Alien Chronicles 3 - The Crystal Eye (18 page)

Still, the sight of them pleased her. Temondahl was right about their making a handsome collection. She had chosen well the males that fertilized her eggs. But which chune should succeed her? Which was worthy of the throne? Instinctively she still wanted one like herself, as bright and ambitious and as ruthless as she. Someone strong enough to hold the throne no matter what befell the empire.

But she did not want a rival. How strange that it should have been Temondahl who recognized that truth rather than Israi herself. She could not bear the thought of the people loving anyone more than her.

She swept her gaze across the upturned faces of her progeny. One female was strikingly pale, with just a hint of green in her skin. Her eyes were green as well, and arrestingly intelligent. She was the tallest, probably the oldest.

Israi stared at her a long while and finally beckoned. “Come to us.”

Her daughter moved forward, walking tall and slender, with a graceful sway that Israi found very pleasing to the eye. An attendant murmured in Israi’s ear canal: this was Nairei.

Israi smiled and allowed Nairei to take her hand. “We are pleased by how well you have grown, Nairei,” she said. Her musical voice, always considered an instrument of beauty, had deepened in the past few years, producing a richness of tone that remained much admired.

Nairei lowered herself in perfect obeisance to her mother. “Thank you, majesty,” she said with the correct amount of formality. Her voice was light and clear, with a purity that made Israi catch her breath. It was much like Israi’s voice had once been, and suddenly Israi saw just how special this chune was, how delightful and intelligent she could prove to be. Only her coloring displeased Israi, because Israi had never liked green skin. But she knew that Nairei’s paleness would make her exotic and therefore fashionable at court.

She was a splendid candidate for a successor, and in an instant Israi’s heart flamed with jealousy.

One of the ladies in charge of the nursery came forward with a flyta in her hands. The instrument was fashioned of gold, silver, and ivory, carved into a fanciful shape of long-stemmed loba blossoms entwined together. “If it will please the Imperial Mother. Nairei will play a composition of her own in your majesty’s honor.”

Israi said nothing, but she lifted her finger in permission. Without a trace of shyness, Nairei took the flyta in her long-fingered hands, holding the instrument like a master. Her wrists were displayed at a graceful angle that showed off how slender and lovely they were.

She played a melody that was both simple and sophisticated. Every note was perfect. The whole formed a harmonious, pleasant composition that showed a great deal of musical talent.

Israi listened, and her eyes grew cold. This daughter indeed had all the right qualities, but Israi hated her. She examined Nairei’s flawless, almost radiant complexion, and saw all the advantages of youth which were no longer her own. If Nairei were sri-Kaa. the two of them would have to appear at many official functions together. Each time, the disparity between the young, blossoming daughter and the aging, declining mother would become more obvious.

Israi knew she was still very beautiful, but she now had to work hard to keep herself that way. She could no longer eat platters of civa cakes and the tiny din san-sans covered with hoh seeds. At night, she endured long rituals of having her skin oiled and tended. The sun now had to be avoided whenever possible so that she would not burn her complexion. Her rill had to be exercised to keep its underskin firm and taut.

The song ended, and Nairei lowered the flyta. She fastened her luminous eyes on her mother and waited for praise with her lips slightly parted.

“Well performed,” Israi said flatly. “Well done. You have pleased us, and you shall be rewarded.”

Hope flared in Nairei’s face, and at that moment Israi understood that the chune had heard the rumors that a sri-Kaa might be chosen soon. Nairei believed she was the choice. It was all there in her expression.

Israi stripped one of the jeweled bracelets off her wrist and held it out. An attendant hastened to take the bauble for Nairei, whose rill darkened in obvious disappointment.

Her lady in waiting hovered uncertainly. “Remember your courtesies, Nairei.”

The chune bowed to Israi. “My mother honors me greatly,” she said softly. Her eyes were downcast now.

Israi left the nursery without another word.

For the rest of the day and into the evening, the entire court was abuzz with rumor and speculation, driving Israi finally to take refuge here in her apartments, away from the stares and whispers.

She could not do it. She could not surrender even a sliver of her position to Nairei. Already she had heard the chune’s name spoken too often. She was sick of it. How pretty was Nairei? How graceful? What color was her skin? Was she old enough to have started storing fat in her tail? How did her beauty compare with the Imperial Mother’s? Did she resemble the Imperial Mother in wit and personality? Would the two of them look enchanting at functions together? Which designer would dress the chune? How many jewels would she be allowed to wear?

On and on it went, the gossip and speculation. The whole palace blazed with an excitement that Israi had not seen in years.

It infuriated her. She could not bear it that the court should discuss her daughter more than her. Now, in the privacy of the night, Israi once again began pacing back and forth across her balcony. She wished she had never listened to Temondahl. She wished she had never set foot in the nursery.

She wanted to banish Nairei from court, yet she knew it was unfair of her. The chune had done nothing wrong, other than exhibit altogether natural expectations.

One thing was certain, however. No daughter of Israi’s would succeed her. There was too much danger in choosing female to succeed female. No doubt her father had understood this. Perhaps that was why he had not chosen a son as his heir.

Israi flicked out her tongue. She would look at her sons instead of her daughters.

Leaving the balcony, she crossed her sitting room, with its plush carpets and richly upholstered furniture. The hangings were soft. Muted lights gave off a dim glow. No attendants were present, but Israi summoned no one. With her own hand she activated her link and called up information on her sons, scrolling each individual likeness across the screen.

The people wanted a sri-Kaa, she thought with savage resentment, and they would get a sri-Kaa.

She scrolled up the likeness of the youngest male, a hatchling born only this year. Blue-skinned with bronze markings on his rill and around his eyes, he was a comely little one but inclined to be sickly. According to the information given, he was a poor eater and did not take the heat well. His name was Cheliharad.

Israi flicked out her tongue. If he died, she would name another male in his place. The youngest, the weakest of her sons. Never mind that tradition had decreed the sri-Kaa should be the strongest and the best. Her father had followed tradition slavishly. She would not. If the next chune died, she would name another, and another, until she grew very old and tired of the game. Then she would choose someone worthy of the throne. But only then.

Without further delay, she summoned Temondahl on the link, waiting impatiently until his sleep-bleared face appeared on the screen. He wore a richly patterned robe and had fastened on his rill collar. His eyes were blinking rapidly, as though he were trying to force himself fully awake.

“Majesty?” he said.

She gave him a cold stare. “Cheliharad will be sri-Kaa. Draw up the proclamations at once. We wish the news to be broadcast to the people in the morning.”

“Yes, of course, majesty. This Cheliharad—”

“Yes,” she said, giving him no time to question her. “We shall set my seal on this first thing tomorrow.”

“But, majesty, which one is—”

“Our decision is made,” she snapped. “There will be no discussion.”

“Of course,” he said, bowing his head to her. “May I offer the Imperial Mother my congratulations on—”

“Thank you,” she said and broke the connection.

The silence around her seemed to be saying something. She did not want to hear it, any more than she wanted to hear her own conscience.

The Kaa went back to bed.

CHAPTER
•SEVEN

Dawn in the forest. Coolness in the air like a blessing. The sleepy twittering of birds. The sigh of wind in the treetops swaying overhead. The first pearly glow to the sky in the far distance, a herald of life continuing yet a little longer.

Ampris stood over her sons, both of them snoring softly in their bedrolls atop a mat of narpine needles. It was good just to listen to their steady breathing, knowing both were alive and well.

She moved away in silence, creeping stealthily through the trees and climbing slowly up to a jutting finger of rock that overlooked the sleeping camp. Turning herself to face the sunrise, she sat, holding the Eye of Clarity cupped in her hands while she softly whispered the fragments of ancient Aaroun prayer songs in thanksgiving.

Despite the shrill accusations of the Kelths, Steegin’s death had been ruled an accident. But Nashmarl was harshly reprimanded by each of the adults in turn for his part in that accident. Watching tensely, Ampris saw Nashmarl stand at first tall and defiant in the circle of his elders, but as each criticism and accusation was hurled at him, his shoulders hunched more and more. His head flushed pink, then red beneath its pale, downy fur. He was not allowed to speak once the ruling was made.

Yet, although he clearly suffered humiliation from the verbal reprimands, Nashmarl’s punishment could have been far worse. Ampris was still weak with relief at the council’s mercy.

Harthril rose at the end. His crooked shoulder threw a strange shadow behind him. Flicking out his tongue, he said, “Nashmarl be young. Foolish, too. Time he think of others before self. Time he not shame mother who is worth much to us. Nashmarl, speak now.”

The cub never lifted his head, never looked up. Ampris watched him and held her breath. If he turned surly and said something unforgivable now, everything could still be ruined. But Nashmarl only drew in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, keeping his gaze on the ground. “Steegin hurt my feelings, but I didn’t make her fall. I didn’t want her to die.”

Harthril flicked out his tongue and waited, but Nashmarl said nothing more. “For three days, you will serve camp. You will build fires. You will fetch water. You will dig latrine area and cover it when we leave.”

Nashmarl looked up then, but he said nothing.

“Anything told you to do, you will do,” Harthril said sternly. “No protest. No whining.”

Nashmarl’s fists clenched at his sides, but he stayed silent.

“Council over,” Harthril said. “Go to bed, young cub. In future, more careful you will be.”

Nashmarl wheeled around and strode out of the circle. His face was still burning, and his green eyes were ablaze. With his fists clenched at his sides, he came stomping past Ampris.

She reached out to comfort him. “My son—”

He wrenched away from her. “Leave me alone,” he muttered and went stumbling on toward their camp.

She watched him go, wanting to follow him and try to help him get over his humiliation, but there were things she needed to say to the council, matters to be discussed that had nothing to do with Nashmarl’s misbehavior. By the time she finished and returned to check on her sons, Foloth was sleeping soundly and muffled whimpers were coming from Nashmarl’s bedroll.

Ampris grieved for him, yet she knew time would quickly heal his hurt. He was young and resilient. There were other lessons still to learn. The world was a harsh place, despite all her efforts to shield her sons as much as possible. She could not protect them forever.

Now she sat high above camp, chanting softly under her breath, and looked at the future. She had had ample time to think about her plan during the long walk across the mesa. As soon as Nashmarl’s reprieve came, she’d made her decision to leave in the morning light. The council had accepted her proposal.

Now, all that remained was to tell her sons where she was going.

“Goldie?”

The soft voice belonged to Elrabin. She hadn’t heard him. and he’d approached her from upwind, so she hadn’t smelled him either.

She broke off her prayer and let him come to her. He was only a gray shadow, his fur blending in perfectly with the misty, predawn light. Settling himself on the ground near her, he grunted wearily.

“These bones ain’t so good with the ground anymore. You get any sleep?”

“Not much,” she admitted.

“This ain’t a good idea, see? You going to Vir by yourself.”

She already knew what he was going to say. “No,” she said firmly. “You can’t come with me.”

“Come with you?” He yipped sarcastically. “I ain’t about to stick my nose back in Vir unless I get dragged there by a patroller. You shouldn’t go either.”

“It’s the only way,” she said grimly.

“Doubt that.”

She turned on him. “So what do you suggest that’s better? You didn’t have much to say in council last night.”

“My head hurt too much,” he said. “Enough people arguing already, see? Why should I join in?”

“Because Harthril is trying to lead us into terrible danger,” she said with passion. “Because the more voices against his plan that are heard, the better.”

“I ain’t for his plan,” Elrabin said. “Said so last night. Saying so now. Don’t rip out my throat.”

She squeezed his shoulder in apology. “We mustn’t give up our freedom and go back to Vir.”

Harthril was indeed taking them to the city. She’d suspected it as soon as she saw this mountain range and the Plains of Filea beyond it. Until their second council last night, however, she’d had no chance to question him openly about it. Harthril’s plan was simple. They had almost no food; hunting was increasingly difficult; their options were running out; in Vir the Rejects were given food and clothing as charity. Harthril proposed that they enter Vir and live off that charity, at least for a while.