Hidden Empire (43 page)
Jora’h flashed his smoky eyes at the young woman. “Reynald has told me how beautiful your worldforest is.”
At his encouragement, Nira began to describe the towering forests and the fungus-reef cities and the worm hives, then told
him about becoming an acolyte and finally taking the green. Ambassador Otema let Nira talk, and Jora’h appeared fascinated
with it all.
He said, “We Ildirans revere our scholars as well as our musicians and poets, artists, glassmakers, and our rememberers. A
society that does not remember itself is not worth remembering.” Around him, the other bureaucrats agreed. “I am so glad you
two will be here for a long time. A study of our
Saga
cannot be finished in a few days. Together, we will have time to visit many of our great museums and exhibits.”
Nira’s mind and her senses felt full to bursting. Her eyes, already dazzled by the brilliant sunlight, could not absorb more,
no matter how quickly she glanced from side to side. Otema leaned closer and said in a quiet voice, “Don’t gawk, child. You
must not embarrass us.”
Flustered, Nira tried to recapture her dignity, but Jora’h said, “Ah, but Ambassador, is that not the best compliment Nira
can give—to show how captivated she is by everything she sees?” He reached out to touch Nira’s arm, and she felt an electric
thrill run through her emerald skin. “One who lives with a childlike sense of wonder should never be ashamed. Don’t you agree?”
Otema let her expression melt into a smile. “Yes, I agree, Prime Designate. You have reminded me that one who worries too
much about formalities and dignity may well miss important parts of life.”
After hours of busy sightseeing during which the stars jockeyed for position in the sky, yet never hinted at approaching twilight,
Nira and Otema were finally led to their quarters in the Prism Palace. All of their possessions had been removed from the
Voracious Curiosity
and meticulously placed in separate rooms, far enough apart to offer privacy yet close enough that Nira and Otema could easily
confer with each other. The potted treelings had been divided into two groups, one set in each of their quarters.
Jora’h said, “It is difficult for humans to sleep here because there is no darkness. We have provided sleep masks and darkening
shades for your rooms.”
“Thank you, Jora’h,” Nira said, then embarrassed, added, “I mean, Prime Designate.” She felt naive and out of place… yet full
of dreams. She had never imagined she would be so fascinated, and now she felt giddy.
Left alone after the long day, she spoke excitedly to Otema, eager to discuss everything they had experienced, but the old
ambassador wanted time to herself. Nira returned to her own chambers, where, bursting with impressions and needing to tell
someone
, she touched the potted treelings. Nira spent the next hour describing everything she had seen, increasing the knowledge
held within the worldforest.
R
ememberer Dio’sh trembled with gnawing anticipation as he waited for his personal audience alone with the Mage-Imperator.
The supreme Ildiran ruler was the closest thing to a living god the race could imagine. Though he rarely left the confines
of his Prism Palace, the Mage-Imperator could sense every Ildiran, regardless of kith, though he could directly communicate
only with his Designates. Even so, Dio’sh had discovered that some terrible knowledge remained hidden even from the great
leader.
The rememberer knew he must reveal his appalling discovery to the Mage-Imperator. A historical cover-up, lies, conspiracies
… horrific events hidden and rewritten from the dawn of the empire. The benevolent leader would know what to do with the unbelievable
information.
Frightened by what he had learned, Dio’sh had at first considered telling his comrade Vao’sh, but after a nightmarish sleep
period during which he tossed restlessly, the young rememberer at last determined that this matter was important enough to
bring directly to the Mage-Imperator’s attention. A mere historian could not make such momentous decisions by himself.
He had gone through protocol officers and bureaucrats and was surprised to be granted access so quickly. Through the
thism
, the Mage-Imperator must feel the urgency of the rememberer’s secret.
Waiting outside the chambers, Dio’sh held a bundle of the fragments, journals, and eyewitness records he had retrieved from
the hidden vault deep in the labyrinth below. It was all the proof he needed. History itself would change after today, and
the responsibility felt enormous.
He felt the lobes of his face flush through a range of colors as stormy emotions crossed his mind. No historian could keep
his feelings hidden, and now Dio’sh’s face was a bonfire of emotions.
The muscled bodyguard Bron’n blocked the entrance to the Mage-Imperator’s private contemplation chamber, unimpressed with
the young rememberer’s anxiety. The ferocious-looking fighter had a purpose to serve, and he was not interested in whatever
news Dio’sh might bring.
With a deep-throated grunt, Bron’n finally stepped aside and gestured toward the opening door. The guard spoke memorized words
in a gruff voice, as if uncomfortable reciting the bureaucratic language. “The Mage-Imperator is pleased to grant access to
one of his valued rememberer subjects and is eager to hear your matter of great importance.”
Dio’sh wondered why the Mage-Imperator had not chosen to have his advisers there to listen to what he had to say. This revelation
was world-shaking! On the other hand, perhaps this was a matter best kept between the two of them for now. The Mage-Imperator
might want to consider his response without a dozen assistants chattering their advice. Dio’sh drew a deep breath and entered
the dazzling contemplation chamber, trying to calm the colors on his face.
He kept his eyes cast down toward the blue-veined floor. Hot sunlight streamed through the transparent ceiling, magnified
by convex window panels. Fountains in the corners boiled water upward into steam; the room was as humid as a jungle. Dio’sh
took three steps forward and stopped, slowly finding the courage to raise his lobed head. “My Mage-Imperator.”
The soft-skinned ruler reclined on an ellipsoidal chair that supported his bulk. Shimmering garments were draped around the
swollen body. His eyes were half-closed, as if in a heavy-lidded doze. The Mage-Imperator stirred, then spoke in a purring
voice. “I am pleased to meet you in person, Rememberer Dio’sh. I have heard of your ordeal on Crenna—and experienced it directly
through my son, the Designate.”
The long ropelike braid hanging down around the Mage-Imperator’s heavy body lay draped across his stomach and coiled next
to his hips. It twitched like a restless pet anaconda. His eyes studied the rememberer as if he were a succulent meal.
“Yes, Liege. Crenna was … very difficult for me. Rememberer Vao’sh is helping me to compile the true and permanent story of
the blindness plague, so that your son the Crenna Designate and all the other Ildiran victims will be remembered and honored
in our
Saga of Seven Suns.”
The leader’s face remained placid, even bored. “Every Ildiran born lives his life hoping to achieve something significant
enough to warrant inclusion in our
Saga
. Even though those people on Crenna died of a terrible sickness, they will now be revered forever.”
Bowing again, Dio’sh said, “That is my sincerest hope, Liege.” Then he lifted the documents cradled in his hands. “It is regarding
the
Saga of Seven Suns
that I have requested to speak with you.”
He held the documents forward, but the Mage-Imperator did not lift a stubby hand. “Tell me what you have found.” His braid
twitched again, and his voice carried a strong note of wariness. “I sense that it has upset you to your very heart.”
Dio’sh clutched the documents to his chest and spoke without embellishment. “After our rescue from Crenna, I came back to
Mijistra and began to study the records of other epidemics in our history. In the deepest Palace archives, I searched through
many preserved documents of apocrypha, learning hidden fragments of our history.”
“The apocrypha are not a legitimate part of the
Saga,”
the Mage-Imperator cautioned.
“True, but they are still eyewitness accounts and pieces of relevant information, not to be disregarded. I was searching for
background material about the Lost Times, when accepted history tells us that all members of the rememberer kith perished
in the firefever.”
“Yes.” The Mage-Imperator’s pasty face drooped into a frown, yet his sadness seemed false. “That was a terrible time.”
“But the truth is not what we thought, Liege!” Dio’sh said, ready to burst. “I learned something about all of those missing
lines from the
Saga
. I have found evidence of what occurred during that period. Something shocking.”
“There have always been rumors, Dio’sh. Ildirans love their mysteries.”
“Yes, Liege, but I have found that, in reality, the firefever
never occurred.”
“All the rememberers died,” the Mage-Imperator insisted, disturbed and obviously skeptical. The historian did not notice his
glowering expression. “It is clear that a section of our epic was lost.”
Dio’sh stepped closer, his face lobes ablaze with colorful emotions. “No, Liege. Not lost. The rememberers were
killed
in order to hide the truth, and then a portion of the
Saga
was intentionally censored so that no one would ever know what really happened. I believe it must have been an order given
by an ancient Mage-Imperator.”
“Preposterous. No Mage-Imperator would commit such a heinous act.”
A flood of words poured from Dio’sh’s mouth. He waved the incontrovertible documents. “The lost verses tell of an ancient
and devastating conflict in the galaxy, an ultimate war against powerful creatures called hydrogues, aliens that live within
the cores of gas-giant planets.”
The Mage-Imperator was wide-awake now, fascinated. Dangerous. Dio’sh continued. “This ancient war, I believe, is related to
the extinction or disappearance of the Klikiss race, but it has remained hidden for these ten thousand years.” He shuffled
through the documents, eagerly seeking passages to quote. “Liege, the evidence is clear. Our accepted version of the
Saga
does not tell the entire truth. We must change what has been written.”
Dio’sh was so excited that he paid no heed to the displeasure crossing the Mage-Imperator’s normally beatific face, or to
the long braid thrashing with the leader’s agitation. “Let me see these documents. Step closer.”
Dio’sh came forward and offered the records. Surely the Mage-Imperator would see the proof and know the truth. “Here is a
journal entry from one of the assassins. The blood is on his own hands. He says—”
The living braid rose up beside the Mage-Imperator, extending from the chrysalis chair like a tentacle. Seeing a flicker of
movement, Dio’sh glanced to the side—but had no time to cry out before the serpentlike rope of living hair lashed out and
wrapped around his neck.
The Mage-Imperator’s eyes blazed as he leaned forward. “Of course I know the story.” His lip curled with disgust.
The knotted braid constricted. The historian struggled frantically, dropping the records as he kicked and squirmed. The Mage-Imperator’s
hair squeezed harder, drawing the loop tighter, until it crushed the rememberer’s larynx.
“I
wanted
it kept secret.” Hissing angry breaths, the Mage-Imperator continued squeezing until his pasty face was ruddy, flushed with
the effort. Then he snapped Dio’sh’s neck and used the braid to toss the historian’s body onto the floor like so much garbage.
T
he Ildirans were hiding something terrible—Davlin Lotze felt it deep in his bones. But as he sifted through the hastily abandoned
wreckage of the Crenna colony, he could not pin down any details. Keeping his identity secret, pretending to be a mere colonist,
made his job even more difficult.
