Chiasma: The Rhadyuas Cycle, #1

By Harrison C. James

The delicate balance of power, built up over centuries by the Sophic Order is threatened by an ancient prophecy and a magical force that would bring the Second Empire to its knees. Seemingly unrelated events swirl inexorably together to a catastrophic crescendo - the fracturing of all that is sacred. And yet, this is just the beginning of the Rhadyuas Cycle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HCJ Publishing
• Release date: Mar 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648128847

Harrison C. James

Harrison C. James was born in Canberra, Australia. He is a passionate logophile, linguist, language teacher, and communications professional. He loves things that surprise him, which is why he likes electronic music, digital art, good sci-fi, and European films. He speaks French, a little Thai, and Esperanto. He invented the Qihira-Tejlian language Qohenje which is used in the Rhadyuas Cycle trilogy.

Book preview

Prologue

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And it was at this time, when the people of Haxem were suzerain to all the lower tribes of the land, that the Evil befell them, and drained the joy from their vision, and the laughter from their hearts. And husband turned against wife, sister against brother, friend against friend.  And in this chaos the lower tribes, in their treachery, rose up and struck out at Haxem.  And it was thus that all order was destroyed, and the land was plunged into darkness and savagery.

The Vercel of Sialom, Book 1, Ch. 7, v.45–48

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Joath woke with a start to hear her daughter’s sharp scream. A moment of confusion followed, for she was at once certain it had not been her child’s cry that had woken her. There was a strange glow in the room, which at first she didn’t notice. The last embers of the night’s fire had long since softened to white ash and the cold air of early morning, well before sunrise, betrayed her breath in heavy, curling mist. After a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the odd light and getting her bearings, she heard her child cry out again and her mind cleared. In a moment she had leapt from her sleeping pallet and with four running bounds was around the corner at her girl’s bedside. The earthen floor was cold to her feet.

Kaisha! What’s wrong?

The seven-year-old was sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and brimming. There was a man in my room, she said. He scared me!

She burst into loud tears now that the threat seemed to have passed.

A man? What man? Where did he go? Joath put her arms around her little one and held her close. Shhhh.

There was only one way into the sleeping area and she had not passed anyone as she approached.

He...he... disa...ppeared, the child said through sobs into her mother’s shoulder.

There was nothing in the room, but Joath knew her daughter was not given to hysterics and something felt wrong. Skin prickling, the woman looked around the small room again, at last becoming aware of the orange light, and shuddered with a sudden and inexplicable sense that she was being watched.

Gathering up her child, she said, You come and sleep with us, Kasshi. Everything will be alright.

Her eyes jumped from shadow to shadow in search of the source of this potent sense of foreboding and, holding her frightened daughter close, she turned back towards her own sleeping space.

The sudden grunts of her husband made her hurry, pulse quickening, and as she padded round the curve in the earthen wall she saw him standing by their pallet as if he had just grappled with someone, his heavy breaths misting in the chill air. The hair on her neck and forearms stood up with an electric frisson and she looked at him with fear in her eyes, saying nothing. He turned to her with a severe expression on his face, relaxed his arms slightly and straightened.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither understanding anything about what had just happened in their home but knowing not to speak lest they give body to a demon by acknowledging its presence. They climbed back into bed, their child between them, and held each other close.

Outside, the night was deathly quiet. A deep orange luminescence like hot metal suffused the soft icicles along the roofline and threw a golden cast into the midnight mist, flecks of airborne ice looking like dancing embers from some unseen inferno. Yet the light came not from the sky – there was no moon – but rather from the earth. The ground itself was glowing a dull, hot red.

Eerily silent, a rough disk defined itself, thirty metres across, centred just off the small dwelling following a slightly raised circular ridge in the ground that enclosed it. Nobody in the village had ever really known what that ring was. It was called the Ring of Maen Chha, named for the mischievous sprites that local fables spoke of, but no one knew why. Most thought it a meaningless relic from ages long past, if they thought of it at all.

Strel and Joath had built their house there as it stood on the only clear approach to the village and Strel was the hereditary village protector. None had questioned the decision, but some older folk muttered half-remembered prohibitions against invoking the Maen Chha. Few took them seriously, but had any of the villagers seen the Ring now, perhaps they would have asked again what it was the old folk had said.

Smoothly, slowly, the glow intensified and concentrated towards the centre of the disk. Thin steam wisped from the edges as the light drew closer to the middle. The meagre plants that grew inside the shrinking disk lost their patina of frost, then dried, contorted and all at once burst into brief, bright flame and collapsed to dark ash. The focus of the circle continued to sharpen, lightening to yellow, until at length an intense fire-red luminescence radiated from its centre and the glowing earth began to bulge. Thin trails of steam and ash from the tormented soil pulled inwards and swirled around in accelerating spirals. Suddenly the ground seemed to explode upwards, becoming a dazzling column of orange light disappearing into the sky. With a rending screech, the column pulled from the ground and in an instant was gone. One or two flashes above the clouds, like distant lightning, marked the passing of this otherworldly vision. The ash and the steam settled back to the ground as the echo of the hollow scream faded from the night’s memory. Then all was still.

The next morning, it did not take long for the inhabitants of Tinjoth to notice the ravaged earth inside the Ring just to one side of their protector’s house and soon a small crowd gathered around the edge, none daring to enter. The geomancer who lived in the hills behind the village – an ancient woman with arcane knowledge and powers of augury – was called down to explain the strange marks, and to enter the house of Joath and Strel and their little girl, Kaisha, none of whom had emerged that day.

As the witch approached the place, she barely withheld a gasp and her ancient features lost themselves in fearful incredulity. The marks on the ground were significant. She paused just outside the Ring and turned to regard her people gravely. Many had never seen the expression she wore. She had a horrible premonition that she knew what had happened here: stories passed down by those of her calling since time immemorial. But the prospect of being the one ill-fated to witness the event was almost too much to bear.

With a final deep breath, she closed her eyes, lips moving silently, warding herself against the evil she fully expected to find, then opened them again and stepped into the Ring. Her foot crushed into the ground as if it were but icy snow. Grimly she crunched across the tortured earth and entered the small house.

Joath and Strel, with their child, Kaisha, lay dead in each other’s arms, much as she had feared, looks of terror etched in their blue stiffened faces.

By all that’s sacred! the witch gasped.

Without hesitation she moved to the kitchen to look at their larder. All the food was either rancid or shrivelled. She ran a finger along an earthen wall. This too had lost its strength and crumbled to dust under the touch. She rubbed the dusty finger against her thumb and dabbed the powder onto her tongue. Pulling her head back, she spat out the vile flavour and cursed. Wide-eyed, the ancient seer shook her head slowly in disbelief.

No... It must not be! she whispered.

Looking to the fire-pit, the witch saw that the fuel stack was white and knew that, were she to touch it, it too would crumble like the walls. The signs were unambiguous, although she had never thought to see them herself. She stood a moment as if distracted. The last test would remove all doubt and she hesitated to commit to it, as if her ignorance might allay the terrible truth. Then, muttering a further curse at her own cowardice, she reached into her robes and produced two small stone vials, which she placed carefully on the stone workbench to her side. Taking one, she poured a small mound of sparkling grey powder into the palm of one gnarled hand. With her free hand, she picked up the second vial. She paused again, her hands wavering slightly, then muttered a soft incantation and threw the sparkling powder into the air before her. It hung, scintillating, falling slowly towards the ground. Quickly she measured out another mound of powder, yellow this time, from the second vial and rubbed her hands together, spreading the clinging substance over her leathery skin and, as the shimmering cloud drew low enough, she clapped once, hard, in its midst.

The cloud froze in place and, like smouldering paper, a burning orange sphere spread from her hands, expanding quickly through the cloud, leaving a deep orange glow in its wake. The sorceress let out a wild cry as if to curse the heavens themselves for placing such an event within her lifetime and, extracting her hands from the glowing form, spoke rapid words and stamped her foot. The cloud dropped heavily to the floor like sand, its glow extinguished.

Emerging, shaken, into the crisp morning light, she found herself hoping the concentric rings of dried and burnt earth would go away, and she would wake to find this all the nightmare of a foolish old woman. But they remained, defiant, and she looked up again into the sky as if expecting some explanation to be passed down from above, her bloodless lips forming the word no over and over in silence. The villagers began to back away from the place, the witch’s expression convincing them some great evil had befallen them and not wishing to have it extend to their own families.

As if remembering herself, she suddenly looked down again and the villagers froze.

Unable at first to find any words, she let out two breathy cries, and looked around at the terrified crowd. Then, finding her strength, she called Jeth, Ala’ai, Toram! in a voice that held command.

Three men stepped forward, fear in their eyes, yet not daring to go against the crone’s word.

Return to your homes and bind your bodies with soft cloth soaked in sweet water. Leave no skin open. Then return to this place and put the building to the torch. The earth is ensorcelled; it will burn like tinder. Touch nothing. Do not go inside. Turning to address the remaining villagers, many now rooted to the spot with trepidation, she added, Do not speak of what has passed here. I will travel to Banariad to consult with the high priesthood. I will return three days hence. In that time, none are to look upon this place. Go now! Return to your homes. There is nothing to be done until I return.

At this the villagers backed away, then turned and fled the site. None questioned the word of the ancient one. She returned to her own domicile to prepare herself for the daylong journey ahead.

Cannot be sure. It must not be, she repeated to herself, like a mantra of hope. Cannot be sure! But her denials were a futile attempt to undo what was immutable – to convince herself she might be wrong. But she could not. She was not wrong.

The prophet Sialom had foretold the return of the Demon, the one called Riadeas; the Vercel spoke of the destruction Riadeas had caused in ages past and detailed the signs of its coming again. The villagers did not know it, but the ancient witch lived close to their village precisely because it contained one of the six rings of Riadeas. She had strenuously objected to a house being built within one of the Rings, but Strel had ignored her warning. Ah, the folly of the young and powerless! To them, the stories were but ancient fables – religious allegories, no more. The Demon was a symbol. It would not literally return! And in any case, the Vercel said nothing about the Ring of Maen Chha. Thus the rationalisations of those cushioned by the ignorance of centuries.

The sorceress knew better. Riadeas had returned.

It must not be! Oh, the children! she lamented.

Nothing would ever be the same.

Four light-years away, high in the snow-capped peaks of Spindrift’s Kishhra Range, Father Diin Honierz, Abbot of the isolated Min Tæ’wel Ethrakkien monastery, suddenly stopped the transcription he was working on in mid-sentence. As if shocked his hand opened, allowing his pen to fall to the parchment, his work forgotten, and ink spilled across the page in a thickening trail. The ageing priest stood absently, holding his bald head in one hand, and took a staggering step sideways, knocking over the wooden stool he had been sitting on, which clattered loudly to the cold stone floor. Several of the younger monks rose, the disharmonious scrapings of their stools serving as voice to their questioning expressions, and moved quickly towards their patriarch, but he did not see them. His gaze was blank as he fought to understand the jolt that echoed through him.

Then, as if suddenly noticing his acolytes around him, he rasped Get Father Karil! Quickly!

Two monks rushed out of the hall, their slapping footfalls echoing as they ran to do his bidding. Honierz reached back towards his writing desk, his hand waving absently until it made contact, and then eased himself against its hard edge. By the time Father Karil arrived, Honierz looked as if he had been bereaved of his senses. Tears streamed down his face and he stared straight ahead, unseeing.

What is it, Diin? Turning to the acolytes who had called him, Karil said, Bring Father Honierz a stool.

The Holy One speaks, Honierz muttered.

Everyone within earshot of Honierz’ comment stopped dead in their tracks. All eyes turned toward the Abbot. The soft crackling of the oil lamps and the gusting wind against the outside stonework became the loudest sounds in the copying room.

What did you say? Karil asked, not believing what he had heard.

The Holy One speaks, Honierz repeated. I felt its voice... feel it still.

All the priests now gathered around Honierz, Father Karil included, making the sign of the Geetra on their foreheads. The faces of some of the younger acolytes began to light up at the possibility that the powers to which they had devoted their lives might at last find voice, and yet there was something wrong. The Abbot did not look jubilant. His tears continued and his face seemed uncharacteristically collapsed, as if its normal strength had vanished.

Father Karil, I would speak with you in my chamber, Honierz said quietly and the other monks backed away to allow the two senior priests to make their way towards the northern exit.

Honierz walked like an automaton and Karil followed him closely, concerned by the strange behaviour of his Patriarch and friend. The other monks looked at one another but said nothing. One by one they returned uneasily to their work.

Once in his private chambers, Honierz slumped on his sleeping pallet, looking forlorn and aimless.

What is it, Diin? Is this the Awakening?

It should not be like this, Honierz said, shaking his head slowly. Muann Tshir awakens! It brings a message. He looked at his old friend. Taminian, it brings a warning...

His voice trailed off and Karil had to encourage him to continue. A warning? What did it say, Brother?

It said nothing. It felt... It felt... furious. Honierz fixed his gaze on Karil. It held death in its throat and reeked of violence! It was disdain embodied. It felt like... It felt like vengeance.

PHASE ONE - THREAT

Element I - Áthnamorridhne

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As the flames began to darken the flesh of the Great Mage, he grimaced and, casting his sightless sockets on those who had condemned him, said, Though you destroy my body, yet my work continues. Remember the name Muann Tshir, for it will be your undoing!

Uv Ker Vali’ia, Myths of Miridjo, 799 SE

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Apair of glinting , silver-feathered birds arced across the soft purple of the late morning sky then, diving, disappeared behind the ridge of a most unusual mountain: a mountain known throughout the civilised universe – the stuff of myths, legends and fairy-tales, not so much for the mountain itself but for what it contained. For into its vast eastern cliff face had been built – or moreover sculpted – a building of such dimensions, and such mysteries, as to have served as an inspiration for generations.

Áthnamorridhne.

In the burgeoning sunlight, its pearly white surfaces seemed aglow, the organic sweeps and curves of its perplexingly irregular and asymmetrical facades, portals and arches all graven directly into the heart-stone of the mountain. Nothing added, no materials used other than what were there to begin with. Giant and opalescent on the mountainside, Áthnamorridhne extended from the foothills up through some 700 metres of cliff-face, the main bulk of its structure roughly circular in the centre, but a fan of immense tendrils radiating irregularly to the sides and upwards, the longest extending to the very edge of the cliffs above. From the town of Korma on the plains below, Áthnamorridhne looked like a giant marble anemone carved into the cliffs.

Scattered across the vastness of the Second Empire, there were many structures of such antiquity that few even tried to speculate on their origins, structures that had survived the Thousand Year War, many of them probably built by alien beings with unknown technologies, others relics of the First Empire or of the civilisations that predated interstellar travel, lost now to the opaque depths of time. These structures even in the eras of their creators must have been masterpieces, now with the added mystique of obscure origins and unknowable functions acquiring the aura of temples: mute, megalithic sentries marking the former existence of some organised intelligence and standing resolute to assure the continuance of its memory.

But of all such structures known to the Second Empire, Áthnamorridhne was undoubtedly the most revered and mysterious. The Halls of the Gods, Kumarashen, the White Temple – its names were many, although its original name, if it even had one, was long forgotten. But all who knew that they lived in an Empire knew also of Áthnamorridhne.

The Halls of the Gods were a staggering monument to a civilisation so far distant in time that some took its construction to have been an act of the Gods themselves. Although it had been estimated that the building’s age was in the hundreds of thousands of years, the mirror-smooth surfaces had not weathered nor worn in all that time. Features that had perhaps once been recessed into the native stone were now in many places raised above it, as the bedrock itself had weathered away on either side of the ancient stonework. The modern Empire had no technology to mimic the construction of this place. The surface of the stone had been fused to a consistency like smooth diamond and nowhere throughout the entire edifice was there any sign of tool marks or other irregularities.

Inside, the mysteries only deepened. Despite having many levels, the structure contained no stairs. All its internal spaces were linked with gently curving corridors that rose or fell almost imperceptibly. There were no doors and yet each of the smaller rooms, even the enormous central hall – all acoustically magnificent – produced neither echoes nor ambient noise in any other part of the building. Due to the smooth, glassy floor, hard shoes were not permitted within Áthnamorridhne and the resulting quiet gave the White Temple a ponderous hush. People automatically fell silent upon entering this wondrous place and, if they had to talk, found themselves doing so in awed whispers.

At various points in the outermost walls and over the ceiling of the Great Hall, the stone had been worked so thin as to allow light to enter. Translucent, these windows suffused the interior with a pearly glow that seemed to be taken up by the stone itself, as if it were fluorescent to some subtle degree. At night, when freestanding burners were used to light the Temple, the stone again seemed to respond and produced a soft radiance throughout the whole building, such that it was rarely dark inside.

Áthnamorridhne accommodated human proportions seemingly only by chance. The ceilings were high, as were the oval portals – three metres off the floor at their centre. Towards the rear wall of the Great Hall there stood an enormous altar, its upper surface at head height, and there were pits and depressions in the floor and walls large enough for several people to sit inside.

Oddly, given the robustness of its construction, the Temple did not appear to have been designed with defence in mind. Broad outward-curving and tapering walls seemed to invite entrance and the wide main corridor itself led directly to the Great Hall with no barriers or constrictions, save a double twist just before the Hall itself preventing direct view from the outside. Many had noted that this glass-smooth corridor even angled down slightly, towards the Great Hall, and so would be impossible to defend from any kind of invading force.

But the greatest mystery of all, beginning at the outer extreme of each of the curved walls, was a single line of what looked like writing recessed into the diamond surface and extending into the main building. This hand-width line of symbols defined a complicated path through the edifice, never crossing itself, and with its middle character directly behind the altar in the Great Hall. The line of symbols touched every room in the complex and many researchers, mathematical topologists, priests and laypeople had tried to devise an alternative route through the building with the same characteristics, but none had succeeded. The two halves of the line, measured from the Great Hall were exactly the same length but asymmetrical, as indeed was the whole building, and although they interlaced with each other, a chain of people could follow the String inwards from its two ends and neither hear nor see each other until they simultaneously entered the Great Hall from opposite walls.

The characters that defined this path had the look of written language, but xenolinguists had been defeated by them for generations, unable to produce anything save statistics: the string of writing (if it was writing) ran for over two thousand seven hundred and eighty metres. Eighteen thousand five hundred and fifty-nine characters, no two of which were the same. They were broken by vertical separators into groups of three, seven, fifteen or thirty-one, with no patterns apparent. Many researchers both linguistic and mathematical had devoted their whole lives to unravelling the Áthnamorridhne String. Now there were almost as many theories as there had been researchers – none producing anything conclusive.

And for every scientific theory, there was a lay parallel. Some held that Áthnamorridhne was a giant prayer wheel and that to walk one path in, pray at the altar and then walk the other path out with one’s hand always running along the String was the highest form of praise to the Universal Spirit. Some maintained that the entire building was a coded message and the interplay between the pattern of the String and its shape in three dimensions was somehow meaningful, but exactly how was not apparent. Some thought it a monument to the civilisation that built it and that the line of symbols defined their history. There had even been a suggestion that it was some kind of cocoon for a giant serpentine creature. The evidence for this was persuasive, as the internal shape, if straightened, did have a kind of curious symmetry about it and the fused surfaces were strongly reminiscent of the nacreous inner surface of a seashell. But none knew. And none could possibly know.

For most Imperial subjects, however, the function of Áthnamorridhne was unambiguous, despite its obscure past. For the last seven hundred years, it had been the meeting place of the Sophic Council – the governing body of the Second Empire. Every two years, when Gara’s orbit brought it closest to Gwareshi, its sun, all the Sophē from all the Genera of the Empire would come to the planet of the Imperial Capital to openly discuss the state of the realm, and to allow public forums and other more limited meetings in Áthnamorridhne’s many halls and chambers. This meeting had been a regular part of the Empire for so long that a festival had grown up around it. At one time it had been a private affair between the Sophē alone known as the Conclave, and the Emperor and a few of the oldest Sophē still referred to it as such. Now, however, it was more commonly known as Driaghdan, after the Garan governor who had declared it a public holiday, or else as the Festival of Korma, for the city on the Echtrae Plains which lay at the foot of the Sirrien Range closest to the Temple and which swelled to bursting point for the weeks surrounding the festival with hordes of travellers from all corners of the Empire.

Viewers and recording devices of all kinds that were trained on Áthnamorridhne’s shimmering façade had witnessed earlier that morning, on one of the balconies that had been cut through high on the cliff-face in more recent times, the emergence of the Emperor Ashariya Shuriyana, Godscion of Genus Irahkhan and supreme ruler of the Second Empire. The Emperor was a breathtaking woman, with porcelain skin and deep green eyes impossibly wise in the midst of such apparent youth. Her neck long and slender, her face small and neat, like a sculpture framed by voluminous fire-red hair which tumbled across one shoulder in a complex braid, the Emperor bore her ceremonial robes with a dignity that defined social poise throughout the Empire. One slim hand rested motionless on the low, sloping balcony rail. She had moved to this position almost an hour earlier and had frozen in place, as she often did, her semi-divine thoughts unknowable but her statue-like appearance mesmerising to the thousands who now watched her from the city below.

Where her calm gaze fell, mortal eyes would have seen the bright sun glinting off hundreds of transporters, ground and airborne, bright flashes against the ochre dust of the desert; from the high vantage point of the Temple they looked like swarms of silvery insects fighting for possession of the hot carcass of the city far below. Keen eyes would have seen at points all throughout Korma thin plumes of smoke rising from street-side food vendors, could have imagined the incense of the perfumed woods used in the braziers and the smells of the aromatic spices so favoured by the Garans of Echtrae.

But the Emperor did not see with mortal eyes. Her senses long since honed to unknown perfection by her centuries of training, Ashariya looked not at the desert city, but through it, seeing it not only in the present but also as the consequence of all that had touched it and its inhabitants. Where she looked, the sun glinting off metal simply added a visual highlight to the anger burning through the mind of a shouting man nearby, the love in the eyes of the oblivious youths that had provoked his anger, the pride of the girl’s father at her birth and his fears on his death bed. These things were as visible to Ashariya as the ground itself. So long had she seen the universe through the rich multidimensional lens of thought, energy, cause and effect, and time itself that for her, these things were no longer separate.

Human perception had no memory. The impression that everything exists in a moment was an illusion that had long been lost to Ashariya and, wherever she looked now, people were ribbons of space–time, woven about their peers in the great lace tapestry known to the Sophē as the Cumhachd but which human scientists called society. The Emperor saw thought and feeling flattened into language, language expanded into art; she felt comprehension and misunderstanding, saw learning and forgetfulness, tasted every aspect of this human society, which she called Irahkhan – her Genus, her people. Although the Emperor could not see the future, centuries of experience watching the Irahkhan Cumhachd had led her to an understanding of its fluctuations that was almost as prescient as prophetic vision.

Although it was customary for the Emperor to arrive at Áthnamorridhne before the other Sophē – the short journey from the Garan capital Diyen taking less than a day even by surface transport – this time she had other reasons for wishing to come early to the sanctuary of the Imperial chambers. This Conclave would be difficult. Ashariya had ruled the Empire for 247 standard years, the power that all Sophē shared maintaining her body long beyond normal lifespans. But she was now 521 years old. There were no records of anyone having lived this long and even the Sophē, with their preternatural lifespans, had traditionally rarely lived much beyond 450. The time of her coalescence, as the tragic but inevitable death of a Sophon was known, would not be far off.

Fifty years earlier she had begun to prepare for this, fostering Kameran, the second oldest Sophon of the Irahkhan Genus, to perform the ritual that would separate her from the Chiasma – the shared Sophic energy – and finally allow her physical body to die. Had things progressed normally, Kameran would have inherited the Imperial mantle and the glory of Genus Irahkhan would have been maintained. But the Emperor had lived too long. When Kameran had turned 470, he had begun to weaken. Now, just 16 years later, it was clear that he was coalescing and the Emperor would outlive him. Never before had an Emperor survived their heir.

Despite having been blessed with seven Sophē – an unprecedented number in the history of the Second Empire – Genus Irahkhan was nevertheless now faced with the sudden end of its Imperial dynasty. The next oldest Irahkhani Sophon was Syarifa Khaddaru, but at just 310 she was younger than all three of the Sophē of Genus Aethea and, by a tradition old enough to be law, the eldest Sophon of the Tricel automatically became Emperor. No matter how many Genera the Empire contained, Imperial ascension was possible only from one of the three most powerful and stable Genera, the Tricel, and hence with Kameran’s death and the Emperor’s passing, the great and noble Genus Aethea would replace Irahkhan at the Imperial helm.

In the two and a half thousand years of the Second Empire, the coalescence of an Emperor had almost always accompanied a Generic shift, but with time things had begun to change. Irahkhan had raised a series of Emperors – the first Imperial Dynasty – of which Ashariya was the third. Together they represented an unbroken Irahkhani rule of nearly eight hundred years and to the people of Genus Irahkhan the Empire was theirs by birthright. The spacing of the seven Irahkhani Sophē was such that another thousand years of Irahkhani rule seemed not unlikely, at least until the untimely weakening of Kameran.

Now that dream seemed shattered and within Irahkhan there was growing disquiet at the prospect of suddenly being relegated to the status of Aethean subjects. Irahkhan’s trepidation lingered in the Cumhachd like the echo of a crime. A cloud had passed in front of the spiritual sun of her people and Ashariya was the focus and personification of their mounting fear. But she was also their strength. Her duty was thus to swallow the disquiet of her people and to give back to them her force. It was this that she did and it was this that wore her down, despite her great power.

As for Aethea, the assumption of three Aethean Sophē within ten years of each other had been hailed as a miracle and the Genus had passed hope down through generations to see this power culminate in Imperial rule. To the Aetheans, ascension was predestined – a tale told at bedsides and acted out in popular dramas. It was a chalice of hope that allowed the proud Genus to endure the ignominy of being dominated by the lesser numbers of Irahkhan, and now the present generation had glimpsed the chance for the prophecy of their lives to be fulfilled. Their time of waiting could be at an end. None dared to believe but all allowed hope to blossom, and that energy circled through the Aethean Genus like a bright-winged bird.

The third member of the Tricel, Genus Qihira-Tejlija, had been voted in just eighty short years before, but in that time had seen a strengthening of its traditional xenophobia and had distanced itself even more from the rest of the Empire, weakening economically in the process. Qihira-Tejlija’s right to remain in the Tricel was all but forfeit. Other Genera knew this and it was fully expected that the ancient Genus Etriedar would present a Tricellic challenge at this Conclave. If that were accepted by the Council, then the Godscion of Genus Etriedar, Aorn Chen Suo, would be next in line for the Imperial throne, as after Ashariya he was the oldest Sophon in the Empire. His reign could conceivably last long enough to displace all three of the Aethean Sophē and return the next Imperial title to Irahkhan. Aethea would hence try to block the acceptance of Etriedar into the Tricel in place of Qihira-Tejlija and had already begun openly buying the votes of the smaller Genera Nadili and Kheera. Of course Qihira-Tejlija would not vote against itself and so Etriedar might be thwarted.

Such jealousies at the level of whole Genera were particularly dangerous and had the ancient stench of war about them.

Element II - Hypercone

The Second Empire had annexed, incorporated or come to peaceful coexistence with most of the intelligent life forms within a 10 parsec range of its planetary capital, Gara. Others were known of and many intelligent and semi-intelligent species coexisted with human populations on their native planets. But at approximately 18° azimuth, –32° elevation from Gara’s rotation plane and a distance of 31 light-years from its sun Gwareshi lay a dim star that humans called Vetellus, which harboured a Class II planet that most now called Majarakke after the humanoid species that called it home. They ruled over a two-system, multi-species kingdom and considered the Irahkhani Empire to be their sworn enemy.

The Majarakke reputedly had trouble administering their own territory and, although hyperspace capable, employed an obscure type of matter projection that appeared tremendously energy inefficient and of limited range. They did not seem to have discovered the principle of Dolian curves: the indispensable space–time phenomenon upon which long-range Imperial hyperspace travel depended. Contact between human and Majarakke was rare, hostile and generally amounted to implausible threats, sword-rattling and cultural insults from the latter, directed mostly towards Colony, the administrative home planet of the Vorann system – closest Imperial system to the Majarakke homeworld. The source of this Majarakke hostility was unknown and it was assumed they were simply xenophobic, despite the multi-species nature of their own kingdom. The Majarakke world view appeared to hold the destruction and downfall of the evil human Empire as their highest and most pressing priority, but their complete incapacity to do much other than make petty insults made them into more of a laughing stock than anything else.

The Imperial government, in the person of Colony’s Sophon Roath Bijan, kept an eye on the Majarakke. Most citizens from the Centre had never even heard of them. It was Colony technicians who first recorded the unusual energy readings from the direction of Majarakke space and placed the Imperial Star Force on notice. Initial remotes sent back inconclusive data but, as one of the Imperial sensor devices turned to head back to its ship, it was abruptly destroyed by an antimatter pulse that came from free-space. The real-time sensor data of the ill-fated remote clearly showed the pulse emanating from a point in space where there was no ship, or at least no visible ship.

The remotes had been launched by the Nehlu, Corol Squadron’s command Hunter-Destroyer, whose Captain promptly returned fire to the point of origin of the hostile weapon. Despite the eight minutes of travel time, the cloaked Majarakke vessel had not moved and its summary destruction rendered sensor-visible 24 other vessels in what the nav-computers revealed to be a conical formation. The destroyed ship had been the head of the cone. It did not take long for Colony technicians to associate the disturbances they had recorded with these conical formations and hence to realise that there were several of them, all cloaked and all in the same general vicinity.

How many? Commander Saami asked as the intelligence officer returned to the bridge.

The Nehlu’s young captain had seen the 24 vessels revealed by her destruction of the one that had fired and had just been informed by Colony techs that this was just the tip of an iceberg.

We’ve revealed a squad, Commander, of twenty-five vessels, including the one we destroyed. If our readings are accurate – and we have every reason to believe they are, Ma’am – then the Majarakke force is arranged into cohorts of twenty-five such squads in a similar conical formation but on a greater scale.

Surprised by the numbers, which she had not expected to be so great, Saami looked up from the report she had been half-reading.

The intel officer had not stopped speaking. He knew his Commander would not be prepared for the last piece of information. The entire fleet – techs are calling it the hypercone – appears to consist of twenty-five cohorts.

What? Saami put down the report, calculating quickly. You’re telling me they have a fleet of fifteen thousand vessels aimed at us?

Fifteen thousand six hundred and twenty-five – well, twenty-four now – Commander, and technically, according to our intelligence, they are in fact aimed directly at Vorann itself.

At the star? Fifteen thousand!

A priority alert was sent to Imperial High Command.

Element III - Scyreni

The communications patch faded but Preis El-Kayin continued to stare at the sleeve of his uniform, stunned. He remained transfixed for a moment, shaking his head minutely in disbelief, then called the communicator on again and said to it, Han, meet me in my briefing room at once. I’ll explain when you get here.

Colonel Preis Chen El-Kayin glanced down at the reflective glass tabletop. His face – not quite as young as it felt and bearing more responsibility than it thought it deserved – normally on the verge of smiling, as if barely containing some private joke, now held a faint scowl, a result of the unexpected message he had just received. His dark eyes were invisible in the dim reflection, but his blond hair shone as ever in stark counterpoint to his sun-darkened skin, the defining characteristics of a Miridjan. He looked up again at the interior of the mess hall, acknowledging a junior officer who saluted him semi-formally and smiled as she hurried past.

Preis’ military career had been exemplary. A series of outstanding performances in both theory and practice had set him apart early as one of the leading lights of the Imperial Star Force. In his first engagement he had distinguished himself in his role as pilot with the Scyreni Guard assault team which had reasserted Imperial control in the Cean uprising. He had been thrice decorated for bravery and four times for tactical skill, and was widely recognised as the best fighter pilot who had ever lived. Despite this renown, however, he retained the disarming philosophical simplicity and directness that his aunt had taught him all those years ago in the dusty desert capital of Banariad, and his roguish disregard for military stuffiness had gained him much admiration from his subordinates and more than a little friction from his superiors.

If Preis was modest about his abilities, it was not through any moral imperative or behavioural ideal. He simply did what he did and felt no particular pride in the adulation that being himself seemed to provoke around him. If anything, he found the praise a little vacuous and more than occasionally embarrassing. If people got on with doing what they were good at, rather than fawning all over those who were... He let the unkind thought go. He had to acknowledge that he was fortunate enough to have fallen into a profession that perfectly suited his skills, which was not true for everybody, and this gave him the luxury of indifference to his own outstanding abilities, but he had no right to convert that indifference into criticism of others. He stood and arched his back with a deep breath. Han would be arriving at the briefing room soon and he needed to leave if he was to beat him there. Preis finished his glass and nodded to the bartender on his way out.

As he approached the briefing room, he saw Commander Han Riidze – his Executive Officer – raising his chin in acknowledgement, his sharp eyes sheltered beneath a heavy brow. Han was the kind of man the Imperial Star Force liked to put on recruitment posters. Tremendously photogenic, handsome and well built, he was the image the Star Force wished to portray. Han, however, aggressively refused any such frivolity. His rugged good looks were of no consequence to him and he had not joined the military to be a fashion model. The corner of Preis’ mouth turned upwards as he imagined Han’s angry voice pronouncing these very words. Although with his holodram looks Han could easily have become something of a womaniser, anyone who knew him at all also knew this could not be further from the truth. His romantic interludes were few, discreet and, as far as Preis could tell, brief.

Preis had heard a junior officer describe Han’s physique as a waste, given his apparent lack of interest in the subject that occupied the majority of the waking attention of many of the male Scyreni pilots. Han’s central motivation was his duty to the Empire and to his comrades. Preis was not even sure in what order Han would place those two, if ever he were forced to choose.

Han and Preis had attended the Imperial Star Force Academy on Nalian Besa together and had both graduated with distinction, although where Preis excelled in certain fields and less in others, Han was an all-rounder, above average in everything except diplomacy, which was a subject he despised and the only one he came close to failing. ‘Negotiation and Diplomacy’ was a subject the Academy had been obliged to include in its curriculum after a political decision and nobody took it particularly seriously. Although this was technically a blemish on Han’s record, Commodore Heng Shan was not about to hold such an exceptional soldier back because some group of do-gooder lobbyists on Gara had convinced someone at Imperial High Command of the necessity of skills other than those the Star Force really needed. He had personally quashed Han’s bad result in what he saw as a pointless waste of his cadets’ time. Han graduated with High Distinction.

Since graduating, the two men had served side by side and, despite receiving the same promotion opportunities as his comrade, Han had early on elected to retard his own progression by one rank in order to remain Preis’ right-hand man. Although considered a suicidal career move by some, Han’s refusal of promotion had been enthusiastically supported by Imperial High Command. In the Cean campaign the two men had shown that they could operate like a single mind in battle and the joint commanders saw the wisdom in maintaining such a formidable combination. Just four short years after their graduation, they had been transferred to the Scyreni Guard – the most prestigious posting a Star Force pilot could achieve – and two years after that found themselves in joint command. Now, based at the renowned Muon Palsea base on Gara, they enjoyed the comparatively free existence of the Scyreni – a freedom acknowledged as compensation for being the cutting edge of the Imperial sword.

Like Preis, Han saw nothing exceptional in his abilities or achievements, and if anything he had even less patience with praise and adulation than his Colonel. Although of quite different temperaments, the two men had forged a close connection, each finding in the other a little something they felt they lacked in themselves, although this kind of reflection would never have passed the lips of either. (Preis thought he might admit to it if cornered, but knew Han would rather die first.)

Preis recalled the first time they had met, paired off by chance in a PR exercise in the first days of their basic training. They had both found the course completely pointless, taught by an instructor whose vague theoretical nonsense had them laughing heartily over cold ales afterwards. He also recalled Han’s gruff, ‘tough guy’ exterior, something Preis initially found mildly off-putting, then a little ridiculous, particularly in the context of an Imperial military Academy, where few of the cadets were likely to be intimidated by such a display. But their shared contempt for the decidedly non-military nature of the touchy-feely psychobabble being dished out to them by this clearly civilian psychologist quickly acted as an ice-breaker and established a bond that only strengthened from day to day. Despite their catalogue of differences that any external observer might have been able to compile, Han and Preis had very similar world views once their surface was scratched, and that kind of rare complicity was the foundation for a relationship that went further than simple friendship, closer to brotherhood.

As the two men approached one another, Han’s attention was momentarily caught by the infopanel in the corridor wall, emotionlessly relating a tragic accident on the Aethean world of Myoudon. An orbiting jumpstation had suffered a navigational failure and re-entered, crashing into a major city. Thousands had been killed. As he approached the briefing room doorway, Preis turned slightly to follow Han’s gaze and caught the end of the report.

What’s that all about? he asked, curious as to Han’s interest, since he was usually uninterested in current affairs unless they had military implications.

A jumpstation crashed into Szeina.

Szeina. Myoudon? Preis queried, still not sure why Han would care.

Mmm.

Taken a sudden interest in current affairs?

The report moved on to more mundane matters and Han looked towards Preis. I thought the Sha Mahana might have been involved.

Ah.

Preis understood. The Sha Mahana were a terrorist faction active throughout the Empire but centred on Myoudon and passionately loyal to Aethea, although not recognised by the Aethean Sophē and not comprised exclusively of Aethean subjects: the group contained many unhoused individuals – Asinandres – with various grudges against Imperial rule. The Sha Mahana were committed to the overthrowing of what they termed simply the Oligarchy and the raising of Aethea to the Imperial throne. They were small but well-organised and moreover well-armed and, although their activity had always been sporadic and they had been quiet for some time, Han’s military interests kept him in touch with developments on Myoudon.

Realising the Szeina disaster seemed to have no connection with terrorism, Han’s interest dissipated and he turned to fully face Preis. So, what’s going on?

Come inside, Preis replied. Closing the door behind them, he called on his communicator and rotated his wrist towards Han. Did you receive this?

Han’s brow furrowed as he read the dispatch. No. Is this for real?

Yes, it is. I have confirmation from Vice Admiral Feris.

A full mobilisation? Why?

Han could think of no immediate reason the entire Scyreni Guard should be mobilised. Not since the Cean uprising had such a concentrated display of force been necessary.

Vice Admiral Feris informed me the Majarakke fleet comprises fifteen thousand vessels. Preis spoke with deliberate nonchalance and waited for Han’s reaction.

Fifteen thousand! Tarth! Then why only mobilise the Guard? Why not mobilise Gatekeeper?

The question was not unreasonable. The Guard only comprised 2000 fighters. Han was suggesting mobilising the entire Star Force assigned to the Gatekeeper region, one of the six military divisions of Imperial space. Gatekeeper was the region containing the distant Vorann System and comprised two Planetary Fleets – one for Colony and one for Anhak, the two major Voranni worlds – plus two Orbital Squadrons for the smaller colonies of Juno and Corol.

Preis adopted the slightly whining intonation of a hen-pecked husband who didn’t want to quit his ball game to put out the garbage. It’s the eve of Driaghdan and just a month before the beginning of the Cheforb Cooperative.

The Etriedaran venture into armatech production? Han interrupted, ignoring Preis’ theatrics. What’s that got to do with anything?

Preis did not reply at once, distracted by what his communicator was telling him. Looking up, he continued, his voice back to normal. Umm, not just armatech, Han, intelligent weaponry: hunters, Sentien drones, infiltration remotes. The Governor of Cyrus Ara has sealed a deal with Aethean High Command whereby Aethea will give technical support to the Cyrean Government in return for some kind of trading breaks on Etriedaran infotech. It’s a big deal. It’s apparently the first cross-Genus business cooperative to be executed at the level of planetary government.

So? Han said unenthusiastically.

He maintained an aggressive lack of interest in both politics and economics. Han was a militarist and generally of the opinion that any problem without a military solution was not really a problem. He did not see what the Cheforb Cooperative had to do with opposing a fifteen-thousand strong invasion force with an elite squad less than one seventh the size.

So... the Emperor wants public attention on Cheforb and not on a border war. Preis saw the numerical objection in Han’s eyes and continued. Preliminary analysis of the Majarakke capabilities indicates a strong Imperial hardware advantage. It’s the Majarakke, Han, not the Etriedarans. Han acknowledged this with an upside-down smile and a nod. The joint chiefs feel the Guard has what it takes to deal with this situation swiftly and with a minimum of noise. Vorann Division’s heavies will already be in position – Vice Admiral Vienjea might even get the Palika there – and in any case the Majarakke have not declared any hostile intentions as yet.

Han looked incredulous at this last statement. One did not send 15,000 vessels to exchange small-talk.

Preis shrugged. I think our orders are pretty clear. I’m going to issue the mobilisation command. Any objection?

It was Han’s turn to shrug. Had the attacker been anyone other than the Majarakke, his military reflexes would have been gearing up to object strongly to such a ridiculous response, but the truth of it was that the Majarakke inspired more pity than fear and, despite the enormous size of their attack force, Han couldn’t help imagining 15,000 six-year-olds on tricycles peddling furiously through free-space brandishing cardboard swords. He had to acknowledge a full mobilisation of the Guard constituted a response that was both prudent and undoubtedly sufficient to the threat level, despite the initial shock of the numbers.

Preis was still looking at him. He nodded with an expression that said ‘Let’s get to it then’ and headed out of the room as his CO keyed in the mobilisation order.

Element IV - Aethea

I sh isnath, ne hoh xanceyr... The gentle susurration of the ancient chant scampered softly along the smooth stone, like a startled animal fleeing uncertainly from the three cloaked figures sitting in a triad in the centre of the floor. She sheyen txalt, no manaisht te dhrenv. Words known but to few, very few. The physical sounds like snow caps on mountains of power and ancient wisdom reaching deep into the shared consciousness of those who spoke them. Mrall isnath, ne taxal shtoufur... And with the muted ringing of a distant gong. Soh sonashth he, ish mrisnath kourh.

Quiet.

With the mantra complete, as a single mind the three Aethean Sophē expanded into the shimmering void of which human reality was just one glinting facet. Stepping off the plane of the physical, they soared amongst their people – within Genus Aethea – surrounded by infinite energy. The complex harmonic pulsing of their Genus’ life force, the Aethean Cumhachd, spread throughout and around them like a great tapestry, tracing form and significance back through eons. At its growing edge, individual lives, bright microscopic fibres, wound their way forwards, constrained only by attachment to former realities, into a narrow but infinite range of possibility. For the Sophē, the infinite potential was the air beneath wings of spirit through which the mesh of their Genus’ history represented a richly convoluted surface. At once, wholeness and detail stood side by side and, through this intricate web, the Sophē searched.

There!

A shearing in the fabric – the sudden ending of thousands of lives causing a straight-edged cut – beyond which the pained survivors’ lines had already begun to grow.

Look not to the dead.

They did not pause to find out what had occurred to cause such a potent rupture in the Aethean tapis. It was not relevant.

The duty of the Sophon is to the Cumhachd, and the Cumhachd is the demesne of the living.

The living.

As one they descended into a hundred thousand growing filaments and each blossomed out into the intricate crystal flower of a single Aethean soul, soaring through the infinity of the Cumhachd like burning brands through the night sky. Each pained Aethean citizen stood distinct to each Sophon, although all were in all. Every Aethean whose heart ached as a consequence of this rupture had the full attention of all three of their Sophē, but the Sophē’s training had taught them to divide their gifted attention – to refract it a million-fold whereby they became many minds in one. Each Aethean soul was its own pattern, unique, but in every spirit the Sophē now visited, a like pain lingered. Grief... Loss... Its signature was unmistakable: red, throbbing. Twisted upon itself: a dragon with a thousand limbs, reaching throughout the soul that harboured it and driving talons of anguish into its soft interior. One impossible shape knotted into another. A hundred thousand minds thus darkened by death. A hundred thousand hearts filled with sorrow. That was the Sophē’s aim and without hesitation they silently merged with the demons of their people’s pain.

Knowing strength in each other, the Aethean Sophē softly became the sorrow of these thousands of minds, terrible in its depth, shocking in its despair. Without resistance they allowed the searing darkness to wash through them, to redefine them – allowed themselves to be drawn into and flow throughout every part of every agony, every fear, every lost hope, every broken dream, and only when they felt the full weight of the disaster’s effect break against them like a tide of loss, only then, with hundreds of years of training and focus, they made its tensed claws slacken and calmed its raging, and lifted it like a distracted child out of the sea of minds it had tormented, held within their even power.

Quiet now, the scalding energy they had taken from their people was nevertheless too great to simply absorb. Were the Sophē to attempt to harbour such a concentrated passion, they would surely go insane with despair. As the three rejoined the gentle constrictions of their physical forms, they held the pain between them like an offering and slowly, slowly, they released their grip. Too early and it would wake and rush howling back into the hearts and minds of their people; too late and it would detonate inside them like madness. But the Sophē were adept. At the instant, their bodies wavered with the return of their spirits, so too a loud concussion and plume of heat filled the small room: the pain of a hundred thousand hearts dragged unwillingly into physical being. With a final outraged roar, the dragon spent itself, becoming simply heat and light, dissipating.

Siachone Seumlante, Godscion of Genus Aethea, looked across at his friends and Sophic companions: Calum Shyea, rough-featured and rough of character but masking a deep wisdom; and Shahana Toranaga, radiantly beautiful and always cheerful. Shahana was the joy in the heart of every Aethean and her mere presence filled any room with warmth and love. Siachone had come to his power late and his adult features, those of a fit middle-aged man, made him one of the oldest-looking Sophē in the Empire.

With the horror of their people softened, Siachone smiled at the spiritual core of the Aethean Genus and nodded in silent acknowledgement of their greatness. To the many relatives and friends of the deceased, their Sophē’s presence served to lessen their torment, cool their searing sadness and shore up their hearts. Nothing was obscured, nothing undone, but the terrible hopelessness was softened and strength was returned.

It is done. Peace.

And in the bustle and noise of the Aethean city of Szeina, a young woman raised her tear-streaked face as she felt the Sophic power flow into her. The tight constriction in her chest loosened with a shuddering sob and