The Kinship of Stars

by Julie Ishaya

  Adam eyed his son's school tunic and jacket. "Don't worry about it now. You'll probably be required to wear a uniform during operational hours. Right now Nex is in its evening phase, and everyone else in the palace is either in their quarters or holding private meetings. It's the same routine on all of the orders. Day equivalencies here are measured in cycles of thirty hours."

  Kieriell raised his face back toward the dome. "Which of the other orders can you see from here?"

  Adam pointed. "That one, closest to us, is Hella, where my duties as ambassador are carried out. That one, far out, low on the field, that is Mirrai. Um, that one, high up, is Sheolan. The ones you can't see from here are Iona, Torba, Daeanon, Urga, and Domai."

  A discouraged frown wrinkled Kieriell's brow and seemed no end of amusement to his father.

  "Don't fret over it all, Kieriell. Soon you'll know them as if you grew up here."

  Saying nothing, Kieriell still frowned.

  Adam laid a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you settled in."

  Standing in the open aperture doorway to his new chambers, Kieriell dropped his duffel for the final time. His father moved past him and into the outer chamber, beckoning him to follow. He took four small steps in and gaped. This is like living in a cave! The same craggy walls as the throne room. The same shining floor.

  "I know it all looks too frigid," Adam remarked. He hastened ahead. "This way." He disappeared through a wide circular opening, calling back, "I ordered that the place be warmed up for you. I hope you'll be comfortable."

  Kieriell glimpsed the room ahead, caught fragments of colors: golds, reds, and umbers. Within he found a series of connected chambers, one opening into the other through wide passages. Tapestries of geometric patterns decorated the walls, while the floors were lain with ornate carpets.

  The first chamber was merely a foyer. Lights placed at intervals in the ceiling gave it a warm glow, and Kieriell followed their luminescence into the next chamber to his left, where his father waited.

  This was a small lounge adorned with couches and chairs, thick airy pillows and throw rugs. There were bookshelves here, and—Kieriell swallowed hard—a portrait of his mother. She was very young, wearing a cream-colored dressing gown with emerald-green flower accents about the shoulders and collar. Her hair was swept over one shoulder and fell to her lap in a gather of soft curls.

  "I ordered that it be moved in here from my own chamber," Adam said.

  Kieriell found it too difficult to even whisper thanks. The portrait seemed so out of place in this lonely yet living place of rock walls and tapestries. It was all so unbalanced. Disorienting. He gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment and followed his father into the next chamber.

  Here he found the bed, massive and cornered by posts of that ever-present vine pattern like the natural art of tree roots tangling their way downward. He noted that this room was more elongated and the last in the series. There was a wardrobe built into the wall, again covered in obsidian vine, and a filigree division at the far end.

  "The toiletry and bathing pool are over there." Adam indicated the division. "There should be some extra clothes already in the wardrobe. I'll leave you now to settle in. My apartments are at the next door down across the corridor. Let me know when you're ready for the tour."

  Nodding, Kieriell continued his exploration of the chamber while Adam hastened away.

  In the silence that followed, Kieriell began to sense something. The feeling was comparable to that of being watched from a distance, certain that to turn around would mean to chase the watcher away. But no matter in which direction he turned, the watcher was still there, if unseen. It could only be the living walls of which he'd been warned. Yes, they sensed him, probed his surface thoughts. His arms tingled and his heart pounded. He stood perfectly still for a long time, banishing the notion that tickled at him. What if he was to test the system? Adam had said it only took one traitorous thought.

  No, bad idea. He spun on his heel and hurried back to the outer chamber to pick up his duffel. He brought it to the greater chamber and tossed it onto the bed, emptied its contents and stared at them seeking something fresh to wear. Three pairs of pants and two school tunics lay strewn and wrinkled—he was never very good at packing—along with two small amulets bearing different interpretations of the Ariahm School's phoenix crest, both tokens of the honors he had earned at the school. He picked out his favorite of the two, a bronze disk on a length of silken cord. Twirling the selected piece back and forth around one finger, he went to explore the wardrobe.

  Throwing open the doors, he found three uniforms hanging there for him. He took one, closed the doors, and laid the ensemble across the bed next to the amulet.

  He next moved to check out the toiletry. Slipping around the division, he looked down at a deep pool of steaming water. Its surface rippled and swirled with an ongoing current, inviting him in. He threw off his clothes and toed at the water before easing himself into the pool. "Ah, me," he sighed. "Maybe I'll like it here after all."

  After enjoying some time immersed, he stepped out, fingers and toes thoroughly wrinkled, and dried off to don the old uniform. It was a perfect fit, and he was pleased to find the design similar to General Kallian's. The colors were the same: the characteristic blues, black, and silver, which he figured must be part of a Dyssian color code. He placed the amulet around his neck to show off his school honors. After combing through his hair, he declared himself presentable and started for the door to go in search of his father's quarters. Halfway through the outer chamber, he stopped. How much time had passed, he wasn't sure, but there could not possibly be enough left for a tour. He wanted most of all to see the throne room again. To look out at Nex space.

  He would teleport there, he thought, then come directly back.

  The throne room, he concentrated. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, felt himself there. There. His body tingled, a sensation he had come to accept when teleporting. There was no pain, no nausea as moving through the nexus had caused. He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands in time to see them glow with white light. It intensified around his being, drew him into himself, before everything around him faded from his view.

  The throne room had not been disturbed since Kieriell's first introduction to its barren enormity. His manifestation was silent, felt only through the tingling in his body as it reformed, and the wash of light expanded back from his vision and faded, leaving him a whole and living figure.

  Kieriell looked up at the dome and found the view had not changed in the least. The stars and other asteroids were the same, as was the shaft of light that reached out to grasp some bearing of stability. He considered that, when it really came down to it, those anchor shafts were really the only forces keeping all the orders of Nex safe. What would happen, he wondered, if the anchors collapsed and the orders were all left to float about in their uncertain orbit? Would they collide with each other? Would the gravity of Arctus finally catch them, pull them in and vaporize them in the star's inner corona?

  "The answer is no."

  The deep voice caught Kieriell so by surprise that his shoulders gave a jerk and he spun around. He saw no one, but he was sure that the voice had come from somewhere under the arcade, near the lift. "Hello?" He took a few steps toward one of the columns and paused. "Who's there?"

  Only his own voice answered, bounding back from the walls.

  Cold inside his uniform, he rubbed his arms with his hands and took one more step. Someone or something was there. Hiding within the arcade. He squinted to focus deep into the shadows, past the columns.

  Nothing.

  It occurred to him that the voice had not echoed at all in this cavernous space. The walls sent the slightest peep of a word bouncing endlessly about. He had just demonstrated that. No, in fact, hadn't the voice been inside his head? One of his own thought patterns attempting to answer the questions?

  (If the anchors collapse,) the voice said again, (then a series of thrust
ers will fire as a secondary means of stability.)

  Yes, that had been inside his head. The words were clear but low, almost a soft growl. He frowned, tried to swallow down the nervous fear that clenched his insides.

  (Come.)

  Kieriell straightened, caught his breath and released it in a slow, unsteady hiss.

  (This way.)

  Something had him. His body began to move against his command, one foot in front of the other. He tried to fight it, but a calm, irresistible beckoning settled in his mind, and he cleared the distance between the center floor and the arcade. As he reached the passage between two of the columns, the compulsion released him.

  He stood staring at the lift doors, blinking, wondering what had just happened to him, when he realized a new presence stood next to him, behind the column to his right. Slowly he turned to see. Then he gasped as the form stepped forward, into the full light.

  Kieriell stumbled backward, fell on his elbows and winced at the pain while his primary attention remained on the seven-foot figure enclosed in a black hooded cloak. At first glance he would have thought it was his father. But he noticed the shallow lines in the face, around the mouth and eyes.

  And the eyes—

  There was the familiar blue, so like his own, like his father's, the pupils that were long, thin slits. A pair of talon-tipped hands emerged from the depths of the cloak and raised to gently push back the hood. A spill of black hair touched with strands of silver cascaded past the shoulders.

  "Asmodéus," Kieriell whispered, forgetting the formalities.

  (Didn't your father teach you any manners?)

  It was obvious now that the voice was a telepathic projection. The words were perfect, unemotional. The face betrayed no emotion either.

  Kieriell stammered, wishing desperately to explain himself, "I didn't mean to—I mean I—"

  (Stand up, boy.)

  Kieriell eased onto his knees and began to push himself up. Damned pathetic, he thought of himself.

  (Yes, no Nexian prince should find himself on the floor cowering before his own kin.)

  "You read my mind."

  (Your surface thoughts are the most vulnerable I've ever encountered. Look at me.)

  The last command stung in his mind. Kieriell's vision darted up and met the other's briefly before he looked down again. Through the part in the cloak he made out a uniform of matte black and a belt with a silver mask fastened to the side.

  (Look at me, Kieriell Shyr'ahm.)

  Kieriell couldn't sustain the defensive glare that stained his eyes. He remembered what his father had said about Asmodéus' fiercer qualities being only part of a facade. If this was just a facade, it was a damned convincing one.

  Asmodéus stared at him for a moment sending nothing.

  Kieriell couldn't bear this. This scrutiny in silence. Finally he decided to say something, however disrespectful it might be for him to speak before being spoken to. He chose each word carefully and began slowly so as not to stumble over his own tongue. "I apologize, Lord Grandsire. I did not expect to be meeting you this way. You surprised me—"

  (You should not be wandering unattended in this place, young one.)

  "No, but I only wanted to see the dome again." As his courage slowly returned, he began to further examine the planes of the other's face. The harsh cheek bones and jaw line tapered down to a square chin. Heavy dark brows aligned beneath a strong forehead.

  Seeing himself and his father in that face, Kieriell knew then that he was seeing all the members of the Dyssian line. The mantle of Asmodéus was passed from sire to progeny. The physical traits followed, and after fourteen hundred years as the ruling emperor of Nex, this Asmodéus bore qualities both ancient and young. Every Nexian that had ever carried the mantle existed in that face.

  Kieriell didn't know what to say next.

  Unblinking, Asmodéus continued his tacit examination without a crack of a smile or a frown to grant any alleviation. When he took one long step forward, Kieriell almost stumbled again in the retreat. (I saw you materialize. How did you know you wouldn't teleport into a nest of vipers?)

  Kieriell heard the question as a rough hiss, anger beginning to seep into the undertones. He thought of Maven Ahrden's warning about using discretion when teleporting. "I usually don't have a problem going somewhere I've already been."

  (Are you sure? There are some here quite capable of devouring their own brood; a wandering, juvenile prince is an even easier target. How could you know you wouldn't encounter one of them?)

  Kieriell coughed. "Gad, really?" He didn't know whether to take the question seriously or not. "That's harsh. What about you?"

  (Can you not send, boy?)

  "No, not like you."

  (Didn't your father tell you to wait for him before you ventured from your chambers?)

  The emperor had to have read all of his most recent memories to have picked up on that. "Yes, but I—"

  (So tell me why I should spare you for your insubordination?)

  Kieriell froze. "Wh-what?" he gasped. He could feel the fury now, directed at him, numbing him with shock.

  Asmodéus' eyes began to shift. Blackish-red clouds of pigment filmed over the peaceful blue, closing in around the pupils, until only a pair of murky orbs gazed back. Tiny pearls of white scales rose and hardened on the surface of the skin around his eyes and made tapering, feather-like patterns down over his cheeks.

  Kieriell gaped, his mind momentarily blank. He saw Asmodéus' right hand curl into a fist and raise as if to strike out. Then the space around the fist visibly rippled with a dark field of telekinetic energy. It undulated and rippled as it extended outward into a long shaft with a fine point.

  Shadow blade!

  In a simultaneous action, Kieriell snapped to and dove sideways just as the blade came down in a diagonal arc aimed to slice through his shoulder to his heart. He rolled up into a crouch and extended his own weapon from his hand, choosing the crescent moon pattern that always proved good for blocking. Lowering it out before him, he felt his own eyes shift as he focused on his opponent.

  Asmodéus' cloak flared out in his advance, casting the illusion that he was even larger. He brought his blade out again, this time in a straightforward thrust.

  Kieriell parried the strike as he sprang from his crouch. A third attack, followed by an instant fourth, kept him upright and retreating as he blocked each strike. He had, without noticing, moved out to the floor under the dome.

  (You are quick, boy,) Asmodéus whispered, (but not quick enough.)

  Kieriell uttered a curse as his vision blurred—perhaps it, too, was affected by some other extent of the psionic compulsion he had experienced a moment ago. It seemed that his mind slowed down, failed to process his voluntary commands to move. He barely detected the blur of motion sweeping around behind him. Then suddenly free, his senses clearing, he spun in search of the aggressor. He came up short, his face almost colliding with the barricade of Asmodéus' chest, and a hand came up to catch him around the throat.

  Kieriell sputtered a gasp and tried to bring his blade up and around with the curvature directed at Asmodéus' own throat.

  His blade extinguished, Asmodéus caught the youth's wrist with his other hand.

  Kieriell kicked and squirmed, gasping for air. His blade wavering useless out in the air, he felt himself lifted off the floor, raised high in the strangling grasp.

  Within his fading periphery, he barely noticed the lift doors opening within the shadow of the arcade, and Adam stepping out in time to absorb the sight of the conflict. "No!" the crown prince shouted, hurrying forward. "Father, no!"

  (Put the weapon away,) Asmodéus almost crooned at his catch.

  Kieriell balled his fist tighter in defiance and intensified the energy flow into the blade. He shoved at the grip around his wrist. Like trying to push against a wall of rock. He barely heard his father's voice coming closer.

  "Release your blade, Kieriell," Adam commanded.

 
(Release it, young one.)

  Along with those words came the compulsion again. Kieriell felt a lulling warmth spiral down through his body and focus into his arm, into his hand, which opened, his fingers clawing at the air. Without wanting to, he let the weapon go. The telekinetic ripples faded back into his palm. Slowly he was lowered back to the floor and released.

  "Damn it, Father!" Adam snapped. "You didn't have to do that!"

  Kieriell pulled away coughing, massaging at his neck, his face burning with humiliation. He looked up, found his grandsire actually seemed amused.

  Adam stepped closer. "Just what in the name of Ariahm's blood happened?" he demanded.

  Asmodéus glanced at Kieriell and back, and from the way he spoke next, it was clear he had opened up his sending to include son and grandson. (His defenses are horribly impaired, Adam. You should see that he meditates often, and he must not teleport unmonitored until he has developed further understanding of the ability and its consequences.)

  Adam raised his chin as if some realization had struck him, then he gave a quick nod.

  Kieriell watched them while he swallowed down the bile attempting to rise. When Asmodéus turned back to him, he expected to be chastised again.

  (And no, Kieriell Shyr'ahm,) Asmodéus directed at him, (I am not one of those who eats his own.) He cast a quick glance at Adam before he turned and marched across the room toward the side passage by the dais.

  For the first time Kieriell saw the full length of Asmodéus' mane, that the wispy ends trailed the floor in his wake along with his cloak. Coarse streaks of steel gray were mingled with the black.

  That was the mane of an emperor.

  "How nice to finally meet you," Kieriell said under his breath as he glared at the departing figure.

  6

  "What were you thinking?" Adam slammed one fist down on the desk in his office chamber, jarring an ornate book. His jaw tightened, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. "This place is not a playground, Kieriell. You had no business just wandering about." He threw out one hand in a demonstrative gesture.