The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [49]
“Those things were perpetrated by the previous Mage-Imperator,” Nira retorted. “Jora’h has done everything possible to make amends. And I’m not your pawn.”
“Unless you wish to prolong the Mage-Imperator’s suffering, you are. Now let’s get on with it. Busy day.” At the Chairman’s nod, the guard handed her the treeling. Nira grabbed it, more interested in its delicate fronds and quivering potential than in the activity out on the square.
Basil turned to Sarein. “Deputy Cain and I have business to discuss inside. I wish you could go with me, but I’m trusting the green priest to you. Make certain Peter knows about our new King — especially his name.”
“I will, Basil.” The Chairman slipped away after briefly stroking Sarein’s short hair — a mechanical gesture, as if he had reminded himself to do it; Nira detected no depth of feeling there, but she did see Sarein respond with the faintest shudder.
When they were alone in the observation pavilion, Nira touched the treeling, focused her thoughts into the worldforest network, and sank into the waiting information. In a flood, she learned everything that had happened, everything that had been kept from her since the capture of Jora’h’s warliner.
She knew that the faeros had struck Ildira, but now she also knew of the newborn faeros attacking Theroc, possessing worldtrees, spreading a living fire. Although that disaster was already over, the pain still stung.
Nira sent her own waves of information, explaining how the Mage-Imperator had been kidnapped, and how the Chairman was trying to coerce him into betraying King Peter. Did Basil Wenceslas truly want the Confederation to have that information? It didn’t matter. As soon as this event ended they were going to take the treeling away from her again. Nira decided not to tell Sarein what she had learned about Theroc; she saw no compelling reason to do so.
Engrossed in telink, she barely noticed when the ceremony started. The Archfather came forward in his robes, carrying an ornate shepherd’s crook. He moved with slow strides, dragging a wake of hushed anticipation through the crowd.
Seeing her preoccupation with the treeling, Sarein chided her. “You must watch this. Please.”
Nira retreated from the sea of secondhand events to see the Arch-father at the speaking podium with an unfamiliar young man waiting behind him. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and an expression that reminded her of someone out of his depth but trying hard not to show it. He wore fine and colorful raiment, a design similar to what Old King Frederick had worn on the throne years ago. The bearded religious leader boomed out another rant about the Klikiss demons and King Peter’s supposed collusion with them, but his words seemed reluctant, without fervor.
“Before we can be saved,” the Archfather intoned, “before humanity can return to the path of righteousness, we need a visionary leader. We need a King who is more than a King. Someone who can undo the terrible damage Peter has wrought.”
Though she did not quite understand why she was asked to do so, Nira dutifully reported these words. The green priests were even now distributing them; she could hear Celli reporting to King Peter.
“Today I announce the Hansa’s new King, a young man who is destined to be our savior. All hail, King Rory!”
The young man stepped forward, standing straight and looking regal, as if he had practiced this entrance over and over. He seemed likeable enough, a perfect figurehead. But a savior? Nira doubted it.
And now Peter would know that the Hansa had formally replaced him as King. But surely he must have been expecting that for some