Of Fire and Night (15 page)

35

OSIRA’H

W
ith her mission completed, Osira’h was obviously no longer needed on Ildira. Her father had sent her back to Dobro to get her out of the way while he continued to work his plans with the hydrogues.

The splinter colony looked no different from how she remembered it: the Ildiran town, the grassy hills, the fenced-in breeding camp. But
she
was different. She had met the hydrogues and come back, and she had watched the Mage-Imperator bow to their heinous demands. Osira’h felt that the whole universe had changed. As it had so many times before . . . and would again.

In the dust-hazed sunlight on Dobro, worker kithmen unloaded supplies from the shuttle. Disembarking guard kithmen walked around her as if she were a rock in a stream. The girl tracked her gaze from side to side and finally saw Designate Udru’h striding toward her. “Osira’h, I welcome you back to Dobro!”

When she saw him, her body and mind seemed torn in two. One part of her recalled the Designate warmly, as a father figure. He had cared for her, made her work hard to achieve her destiny. She’d wanted so badly to please him. Yet crystal-sharp memories from her mother made her want to recoil. Nira knew his cruel side, his hated touch, all the pain he had inflicted upon her mind and body.

As the Designate came closer, Osira’h wondered if he would show warmth, if he would embrace her. Would her skin crawl? But he stopped two steps in front of her. The words tumbled out of his mouth. “We received word that you had succeeded.” His face showed satisfaction, contentment with his duty. “I want to hear about it.”

Osira’h looked at him, feeling a swell of resentment, even hatred, burn deep inside her. She wanted to shout at him:
I did what you trained me to do. I accomplished everything I was born for. I used my powers to communicate with the hydrogues. I opened my mind and formed a bridge, and I am now permanently connected to their alien thoughts. I can’t get them out of my head!

And I dragged the hydrogues to Mijistra so the Mage-Imperator could speak to them. It was what I was supposed to do—and instead, my father, the leader of my people, could not bargain with them. He had nothing the hydrogues wanted. They threatened Ildira with destruction, and the Mage-Imperator crumbled. He agreed to a terrible bargain that will result in the damnation of Ildirans and the destruction of my mother’s race!

But she could say none of that to the Dobro Designate. Instead, she simply answered, “I succeeded. What more is there to tell?” She knew she was a pawn, always a pawn, but she didn’t have to play along.

He noticed the metal in her tone, and a flicker of a frown crossed his expression like a wisp of cloud passing in front of the sun. “Tell me what happened. Did Jora’h speak with the hydrogues?”

Succinctly and without unnecessary detail, Osira’h outlined the conversations between her father and the emissary, describing what he had agreed to do. Udru’h did not seem disturbed by the terms. In fact, he appeared relieved that the Ildirans might survive after all; that was his only concern.

He finally reached out to clasp her shoulder. “You have been through a terrible ordeal. Your encounter with the hydrogues must have been difficult, but you understand why it was necessary.”

Osira’h was careful not to agree with him. “You explained my duty and my obligations, Designate.”

Udru’h gave her an uncertain smile. “Surely your quarters in Mijistra were far more elegant than these humble buildings?”

Osira’h looked away. “The Mage-Imperator sent me back. He wanted me safely away from the Prism Palace—with my mother. When can I see her?”

“Your mother . . . is not here.” Udru’h scowled, surprised by the unexpected comment. “Not at the moment.”

Osira’h wanted to scream. Another lie! Either her father or the Dobro Designate was lying to her! Anxious, the girl glanced around, but did not see young Daro’h in the press of Ildirans. Her half brother seemed like a good man, not corrupted by excuses and justifications, as Udru’h had been. “Where is the Designate-in-waiting? Has he taken over his duties yet?” Perhaps Daro’h could bring about the necessary changes in this splinter colony.

“Daro’h is off on another mission.” Udru’h would say no more—evasive, curt . . . as he had always been.

In the Ildiran part of the settlement, Osira’h stood in the doorway of the humble dwelling she had shared with her siblings, all of Nira’s children. The Designate had not accompanied her, claiming other duties. Her younger siblings gathered around her in awe. What did Designate Udru’h think about her half-breed brothers and sisters now that they were superfluous to his plans?

“What were the hydrogues like?” Rod’h asked. He was her nearest brother, less than a year younger than she was, the son of Udru’h. Because she had her mother’s memories, whenever Osira’h looked on Rod’h, she remembered the repeated rapes Nira had endured until the Designate succeeded in impregnating her. Shortly after he was delivered, the infant had been taken away from her and raised elsewhere. The boy had never felt even a glimmer of love for his mother. He had never known Nira at all. But he was not to blame for that. Udru’h was.

“The hydrogues are as strange as we expected.” Osira’h sat at a small table and they began to share food, simple Dobro fare. Barely managing to maintain a calm façade in front of them all, Osira’h told how her protective sphere had plunged into the clouds of Qronha 3, how she had used all her powers to touch the incredibly alien minds.

“Were you frightened?” asked Gale’nh, her next oldest brother.

“Of course I was frightened. The hydrogues have destroyed everyone else who tried to communicate with them. I had to be better than anyone in history.”

When Gale’nh nodded somberly, Osira’h saw a flicker of his father, stoic Adar Kori’nh, whom she had seen in countless historical records. She knew from darker documents that the commander of the Solar Navy had been ordered to father a child upon Nira. The Adar had done his duty, as always, but was ashamed at what he’d been forced to do.

Tamo’l, Nira’s second daughter—this one sired by a lens kithman—listened intently. Both she and her sister Muree’n were too young to grasp the magnitude of what Osira’h had been asked to do. Muree’n, fathered by a guard kithman, was strong and heavily built for her age, more interested in play and physical activity, barely able to concentrate on meticulous mental exercises. Osira’h could not imagine what the experimenters had hoped to achieve with that pairing. By then Designate Udru’h might simply have been toying with Nira, or punishing her. . . .

And her mother wasn’t even here, as the Mage-Imperator had promised.

Looking at her brothers and sisters, Osira’h recalled how uncomfortable she’d felt on Ildira. Now she was adrift, no longer belonging on Dobro either. What purpose did the breeding colony have anymore? What would become of the camp and the human prisoners? Even her siblings, who carried Nira’s genes, were no longer relevant. Would Mage-Imperator Jora’h confess Dobro’s secrets to the Hansa, or would Designate Udru’h simply exterminate his subjects and bury the evidence as if nothing had ever happened? Even that would not surprise her.

The food was tasteless in her mouth. She forced herself to chew and swallow while her brothers and sisters talked and laughed.

36

NIRA

D
obro’s lonely southern continent seemed endless. Nira kept moving, though she had no idea where she was going. Long ago, as an acolyte, she had toughened her feet by running through the Theron forest and climbing up to the worldtree canopy, where she would sit for hours reading stories to the forest mind. For many years now she’d been cut off from that. She didn’t even know how much time had passed.

Her spirit was deeply scarred by the hardships she had endured, but Nira refused to give up. She had escaped from her island, floated a raft across the inland sea, and started walking. Along the way she hoped to spot another settlement, even a ship. That could be her only chance to see her daughter again.

Osira’h was just a little girl, but Nira had poured years of awful revelations into her mind, desperate to tell the truth to the deluded girl. Nira couldn’t imagine what that brutal information had done to an innocent child. She suspected that Osira’h had never been a child again after that night. Had Nira done the right thing after all?

Because her journey had seemed impossible from the start, Nira kept no tally of the days. She simply followed the landscape, drinking water from occasional streams, letting her green skin absorb sunlight as nourishment, supplementing her diet with a few bitter fruits, roots, and dry seeds.

She hiked through grassy hills, and the whispering brown blades sawed against her skin. With the uneven landscape blocking her view of the distance, she headed up one of the chaparral ridges from which she could gaze at what lay ahead of her. She wanted to stare toward the horizon, thinking that maybe—
maybe
—she could glimpse a sign of hope.

Nira forged uphill through the thick grasses, and when she reached the top of the ridge, she looked up at a sound in the sky. The humming grew to a roar, and she spotted several sleek craft cutting lines in the atmosphere. From the other side of the ridge, unexpectedly close, another scout ship swept toward her, barreling low enough to flatten the grasses with its backwash.

Terrified, Nira skidded and slid back down the steep slope. Weeds caught at her bare toes, and she tripped. She thrashed to her feet again and plowed headlong through the underbrush. Scout ships! The Dobro Designate had found her! But what could he possibly do to her that was worse than before? He had kept her as a bargaining chip, but she’d escaped. Nira vowed she would never go back to the breeding camps.

Scouts circled overhead, their engines a booming whine. She kept running, sliding, trying to hide in the tall grasses, but the ships could easily spot her from above. One scout had already landed on the top of the ridge, and several Ildirans emerged, shouting to her.

Nira tumbled down to a valley between the rolling hills. Two scout ships landed on either side of her. Her tormentors were coming from every direction.

“Leave me alone!” Her voice was hoarse and rusty, barely a whisper. She couldn’t remember the last time she had used it.

Ildirans hurried toward her. One young man who looked faintly like Jora’h stepped forward, frowning curiously at her. “Green priest, why are you trying to hide?”

In a flash Nira relived the repeated rapes, the times she had been locked in the breeding barracks. Those memories ricocheted like multiple gunshots in her head. Some of her abusers had been monsters in external appearance, others—like Udru’h himself—merely monsters inside. If she’d had the power, Nira would have willed herself to die, dropping lifeless in front of these Ildirans in a final gesture of defiance. But she had no way to accomplish that.

The Ildirans easily seized her. She could not break free, could not even struggle against their hold. Nira let her legs go limp, but the guards held her up and dragged her toward the ships.

37

KOLKER

W
ithout ever being told the reason for their brief confinement-to-quarters, the humans were once again given relative freedom in the Prism Palace. Kolker, though, remained sitting in the sunlight that shone through the broad windows. No matter where he went, the green priest knew he would still be alone, still cut off from the worldforest. And the silence in his mind was endlessly deafening.

Unless he could find the treeling that he sensed like the barest whisper at the edge of his imagination.

In telink, Kolker could always hear myriad voices in his head, a reassuring tapestry of minds and information, filled with thoughts the verdani had developed over thousands of years. He could exchange news with his fellow green priests, wherever they might be; even isolated aboard a cloud harvester, he had not been lonely. Kolker had never imagined he could lose it all. The touch of the worldtrees was infinitely far away. But if he could locate that treeling, he could restore contact, and his life would blossom again!

Sullivan Gold was concerned about Kolker’s depression. “If it’s within my power, I’ll get us out of here. You know I’m trying.” The facility manager’s face sported gray beard stubble around his forced optimistic smile.

Kolker gave a sullen nod. Making Sullivan understand the loss of his connection to the verdani was like explaining to a man born blind the pain of never again seeing colors.

Sullivan went back to grumbling. “There’s not even anything to read! Sure, parts of the
Saga of Seven Suns
are translated, but I don’t enjoy heroic folktales about a race that stabbed us in the back.” He picked up an Ildiran writing stylus and a thin sheet of diamondfilm to write another letter to his wife. Lydia was Sullivan’s worldforest. He needed to share his experiences with her, even if the messages never found their way home.

A visitor appeared at the door—an old Ildiran with wattled, sagging skin even more grayish than that of most other kithmen. The man’s thin limbs were like dry reeds; his head shook with a faint metronome of palsy. Finely spun robes hung like a tent over his fragile body. He was stooped, his hands extended forward as if ready to catch his balance should he fall. Frills of wispy gray hair dangled down from his high temples, covering the small streamlined ears. His brow seemed permanently furrowed as if in deep concentration.

“My name is Tery’l.” The old man lifted a lovely reflective medallion at his throat; its circular face was etched with an interlinked design of circles and stylized solar symbols. “I am a lens kithman. Might I speak with your green priest? I think we may have some things in common.”

“Things in common? You are held captive as well?” Kolker intentionally misunderstood. “You are cut off from the very thing that gives your life meaning, like I am?”

He had hoped the ancient lens kithman would bridle, but Tery’l only gave a placid shake of his head. “Lens kithmen are shepherds of the
thism
. It occurred to me that our bond might be similar to the link between green priests and the worldtrees. I would like to tell you about the Lightsource and the soul-threads that join us all. Perhaps they are manifestations of the same fabric that binds life and the universe.”

Offended, Kolker stood up. “There are no similarities.”

Sullivan intercepted Tery’l, also angry. “So now the Mage-Imperator sends missionaries to us? Are you trying to convert us into honorary Ildirans?”

The old man was befuddled. “No, that is not possible. Only our people belong to the
thism
web.”

“Let me get this straight. You come here to spout your religion, and then tell us we can’t possibly belong?”

“I was simply curious about your green priest.” Tery’l fingered his reflective medallion. “I thought we would share an interesting discussion.”

Kolker stepped through the door and past the lens kithman without a backward glance. He had no interest in comparisons between telink and
thism
.

As he strode away, easily outpacing the old man, Kolker felt as if he were walking down the gullet of a rainbow. Aimlessly, he passed fountains, waterfalls, crystal sculptures. Here inside the enormous Prism Palace, with no worldtrees to guide him, he could wander for days. His head was utterly silent, empty of telink or any faint whisper of Ildiran
thism
. Except . . .

From the faintest thread in the corner of his mind he felt the treeling’s whisper. As he walked, he became more convinced it was close by. The honey-warm familiarity was unmistakable. Kolker made his way through the elaborate Palace like a hunter following a breath of smoke in the air. He didn’t know how to search for a small worldtree he could not see.

He crossed walkways, entered large chambers, drifted past courtiers and bureaucrat kithmen. Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder and saw guards; they noted his location, but did not follow him. He found the lax security odd, but if all Ildirans shared a general pattern of thoughts, then they would trust each other. Their race probably didn’t know how to do otherwise. But why did they need so damned many guards everywhere?

Kolker concentrated on his mission, pushing all questions aside. If he found the treeling, he would need only a moment. If he could just have a taste of telink again, the hunger in his mind would be quieted.

He skirted the skysphere reception hall. Might the Mage-Imperator keep a treeling next to the chrysalis chair? Inside the great hall, Jora’h held court before a small group of pilgrims. Wary, the guard Yazra’h took two steps from her position near the dais, watching the green priest. Kolker backed away before their gazes could lock. His faint senses tugged him in another direction.

Kolker rapidly entered another segment of the labyrinthine halls, focused on the tiny tingle in his mind. After many twistings and turnings, climbing ramps and glassy stairs, he found himself in a sheltered level beneath one of the Prism Palace’s secondary domes: the Mage-Imperator’s private contemplation chamber. He sensed the tiny melody in his mind and knew he was close. The treeling was in there! Kolker felt anticipation build like a parched man smelling a cool stream just ahead.

Then, far behind him, he spotted Yazra’h and her Isix cats emerging from a stair platform. She had followed him after all! Yazra’h did not call out a warning, but broke into a run as soon as she saw where Kolker was. Her cats leapt in front of her.

Kolker ducked into the chamber. Just a moment, just one moment! Frantically looking around, he saw the treeling in an alcove on the curved wall. It was several years old, thin and spindly but strong. The feathery fronds seemed to tremble. The long-anticipated sight was so precious to him that he froze for just an instant.

Yazra’h bounded into the chamber. Her voice was as threatening as a predator’s growl. “Do not move.”

Kolker lunged forward, his outstretched hands desperate to touch the tree. One brief moment of contact would signal to every green priest across the Spiral Arm. His fingers almost brushed the delicate gold-scale bark.
Almost
—

One of the Isix cats jumped onto his back and drove him to the floor. As he fell, his fingertip brushed the smooth side of the treeling’s pot, then slid away. The ornate pot wobbled in the alcove.

He sprawled on the cool, smooth floor, sure the cat would rip him to shreds. The animal was heavy on top of him, growling deep in its throat; the pointed tips of its long claws bit into his green skin.

So close! The treeling was so close! Kolker used all his strength to push himself up again, but a second cat came between him and the treeling, quietly snarling. Kolker grew wild, thrashing, giving a wordless cry.

Yazra’h uttered quick, soothing words to the cats, and the predators withdrew. She seized his arms with a grip like a set of steel manacles.

Kolker looked at the treeling, separated by an infinite gulf of only a few inches, and he began to sob.