The Dark Between The Stars

EIGHTY-TWO
NIRA

Though the seven suns of Ildira created an entirely different calendar, Nira kept track of her own birthday, as recorded by the central Confederation calendar on Theroc. She was now forty-nine, and she felt vibrant and rejuvenated by her frequent contact with the worldforest mind. Years ago, Nira had been abused as a breeding slave and prisoner on Dobro, but now with Jora’h at her side, she was strong.

As consort of the Mage-Imperator, she had all that she wanted and felt no particular need for gifts or feasts on her birthday, but Jora’h had learned that it was tradition for humans to commemorate the anniversary of their birth. And so he commanded an annual celebration for Nira in the city of Mijistra.

When the procession emerged from the Prism Palace, Nira walked alongside Jora’h as part of the large procession, wearing an outfit of the finest imported Theron feathers, beetle carapaces, and iridescent moth wings.

Fawned over by attenders and noble functionaries, the Mage-Imperator wore fantastic robes as well, and his chrysalis chair was festooned with reflective streamers. This was one of the rare times when Jora’h allowed attenders to carry him in the chair.

The first time they had celebrated her birthday, Jora’h suggested that a special chair be built so Nira could be carried beside him, but the uproar had been so extreme that he decided against it. The kiths were already uneasy about all the changes the Mage-Imperator had imposed in the aftermath of the Elemental War.

Over thousands of years of history, Ildiran tradition held that a Mage-Imperator was supposed to be alone, the sole focal point of the thism. In his years as Prime Designate, Jora’h had taken countless lovers to spread his bloodline among the Ildiran kiths. People had been startled when he took the young green priest as his exotic lover, and when they fell in love, some Ildirans found it even more shocking than the reappearance of hydrogues after ten thousand years. Jora’h’s people simply did not know how to react to the human woman at his side, when no previous Mage-Imperator had ever kept even an Ildiran female as his consort.

But Jora’h did love her, and he had put his foot down, quieting the whisperers and social unrest, insisting that his people understand and accept change. As Mage-Imperator, he was the Ildiran race.

Nevertheless, Nira was content to walk at his side, while his chrysalis chair was carried by attenders, so everyone in Mijistra could see her acknowledging his importance. When Jora’h looked as if he might continue to press the issue, Nira had smiled, touched his arm, and said, “It’s my birthday celebration, and by our custom I’m allowed to ask for and receive gifts. This is the gift I ask of you—don’t disturb your people further.”

And so today, as she had done every year for nineteen years, Nira walked beside him with bright sunlight reflecting from the shimmering insect scales. Two rounded condorfly wings were mounted to her back; Nira thought the wings made her look like a fairy princess, which she remembered from the stories she had read aloud to the worldtrees when she was just a green priest acolyte…

Next in the procession, behind the chrysalis chair, walked Osira’h, Rod’h, and a fragile but brave Gale’nh who proudly wore his Solar Navy uniform, though his bleached skin and hair still made him look startlingly out of place. Muree’n accompanied them, dressed in the special armor and uniform of the Mage-Imperator’s personal guard, as she had requested. Nira had never seen her youngest halfbreed daughter look happier than when she donned the same outfit and weapons as Yazra’h, who walked on the other side of the chrysalis chair.

Prime Designate Daro’h, the Mage-Imperator’s heir, walked near his father. Like Jora’h, Daro’h had spent years with breeding advisers who kept a catalog of his numerous offspring. As the procession passed into the city, he glanced over at Jora’h, pleased to see how many Ildirans had come out. He was overjoyed to point out many of his children scattered in the crowds. Daro’h did not hide the waxy burn scars on his face, which remained as an indelible reminder of when the faeros had nearly killed him.

Crystalline buildings towered all around them, and crowds of Ildirans gathered. Nira saw a panoply of faces and body types, numerous kiths with different faces and builds and colorations, yet the same racial identity. Thanks to their thism connection, Ildirans had a commonality she couldn’t feel, which left her an outsider, no matter how long she lived among them, although she could comprehend a similar thing with her green priest network.

Jora’h normally basked in the telepathic tapestry of his people, but today he seemed uneasy in his chrysalis chair. He glanced around as the spectators crowded close. Although this celebration was supposedly for Nira’s birthday, most Ildirans loved any festival in which their Mage-Imperator appeared among them. He waved to the crowds, as did Nira. She listened to the murmur of so many voices, so many people. It droned and throbbed around her.

Suddenly an Ildiran man sprang out of the crowd, a noble kithman dressed in unremarkable clothes. She had glanced at him, seen a face that appeared normal and placid, but now it was transformed into a twisted expression of hatred and revulsion. He produced a curved crystalline dagger, shoved other spectators aside, and bounded toward Nira, shouting, “To keep the Ildiran race pure!”

She tried to duck as the man slashed with his dagger. He caught one of the fragile condorfly wings on her back, shattering the sapphire membrane. Someone screamed. Two attenders lost their hold on the chrysalis chair, and Jora’h’s palanquin lurched.

Nira tore herself free and spun to face her attacker. The man raised his dagger to come at her again.

His mouth spewed blood as Yazra’h thrust her crystal-tipped katana through his back. Yanking her ceremonial spear free, she stabbed him again and drove the man to the ground, where he gurgled and died. Yazra’h held up her bloody weapon, her eyes flashing, taking one step closer to Nira in an instinctive protective move.

Nira gasped. “Why—?”

A howling woman from the artist kith bounded forward holding a cutting tool and a sharp-ended cudgel. She flailed both, trying to reach Nira as she screamed, “You corrupt the thism!”

Yazra’h stood to defend Nira, but Muree’n lunged forward to intercept the artist. Without hesitation, she swept her katana sideways and neatly decapitated the second would-be assassin.

A third person, a burly worker kithman, charged forward like a bull. He held a metal-tipped mallet, which he swung from side to side. The mallet struck Muree’n hard on the shoulder, though her armor protected her from serious injury. She recoiled briefly from the pain, recovered herself in a flash. She and Yazra’h used their weapons to drive the worker kithman back from the procession, and then Yazra’h ran him through.

Muree’n looked around at the bodies, at the spilled blood, then up at Yazra’h. “That was my first kill.”

Yazra’h stood close to her, raising her weapon again. “It may not be your last one today. We need to get the Mage-Imperator out of danger. All of you—back to the Prism Palace!”

Jora’h sprang out of his chrysalis chair and landed beside Prime Designate Daro’h. He was outraged. “Why are they trying to kill Nira? I felt an uneasiness in the thism, but nothing from those Ildirans.”

The crowd was churning now, people gasping and screaming, some trying to flee—yet there also seemed to be an undertone of anger.

Though terrified, Nira grabbed Jora’h’s arm. “Understand this later—we have to get to safety now.”

Yazra’h and Muree’n began to herd Jora’h, Daro’h, and Nira away, leaving the toppled chrysalis chair behind in the road. Though disoriented, Gale’nh straightened. Helping their brother, Osira’h and Rod’h followed the group at a brisk trot as they retreated toward the path that led up to the Prism Palace.

Nira’s heart pounded, but she couldn’t ask questions now. Jora’h was already growling, “I will order an investigation. What caused this?”

As they hurried away, Nira looked back at the Ildirans who had been cheering them only moments before; they now appeared sinister, and she feared that another assassin would spring after them.