Inside the Dobro Designate’s residence, Mage-Imperator Jora’h met his daughter for the first time. Though supposedly destined to be the savior of the Ildiran Empire, she was just a little girl.
Osira’h had poise beyond her years. Her eyes were large and innocent, with a glint of star-sapphire that came from Jora’h’s genetics; her narrow chin and gentle expression were achingly clear reminders of her mother.
Seeing his daughter was like an electric jolt that brought back a flood of memories of the many times Jora’h had made love to the beautiful Nira—more times than he had ever mated with the same female, before or since. Even as the years went by and he believed the green priest long dead, Jora’h’s longing for her had grown deeper.
Standing before Osira’h, though, made much of that grief and regret wash away. Jora’h was startled to sense her incredible strength and intelligence through the thism, though the girl had a different connection and mental pattern, thanks to her mother. Even as Mage-Imperator, he could not link with her clearly, but she seemed stronger, sharper than his usual sense. He was unable to grasp all that she could do.
“Osira’h,” he said in a long sibilant breath, “you are . . . beautiful.”
The girl bowed, avoiding his gaze. “I am honored to serve you, Mage-Imperator.” Her initial formality was like a crystal knife in his chest, until she finally looked up. He saw a startling hunger there, a recognition, as if she shared many memories with him, though this was the first time they had met. Her thoughts and personality were no more than an echo, like smoke in the thism.
“We’re very pleased at how Osira’h has turned out,” Udru’h said, interrupting his thoughts. “The best instructors and lens kithmen have guided her development, and she has performed admirably. Her skills are . . . advanced beyond anything we have measured before. With the continuing war, we know our time is desperately short. Osira’h is nearly ready to serve as the psychic bridge between Ildirans and hydrogues, which we so desperately need.”
Jora’h gently put a finger under the little girl’s chin and raised it so that he could read her face. “Is that true?”
“I am ready.” She blinked her sparkling eyes. “If that is what you need.” Osira’h was still young, but Jora’h grieved for all the time he had lost with her. He was her father, and he should have watched her grow and learn, as he had done with all his children, all his Designates-in-waiting. Osira’h was special, though—and not just in ways the Dobro breeding program considered important.
He turned to the grim Designate. “I want to go with Osira’h out to her mother’s grave. I trust you have marked it so we can”—his voice threatened to crack, but he controlled it—“pay our respects, and remember her together.”
Udru’h wore a bland expression. “As you wish, Liege.”
Nira’s memorial marker had been placed on one of the recovering hillsides scorched by the fires of the previous dry season. The ash had made the ground fertile again, and grasses and weeds grew tall and thick, erasing the burn scars.
The Dobro Designate had chosen a gravesite near a cluster of thorny scrub trees that had survived the rushing flames. Around them, the plants smelled fresh and alive, the faintest echo of the Theron worldforest. Yes, Nira would have approved of this setting.
Taking the little girl’s hand, Jora’h knelt in the tangled shade of the clawlike scrub bushes. The commemorative marker was a block of stone with embedded projection machinery. Suspended above a holo-ring, a many-faceted crystal gathered sunlight that powered a projection of Nira’s beautiful face, apparently taken from camp records.
When Jora’h saw her image again, he felt his heart being pulled from his chest. Beside him, Osira’h also seemed angry and uneasy, though according to Udru’h she had never even met her mother. In silence, they stared together, experiencing a common grief. He wished he could share with his daughter all of his memories of Nira, how much he had loved her. Again, Osira’h surprised him with her perceptiveness and her depth of intuitive understanding—she seemed to be mourning Nira as much as he was.
For a long moment, Jora’h was caught up in memories and regrets. He had never dreamed that his father might purposefully deceive him. Now he knew so much more. . . .
He rubbed his fingers on the bark of the singed, scrubby trees surrounding Nira’s grave. “I wish your mother could be closer to her forest. I wish she could have seen it one more time. She loved Theroc so much . . . and those trees are now recovering from the destruction the hydrogues wrought.” And you, Osira’h, must somehow negotiate a peace with them, he thought.
He let go of his daughter’s hand and traced the holographic image of Nira’s face with his fingers. Unable to stop himself, he muttered apologies, dangerously close to weeping. “I’m sorry for all the tragedies you suffered, sweet Nira. I would have done anything in the universe for you, but now it’s too late. I can’t make up for it . . . but perhaps I can save the Ildiran race.”
The girl remained next to him. She seemed troubled, confused, but also determined. “If I succeed, if I can become a bridge with the hydrogues and make them stop killing Ildirans . . . will it all be justified?”
“Do you have doubts?” He looked at her, sensing her powerful presence through the thism, though he could not read Osira’h the way he could his other children. It was almost as if she had shielded herself.
“I have no doubts about what I can do, or why it must be done.” She hesitated. “But . . . none of these humans are here willingly. Neither was my mother. Will you shut it all down?”
Jora’h felt a chill, knowing Udru’h would never have spoken to her of such things. “I want to, so very much. But the hydrogues keep attacking us, and the Klikiss robots are no longer reliable allies. At this point, so close to its culmination, how can I stop the work until you have a chance to prove your abilities? The humans here were brought to Dobro long before I knew anything of this project. At least they remember nothing else, know no other life.”
“My mother knew another life,” Osira’h said, looking at him with remarkable sternness on her young and innocent face.
He looked at her with sharp surprise. “How do you know? What makes you say that?”
His daughter seemed flustered. “She . . . talked to some of the breeding prisoners, but they didn’t believe her about the free worlds far from here.”
He studied the little girl who stood so bravely next to him. “Osira’h, how I wish you could have met your mother. She was a wonderful person, beautiful and funny. She captured my heart in a way no other woman ever had, and now you can never know her.”
Osira’h tentatively touched Jora’h’s shoulder, opening up to him with a warm flow of surprising love. “I already know her. There are no secrets.”
Jora’h stared at her, but the reticent girl would say nothing else.