Of Fire and Night (41 page)

103

KING PETER

W
ith urgent steps, the royal guards rushed the King and Queen out of the banquet hall. Captain McCammon led the way with his twitcher drawn. “Isolate them in their quarters as swiftly as possible!” His maroon ceremonial beret was askew on his bleached-white hair.

Royal guards folded protectively around Peter and Estarra. Although their functions were frequently ceremonial, the gaudily uniformed men moved with gratifying precision. The Queen’s pregnancy hindered her movement, but she kept up. If she slowed, Peter was sure the guards would pick her up and carry her in their arms.

“This way! Clear the halls.” McCammon raised his voice to a bellow. Functionaries and Palace workers scattered into side rooms. “You two, head to the next intersection. Keep watch. Highest alert!”

Estarra stumbled, and Peter caught her. They kept running. Both of them knew the implications of what had just happened. Peter had seen Basil’s glare. “That’s it, then,” the Queen mumbled to him, her voice bleak. “We’re dead.”

“Not if I can help it, Your Majesty,” McCammon called back over his shoulder. “No need for talk like that. We’ll keep you safe.” The royal guards had no idea what was at stake. Or maybe, Peter thought, they actually did. . . .

There would be no safety for the two of them in the Whisper Palace.

The lead pair of guards stopped at a junction of corridors up ahead, drew their weapons, and blocked access so that the group could hurry the royal couple through without pausing. Palace District security squads had closed off the banquet hall. The two hundred guests would be held for questioning, grilled over and over again about any possible involvement with Franz Pellidor. The Palace would be in continuous chaos for many hours.

Peter ground his teeth together. The Chairman knew damn well there were no other accomplices, that Pellidor had nothing to do with the attempt, yet he had to go through the motions. Media imagers had broadcast the reintroduction of Prince Daniel. Much of Earth’s population had seen Sarein accuse Pellidor and watched him fall dead, supposedly a victim of his own poison.

Why had Sarein ruined everything? If she’d guessed about the poison, she would also have known that Pellidor was not involved. Peter wasn’t particularly sorry that the murderous expediter was dead. Long ago, it had been Mr. Pellidor who kidnapped an unsuspecting boy named Raymond Aguerra and then arranged for the conflagration that had killed Raymond’s—Peter’s—family. Pellidor deserved a death far slower and far more painful than fauldur poison.

Sarein had chosen to save Basil, even if it meant death for her own sister. It wasn’t likely Estarra would ever get a chance to talk with Sarein now. In fact, they might never see her again.

But the clumsy failure had accomplished one important thing: If the Chairman killed them now, even the most gullible media reporter would sense something was wrong. In a roundabout way, exposing the assassination attempt had bought Peter and Estarra some time. Maybe that meant he and his Queen would stay alive for the next few days.

When they finally reached the Royal Wing, Captain McCammon remained tense and alert. He sent several guards ahead to sweep the bedchambers and waiting rooms. “All clear, Captain.” After the King and Queen had passed into the private quarters, McCammon stationed four of his men outside the main entryway, and Peter believed these royal guards would actually do their best to protect him and Estarra.

The captain cautiously followed the two into their suite, double-checking every corner for an unexpected threat. Tendons stood out on his neck. “I always knew something was wrong with that Pellidor. A bit too full of his own importance. I’ll never forget how he thought
he
had the authority to prevent you from seeing Chairman Wenceslas.” He made a disgusted sound. “If you ask me, that man got himself involved in some shady business and paid the price for it.”

Peter nodded, careful not to speak.

“If Pellidor had listened to you about the Soldier compies in the first place, Your Highness, the Hansa wouldn’t be in such a mess.” McCammon shook his head. “If the hydrogues come, like the Ildirans say they’re going to, we could be looking at the end of the human race.”

Peter was unsettled by the man’s passion. For the past few days he’d been so focused on survival, trying to dodge Basil’s political knife thrusts, that he had gotten distracted from the big picture. McCammon was right; this could indeed be the end of the human race.

Taking a seat, Estarra gathered her breath to ask obvious questions so she could gauge the guards’ reactions. “But if Pellidor poisoned the coffee, then he must have known it would kill him. Why would he drink it voluntarily?”

“Most likely to protect his accomplices. A fanatic. This plot is probably much bigger than we think.” The captain straightened his beret. “In fact, I’ll have my guards install poison scanners in your quarters. From now on, I insist that you test your own food.”

“Even so, we can’t assume that we’re safe,” Peter said. He took an unexpected chance. “Captain McCammon, give me your sidearm.”

The guard blinked. “There’s no need, Your Majesty. We will protect you. Nothing’s going to happen to you or the Queen on my watch.”

Peter stared at him, hard. “I don’t doubt your ability, Captain. But don’t underestimate these ruthless assassins. They tried poison this time, and no doubt they will use a different method when they try again.” He held out his hand for the weapon. “At least give me a chance to protect my wife and unborn child if the worst happens.”

McCammon drew his twitcher, looked at it, adjusted the charge, and nodded. “You know how to use this?”

“I fired some weapons in my younger years.” That had been in another life, struggling to survive the tough streets. “And it is your job, Captain, to make sure that I don’t need it.”

Peter concealed the weapon in his robes, while McCammon went to check on his guards. Feeling the twitcher’s reassuring weight, Peter looked meaningfully at the Queen. Now at least they were armed against whatever Basil intended to do to them.

104

NIRA

I
n accordance with the hydrogue demands—and the Mage-Imperator’s plan—Adar Zan’nh dispatched hundreds of “protective” warliners to Earth. Nira clung to the hope that Jora’h would be true to his word and do all he could to save both of their races. She wanted to trust him again, but he hadn’t yet earned her unquestioning faith. She knew he was still keeping secrets from her.

Smiling uncertainly, Jora’h led her up into the skysphere. Courtiers, guard kithmen, and pilgrims waited in the audience chamber below, but the Mage-Imperator had already spent hours with them and ordered them to wait longer. He needed some private time with Nira. “Come with me. I have something to show you.” Together they ascended the ramps into the overarching terrarium, past the exotic plants on display for the glory of the Mage-Imperator.

A jewel-winged creature sped past her eyes, swirled, and then shot off in a different direction. Fleshy comptor lilies bloomed, shedding a perfumed sweetness as thick as mist. Enjoying the verdant beauty around her, Nira touched Jora’h’s hand with her rough fingers and wondered what it would be like if their two separate minds could touch through telink or
thism
.

“I know you long to reconnect with the worldforest. But though I control this Empire, I cannot help you.” Nira could feel sadness emanating from him. “All the treelings were destroyed. Every one of them. That is the truth, and I am ashamed. Long ago, my father killed the ones you and Ambassador Otema brought with you.” He looked away. “Recently, though, Queen Estarra from Earth brought me another treeling. I kept it in my own quarters. I used to stare at it and think of you.”

Nira sensed his uneasiness. “What happened to it? Where is it now?”

“I destroyed it.” He let the confession hang in the air. “There is another green priest in the Prism Palace, part of the Hansa skymining crew from Qronha 3. He lost his own tree during the hydrogue attack, but he sensed the treeling in my private contemplation chamber. He tried to break in. He wanted to send out a telink message, which would have been disastrous at that time. To remove the temptation, and the risk, I destroyed the treeling. I am sorry, Nira, but I could not allow him to reveal our plans. There was too much at stake.”

“More likely he just wanted to touch the worldforest mind,” she said, her voice cool. This was what he had been afraid to tell her. He had killed a treeling, and now she remained cut off, just like that other green priest. “So all the treelings on Ildira are truly dead.”

“Yes. But let me show you what I have left.”

He led her to where the terraced dirt was strewn with large fragments of wood, like a rock garden made from chunks of demolished trees. Some of the lumps had been crudely shaped and carved, others merely sanded to excise external charring. Immediately recognizing the grain, color, and sheen, Nira hurried forward, her face full of longing. “This is worldtree wood!”

“A Roamer trader brought them to me. His clan members assisted your world after the hydrogue attack and were given this wood as thanks.”

Nira’s shoulders sagged. She had come to Ildira as a young acolyte, but she had been gone for many years and was unaware of so many incredible events. Until recently, she had not even known about the devastation of the worldforest.

Jora’h held a piece of the polished wood up to the light. “I asked the trader to give me every scrap he had. Because the wood reminded me of you.” He handed it to her. “I did not know what to do with it, so I kept it here, where I would see it often.”

Wistfully, she knelt, resting the worldtree wood on her knee. The smooth chunk, though dead and silent, felt comfortable in her hands. She touched the strangely familiar wood and traced the feathery grain, followed the contours of splinters and flat surfaces, searching for a warmth inside. Nira let her thoughts flow, longing for any kind of connection. Hoping for
something
.

Though this wood was dead, the worldforest mind itself was still intact, still dispersed across the forest. There must be some way she could touch the rest of the vast network. During her long isolation, she’d feared that she might be deaf to telink. She had yearned for the touch of the worldforest as much as she yearned for Jora’h to come to her.

Now, though she heard the background noises of small birds and butterflies, rustling leaves, rushing water from fountains and irrigation misters, she heard nothing inside her head. Nothing.

Beside her, Jora’h sat as motionless as a tree himself, waiting, not sure what she was attempting to do. Nira saw his expression of deep pain, hope, and sorrow for her. She closed her eyes, concentrating only on the worldtree wood.

She recalled her youth as an acolyte, enamored with stories, loving to sit high in the canopy and read aloud to the trees. When she was chosen to become a real green priest, Nira had gone alone into the densest worldforest, and the verdani had claimed her, swallowing her up in the living underbrush. She had emerged with green skin and an unbreakable link to the worldforest mind. At least she had thought it was unbreakable.

Nira squeezed the wood in her hands, plunging her silent mind into the woodgrain. She had never needed to work to establish telink before, had never considered the exact process. It had always just . . . happened. She didn’t know how to force it. She had grasped at any hope. But that was gone, too.

Without opening her eyes, Nira reached out and grasped Jora’h’s hand as tears began to flow from beneath her closed eyelids. She took comfort from his touch, though she knew there was no hope of forming a mental bond like the one the Mage-Imperator shared with his people through the
thism
. He could not connect with her, any more than she could connect with the dead wood now.

She felt a spark like electricity. Faint, like heat lightning in the distance . . . but definitely there.

She clenched her hand, letting her fingers press hard into Jora’h’s skin. Something about the contact with him was helping. The spark grew brighter, and suddenly she felt a tiny echo deep within the worldtree wood.

“What is it?” he asked.

Nira did not respond, but concentrated furiously, following the faint thread, burrowing into the thick wood with her memories. Although this tree itself might be dead, all worldtrees were connected. Startled, she looked down to where her free hand had been tracing the burned edges of wood, sure that she could now feel the bloodsap moving, stirring. Something was changing, and somehow Jora’h’s powerful control of the Ildiran
thism
had aided her. A small gasp of awe escaped her lips. She had broken a new path!

In a barely audible voice, she whispered, “Please—hold me,” and pressed both of her palms hard against the wood, making as strong a contact as possible. She felt him put his arm around her shoulders. There!

“Jora’h, I can sense a change . . .” He held her tightly, increasing their bond.

But it wasn’t just her telink, or just the Mage-Imperator and his
thism
. Something new and incredible was happening with the verdani—all of them. Right now on Theroc, a deep part of the worldforest mind was awakening, just as hers was. The thoughts reached out, straining upward until they shot like a bright flare into the night sky. Nira didn’t know what had triggered this new burst from the heart of the worldforest, but she felt the effects of the resurgence rippling across the Spiral Arm.

In her hands, the chunk of wood shifted. A knot thrust up, a hard lump that split . . . and shot forth a fresh sprout. Before her eyes, it grew into a tiny pale frond. How could that be? This dead wood had come to life again, through her! The frond was barely as long as her index finger. But it was enough.

Nira touched it. In a flash, she reconnected with the worldforest. Finally!

Gasping, falling, she drowned in an amazing flood of information. She poured out everything that had happened to her over the last eight years. In a rush of images and painful memories, she dispersed her knowledge. Nothing could stem the outburst of her thoughts.

When she was done, every green priest and all the worldtrees across the Spiral Arm understood everything.