The women smiled politely at him, but beamed seductively at Jora’h. The Prime Designate had their full attention, as if he walked within a fog of pheromones.

“You are not married yet, Prince Reynald? Marriage is the accepted human custom, I believe, especially for royal families?”

“It is—and no, I have not yet chosen a woman to become Theron Mother beside me. There are political considerations as well as… romantic ones. On this peregrination I have received several offers of marriage from leaders of some of the Hansa colonies. All respectable, but I prefer to consider a variety of possibilities, since this is such an important decision.”

“I find it incomprehensible to spend so much time choosing a single mate.” Jora’h selected a plate of jellied fruit, tasted a bite, then offered it to Reynald, who happily sampled it himself. He raised his gaze to the hovering courtesans. “It is my duty to have as many lovers as possible and father numerous children who carry the Mage-Imperator’s bloodline. Committees and assistants aid me in choosing among the thousands of candidates and verify their state of fertility when I mate with them.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Reynald said. “And not terribly erotic.”

“A Prime Designate has his duties to suffer.” Jora’h chose a bowl of his favorite sliced fruits in steaming syrup. “The Ildiran people consider it a great honor to breed with me, and I have more volunteers than I can possibly service in my lifetime. Everything will change for me when I succeed my father and become Mage-Imperator.”

“That must be exciting,” Reynald said.

Jora’h wore a contemplative expression. “At that time I must undergo a ritual castration ceremony.” Reynald looked shocked, as the Prime Designate knew he would. “Only in that way can I become the focus for the thism and see through the eyes of my race. I will give up my manhood and become a demigod, all-seeing and all-knowing. A fair enough exchange, I suppose.”

Reynald dabbed his lips with a formal napkin. “I, uh, think I will endure my own problems of selecting a wife. I don’t envy yours.” Servants whisked away the myriad untouched dishes when it was clear the two men were sated.

Jora’h clapped his hands. “It is time for our rememberer.”

A small, older-looking Ildiran entered the room, wearing loose robes. He wore no gems, no facial adornment, no jewelry on his fingers or wrists. His face looked more alien than most of the Ildiran kiths, with fleshy lobes growing around his brow and cheeks, sweeping back along his hairless head.

“Rememberer Vao’sh is a historian in the Ildiran court,” Jora’h said. “He has entertained me many times.” Vao’sh bowed, and Reynald nodded a welcome, not sure how to receive a rememberer, whether with an outthrust hand or with applause. Jora’h continued, “Our rememberers excel in performing portions of our Saga of Seven Suns.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of your race’s legends,” Reynald said.

Vao’sh spread his arms so that the sleeves of his robe flowed. “Far more than just a set of scriptures and stories, the Saga is the grand epic of the Ildiran people. It is the framework by which we fit into the universe. Ildiran history is not just a sequence of events, but a genuine story, and we are all part of its intricate plot.” He swept an outstretched hand toward Reynald. “Even a human prince such as you is included. Every person has a role to play, whether as a minor character or a great hero. Each of us hopes to live a life so significant that it will be remembered in the ever-growing saga.”