Kevin Anderson - The Ashes of Worlds

“Even if it would bring the Mage-Imperator back safely?” McCammon said. He seemed to be standing closer to Sarein than was actually necessary. He lowered his voice. “All you need to do is come with us.”

Sarein seemed very earnest. “I know I can convince the Chairman to order Diente’s warliner to turn around. You’ll have the Mage-Imperator back, but first you’ve got to show some cooperation.”

Nira’s heart leaped. Jora’h would hate her for bowing to coercion. but she could literally save his life. If he died, or went mad, the consequences to the Ildiran Empire were unimaginably bleak. “I want this agreement in writing, and witnessed.” Nira crossed her arms over her chest. “And within the hour.”

“I’m afraid you’re not in a bargaining position.” Despite his words, McCammon’s eyes showed a depth of feeling that surprised Nira, a compassion that he could not entirely cover. “And we are in no position to grant you anything.”

“Done,” Sarein said, putting a hand lightly on McCammon’s arm. “I will write up the document, in my own hand.” Then she threw in her last bargaining chip. “And the Chairman will have to let you use a treeling, at least for a little while. Keep that in mind.”

Nira considered the advantages of even a brief contact with the worldforest. Yes, she could inform King Peter — and all green priests around the Spiral Arm — of their captivity, maybe learn something more about the faeros on Ildira. Whatever the Chairman had in mind must be important to warrant such a risk; he wouldn’t make an offer like this unless he needed her.

Through green priest memories that were accessible through the worldforest, Nira was familiar with the grandeur of the Whisper Palace, but she paid little attention to the majesty of her surroundings. Behind all the fabulous architecture and shouting crowds, Nira saw the rot deep in the Terran Hanseatic League.

Sarein led her to a colorful orange pavilion at one corner of the Palace Square; it had been decorated as a special box for the “esteemed Theron ambassador.” Sarein had probably done it herself, since Nira doubted the Chairman would display any particular respect for the Confederation’s new capital.

From the pavilion, they could view the central speaking podium, the rapt crowd, the numerous guards. As twilight deepened into dusk, numerous torches blazed atop the Whisper Palace towers. The whole District was extravagantly lit, as if for a celebration.

Nira wrestled with second thoughts. “What am I expected to do?”

Sarein said, “The Chairman wants to make certain King Peter hears this announcement — immediately. Report what you see. Deliver your message and let Peter decide what to do. Be a green priest!” She lowered her voice, and her words surprised Nira. “Afterward, I have to take the treeling away, so make the most of this time. Do what you need to do.”

Chairman Wenceslas sauntered up, accompanied by a guard who carried a small potted treeling as if it were a time bomb. Nira realized how much she had hungered for the touch of a worldtree. For years she had been completely deprived on Dobro, and again recently in her captivity on the Moon. She could not hide her longing.

The Chairman gave her a stern look. “Once you connect to the world-forest, I know I can’t control what other details you send into the verdani mind. I don’t intend to try. So long as you share what you see here tonight, Peter will have his hands full.”

Nira stood her ground, forcing herself not to take the potted treeling. “And the Mage-Imperator? When are you bringing him back? I demand to know — “

“Don’t presume to dictate the terms of this agreement. Sarein has already convinced me to recall Admiral Diente’s warliner if you cooperate today, though I still have my reservations. A little cooperation from the Mage-Imperator would have made many things so much easier. When he gets back in a few days, he may find that public sentiment has changed toward him somewhat.”

The Chairman looked around the crowd. He smiled as Nira’s own image was displayed on the spectator screens surrounding the huge square, a battered old photo that showed her haunted eyes, her gaunt features, her obvious suffering. The mood of the crowd grew decidedly uneasy, even ugly.

“What — what are you telling them?” She looked around wildly. Sarein averted her eyes, obviously upset.

The Chairman explained. “I decided to take down the Mage-Imperator’s supposed ‘nobility’ by a notch. My press corps has released the full story of what the Ildirans did to you: how Ambassador Otema was murdered, how you were repeatedly raped as part of an insidious breeding program, and so on. Those abominable, inhuman Ildirans.” He made atsk ing sound. “And it’s quite effective, too. Ties in perfectly with the religious enthusiasm the Archfather is engendering. Best of all, it’s entirely true. From now on, no human will accept empty Ildiran promises. Your story proves what treacheries the Mage-Imperator is willing to commit.”

“Those things were perpetrated by the previous Mage-Imperator,” Nira retorted. “Jora’h has done everything possible to make amends. And I’m not your pawn.”

“Unless you wish to prolong the Mage-Imperator’s suffering, youare. Now let’s get on with it. Busy day.” At the Chairman’s nod, the guard handed her the treeling. Nira grabbed it, more interested in its delicate fronds and quivering potential than in the activity out on the square.

Basil turned to Sarein. “Deputy Cain and I have business to discuss inside. I wish you could go with me, but I’m trusting the green priest to you. Make certain Peter knows about our new King — especially his name.”

“I will, Basil.” The Chairman slipped away after briefly stroking Sarein’s short hair — a mechanical gesture, as if he had reminded himself to do it; Nira detected no depth of feeling there, but she did see Sarein respond with the faintest shudder.

When they were alone in the observation pavilion, Nira touched the treeling, focused her thoughts into the worldforest network, and sank into the waiting information. In a flood, she learned everything that had happened, everything that had been kept from her since the capture of Jora’h’s warliner.

She knew that the faeros had struck Ildira, but now she also knew of the newborn faeros attacking Theroc, possessing worldtrees, spreading a living fire. Although that disaster was already over, the pain still stung.

Nira sent her own waves of information, explaining how the Mage-Imperator had been kidnapped, and how the Chairman was trying to coerce him into betraying King Peter. Did Basil Wenceslas truly want the Confederation to have that information? It didn’t matter. As soon as this event ended they were going to take the treeling away from her again. Nira decided not to tell Sarein what she had learned about Theroc; she saw no compelling reason to do so.

Engrossed in telink, she barely noticed when the ceremony started. The Archfather came forward in his robes, carrying an ornate shepherd’s crook. He moved with slow strides, dragging a wake of hushed anticipation through the crowd.

Seeing her preoccupation with the treeling, Sarein chided her. “You must watchthis. Please.”

Nira retreated from the sea of secondhand events to see the Arch-father at the speaking podium with an unfamiliar young man waiting behind him. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and an expression that reminded her of someone out of his depth but trying hard not to show it. He wore fine and colorful raiment, a design similar to what Old King Frederick had worn on the throne years ago. The bearded religious leader boomed out another rant about the Klikiss demons and King Peter’s supposed collusion with them, but his words seemed reluctant, without fervor.

“Before we can be saved,” the Archfather intoned, “before humanity can return to the path of righteousness, we need a visionary leader. We need a King who is more than a King. Someone who can undo the terrible damage Peter has wrought.”