Hidden Empire (52 page)
“I am saddened that your companion Otema could not join us,” he said.
Nira couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “No, you’re not.”
Jora’h was taken aback; then he chuckled as well. “Perhaps my feelings are too obvious. You are correct. I would have played
a fine host to the ambassador, but I would rather spend the afternoon with you.”
“With me … and five thousand Ildirans?” Nira gestured to the crowds lining the brightly lit arena. The spectators sat in designated
sections, different kiths clustered together so that as Nira swept her gaze across the cheering people, she saw a spectrum
of different facial features and body types.
“Ah, but you are the only person I see, Nira.” Fanfare sounded, and the crowds shouted. “The spectacle is about to begin.”
Jora’h brushed his fingers across her wrist, then chastely folded his hands in his lap.
Ildiran jousting was an important ritualistic sport performed inside covered amphitheaters. Mirrored panels alternated with
transparent skylights that shone down on a sandy competition field. Warriors clad in highly polished, reflective body armor
rode out of dark openings astride gray six-legged reptilian beasts that seemed to be all muscles and spines and scales. The
beasts reminded Nira of Komodo dragons with rills at their throats, knobs on their bent limbs.
The heroic jousters came together slowly, the steeds leaving wide footprints in the soft dirt of the combat field. The reptilian
mounts hissed and then lashed out with spined tongues, but the riders kept the creatures apart to prevent them from doing
damage … at least until the jousting formally began.
The Ildiran knights carried throbbing laser lances, long crystal shafts couched with ruby projection rods and power sources
connected to battery packs behind the saddles of the reptilian mounts.
“Are those spears used for combat?” Nira asked in a hushed voice. “Do they stab each other or those creatures they are riding?”
Jora’h’s golden hair waved about his head. “The crystal spears can be formidable weapons, but no sophisticated Ildiran knight
would use them in so crude a fashion.”
He stood, and on cue projected lights focused on him, a prismatic rainbow glow that drew the full attention of the audience.
When Jora’h raised his hands, the crowd suddenly fell silent. “Fighters! Make a good impression today!” His voice boomed out,
somehow amplified, though Nira could see no microphone or speaker. “Combatants—power your lances.”
The crystal spears shimmered with an inner jewel light, as if a tiny stellar core had just been ignited in their handles.
“Begin the joust!” Jora’h shouted.
The dazzling lights turned from the Prime Designate and illuminated the combatants’ field where the huge reptiles began circling.
The three jousters raised their shields in salute. Nira noticed that, though the shields were all generally the same size,
each had a different shape and was inlaid with a specific pattern of mirrored patches, designs, and transparent windows.
The knights raised their crystal lances, and each fired a dazzling burst of light toward angled mirrors in the amphitheater
ceiling. The long lance shaft was actually a laser collimation path to project a coherent beam, which reflected and sparkled
in a beautifully patterned webwork visible against the faint mist within the dome.
“By regulation, the knights’ shields have to be exactly half silvered,” Jora’h said to her, “part reflective and part transparent.
However, there is no requirement as to
how
the patterns must be arranged. Our greatest jousters believe there is much strategy in applying the mirror surfaces to their
shields.”
Nira didn’t entirely understand, but she leaned forward. “So if they don’t hold the shield just right, the laser beam can
pass directly through?”
“Indeed,” Jora’h said, his eyes on the tournament. “It can be fatal.”
The jousters urged their lizard mounts to greater speed, then shot deadly lasers at their opponents. One knight fired a beam
that reflected from his challenger’s shield, ricocheted off one of the ceiling mirrors, and scorched the third jouster’s reptile
steed. Squealing, the creature lashed out with a spined tongue, but the first jouster backed away to roars of applause.
Jora’h said, “It is considered the greatest mark of skill to take down one’s opponent by a reflected shot of his own lance.”
One of the three jousters was clearly the crowd hero. Every time he moved, cheers and shouts rang out with increased ardor.
“Who is that?” Nira observed the knight’s aloof manner, the dramatic flourish of mirrored swirls on his shield.
Jora’h smiled. “Cir’gh is one of our greatest champions. He has won hundreds of matches, and he feels and thinks like his
mount. He also knows precisely how every beam will reflect. Perfect instinct.”
Cir’gh launched a laser volley that reflected off the ceiling, struck one opponent, reflected off his armor, and grazed the
second jouster, all in a single move.
“He is also blind in one eye.” Jora’h grinned at Nira’s expression of shock. “A laser spark caught him in the cornea. But
though it darkened his sight, he claims it improved his overall vision.”
The jousters furiously fired their lances, tilting and slashing with their mirrors, rotating shields to prevent the lasers
from blasting through the transparent patches. A flurry of beams crisscrossed the misty air. Nira was astonished that no spectators
were killed by stray reflections.
“You will read about our jousting when you study the
Saga of Seven Suns
. I am no rememberer, but let me tell you a tale from our history.”
Nira laughed. “Surely the Prime Designate of the Ildiran Empire can spin a story as well as anyone else?”
“It is about another Prime Designate from the past, so I am familiar with the poignancy and the political relevance.” He looked
at her, questioning. “You understand that before he becomes Mage-Imperator, a Prime Designate is required to have many offspring?
These then become Designates on other colony worlds as well as noble leaders of the various kiths. Long ago, however, the
firstborn son of a Mage-Imperator was incapable of siring children. When a Prime Designate has so many mates, it becomes apparent
very quickly if he is sterile.”
“That’s terrible,” Nira said.
Jora’h’s vibrant gold hair flickered around his face. “If a Prime Designate were unable to bear a successor, then the future
of our political rule would be in doubt. Rather than letting the other Designates intrigue and squabble over who should be
the replacement heir, the sterile Prime Designate called a tournament of Ildiran jousting. All sons of the Mage-Imperator
could compete to see who was best equipped to become leader of the Ildiran Empire.”
“You used a… a game to decide a matter of dynastic importance?” Nira wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
Jora’h’s smoky eyes gleamed in the light. “Ildiran jousting is no simple sport, Nira. It requires athletic ability, as well
as speed of thought, strategy, learning how to cooperate with your enemies against a third foe.”
In the arena below, Cir’gh scored another tremendous blast. He scorched a reptilian steed so badly that its rider bowed his
crystal lance and raised his mirror-painted shield in surrender, backing out of the competition. The defeated knight returned
to the side of the arena so that the two remaining jousters could battle out the championship.
Jora’h continued, “The sterile Designate wanted his jousting tournament to be a grand event, a spectacular pageant that would
be remembered for centuries to come. Unfortunately, it ended in tragedy.”
Nira was listening now, paying only slight heed to the laser battle going on below. “Why? What happened?”
“The sterile Designate’s most beloved brother was in the match when a mirror-shield broke in half, and the fragments sent
beams flying into the audience. It killed him, his opponent, and three spectators.”
“How awful,” Nira said.
“The Designate’s successor, when finally chosen, ruled under a cloud of doubt for ninety years. The sterile Designate who
should have become Mage-Imperator remained an adviser in the Prism Palace for the rest of his years and never chose to be
castrated, as was his right.”
Below, one-eyed Cir’gh finally defeated his opponent, and the other knight raised his shield, conceding. The crowd roared.
Jora’h stood to applaud as the brilliant spotlights increased the illumination inside the arena, dazzling Nira.
“You have a strange but compellingly beautiful history, Jora’h,” Nira said.
His face seemed to diffuse with warmth upon hearing her say that. “I hope you continue to think so, Nira, as you learn more
about us.”
F
ather Idriss and Mother Alexa were surprised, then disappointed, when Beneto announced his intention to leave Theroc and devote
himself to the backwater colony of Corvus Landing. They had anticipated much greater things for their second son, perhaps
a primary position or a leadership role among the green priests.
But in the end, they bowed to the wishes of the worldforest. When Alexa finally realized that this was truly what her son
wanted, she embraced him and announced that she would host a grand farewell celebration, complete with a full performance
from the most skilled treedancers from the largest tree cities. Beneto smiled graciously, though he would have preferred no
fuss whatsoever. Alexa was doing this more to fulfill her own needs than her son’s, so he accepted the planned banquet with
good grace.
Upon hearing of her brother’s imminent departure, Estarra was deeply hurt. With a sad expression, Beneto gave her the news
directly, rather than letting her learn from her parents or from gossip. She would miss the times she had spent with him out
in the forests, talking about native plants and towering worldtrees and any other thoughts that came into her head. But she
could see in Beneto’s face that this volunteer assignment was truly a dream that had captured his heart.
“I’ll think about you often, Beneto,” she said, already lonely. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to travel and see you on Corvus
Landing.”
He laughed. “From what I can tell, there isn’t much of a tourist industry, but old Talbun seems to enjoy living there. I look
forward to taking his place, so that he can move on.”
On the day of the farewell celebration, Estarra wanted to contribute in a way that would make her brother proud. She considered
helping with the banquet preparations, but decided instead to gather Beneto’s favorite delicacy: slices of the tender outer
skin of the reef fungus, found only at the topmost, uninhabitable layers of their city.
Estarra and her sister, Celli, climbed to the upper chambers of the fungus reef where the walls were too young and soft to
support permanent dwellings. The girls strapped pouches to their waists and lashed spikes onto their thick boots, ready to
climb out onto the sloping soft layers.
“You’re too old to do this,” Celli said, looking at her sister. Estarra had just turned thirteen, an awkward age that placed
her among the full-grown women half the time, while at other times she was reluctant to sever her ties to childhood.
“I am not,” Estarra said, ready to punch her sister. “Besides, I’m doing this for Beneto, and you aren’t going to stop me.”
“I’ll gather more mushroom meat than you will,” Celli said. “He’s my brother too.”
Yes, he is
, Estarra thought,
and we’ll both lose him when he leaves tomorrow
.
With Celli breathing down her neck, Estarra pushed through the rubbery-lipped opening of a natural window. Using a support
hook, she clawed her way onto the outer roof. Celli scampered over the hardening mushroom to the fresh, expanding growth,
her boot spikes giving her traction. The girl pulled out her knife while searching for a good spot far from scars where other
children had cut the fungus. “Careful!” she cried in a singsong voice.
Estarra climbed straight up to the highest point of knobbly growth, where she would find the tenderest flesh. “Mind your own
business.” She knew that Celli just wanted to win some imagined race, while she herself thought only of Beneto. She wanted
her brother to have a good memory of her whenever he got lonely for Theroc on Corvus Landing.
Estarra pounded a metal stake at the end of her arm’s reach to pull herself higher. She spread herself flat on the delicate
skin of the fungus and crawled upward, planting the heel of her foot against the stake for support. It wobbled beneath her
weight.
Estarra began cutting meaty chunks and stuffing them into the pouch at her waist. She gritted her teeth with the effort, but
thought of the great feast she would make for Beneto. Sarein would no doubt frown at her sister for climbing up and doing
a child’s work, suggesting that Estarra should find more mature responsibilities. But Estarra bit her lower lip and climbed
even higher, assuring herself that no one else would do this for her brother.
She balanced precariously and leaned forward to cut another slice, though her pouch was already mostly full. Then, accidentally,
she triggered one of the spore nodules, which unleashed a shower of pebbly white powder into her face.
