. The fiery elementals had already extinguished a major concentration of wentals on Charybdis and, thanks to the discovery Rusa’h had shown them, newborn faeros had raced along soul-threads of thism/telink to Theroc. The battle with