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The Mage-Imperator clung to Osira’h and Nira, feeling their strength. At that instant, he understood: Like an unfathomable well in the depths of his spirit, the profound power of thism resided within him. He guided the Empire left to him by his father and a long succession of Mage-Imperators before him. And as the nexus of the Ildiran race, only he could draw upon the full power of thism.

In order to spark the creation of new faeros, the deluded Rusa’h had allowed the fireballs to incinerate whole populations, stealing soulfires from Hyrillka, Dzelluria, other splinter colonies in the Horizon Cluster, Tal O’nh’s septa of warliners, even Dobro where they had burned former Designate Udru’h. Jora’h could not allow it to continue.

Reaching out with his mind, he envisioned the lost populations, all the souls the faeros incarnate had taken — and demanded that their soulfires be freed. Though the bodies had long ago been turned to ash, the suffering Ildirans had been kept from reaching the Lightsource. Rusa’h had prevented them from escaping, but Jora’h would help them.

His mind reached into the soulfires held within the faeros clustering overhead and found the thism threads of each Ildiran they had taken. The fireballs flared and struggled, refusing to release their captives.

But Mage-Imperator Jora’h would not be denied. He tapped into the reservoir of power — the newly discovered facet of thism that was his alone to use, as the true Mage-Imperator — and simultaneously touched all Ildirans here and in every splinter colony, via every faint strand. Combining this control with the strength of the circle around him — Nira, her children, his own children, the verdani and wentals — he challenged the fireballs directly. And they could not hold on to the resistant, tormented voices within them.

The surviving faeros reeled even as they streaked down to protect Rusa’h in his battle. The Mage-Imperator looked up, his eyes dazzled by the waves of light and heat, and finally he succeeded in wresting the stolen souls from the blazing elementals.

Jora’h held the soul-threads in his mind, and to him it seemed as if the heart of the flames had been removed. With great caring, he guided the recovered souls higher, higher, until they reached the plane of the Lightsource. Jora’h released their soul-threads. And laughed in a burst of joy.

They were gone, free — leaving the newborn faeros weak and disconnected.

Elementally eviscerated, the new fireballs could not retain their integrity, and they sparkled off into bright, transient lights. The thunderheads of knotted fire overhead had broken up, scattering and fading.

The mad Designate let out a wordless roar, not of defeat but of defiance, and an invisible wind seemed to blast at him. Struggling against it, his face drawn into a grimace with the effort, he staggered two steps backward. The flames that comprised his body whipped and crackled. He clenched his glowing fists at his sides and raised them in the air.

And as he came toward Jora’h, the faeros incarnate obviously had nothing to lose.

* * *

155

King Peter

The mysterious withdrawal of the Klikiss swarmships seemed nothing short of a miracle. And now the Chairman was on his way here.

Peter had never relished the power for its own sake, but the throne was his again — by right. The people of Earth trusted him, and he had worked hard to become the leader they needed. Now that he was back in the Whisper Palace, Peter felt he finally belonged there.

The people deserved better than Basil Wenceslas.

OX had returned from the communications center with Patrick and Zhett, pleased that Freedom’s Sword was helping to spread the announcements about the changeover of power. The ever-swelling demonstrations had turned into celebrations, overwhelming any resistance. Most of the Hansa guards had quietly melted away from their posts, changing out of their uniforms before they could be targeted by the crowds.

No matter what he believed, Chairman Basil Wenceslas was no longer