Hidden Empire (42 page)
At the center of the grove, he spread his arms to trail his fingers along the trunks. Finally, he knelt, feeling the soil
against his naked knees, and pressed his forehead against the nearest trunk.
He closed his eyes, thought of how to phrase his need, and then, opening his mental ability, connected through the worldforest.
Talbun sent his plea into the telink network, calling for someone to come to him.
D
eep in the forests of Theroc, Beneto sensed the incoming communication. The trees rippled invisibly with a general call sent
by another green priest, directed everywhere through the neural root network. He clasped the scaled trunk of the nearest tree
and touched his forehead to the bark, listening to the telink summons.
In his sister grove on far-off Corvus Landing, old Talbun transmitted his needs. Beneto saw the images, heard the thoughts,
understood the weary green priest’s plight and his desire. He listened carefully, absorbing it all. He imagined the possibilities.
In his mind Beneto experienced the small, out-of-the-way Hansa colony through Talbun’s eyes and memories. He felt the winds
whistling across the plains of Corvus Landing, stirring the geometric fields planted by the settlers. He imagined the goat
herds, the revelries of the settlers, the hard work, the good company. He also felt the old man’s bone weariness, understood
that Talbun was dying, and that he needed to be replaced.
If only he could find someone.
Beneto broke the telink connection and stood up, surrounded by the trees and his thoughts. The whispering fronds soothed him,
gave him advice, but let him make his own decisions. Beneto drew a deep breath, already filled with delight at this answer
to his inner desires. For so long he had wanted something exactly like this, without even knowing it in his own heart. The
forest had sent him an answer to his unspoken prayers.
Beneto had lived his life gifted with every advantage and luxury, but such things meant nothing to him. He was better suited
to being a monk—a missionary, not a politician. He wanted to tend the magnificent trees and spread the forest from planet
to planet. He wanted to help people, to commune with the forest, to assist the human spirit, rather than his own glory.
When Beneto had been chosen as the official communications link at Oncier, he had seen the envious look in Sarein’s eyes.
Though the high profile had meant little to him, his sister considered it a great honor to stand beside Chairman Wenceslas
and send messages to Old King Frederick on Earth. Beneto took the most pleasure, though, in describing the amazing test of
the Klikiss Torch to the eager and curious trees.
His parents had frequently tempted him with opulent assignments to serve in extravagant tree temples on planets where satellites
of the worldforest grew strong, or to operate as a highly paid diplomatic assistant to the Hansa. But Beneto didn’t want any
of that. He preferred quiet contemplation.
“What shall I do?” he said aloud to the forest.
As he prayed, he received a flood of thoughts, a thousand options from the flourishing trees. But the most poignant advice
was that he should focus his own desires, to make a decision commensurate with his vows to protect the worldforest, while
also being true to himself, his position, and his personality.
Though he had magnificent quarters in the old fungus-reef city, Beneto often preferred to climb away from the settlement,
descend to the forest floor and just sleep among the trees. He occasionally disappeared for days and came back refreshed.
All the green priests knew where he was. They could simply look through the mind of the worldforest and watch him with the
“eyes” of a million leaves. Beneto was never in any danger—not on Theroc or any world where the sentient trees grew.
Any world, including Corvus Landing.
Finally, after mulling over the possibilities for hours, he understood exactly what the old green priest Talbun and the worldforest
wanted of him. And Beneto made his decision.
T
he
Voracious Curiosity
descended toward Mijistra, where multiple suns dazzled off the transparent domes and crystalline spires. Ambassador Otema
waited patiently in their cabin, but Nira could not tear her eyes from the viewing window, drinking in all the details with
a child’s amazement.
Rlinda Kett announced over the intercom, “We’ll be groundside in a few minutes. They’re directing me to land on a diplomatic
platform on the Prism Palace itself. Never expected that!”
She deftly brought her ship down to the magnificent structure. Perched like a citadel on a hill, the Prism Palace looked like
an exotic glass model of an atom, with a central sphere surrounded by round domes connected by tunnels and walkways. Atop
each of the symmetrically arranged subspheres rested small landing platforms for spacecraft and short-range vessels.
After she had settled the
Curiosity
in the designated spot, Rlinda emerged from the cockpit grinning and sweating. “You two sure must have attracted some attention.
I’ve been to Mijistra before, but never to the Prism Palace, much less been told to land here!”
Otema looked unruffled. “You overestimate our importance, Captain Kett.”
Rlinda shrugged as she opened the hatch. “Whatever you say.”
Nira stared out into dazzlingly bright sunlight from a group of brilliant stars, large suns and small, with colors that ranged
from blue-white to warm yellow to a deep orange-red.
The merchant woman wrapped tinted goggles around her eyes, a thin sheet that filtered out the glare. “I have other pairs for
you two. You’ll have the worst trouble when you try to sleep. Ildirans don’t like the dark, not anywhere.”
Nira stepped out into the sunlight from all directions. Her skin tingled with all the energy. “I don’t need any. I’d like
to just look at the sunshine.”
“Suit yourselves.” They stood together on the high platform above the central Prism Palace globe. The wonderful city of Mijistra
spread out around them, dazzling Nira with its glowing primary colors.
Then as her eyes adjusted, she saw a tall, thin man walking toward them. “A rather small reception committee,” said Otema.
The man wore long robes snug at his waist. Several sections of the fabric were crosshatched with reflective material. His
head was hairless, his alien features angular and craggy, his skin a yellowish gray. A colored electrostatic field flickered
around his head like a hood projected by small devices at his collar. Nira couldn’t tell if it was a protective covering or
some sort of fashion adornment.
The Ildiran man raised his left hand at his side, palm outward, then turned it sideways. He spoke in perfect Trade Standard.
“I am Klio’s, the Ildiran Minister of Commerce. I have come to act as business liaison with Captain Rlinda Kett.”
After Rlinda introduced herself, Ambassador Otema extended her diplomatic credentials, which seemed to fluster Klio’s. “You
misunderstand,” he said. “I am here only for Captain Kett. The Prime Designate will arrive for you momentarily.”
Rlinda’s brown eyes went wide. “The Prime Designate’s coming to see them?” She gasped at Otema and Nira. “Do you know who
that is?”
Though Nira was wide-eyed and enthusiastic, Otema remained unflappable. “We will greet him with suitable respect, as the representatives
of Theroc.”
Klio’s ushered Rlinda to a doorway in the expansive dome. The merchant woman walked slowly, as if consciously delaying in
hopes of catching a glimpse of the Ildiran heir. But the bureaucrat hurried her toward his offices, leaving Nira and Otema
waiting alone beside the
Voracious Curiosity
.
On the opposite side of the platform, more doors opened. Three hideous-looking Ildirans stepped out, broad-shouldered warrior
kith with bulging muscles, fangs, and claws. They carried hand weapons: curved knives and wicked-looking crystalbladed katanas.
With flashing feral eyes, they scanned the platform, then stepped aside, rigidly at attention. The next person who stepped
forward was the most hypnotically attractive man Nira had ever seen.
Ambassador Otema bowed, but Nira could not tear her eyes away from the man. He exuded charisma. His face was handsome, perfectly
sculpted, with a long chin and wide-set eyes that were a strange color of smoky topaz. His features were perfect and timeless,
and bronze skin made him look like a museum depiction of an ancient pharaoh. Around his head, a mane of braided golden hair
twitched and moved as if alive with static electricity.
Nira finally averted her gaze, but clearly the man had noticed her. Paying more attention to her than to Otema, he said, “I
am Prime Designate Jora’h, and I am glad to receive you. Ambassador Otema?” He nodded to the old woman, then turned to Nira,
reached out to cup her chin, and raised her face so that she could look at him again. “And I am also most pleased to meet
you. What is your name?”
Nira’s voice caught in her throat, and she couldn’t speak. After the briefest hesitation, Otema answered in a slightly scolding
tone. “Her name is Nira, Prime Designate. She is my assistant and will help me study your great epic.”
“Most excellent! I promise you every courtesy that we can provide.” The Prime Designate wore a patterned vest open at his
chest, and Nira could see the muscles of his broad shoulders and firm abdomen. He had the perfect physique of an idealized
classical sculpture.
Nira was surprised to note Theron designs on the robe that hung down to his knees. Jora’h must have adopted them after his
meeting with Reynald, either because he was enamored of the forest culture, or because he wanted to make a good impression
on the two green priest representatives. No doubt if the Prime Designate adopted such garments, many others in the Ildiran
court would also dress like him. Rlinda Kett would have no difficulty selling her supplies of cocoon-fiber fabric and worldforest
products.
Jora’h gestured the burly bodyguards forward. “These men will assist us in carrying your belongings. I have arranged for quarters
inside the Prism Palace, where you will be our welcome guests.”
“Oh, thank you.” The words tumbled out of Nira’s mouth before Otema could say anything.
The older woman nodded politely. “We did not expect such a singular honor from the Prime Designate. We have several treelings
and other items to present to the Mage-Imperator.”
Jora’h waved her aside. “There’ll be enough time for formalities and ceremonies later. My father has a very busy schedule
today, so I have been given the wonderful task of showing you the sights of Mijistra.”
Nira clasped her hands in delight, wanting to see everything. Otema glanced at her young assistant. “As you wish, Prime Designate.”
Accompanied by an ever-shifting group of dignitaries and spokespersons who changed at each stop along the tour, Jora’h took
them on his royal hover-platform to show them the capital city, both from above and from street level.
Jora’h said, “This city contains museums full of our history, relics, stories, poems … all to preserve the most glorious days
of our culture. We have a grand architectural and artistic tradition. Our golden age has remained undiminished for millennia.”
Nira stared at the clear walls, the transparent construction bricks that made every building absorb and reflect light. Since
the Ildiran people abhorred darkness, their main construction materials were glasses, crystals, and polymers, some clear and
colorless, others jewel-toned. For aesthetics as well as increased structural integrity, columns of opaque reinforcement blocks
ran up the sides of primary walls.
The lines of the street flowed in curves rather than hard angles. Pyramids were covered with hanging gardens and fern-clusters.
Waterfalls and streams ran through necklaces of pools, bubbling down the sloping sides of buildings through channels and gutters.
“It’s all so beautiful,” Nira said. Jora’h gave her an appreciative smile.
Otema said, almost apologetically, “My assistant has never been away from Theroc, Prime Designate. She is most impressionable.”
