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“I think we can call it a good day’s work,” Crim said. “And let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * *

152

Osira’h

Adar Zan’nh, take me down to Mijistra — whatever is left of it,” said Mage-Imperator Jora’h. “I need to see the city with my own eyes.”

Though apprehensive, the Adar was ready to face the disaster he had left behind. He and Osira’h had rushed away from the faeros without ever witnessing the carnage of the impact. “Yes, Liege.”

Osira’h closed her eyes, already able to feel her siblings down there with Prime Designate Daro’h. She sensed how she, Rod’h, and the others could help the Mage-Imperator vanquish Rusa’h, and she was ready for it. But this would be far worse than facing the hydrogues again at Golgen. She opened her eyes, stepped forward to stand between her parents, and stared at the images of destruction on the viewscreen.

As her father and Adar Zan’nh absorbed the magnitude of what had happened here, Osira’h could feel a wave of their dismay rush through the thism, strong enough to produce a stab of physical pain. Buildings had been flattened for kilometers: towers, museums, political buildings, warehouses, and habitation complexes — all collapsed and burned. The Prism Palace and its perfect elliptical hill had been ground zero for the immense crash; the grand structure, the hill, the seven symmetrical streams — everything was simply gone.

“A part of me has died,” said Jora’h as he gazed in disbelief.

“A part, yes. But not all.” Nira wept to see the holocaust, but she clasped his arm. “We will save the rest.”

Osira’h spoke up. “We need to descend to the surface. They are all down there waiting for us.” She drew a deep breath. “I can do more against the faeros incarnate if I am with my brothers and sisters. Together, we can tap into a kind of strength that even the wentals cannot use.”

Though the mist-swathed ships and the frozen projectiles had decimated the faeros, the danger was not over yet. Great numbers of fireballs continued to fly in all directions; vengeful and capricious, they struck wherever they could. The battle screens in the warliner’s command nucleus showed the constant clashes all around Ildira.

Nira considered the images. “If Osira’h says it is what we must do, then I agree. After all, she was right about the hydrogues on Golgen.” She held up the treeling she had carried with her. “And now we have the verdani to help.”

“Descend, then,” said the Mage-Imperator. “Much of our battle is yet to come. We will all fight against Rusa’h.”

Flanked by a dozen intact warliners, the flagship descended into the atmosphere, flying toward the site of the capital city. Leaving Zan’nh in the command nucleus, Jora’h led Nira and Osira’h to the warliner’s docking bay, where they boarded a ready cutter. Piloted by one of the soldier kithmen, the small ship passed directly through the warliner’s hazy cocoon and fought its way down through the thermal turbulence in the air.

On the way down, her father stared at the wrecked capital city, unable to protect the morality of his people by dampening the shock he experienced. Osira’h could also feel the lingering pain that resonated from all the Ildirans who had survived down below, though she sensed her half-breed brothers and sisters, along with Prime Designate Daro’h, trying to bolster the people. She directed the pilot to where tiny figures stood at the edge of the still-smoking ruins.

As soon as the cutter landed and the hatch opened, Osira’h bounded out. The air burned her lungs; the whirl of fiery elementals overhead seemed to singe the very atmosphere. Grasses, bushes, and any remaining combustible wreckage had begun to smoke.

Prime Designate Daro’h and Yazra’h ran forward, barely able to believe that the Mage-Imperator had returned. When Osira’h’s brothers and sisters came to her, she grasped their hands and formed a mental circuit. Preparing herself, she retreated into her mind, then extended her thoughts outward, both to her father and to her siblings. She had to bind