The announcer hadn't spoken; he was probably reading whatever notes Kelric's officers had delivered to him when the geneticists finished their tests. Kelric had ordered the tests the moment Ixpar told him who had come with her. He could almost hear the question whispered among the spectators. Who is that? It had been Kelric's question as well, for twenty-eight years. Finally he would have an answer.
With firm motions, the man pushed back his hood and pulled down his Talha. Kelric doubted anyone watching right now except he and Ixpar understood the significance of that action. A Hakaborn prince never showed his face to the public.
The man had large eyes. Violet eyes. His curly hair was as dark as the Hakaborn, but it glinted with metallic highlights. He stood tall and strong, his head lifted. He had a strange look, though, as if he were about to step off a cliff. Kelric knew the courage it took for him to do this, he who had surely never expected even to leave seclusion, let along walk before trillions on an interstellar broadcast. It was a quieter bravery than the dramatic acts of the Jagernauts Kelric had known at that age, but that made it no less real.
Then the announcer said, "Jimorla Haka Varz Valdoria."
Startled voices erupted among the crowd, and Kelric released a silent exhale. To use the Valdoria name at this point in the Promenade identified Jimorla as his child, as binding a declaration as any legal document. He had hoped and believed it for so long, but he had never been sure. Jimorla wasn't a Ruby psion, so he couldn't use the Skolia name, but he was Kelric's firstborn in every other aspect and would take his place in the line of succession to the Ruby Throne.
Jimorla visibly braced his shoulders. He descended the stairs with his guards and strode along the Concourse, his robe billowing out behind him. For the first time, a Calani walked openly on another world. Coba—and Skolia—were changed forever. Quis would come to the Imperialate.
A strained voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sir," Najo said.
Kelric turned to see Najo standing by the console, which blazed with lights. Najo had that same expression he had worn when Kelric revealed he had spent eighteen years on Coba, the look of a man who knew he stood witness to the making of history.
"People are trying to contact you," Najo said.
"Who?" Kelric could guess: the leaders of an empire. They had just learned they had a new crown prince.
"The First Councilor of the Assembly," Najo said. "General Majda, Admiral Bloodmark, Primary Tapperhaven, your mother, your brothers, your sister, the gene team you summoned, and several councilors of the Inner Circle."
Kelric noticed the list didn't include Dehya. She had just discovered the existence of a prince who preceded her own son in age, yet she waited. She understood Kelric in a way few others could.
"I imagine they're surprised," Kelric allowed.
Najo looked as if he considered that a monumental understatement. But he said only, "Yes, sir."
Kelric wasn't ready to talk. He wanted these moments for himself. "Tell them I'll contact them after the Promenade."
Voices surged outside. Startled, Kelric turned back. A young woman had appeared at the top of the cathedral stairs—a girl whose skin, hair, and eyes shimmered gold.
The announcer said, "Roca Miesa Varz Valdoria—" He took a breath that everyone on thousands of worlds and habitats in three empires would hear, a sound that would become another page of history. Then he added, "Skolia."
Until that moment, Kelric hadn't been one hundred percent certain. By using the Skolia name, the announcer verified what he had always believed: his daughter was a Ruby psion.
Someday she would take her place in the Dyad.
She descended the steps alone, but the defenses of an empire protected her. Her true name was Rohka, the Coban version of Roca. Kelric felt as if he were sundering in two. Rohka, the miracle he and Savina had given life sixteen years ago, had come into the world as her mother died. The hours Kelric had spent cradling his infant child in his oversized arms had been the only light in his grief-shattered life. He would be forever grateful to Ixpar for freeing him from Varz, but he had mourned, too, for the Varz Manager had retaliated by denying him his child.
Jimorla had reached the coliseum, and officers ushered him to the area reserved for the Imperator's children. He was the first person to sit there in a century. On the Concourse, Rohka's stride never faltered, though Kelric recognized the overwhelmed look she tried to hide. He had seen the same expression on her mother's face when Savina felt daunted but refused to let fear diminish her spirit.
Welcome, Kelric thought to his children. They couldn't reply; even if they had known how to interpret mental input, they were too far away. He didn't even know if his son was an empath or had the rarer telepathic traits Kelric shared with his family.
And yet . . . he felt certain a man answered, distant but clear, the thought in Teotecan: It is my honor.
A girl's thought suddenly resonated in his mind, young and raw, untrained but full of power. And mine, Father.
The speaker said, simply, "Kelric Skolia, Imperator of Skolia, and Ixpar Karn, Minister of Coba."
Kelric and Ixpar descended the cathedral steps together. The crowds had cheered the Houses and Ruby Dynasty. They were silent now, whether in shock or respect, he didn't know. He had never been comfortable in public displays; he preferred to stay in the background. But he had waited ten years for this—no, twenty-eight. That was when he had first seen Ixpar, as he awoke in a sickroom on Coba with the fourteen-year-old Ministry successor leaning over him. It had taken nearly three decades to bring that moment full circle, decades that had changed him more than he would ever have imagined. Today, his life was complete.
XV
The Bitterfruit Tree
The Opal Hall in the Qox Palace gleamed like an iridescent pearl. Its luminous moonstone walls shifted with traces of aqua and marine. Jaibriol sat on a white couch across from Parizian Sakaar, the Highton Aristo who served as his Trade Minister. Jaibriol's aide, Robert, had taken one of the wing chairs at the opal table. So had Tarquine, who had at least showed up this time.
Jaibriol felt ill. They were going over reports from the guilds that bred and trained providers. Before he had claimed his throne, he had served in the Dawn Corps of the Allied Worlds, which had helped newly freed worlds recover after the war. He had seen the pavilions where Silicate Aristos "designed" providers, the labs and examination tables, the discipline, memorization, testing, erotica, and isolation rooms. He had met providers huddled in their cubicles, slaves his own age or younger, staggeringly beautiful. The collars and cuffs they wore extended picotech into their bodies until the threads became so interwoven with their neural systems, it was impossible to remove them without surgery.
None of those providers had a name. None knew their age. None could read or write. An inventory had listed them by serial number. That night, Jaibriol had walked out among the whispering trees and been violently sick in the beautiful forest the Silicates had grown to adorn their pavilion. He had leaned over with his arms around his stomach and retched again and again until he felt as if he were tearing out his insides.
The Trade Minister sitting here had no idea of Jaibriol's reaction. Sakaar didn't consider his job abhorrent. He went over the files on the trillion-dollar industry as if he were reporting on inanimate objects. Jaibriol could tell the meeting disturbed Robert, whose father had been "trained" in a Silicate facility. But his aide accepted it as part of Eubian life. He had never known anything different. The other aides didn't think about it at all; they were simply doing their jobs, recording files and organizing statistics.
As Finance Minister, Tarquine tracked Silicate corporations and ensured they followed accepted business practices, at least as defined by Aristos. She hid her response behind the icy façade she had perfected, but Jaibriol caught the truth from her mind. The meeting revolted her. It was why she had altered herself so she could no longer transcend; late in her life, she had developed a trait shared by no other Aristos he knew e
xcept Corbal and Calope Muze. Remorse. His empress might be one of the most prodigiously crooked human beings alive, but she wasn't brutal. She could no more bring herself to inflict pain on providers than could he.
Yet sometimes in the sultry hours of the night, when Tarquine held him in her arms, he felt the hunger within her, her memory of transcendence. Deep within, a part of her wanted to hurt him, and that darkness chilled Jaibriol.
At the moment, she was frowning as she studied a holofile Sakaar had handed to her, a copy of the one he gave Jaibriol with reports on various Silicate facilities.
"This entry on the Garnet sale during the third octet last year," Tarquine was saying. "It appears less eminent than the predictions of my Evolving Intelligence codes."
Jaibriol blinked. "Less eminent" sounded like her way of saying the profits were lower than expected. Outwardly, the Trade Minister seemed unaffected by her observation. When Jaibriol concentrated on his mind, though, he realized Sakaar was hiding an unease greater than such a minor comment deserved.
"It is difficult to estimate eminence with elevation," Sakaar said.
Jaibriol almost laughed at the bizarre phrasing. Sakaar had a point, though; such predictions often weren't accurate.
Tarquine scanned another holopage. "And here, under the Mica Class Three-Eight product line, the fifth octet subprofits margin is only one-third as eminent as one might foresee."
Jaibriol wasn't even certain what she had said. Whatever it was, though, Sakaar didn't like it. With his mental barriers at full force, he could tell only that Sakaar was uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable. Her comments didn't sound threatening to Jaibriol, but the Trade Minister thought otherwise.
Jaibriol had long ago learned the value of letting his people probe and strike while he listened. Among Hightons, whose discourse branched like verbal fractals, an emperor who spoke so little frightened people. It could be useful; they often attributed more intrigue to his silence than it warranted. In his first years as emperor, when he had been a desperate teenager totally out of his depth, the silences had protected him, hiding just how thoroughly he had no idea what he was doing. Now they had become a tool.
"Claims of inconsistency would be premature," Sakaar said.
That caught Jaibriol's attention. It sounded as if Sakaar had warned Tarquine to stop accusing him without proof. Among Aristos, where appearance and reputation were everything, an unsubstantiated accusation ranked as a crime worse than marrying outside one's caste. Which of course turned such accusations into valued currency, but only if the accuser could make them stick. If not, the accuser suffered censure, loss of reputation, even legal penalties if the accused went to the courts. Sakaar's reaction was way out of proportion to Tarquine's comments, which made Jaibriol suspect his Trade Minister far more than if Sakaar had said nothing.
"Perhaps they would be premature," Tarquine answered, her voice smooth. "But premature development is no longer a danger with so many advances in modern science."
"Unless the development is itself flawed," Sakaar said.
Watching Tarquine, Jaibriol suspected she had evidence of some Machiavellian scheme Sakaar had concocted, and she wanted him to sweat. Either that, or she was bluffing the hell out of the Trade Minister.
Robert's wrist comm beeped. An instant later, Jaibriol's buzzed, Sakaar's pinged, and Tarquine's hummed.
"What the blazes?" Sakaar said.
Jaibriol lifted his comm. "Qox here," he said. As soon as he moved, the others responded to their pages.
Corbal's urgent voice came out of the mesh. "Jai, turn on the Third Hour broadcast. You'll want to see this."
Puzzled, Jaibriol nodded to Robert, who had somehow managed the feat of simultaneously being attentive to the emperor and answering his comm. Robert flicked his finger through a holicon above the mesh film in his lap, and a holoscreen activated on the wall across from Jaibriol. As the others turned around to look, images formed in front of the screen. It was a Skolian transmission. The Eubian translation scrolled beneath it in three-dimensional glyphs, but he didn't need them; he was fluent in Skolian Flag.
The broadcast showed the Cathedral of Memories, a building of sparkling white stone, windows of blue glass, and flying buttresses that were works of art. A tall man was striding with four guards along a concourse to a huge arena. His dark skin had a disquietingly familiar gold sheen.
". . . must be his son," a newscaster was saying, her voice taut with excitement. "It's the only way he could walk in the Promenade after the Ruby Dynasty, but before Imperator Skolia.
A chill started at the bottom of Jaibriol's spine and crept upward. Did she mean Kelric Skolia's son? What son?
"Who the flipping hell is that?" Sakaar demanded.
Jaibriol had no doubt that normally some Aristo would have responded with a veiled barb at the Trade Minister's lapse of language. But the only other Aristos present were Tarquine and himself, and he was far too riveted by the broadcast to give a flaming jump about what Sakaar said.
If he understood the broadcaster, the next person to walk the concourse would be Kelric. It meant the promenade was almost done; only the Ruby Pharaoh and her family followed the Imperator. But when the cathedral doors opened, a girl with gold skin walked out onto the top of the steps, the wind blowing back her distinctive gold hair.
"This is incredible!" the newscaster said. "A second child has appeared."
A man spoke, apparently another commentator. "I don't think much doubt exists as to her parentage, with that coloring."
"Why aren't they announcing her name?" the woman said.
Jaibriol was wondering the same thing. Didn't Kelric know his own children? The girl stood waiting, her head held high. He could tell what she felt, though, even if sensing her mood was impossible across interstellar distances. After a lifetime of associating emotions with people's behavior, and ten years among Hightons, whose language was as much gesture and posture as words, he read body language like a book. She was scared.
A new voice spoke, what sounded like the official announcer at the Promenade itself. "Roca Miesa Varz Valdoria—" The man inhaled deeply. Then he said, "Skolia."
"It can't be!" Sakaar shouted.
"Gods forbid," Tarquine muttered. "Another one of them?"
Jaibriol stared at her, his hands clammy. "Did you know?"
"I had no idea," she said. "But they must be legitimate heirs. He was wearing marriage guards when I bought him. He told me his ex- wife gave them to him."
This was news to Jaibriol; none of ESComm's files on Kelric included anything on an ex-wife. "Why was he still wearing them?"
"He said he loved her."
Jaibriol tried to fathom her reaction. If what she had just said bothered her, it showed on neither her face nor the surface of her mind. With Sakaar in the room, though, he couldn't let down his barriers enough to be certain.
The broadcasters continued talking, excitement spilling into their words. Jaibriol tuned them out, his focus solely on the scene. The doors of the cathedral opened again—and the Imperator walked out. He towered, broad of shoulder, long in the legs, massive in physique, huge and gold. His square chin, chiseled features, and close-cropped hair enhanced the effect, as did the grey at his temples. When Jaibriol had met him ten years ago, Kelric had been dying. Even then his presence had overpowered. Now he stood like an indomitable war god surveying his realms.
Nor was he alone. A woman stood at his side, nearly as tall as Lord Skolia. Fiery hair was upswept on her head, and her eyes blazed, fierce and flooded with intelligence. She was one of the few people Jaibriol had ever seen who could match the sheer force of personality that Kelric projected.
And this time Jaibriol felt Tarquine's reaction. It jumped within her, so intense it burst past his barriers. Anger. In her mind, she owned Kelric, though he had attained his freedom ten years ago. To see him with another woman violated her sense of balance at a level so deep, it burned within her. In that moment, Jaibriol didn't want peace with Kelric
's empire, he wanted to obliterate the Imperialate.
The Promenade announcer said, "Kelric Skolia, Imperator of Skolia, and Ixpar Karn, Minister of Coba."
"Minister?" Tarquine raised an eyebrow. "It seems you and the Imperator have something in common."
Jaibriol felt as if she had socked him in the stomach. The Aristo edge to her sarcasm came from her anger at discovering Kelric had a wife again—this one astonishingly formidable—and Jaibriol couldn't bear to see how much it affected her. He had one thing in common with Kelric: Tarquine. He couldn't reply, he could only stare at the broadcast as Kelric and his long-legged wife strode down the concourse.
Then the Ruby Pharaoh and her consort walked out onto the cathedral steps. The first time Jaibriol had seen a Promenade, seven years ago, they had appeared alone. Today their son accompanied them, a boy of eight. They had named him Althor, in honor of his uncle, who had died in the Radiance War.