MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
A mission to the Confederation capital required a great deal of pomp and circumstance, and the Mage-Imperator’s entourage took days to prepare. While attenders and noble bureaucrats scurried about to make all the necessary arrangements, Jora’h had his own important business to attend to. While he and Nira were gone on Theroc, he would leave the Ildiran Empire in the hands of his son Daro’h, the Prime Designate.
Daro’h was not Jora’h’s firstborn noble son, but the events of the Elemental War had left him in line to be the next Mage-Imperator—and he was deeply scarred because of it.
Though a score of attender kith bustled after Jora’h to serve his every need, and katana-armed guards strode along to protect him wherever he went, he sent them away as he entered his son’s personal quarters in the Prism Palace.
Light from several suns poured through walls of transmission crystal, and lemony filters added a soothing golden glow to the Prime Designate’s chambers. Happy chatter filled the room with a warm background drone.
Entering unannounced, Jora’h saw several women in the front chamber, some of the mothers of Daro’h’s children. They looked up in surprise to see the Mage-Imperator, and the tone of conversation suddenly changed. Jora’h smiled at the crowded, domestic scene. Daro’h was unusual among his predecessors, in that he invited his numerous assigned lovers to visit whenever they wished, along with his countless children. Right now, the Prime Designate sat on the floor playing a game of multicolored interlocking objects with five boys and girls of varying ages and kith mixtures. Daro’h appeared to be losing, but not through lack of trying.
Jora’h spoke, teasing rather than chiding. “My father would have been horrified to see such casual behavior from a Prime Designate.”
Daro’h chuckled. “He lived in very different times, Father. I am sure that when you were Prime Designate, you must have horrified him too.”
Jora’h couldn’t argue with that, especially when he’d announced that he had fallen in love with a human woman, a green priest. His father had been a wicked man who caused a great deal of pain—and oh, the terrible things that man had done to Nira!
As the children continued to play with the colored objects on the floor, Daro’h rose to his feet and straightened his robes. The burn scar on one side of his face looked like flesh-colored wax, a constant reminder of the horrors Daro’h—and the Empire—had endured when the violent faeros tried to burn all of Ildira.
Jora’h said, “Nira and I shall journey to Theroc, and the Empire will be yours for a time, Daro’h.” He added an encouraging smile. “I am confident the Ildiran people are in good hands.”
Daro’h tried to hide his flush of pride with a joke. “Countless thousands of hands, Father. I can barely take a breath without assistance. I will not be alone.”
The Prime Designate’s children, unimpressed with the importance of the Mage-Imperator, squealed and argued over their game. Jora’h indulged them, though some of the mothers of different kiths hurried to shush the boys and girls. With a wistful sigh, he remembered his own hedonistic days as Prime Designate. The heir to the Prism Palace had certain pleasurable requirements and responsibilities that were far different from the weight of leadership that Daro’h would have to endure once he became Mage-Imperator.
As the pinnacle of Ildiran genetics, the man who would one day control the myriad strands of thism, the Prime Designate was obligated to spread his bloodline as widely as possible among the kiths. Functionaries compared breeding charts and arranged an endless succession of lovers for him, so that by the time a Prime Designate underwent the castration ceremony to become Mage-Imperator, he had thousands of offspring. Jora’h had followed long-established tradition until he met a human green priest. Nira had changed everything.…
“I tried to set a good example for you,” he told Daro’h. “I want you to be as prepared as you can possibly be.”
Daro’h had a shine in his eyes that made Jora’h proud. “We cannot always be prepared for what we have to face. We just do our best.”
Two of his lovers came up, offering refreshments. One woman presented a tray with two crystal finger-sized glasses of strong kirae, a potent and delicious liquor distilled by clan Kellum on Kuivahr. Jora’h had little interest in kirae, but knew the assigned mates would be deeply disappointed if he did not accept. He and Daro’h each took a small sip, nodded thanks to the women, then took a seat together out on the sunny balcony.
“You were never born to the role, but you are a good Prime Designate,” Jora’h said. “You have already proved your worth. I was proud of how you faced the faeros, how you stood up to mad Designate Rusa’h when he was possessed by the fire elementals and caused so much damage to us all.”
Daro’h scratched his burn scar—a nervous habit. “Rusa’h was not aware of what he was doing.” He swallowed hard, disturbed by the memory. Jora’h could feel the quaver of his son’s emotions through the strands of thism. “Is he still in exile?”
Jora’h was grim. Few people knew the truth. “Rusa’h has spent years as a penitent at the Lightsource shrine on Hiltos. He studies and meditates with the lens kithmen. He says he wants to atone, but I think the lens kithmen are more curious to learn from him. I warned them to be very careful with that man. He nearly destroyed us all.”
Daro’h nodded, troubled. “But in this time of shadows reappearing, do we not need to understand everything we possibly can? Just in case?”
Jora’h felt a deep chill, but the Prime Designate was right. Daro’h would be a good Mage-Imperator someday. He gave the young man a smile. “I know the Ildiran Empire will be safe while I am gone to Theroc.”