Hidden Empire (74 page)
Beneto found the old man lying peacefully in the morning shade under the tallest worldtree. He smiled to see the smooth expression
of utter contentment on the tattooed face.
Beneto used no shovel, so as not to damage the nervelike roots of the worldtrees. He required no tools other than his bare
calloused hands to scoop soft soil from between two widely spaced trees. In less than an hour he managed to excavate a shallow
grave. Then he picked up the old man’s body as if it weighed no more than kindling and placed it into the soil close to the
roots. Beneto covered Talbun, enfolding him in the earth where he had longed to be for so many years.
The young man spoke silent prayers, and the trees themselves whispered. All green priests with access to the world-forest
could witness this funeral of one of their own.
Satisfied, Beneto finished and returned to his dwelling to wash up. Later in the day he would go into Colony Town and deliver
the news to the settlers. He knew there would be much mourning, for Talbun had been a dear friend to them, but Beneto would
do his best to comfort them and follow in the old green priest’s footsteps.
By tradition, an hour after the burial, Beneto returned to the grove and carefully selected a worldtree that grew tall and
straight. He removed a viable treeling, a thin flexible outgrowth that protruded from an intersection of the widest fronds.
Its delicate, moist roots still glistened with a varnish of sap and tree juices. Cradling it gently, Beneto went back to the
mound of fresh dirt that marked Talbun’s grave and, in the center, dug down so that he could plant this new treeling in honor
of the old green priest.
He had covered the old man’s body here to let Talbun’s molecules rejoin the worldforest. As he dug down, Beneto found that
the green priest’s physical form had vanished completely. Old Talbun had already been absorbed into the soil, incorporated
into the network of the burgeoning worldforest.
Beneto planted the treeling there, wearing a bittersweet smile. When he was finished he stood up and looked around the lush
grove.
Silently to himself, and then through telink by touching the trunk of the nearest tree, he promised to plant more and more
treelings on Corvus Landing, doing his sacred labor so the worldforest could spread across the universe.
M
ore and more each day, Nira found herself in the mood for singing. Though old Otema seemed disappointed with how little progress
her assistant had made in reading the
Saga
to the trees, Nira’s complete happiness deflected even the Iron Lady’s inclination to scold her. And Rememberer Vao’sh had
offered a group of dedicated readers to help with the project. Otema was satisfied with the progress.
Nira’s affair with Prime Designate Jora’h had already lasted for months—very unusual for him, and they both knew it. She found
him exciting and compassionate, gentle and intelligent. Not surprisingly, he proved to be an excellent lover, caring for her
and pleasuring her, and she did her best to please him in return.
Though Jora’h had already stayed with her far longer than he had with any of his other carefully selected lovers, he kept
returning for her kisses. The Prime Designate seemed more captivated by the green-skinned Theron woman than he had ever been
with the most exotic of Ildiran kiths. He saw Nira as innocent and refreshing. Though respectful of his noble rank, she was
not paralyzed with reverence for the eldest son of the godlike Mage-Imperator. Jora’h found that liberating.
But in spite of the numerous times they had made love, and even well aware as she was of the Prime Designate’s proven virility,
Nira was completely astonished to find herself pregnant with his child.
She had suspected for weeks, but could hardly believe the miracle. A trans-species child implied an extraordinary compatibility
between the genetics of the two races. Finally, though, after she missed her period and recognized the changes in her body—unexpected
nausea, troublesome fatigue even in the bright Ildiran sunlight, slight weight gain—Nira could no longer deny the possibility.
The sheer wonder placed her in a daze.
She recalled lying on colorful cushions beside Jora’h in an enclosed atrium that looked out upon the upward-flowing waterfalls.
They had finished making love yet still held each other with just as much passion, still kissing, moving on to another phase
of sex. She had asked him about Ildiran kiths, how the different breeds related to each other.
“Ah, Nira,” he said, smiling, “the Ildiran genome is very … undiscriminating. Our species is adaptable, incorporating any
trait that might be useful, finding common segments of DNA and joining them to make a stronger half-breed. We take the best
of every kith.”
“The different races of humanity have subtle variations in appearance,” Nira explained, “but genetically we are all the same.”
Jora’h had laughed at that, kissing her again. “Nira, even
I
can see that not all humans are the same. Especially not you.”
Now, alone, she touched the smooth skin of her flat abdomen. Nothing showed yet, of course, but as she closed her eyes Nira
tried to imagine the baby growing inside her, an individual life form. Partly hers, partly Jora’h’s. She wondered how soon
she would be able to sense its stirring presence.
“What will you be like? A son or a daughter?” she whispered aloud, thinking of the mixed genetics of a telepathic green priest
and the Mage-Imperator’s son. The possibilities seemed limitless, and she smiled, impressed at the potential this child held.
When he became Mage-Imperator, Jora’h would have full access to
thism
, a telepathy completely different from Nira’s own connection with the worldforest. Through the
thism
, a Mage-Imperator sat at the top of a diffuse mind, sensing all of the subjects in his empire. When that happened, Nira would
lose her lover entirely. Jora’h would become something else, something that was both more and less than what he was now.
“Are you eager for that day?” Nira had asked him.
“That day will come regardless of my enthusiasm or trepidation. I am the Prime Designate. My destiny is to be the next Mage-Imperator.
The
thism
will be my canvas, on which I can continue the masterpiece of the Ildiran Empire. I will know everything, and the people
will treat me like a god.” He kissed her. “I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
Nira had felt afraid as she held the Prime Designate naked against her, feeling his warm skin, the topography of his muscles,
the pleasantly hot stirring of his breath against her face. His tiny golden chains of hair crackled like living static. “But
before that can happen, Jora’h, you must… they will have to—”
He brushed his fingertips over her lips. “No man would ever look forward to ritual castration, but I have been prepared for
that since I was a child. For now, my duty is to spread my bloodline among the various Ildiran kiths. Later, my duty will
be to manage the web of
thism
so that I can be the heart and mind of the Ildiran race.” He stroked her smooth shoulders. “But that will not occur for half
a century or more. Don’t worry about it, Nira. Does not the transience itself make our love sweeter?”
How could she disagree?
Astonished but incredibly happy to learn that she carried his child, Nira longed to see Jora’h, needed to talk with him, but
he had been exceptionally busy. Since the hydrogue attack on Qronha 3 and the alien emissary’s ultimatum against ekti production,
the Mage-Imperator had been keeping his son close beside him. Such dire circumstances had forced the Prime Designate—indeed
all the Designates, as well as Adar Kori’nh and the other commanders of the Solar Navy—to address the emergency.
Nira knew this was not a time for lovemaking, and comforted herself with the knowledge of her precious secret, looking forward
to the time when she would be able to reveal it to Jora’h. One day, when his duties and obligations as heir to the great empire
weighed too heavily upon him, she would tell him, offer him a bright spot in an otherwise troubled day. She felt sure he would
consider it a miracle.
Reluctant to confide in stern Otema, though, Nira kept the information to herself and concentrated on reading the
Saga
to the treelings. Nira wondered whether she might have earned a place in the epic herself, by carrying the first child of
an Ildiran and a human. Her baby, a hybrid with such monumental potential, might someday perform great deeds.
Soon she would have to tell Otema about the baby, if the old woman didn’t already know through the worldforest. For now, Nira
justified her love for the Prime Designate, sorting out her feelings for him and speaking them aloud. Having no one else to
talk to, she shared her thoughts with the nonjudgmental treelings, telling them everything.
And the always-curious worldforest absorbed the information with benevolent fascination.
A
fter a noticeably agitated Chairman Wenceslas raced back to mitigate the disaster on Earth, the Mage-Imperator knew it was
time to launch his own plans. In the end, it did not matter how many people were hurt, because the Empire was at stake. He
could no longer delay.
As the focal point of an entire race, the Mage-Imperator had no qualms about making the necessary decisions, no matter how
grim and unpleasant they might be. Someday, his son Jora’h would also understand—
after
the Mage-Imperator was dead. The Prime Designate had no choice, and he suspected nothing.
Under bright sunlight on the rooftop of the Prism Palace, the Prime Designate and his large assigned retinue stood in traveling
clothes, ornately dressed in a combination of traditional Ildiran stripes and looping scarves made from Theron cocoon fibers.
The Mage-Imperator had ordered teams of attenders to carry the chrysalis chair to the rooftop landing platform so he could
bid his eldest son farewell. Getting Jora’h out of the way was the important first step, before the leader could issue his
more unpleasant orders.
“I hope you will learn much from this diplomatic trip, my son,” he said with a beatific smile. The Prime Designate seemed
untroubled; it was easy to manipulate him.
Jora’h’s tiny gold braids floated in a nimbus around his head as he nodded. “I will be pleased to view Theroc with my own
eyes, Father. And I look forward to meeting with Prince Reynald again. I believe he will be a friend to our Empire.”
The Mage-Imperator nodded, feigning contentment in his reclining chair though fully aware of the desperate growing danger
from the ancient hydrogue enemies. “Yes, we must make sure that our alliances are secure.”
Jora’h glanced at the green-skinned female, Nira, who waited with spectators outside the cordon, where Bron’n and other bodyguards
kept them at a safe distance. “Still, Father… are you convinced you don’t require my counsel and assistance here? What if
the hydrogues attack another Ildiran facility?”
The Mage-Imperator nudged his chrysalis chair closer to where his son stood. “Jora’h, because of your friendship with Reynald,
no one can negotiate with the Therons as well as you. At present, this is the most important duty you can perform for the
Ildiran Empire.”
The Prime Designate bowed, pleased to be given such a responsibility. “As you command, my Mage-Imperator. You see all and
know all.”
Waving to the spectators, he cast a lingering gaze toward the female green priest, to whom he had never said his private good-bye.
Jora’h led the bureaucrats and nobles into the transport ship that would take them to Theroc, where he would be conveniently
preoccupied for some time. The Mage-Imperator’s faithful and unquestioning minions would cover up the mess and concoct appropriate
excuses and alibis, if necessary. Jora’h need never know.
He had worried that his son would ask Nira to accompany him on this journey—which would have forced the corpulent leader to
make an awkward refusal, based on some pretext or other. But the old green priest had preempted Jora’h’s request, saying that
their work on the
Saga of Seven Suns
was not proceeding as rapidly or efficiently as it should. Before Nira could ask to join the Prime Designate, Otema had made
it very clear that her assistant must remain in Mijistra and do her work.
