On Ildira, the Klikiss robot entered the Prism Palace, bypassing the traditional spiral pilgrimage route that crossed the seven radial streams. The looming beetle-shaped machine pushed past the staring Ildiran supplicants who had flocked to Mijistra to gaze upon their new Mage-Imperator.
Angry guard kithmen closed in on the robot, trying to slow its inexorable progress, while others rushed messages to the skysphere reception hall where Jora’h sat in his chrysalis chair, holding court. The Mage-Imperator had just announced his departure for Dobro, at last.
His muscular daughter Yazra’h stayed with her father in the audience chamber, the three sleek Isix cats she kept as pets resting nearby. The ferocious-looking animals lay at her feet like liquid smoke rippling with sinews and wiry muscles. Yazra’h instantly stood up as a messenger rushed in.
“A Klikiss robot is approaching, Liege! It refuses to stop.”
Without ceremony, the ominous insectile automaton lumbered into the dazzling skysphere hall. Even in the colored sunshine, the robot’s matte black exoskeleton seemed to drink up all the light. The robot swiveled its flat head, showing an array of crimson optical sensors that gleamed like baleful red stars. With an eerie grace on a set of fingerlike legs, it boldly approached the chrysalis chair.
Ildiran guards followed, their shoulders hunched as if they were prepared to tear the threatening robot limb from mechanical limb. But Jora’h cautiously raised his hand, not wanting to pit them unnecessarily against the powerful ancient machine. “I was not aware that the Klikiss robots requested a visit. What do you intend here?”
The robot raised itself until it towered a meter above the guard kithmen. The Mage-Imperator’s protectors showed not the least bit of intimidation. “I am Dekyk.” Its voice was like rough metal grating across stone. “I have come to demand answers.”
A gasp went through the audience. Everyone waited to see how their all-powerful leader would deal with the situation.
Jora’h made his voice loud and strong. “You have no right to demand answers from the Ildirans.”
“The Klikiss robots are concerned about your activities. On Dobro. On Maratha. We have a right to know. You are breaking promises. You are discarding us.”
Jora’h let anger creep into his reply. He had received no unusual reports about Maratha, which was mostly empty for the darkness season, and he sensed nothing extraordinary through the thism, though the connection with his brother Avi’h was not strong. And how did the Klikiss robots know about Dobro?
“Matters of the Ildiran Empire are of no concern to the Klikiss robots,” he said. “The decisions I make are for the good of my people, and are not subject to your approval.”
Dekyk’s hemispherical carapace split in half as if he were about to open his shell and take wing. “We had an agreement about Maratha. You have ignored the terms.”
The Mage-Imperator narrowed his star-sapphire eyes, sick of so many secrets. He called to everyone in the reception hall, “Leave us. I must speak privately.” When the guard kithmen looked uneasy about leaving him vulnerable, Jora’h reconsidered. “Yazra’h, you alone may stay. Protect me if it becomes necessary.”
His daughter stood, fully as intimidating as any armed guard. Her three predatory pets growled low in their throats.
Once the skysphere hall was clear of supplicants, courtiers, and guards, Jora’h finally answered the black robot. “A bargain requires participation on both sides. You robots have failed us. Hydrogues continue to attack Ildiran worlds, and you do not prevent it. Therefore, you are either treacherous or useless.”
Dekyk seemed to deflate, though he did not back away. “In their search for the remnants of the verdani, the hydrogues devastated any forested planet they encountered. Some of those planets happened to be Ildiran. We could not stop them.”
Jora’h pushed himself straighter, hating the chrysalis chair. “You could have told them the location of the worldforest at any time. That would have saved Ildiran planets.” As he said this, though, he felt anguish for this betrayal of the towering worldtrees that had so impressed him when he’d visited Reynald . . . the trees that Nira herself had loved so well.
“We did not choose to divulge the worldforest location,” Dekyk answered.
“And because of that choice, many of my people died. We resurrected you several centuries ago as we promised, and we have adhered to the vow that our civilization would neither create robots nor build sentient machines in any form. The Ildiran Empire has remained true to its promises. That is all you need to know. Now do your part as well.”
He stared implacably at Dekyk, who remained unmoving like a nightmarish statue. Yazra’h stood beside her Isix cats, which flexed their supple clawed feet, eager to attack. Her eyes reflected her surprise at the unexpected information she had heard.
Finally, after a long moment, Dekyk withdrew, clearly not satisfied. The robot swiveled his torso and lurched back out of the Prism Palace without another word. The Mage-Imperator stared after him while Yazra’h watched her father. The skysphere hall seemed suddenly very empty.
Jora’h’s thoughts whirled, and he was glad that his daughter did not speak. He could no longer count on the Klikiss robots to intercede with the hydrogues; in fact, he suspected they might attempt to turn the deep-core aliens against Ildirans as well as humans.
Now, more than ever, he needed to go to Dobro—not just as a sentimental lover to look at Nira’s grave, but to see the progress of Osira’h and her abilities. What if the terrible plan had been justified after all? If, after so many generations of careful breeding, his daughter was truly the bridge that could bring Ildirans and the alien hydrogues together—without the Klikiss robots—then he must see to it immediately. Time was short, and the danger was great.
“I will wait no longer.” He pulled himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the cradlelike chair.
After Dekyk’s departure, whispering courtiers had begun to creep back into the room, anxious to make sure that their leader was safe. But when they saw what their Mage-Imperator was doing now, utter silence fell. Jora’h stood apart from the confining chrysalis chair, holding the rim to keep his balance on oddly shaky legs, and glared at them for their foolish adherence to practices that no longer made sense. “This is a time of crisis, not a time of traditions.”
With great relief, he stood on his own feet again for the first time since his ascension. Enough of that nonsense.
The nearest guards moved toward their leader, either to assist him or to urge him back into the chrysalis chair where he belonged. The courtiers and nobles watched this scene with even more surprise than they had shown at the arrival of the Klikiss robot.
Jora’h’s bare feet pressed on the smooth warm floor. The Mage-Imperator had not walked for months. His legs already felt weak, as if the muscles had begun to atrophy. He did not want to imagine how helpless he would feel after remaining in that confining chair for decades upon decades. He didn’t intend for that to happen.
“I will not recline and watch the Empire suffer harm. I am the Mage-Imperator. I define traditions and the way of our society. One of my predecessors declared that a Mage-Imperator’s feet should never touch the floor. I now rescind this tradition. Too much is at stake, and I must break with some of the old ways, lest we lose everything.”
He noticed Yazra’h watching him with a look of pleasure on her face. She clearly approved. Athletic and proud of her own capabilities, she was perhaps glad that her father abjured a practice that made him seem an invalid. He had no intention of becoming a soft slug with a degenerating body, like his father.
Jora’h let go of the rim of the chrysalis chair and stepped forward. The guards had no choice but to let him pass. Smiling, he walked down the broad, shallow steps of the dais. He looked up at the smiling holographic image of his own face projected on the mists, then turned to the gathered people.
“I intend to go to Dobro. Now.”