“A nightmare,” he said, and his voice caught in his throat. “And now my frightened thoughts have gotten into the thism.” He had never felt so terrified and didn’t comprehend why. He could never allow any Ildiran to see him like this. “Just a nightmare,” he said again, trying to convince himself.
She touched his face. “I’m no stranger to nightmares either.”
They lay together in silence, then Jora’h said, “But your nightmares come from experiences and real memories. Mine felt like a premonition.”
Needing to be out in the bright light of the seven suns, he walked through the city of Mijistra with Nira. She laced her fingers in his. They were accompanied by the usual coterie of noble kithmen, guards, and attenders, but they were always there, and Jora’h paid little attention to them, basking instead in the city’s population.
Jora’h still had a displaced feeling from the nightmare, and because his mood was disjointed, other Ildirans could feel his unease. If the thism was stressed inside him, the vibrations radiated outward, and he could do little to soothe his people until he himself became completely calm.
But he could not relax until he heard some news from Adar Zan’nh. The seven rescue ships had been gone for weeks in search of the lost Kolpraxa.
At Nira’s suggestion, they went to visit the small enclave of human expatriates who made their home in Mijistra. Over the last ten years an organized group of Ildirophiles had settled here, bringing samples of human culture, setting up shops, restaurants, art galleries, and clothing boutiques. The Bohemian settlement made itself out to be a microcosm of old Earth. Though these particular aspects of human culture were as foreign to a green priest from Theroc as they were to the Mage-Imperator, Nira enjoyed going there.
One craftsman made musical instruments—flutes and ocarinas for children, extravagant harps and dulcimers for ambitious Ildiran musicians. There were restaurateurs, including a matronly woman named Blondie who ran a diner that specialized in “home cooking.”
Jora’h and Nira led their entourage into the human enclave, and the smiling shopkeepers opened their doors and came out to greet them in a flurry of activity and interest. The Mage-Imperator didn’t often visit this district, and his arrival brought a flood of Ildiran customers. The merchants and settlers looked relieved for the sudden rush of business.
Blondie opened her diner and stood with hands on her ample hips, adjusting her apron. “I’ve got fresh fruit pies. You’ve never had any better.”
Jora’h stopped. “You offered me a piece last time. It was delicious.”
“I’ve got different kinds now,” she said.
The owner of the music shop played one of his dulcimers to demonstrate the quality of his music. Nira asked the art gallery owner, “Are you opening your shops just for us? Were you closed?”
A human male who called himself a writer sat alone at the café. Jora’h had been introduced to him before; he found the man interesting because he insisted on using an old-fashioned stylus, writing his words by hand on sheets of paper. The writer looked up from his paper where he had just jotted down a line. “No customers, no visitors. I thought the Ildirans were shunning us for some reason.”
Blondie waved a hand. “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that.”
The writer snorted. “Yes, it is—you were just complaining an hour ago.”
Nira looked at Jora’h with concern. “Why would Ildirans stay away from here?”
He turned to his entourage. “These humans are our friends. We have always welcomed them.”
Encouraged by their leader, more Ildirans came forward; some ventured into the art gallery, others toyed with the ocarinas, making shrill and decidedly nonmusical noises. Jora’h asked the accompanying nobles, “Is there a reason why anyone would avoid interacting with the humans?”
The Ildirans discussed the matter among themselves, but shook their heads. The guard kithmen could give him no answer either.
The writer said, “There’s been a strange mood in the city for a while. We can feel it.”
“But you have no thism.” Jora’h was concerned that there had been some kind of echo caused by his own nightmares and lingering uneasiness.
“We have eyes and ears. It’s obvious.”
“You are very perceptive—a useful skill for a writer.”
The man was pleased, then embarrassed by the compliment. He sat back at his table and furiously jotted something on his paper.
As they led the entourage onward, Jora’h said to the humans, “Thank you. We are glad you have settled here.”
The expatriates were reassured, but Jora’h wasn’t entirely convinced. He turned his face up to the seven suns in hopes that the brightness could cleanse him, but in spite of the intense sunlight he still felt shadows everywhere, just out of sight, as if something dark were growing inside him.
SIXTY-FOUR
ARITA
After returning from Earth for the funeral of Father Idriss, Reyn had to prepare for his journey to Ildira, where he would spend a month as the Mage-Imperator’s guest to learn about Ildiran culture.
In the meantime, though, Arita remained close, concerned, watching him.
One night she accompanied her brother out on the fungus-reef’s soft curving rooftop. As children, they had often scrambled up the walls of the enormous growth, much to the consternation of watchful tutors. Queen Estarra, though, merely gave them an indulgent smile, since she had climbed her own share of worldtrees when she was a young girl.
Now, though, Arita had to help Reyn move across the smooth surface. The Prince managed to play his role and do his duties in public, but Arita knew how hard it was for him. So far, no one had noticed the slight tremor that she saw, or the occasional drawn expression on his face as he fought back pain. She didn’t want him to go away again.
After they climbed through the high, small window and worked their way up the outer wall of the reef, she clasped his hand. Reyn’s grip was strong, but by the time they sat together under the rustling worldtree fronds and the glimmer of stars, he looked tired and shaky. They watched the bright trail of a spacecraft ascending to orbit.
“So what did you learn on Earth?” They hadn’t been able to find any quiet, private time to discuss his efforts until now. “Did Rlinda help you see medical specialists?”
“The best ones on the planet—I think. Dr. Paolus has a lot of experience in strange diseases like this, and I can only hope.”
“We can only hope,” she said.
Reyn gave her a small smile. “When I get to Ildira, their medical kithmen might suggest an entirely different approach.”
The Ildira visit sounded like an exciting adventure, the sort of thing a Prince should do, strengthening ties with humanity’s greatest ally, making connections that he would use when he became the Confederation’s King. Reyn also carried the secret hope that their medical specialists would offer a unique perspective on treatment for his disease.
Arita squeezed his arm. “You’re going to have to tell Mom and Dad—and soon. We all want to help you, and they can bring so much more influence to bear.”
Reyn hung his head. “I don’t want to be turned into a medical experiment.”
Arita gave a stern answer. “You know that’s a stupid reason. I want you to stay alive, and if it takes the full resources of the Confederation, then that’s what it takes.”
“Not yet. Let’s see what the Ildirans have to say first.”
“In other words, you don’t have any good reason,” Arita said.