“But the truth is not what we thought, Liege!” Dio’sh said, ready to burst. “I learned something about all of those missing lines from the Saga. I have found evidence of what occurred during that period. Something shocking.”

“There have always been rumors, Dio’sh. Ildirans love their mysteries.”

“Yes, Liege, but I have found that, in reality, the firefever never occurred.”

“All the rememberers died,” the Mage-Imperator insisted, disturbed and obviously skeptical. The historian did not notice his glowering expression. “It is clear that a section of our epic was lost.”

Dio’sh stepped closer, his face lobes ablaze with colorful emotions. “No, Liege. Not lost. The rememberers were killed in order to hide the truth, and then a portion of the Saga was intentionally censored so that no one would ever know what really happened. I believe it must have been an order given by an ancient Mage-Imperator.”

“Preposterous. No Mage-Imperator would commit such a heinous act.”

A flood of words poured from Dio’sh’s mouth. He waved the incontrovertible documents. “The lost verses tell of an ancient and devastating conflict in the galaxy, an ultimate war against powerful creatures called hydrogues, aliens that live within the cores of gas-giant planets.”

The Mage-Imperator was wide-awake now, fascinated. Dangerous. Dio’sh continued. “This ancient war, I believe, is related to the extinction or disappearance of the Klikiss race, but it has remained hidden for these ten thousand years.” He shuffled through the documents, eagerly seeking passages to quote. “Liege, the evidence is clear. Our accepted version of the Saga does not tell the entire truth. We must change what has been written.”

Dio’sh was so excited that he paid no heed to the displeasure crossing the Mage-Imperator’s normally beatific face, or to the long braid thrashing with the leader’s agitation. “Let me see these documents. Step closer.”

Dio’sh came forward and offered the records. Surely the Mage-Imperator would see the proof and know the truth. “Here is a journal entry from one of the assassins. The blood is on his own hands. He says—”

The living braid rose up beside the Mage-Imperator, extending from the chrysalis chair like a tentacle. Seeing a flicker of movement, Dio’sh glanced to the side—but had no time to cry out before the serpentlike rope of living hair lashed out and wrapped around his neck.

The Mage-Imperator’s eyes blazed as he leaned forward. “Of course I know the story.” His lip curled with disgust.

The knotted braid constricted. The historian struggled frantically, dropping the records as he kicked and squirmed. The Mage-Imperator’s hair squeezed harder, drawing the loop tighter, until it crushed the rememberer’s larynx.

“I wanted it kept secret.” Hissing angry breaths, the Mage-Imperator continued squeezing until his pasty face was ruddy, flushed with the effort. Then he snapped Dio’sh’s neck and used the braid to toss the historian’s body onto the floor like so much garbage.

61: DAVLIN LOTZE