The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [57]
Zan’nh felt the thism-ache within him and intentionally flew toward it. The cutter arrived at one of the largest concentrations of Hyrillka evacuees, a geometrically laid out camp with prefabricated buildings and flash-paved streets. The pain in his heart grew sharper from all the recent, sudden deaths.
The camp was nothing more than a smoldering wound. Every structure had been destroyed, the refugees cremated, their soulfires absorbed. “The faeros have been feeding again,” Zan’nh said.
Ridek’h shook his head in dismay. “We evacuated Hyrillka’s entire population, told all those people it was dangerous there. We never told them it would be worse on Ildira.” His reddened eyes showed both disgust and fury. “If Designate Rusa’h once cared for the people of Hyrillka, why would he let the faeros do this? Why?”
In the sky above, many fireballs whizzed about at high altitude, bright and hot. Zan’nh knew they must see him. They could plunge down and kill him and Designate Ridek’h in a flash. But the faeros just hovered there, observing.
Taunting?
Zan’nh hated them. It seemed that the fiery elementals were flaunting the fact that they could come for the rest of the Ildirans at any time.
* * *
39
Mage-Imperator Jora’h
Aboard his own warliner, secluded in his chamber, the Mage-Imperator shuddered and set the interior lights to maximum brightness. Despite the harsh and supposedly comforting glare, he could barely feel it, barely see it.
This was his private stateroom. His warliner. He was Mage-Imperator of the Ildiran Empire.
He was powerless.
And alone.
He knew Nira was waiting for him, and he vowed to hold on. But thoughts of her were not enough under circumstances like these. Even if she had been there to hold him and talk to him . . . in spite of the closeness they shared, she could not have given him strength in the thism.
Another second passed, and another.
His mind was filled with a hollow silence. Nothing. His thoughts were as empty as the void between stars where this stolen warliner now sailed. Yes, the isolation could indeed drive him mad, exactly as Chairman Wenceslas wanted. Damn the man! The Chairman was not to be trusted, and the entire Ildiran Empire, the great and glorious civilization and its great and glorious ruler, had been driven to its knees.
Less than three days — how he clung to that thought. He wondered how much time had passed. He hadn’t had the presence of mind to mark the chronometer when Admiral Diente had left following his last visit. This lonely silence had already lasted years, it seemed. Had it been three days? Two? Or only an hour? A few minutes?
Jora’h could no longer tell. He had no idea whatsoever.
“Nira . . .” he whispered to himself, but no one answered.
He recalled when Anton Colicos had brought a catatonic Rememberer Vao’sh back to the Prism Palace following their long, isolated journey of escape from the black robots. As Mage-Imperator, Jora’h had felt a distinct echo of the anguish Vao’sh had endured. But he had never imagined it would feel like this.
Trapped in nightmares, he could not forget how his son Thor’h had been drugged and locked in a sealed room — by Jora’h’s own order. The power generators had failed, shutting down the bright blazers in the chamber. Thor’h had died alone and in the dark, a hideous fate for an Ildiran. . . .
Jora’h pressed himself closer to the bright blazers mounted on the wall, but even the light did not help.
Feeling faint, he doggedly sent out his thoughts yet again, trying to find any echo out there. He tried for hours . . . or perhaps it was only minutes . . . until he was too exhausted to keep trying. He let his thoughts drift aimlessly in the cold, black wasteland.
Unexpectedly, familiar strands of thism brushed the edges of his