MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
As the sun set across the forest, Jora’h joined the King and Queen up on the canopy for a diplomatic banquet. The Ildiran entourage would depart as soon as Yazra’h and Muree’n returned from their wyvern hunt. A new batch of fresh worldtree saplings had been potted for transport, to be planted as a memorial grove at the site of Mijistra’s human enclave.
The colors in the sky became rich, vibrant hues—reds, oranges, golds. Such sunsets never occurred on Ildira, where seven suns always kept the sky bright. Although Ildirans regarded the fall of night as a thing to be dreaded, Jora’h could see the beauty in the gathering dusk.
They were served a lavish dinner catered by Arbor, a noted Theron restaurant owned by former trade minister Rlinda Kett. An officious-looking dictator of a maître d’ commanded the delivery and presentation of each dish. Jora’h found it amusing to watch him command the serving staff with the same vigor as Adar Zan’nh commanded the Solar Navy.
With an indulgent smile, Nira nudged him, and he turned to look where their daughter Osira’h sat beside Prince Reynald, closer than was necessary. Though the prince looked drawn and pale from his illness, he seemed more energetic next to her. Osira’h talked with him, and they both laughed; she touched his forearm, and he rested his hand on her fingers, as if to encourage them to remain where they were. The two were in their own world, even with the bustle of the banquet around them.
Nira whispered, “They’re like us when I first came to visit the Prism Palace.” Jora’h laughed, but he could not disagree.
He felt pleased with their trip, sure that the alliance with the Confederation was strong. They had learned much about the mysterious Onthos race, who were practically wiped out by the shadows, but Jora’h wanted to know more. If many of their memories had been erased from the worldforest mind, the Mage-Imperator had an idea to propose to the King and Queen.
With great pride, the waiter presented an expensive bottle of kirae from the Kellum distillery. The maître d’ wrinkled his nose in distaste as he popped the top of the bottle and poured for all members of the Ildiran entourage. Jora’h would forgo the liqueur himself, so he could feel the clear tight threads of thism when he made his grand proposal.
While food was served, Ohro and numerous Onthos moved about on the canopy nearby, touching fronds, communing with the worldtrees, hovering where they could listen. They did not seem interested in the feast. Jora’h had not, in fact, learned what the Gardeners actually ate.
When the second course arrived—a plate of colorful plants and pickled leaves sprinkled with flower petals and edible moth wings—Jora’h called for attention. “I have another mission to propose, one that will answer questions about the Shana Rei and give us a clearer picture of what happened to the Onthos race.”
The Gardeners all looked up, suddenly paying attention.
General Keah attended the banquet in her full military uniform, though she seemed anxious to be back aboard her flagship and out on patrol. She lifted her goblet. “I’m all for that!”
“What do you suggest?” asked Queen Estarra.
“The Onthos provided the coordinates for their home system, but no such star appears on our charts. If, as they say, the Shana Rei have hidden it somehow, we should go to the Onthos home system and see for ourselves. I suggest a joint expedition with both the Solar Navy and the Confederation Defense Forces.”
The Gardeners chittered in horror. Ohro said, “Our race was exterminated, our sun swallowed up. We will not go back.”
General Keah sat back in her chair, grinning. “No need, we’ll do it ourselves.”
Peter said, “That definitely sounds like a worthwhile effort. We could learn a lot about the enemy.”
Keah turned toward the King and Queen. “Majesties, let me take the Kutuzov. How soon can we go?”
Jora’h was pleased but not surprised by her enthusiasm. “There are Solar Navy ships to recall, scientists to coordinate, observers to gather. I will ask Adar Zan’nh to coordinate with you, General Keah.”
The Ildiran entourage lifted their small glasses of kirae and toasted. It was good to do something proactively, rather than huddle against an enemy they could not understand.
A ripple shot like an electric spark through the thism. Attuned to the telepathic strands, the Mage-Imperator sensed a sudden splash of violence … in Mijistra! His people going berserk, possessed by the shadows, killing.
And more. He sensed Ildirans in terror and pain, far away, another crisis. At Hiltos! The Lightsource shrine was under attack!
As the storm of emotions slammed into him from several directions, Jora’h couldn’t stop himself from crying out. His insides buckled, and he clenched his hands, trying to control the spasm.
The Onthos began to chitter, staring at him. Nira lurched to her feet, grabbing his shoulder and holding him. “Jora’h, what’s wrong?”
But he could barely answer because the strands of thism grew darker, tighter, like garroting wires. “The shadows … they are inside us again.”