Though Jora’h often sat in the confining chrysalis chair as was expected of him, he frequently climbed out of it and walked the corridors of the Palace. Twice now he had even appeared in the streets of Mijistra.
Ildirans were both amazed and horrified by this, but in such a time of chaos, Jora’h felt it was important for their rigid assumptions to be challenged. Over the centuries Ildiran traditions had become fossilized, yet they were not natural laws of the universe. The Empire needed to change in order to survive. Jora’h was determined to show them how to do it.
Today, after he had taken his usual place under the warm skysphere dome, the ornate doors opened for the day’s pilgrims. In the sun-dappled corridors, groups of awed Ildirans stood waiting, as they did every day. They had all gone through the proper supplications, and Jora’h would reward their devotion with a blessing and a smile.
Yazra’h now stationed herself at the front of the dais with her cats, intense and alert. She had picked her own guards and had slipped into her role as his primary protector, though many Ildirans also muttered uneasily about this change in tradition. Jora’h could sense their confusion, but he knew they would have to adapt. His daughter stood beside him, meeting each pilgrim with her probing gaze.
First he greeted a troop of agricultural kithmen who stared at him with shining eyes and expressions of delight. They had come from the consolidated splinter colony on Heald, and the farmers assured Jora’h that they would continue to use their abilities and strength to keep the colony strong. Jora’h sent them on their way with a benevolent smile.
The second group of pilgrims consisted of eight doctors, pleasure mates, and lens kithmen, all of them gaunt and hardened, who had made a journey from Hyrillka. To his thism their minds were confused and blurred from heavy doses of shiing, which made the Mage-Imperator uneasy. This was the fourth such group of Hyrillkan pilgrims in recent weeks. Why did so many supplicants come from there? And what homage could they hope to pay with their minds thus clouded?
As the gaunt pilgrims approached, Jora’h saw the shadows behind their eyes, the pain of their world’s recent horrific experience with the hydrogues. He welcomed the visitors when they came before him.
On impulse, the Mage-Imperator climbed out of the chrysalis chair and stood tall on the dais. The Hyrillkan pilgrims were astonished, even angered, to see him flouting sacred traditions, but Jora’h raised his hands. “The people of Hyrillka have been through so much adversity, so much pain. It is not appropriate for me to recline in a comfortable chair when you have expended so much effort just to come and see me. I do you honor by standing here.”
The pilgrims looked at him, some with narrowed eyes, studying their great leader instead of admiring him. Jora’h was puzzled by their odd reaction, but because of the shiing he could read little from them through the thism.
One of the visiting lens kithmen bowed slightly. His words sounded flat and memorized. “You have made our journey here complete, Mage-Imperator. We have now seen what we wished to behold.”
Jora’h saw the shining detachment in their eyes, and he found it unsettling that —like Thor’h—these people had consumed so much shiing before appearing in the reception hall. Perhaps he should institute another remarkable change by telling his people to stop consuming the drug. But shiing was the predominant industry on Hyrillka, one of the few that had survived the hydrogue attack. He frowned, not knowing what to do. “I thank you for your visit to me.”
Jora’h’s smoky topaz eyes were still intent on the lens kithman when the assassin struck.
The third male in the line snatched out a long, razor-sharp crystal blade from each sleeve. The medical kithman knew exactly how to cut, where to strike. He bounded up the steps, leaping for the Mage-Imperator. Both of the knives swept back as he raised his arms.
Yazra’h and her pets reacted instantly. She and her Isix cats shot forward like a flash of reflected light. Pulling the Mage-Imperator back with both hands, Yazra’h spun to interpose her body between him and the medical kithman. The would-be assassin missed his target with the double slash, ripping open only the colored fabric of the Mage-Imperator’s robe with one knife and slicing into Yazra’h’s arm with the other.
Urging Jora’h into the shelter of the chrysalis chair, Yazra’h threw herself in front of the Mage-Imperator to shield him against other murderous pilgrims. She did not even try to stop her animals from ripping her father’s would-be slayer into bloody shreds. The muscled Isix cats bore down upon the glaze-eyed medical kithman. His screams cut off quickly. Only one of the three cats suffered a superficial cut as the crystal scalpels clattered out of the doctor’s lifeless hands.
Guard kithmen swarmed forward to seize the other pilgrim-assassins. The Hyrillkans did not struggle. Their minds had been clouded, their thoughts manipulated. Two others were found to be carrying deadly weapons.
Ignoring the gash in her arm, Yazra’h stood menacingly at the front of the dais. Sweat glistened on her muscles. Droplets of the medical kithman’s blood spattered her skin. The Isix cats seemed particularly satisfied and intent on their feeding. With a sharp motion, Yazra’h called them back to her side, though she would have liked to let them finish devouring the traitor while the other captive Hyrillkans watched with appalled apprehension.
“We do not serve a false Mage-Imperator,” said one of the new captives. “You are blinded to the Lightsource. You must be removed so that Ildirans can follow the soul-threads again. Only Imperator Rusa’h can see the true path.”
“Imperator Rusa’h?” Jora’h asked, leaving the chrysalis chair again. “What is my brother doing?”
Before anyone could answer him, the Mage-Imperator felt his chest clench, as if a crystal blade had pierced his heart after all. Another assassin? A hidden sniper? Pain and shock exploded in his brain. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor.
A shriek reverberated along the thism lines.
Pery’h.
Jora’h had recently detected fear and confusion from the Designate-in-waiting but had been unable to make out the details. As with the small group on Maratha, turmoil was occurring all across the Empire.
But now the worst had happened. It was inconceivable! The soul-thread that bound Pery’h to his father had been chopped away like a limb being amputated.
Vaguely, as if from a great distance, Jora’h heard the Isix cats snarling and pacing, looking for a new enemy to attack. Yazra’h herself, though reeling with disorientation from the severed connection with her brother Pery’h, knelt beside her father. Guards and courtiers raced up the steps to the dais, shouting their leader’s name, begging to know what was wrong. But he could not respond.
Jora’h’s mind pounded with grief and loss. A part of his core was being ripped away.
“Pery’h is dead!” He squeezed his eyes shut and was instantly assailed by even more terrible revelations. His son was not only dead—he had been murdered! Betrayed. “They have slaughtered him on Hyrillka.”
Images of treachery and treason inflicted deeper wounds on his already agonized mind. When the horror finally faded to a persistent throbbing ache inside his skull, Jora’h blinked his eyes open to find aghast expressions on the people around him in the reception hall.
Yazra’h helped her father back up from the floor. He swayed for a moment, then planted his feet firmly and spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
“Pery’h has been assassinated. My own brother Rusa’h has declared war on the Ildiran Empire.”