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
Dobro’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
Without 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.
38
MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
Jora’h rushed from the skysphere at the head of a group of guard kithmen. When he reached his contemplation chamber, he found Yazra’h still blocking the green priest from the treeling. Her cats prowled and paced. His daughter remained cool and strong, but it was clear she was fighting impatience. He knew she wanted to unleash her cats.
“Hold,” Jora’h said.
He stared at Kolker, who squatted on the floor holding his knees, weeping. His head was lowered, chin tucked against his chest, but the green priest could not keep his eyes from the treeling. Like a shiing addict, he kept glancing toward it, then at Jora’h, desperate and pleading.
“The green priest knows you have a treeling, Liege,” Yazra’h said. “If there are . . . things you wish to keep from the humans, then you cannot let him live.”
Jora’h met her gaze. “I will not have you kill him.”
Kolker had seemed broken and lost since arriving here from Qronha 3. Remembering how vitally connected Nira had been to her treeling, he thought he understood the withdrawal this green priest was experiencing. Perhaps it was like an Ildiran suffering in complete isolation, without the reassuring touch of thism. How could he not sympathize?
Kolker climbed to his feet, red-eyed. “Please. I have to touch the forest mind. I am blind and starving without telink.” He glared at Yazra’h. “She thinks I was trying to betray you. I just needed to contact the trees. That’s all.”
The Mage-Imperator regarded the green priest. Was he lying, or just naïve? “Contact with your worldtrees would send a signal to all your counterparts. Every green priest would know what you know.”
“No. It doesn’t work like that. Besides, I don’t know anything!”
“You know you are alive, along with all the other Hansa skyminers, who are presumed dead. You know that we have not let you go home. And you have seen the hydrogues here. I cannot let that knowledge reach the humans. The Ildiran Empire cannot risk it.” Jora’h felt a knot in his chest and heard an echo of his father’s twisted plans in his head. “I am sorry for what I am forced to do, but I have no choice. I never wanted to hold you here.”
“Then let us go free! We’re no threat to you.” The green priest truly did not understand.
Jora’h gestured. “Hold him.”
Two guards folded in beside Kolker to take his arms, but he was meek and submissive. Yazra’h tossed her long coppery hair and looked at her father. “I will increase our security. This cannot happen again.”
“That will not be necessary.” Jora’h closed his eyes, holding the thoughts inside his hammering head. “I have a better solution.”
He picked up the potted treeling. Looking at the delicate fronds and slender trunk, he was amazed that such a small plant could have so many tremendous repercussions. There was a power here that neither he nor any other Ildiran understood. He fondly recalled Queen Estarra’s recent visit along with King Peter and Chairman Wenceslas. Jora’h had been honored to receive the treeling as a gift. Now he recognized the danger it posed.
As black jaws of regret clamped down on his heart, Jora’h carried the pot to the high balcony. He stood outside where the light was clear and the clean winds were brisk against his face. His long braid twitched.
Behind him, his arms held by guards, Kolker struggled in growing horror. “What are you going to do?”
From the high balcony, the view was spectacular, showing the faceted skyline of great buildings and towers. Here, Jora’h had stood with Nira. The beautiful green priest had laughed at how the balcony’s slight curvature and the transparent floor segments made her feel as if the two of them were floating on air. How he missed her. He hoped she and Osira’h were together now, and that both of them could one day forgive him.
When Jora’h gazed out over his city, foremost in hi
s mind was how the hydrogues had threatened to destroy the whole Ildiran Empire. Until he found a way to defeat the deep-core aliens, he knew only one way to escape that, even if he cursed himself for it. The humans could not know.
He held the potted treeling out over the open air. Kolker screamed, “No! Please, don’t! You can’t!”
Jora’h could not allow himself to be swayed. As a wave of self-disappointment rippled through his chest, he opened his fingers, and the pot fell. Buffeted by the breezes, it tumbled twice, dwindling to a speck, and then smashed against the interlocked paving stones.
Now there were no treelings on Ildira. The threat was gone. Behind him, he could hear Kolker’s miserable sobs, but he refused to turn around. “Now you can take him back to his people. There is nothing more to worry about.”
Alone on the balcony, Jora’h’s eyes filled with hot tears. He stared across the city for a long time, seeing nothing. Again, he wished Nira could be there with him. Would she hate him for what he had just done? How much would this all cost him?
I am becoming more and more like my father every day.
39
RLINDA KETT
Ice shards showered down like broken glass. BeBob yelped when a fist-sized chunk struck him on the shoulder. “The sky is falling!”
Freezing mist spangled the air. Rlinda could not tell how close the reanimated woman was to shattering the ceiling. If she broke through the crust, all the atmosphere trapped underground would erupt like a volcano of air. Karla Tamblyn seemed intent on knocking down every solid wall, leveling every unnatural structure, turning all of Plumas into a slurry of rubble and water.
Karla gestured toward the water-dissociation plant, breaking pipes and releasing jets of stored gas. Fortunately, nothing exploded. Yet.
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