The King could hear the rush of fountains, the hum of dirigibles, the roar of the ever-swelling crowds in the royal plaza below waiting for him to address them from his favorite speaking balcony. The Archfather of Unison was already leading them in familiar scripted prayers, but even as the crowds followed along, eager citizens pressed forward, hoping for a glimpse of their splendid monarch. Frederick wanted to remain inside as long as possible.

After its construction in the early days of Terran expansion, the gigantic ceremonial residence had rendered visitors speechless with awe—hence, its name: the Whisper Palace. Always-lit cupolas and domes were made of glass panels crisscrossed with gilded titanium support braces. The site had been chosen in the sunny, perfect weather of the North American west coast, in what had once been southern California. The Palace was larger than any other building on Earth, vast enough to swallow ten cities the size of Versailles. Later, after the Hansa had encountered the jaw-dropping architecture in the Ildiran Empire, the Whisper Palace had been expanded further, just to keep up.

At the moment, though, the beauty around him could not keep Frederick’s mind occupied as he impatiently waited to hear from Basil at distant Oncier. “Momentous events do not happen in an instant,” he said, as if convincing himself. “Today we mean to set the course of history.”

A court chamberlain rang an Ildiran crystal-alloy gong. Instantly, in response to the sound, the King donned an eager but paternal smile, a practiced kindly expression that exuded warm confidence.

With the fading musical vibrations, he strode down the royal promenade toward his expansive speaking balcony. Out of habit, the King looked at an ultraclear crystalline mirror mounted in an alcove. He caught his expression, the not-quite-hidden weariness in his eyes, a few new wrinkles that only he could see. How much longer would Basil let him play this role, before he passed beyond “paternal” and into “doddering”? Maybe the Hansa would let him retire soon.

The great solar doors spread open, and the King paused to take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.

Ambassador Otema, the ancient green priest from the forested planet of Theroc, stood beside her shoulder-high worldtree sapling in its ornate planter. Through the sentient worldforest network, Otema could establish an instant communication link with the far-off technical observation platform.

He gave one brisk clap of his hands. “It is time. We must transmit a message that I, King Frederick, grant my permission for this wondrous test to begin. Tell them to proceed with my blessing.”

Otema gave a formal bow. The stern ambassador had so many status tattoos on her face and her skin was such a weathered green that she looked like a gnarled piece of vegetation herself. She and Basil Wenceslas had butted heads many times, but King Frederick had kept out of the disputes.

Otema wrapped her callused fingers around the scaly bark of the worldtree and closed her eyes so that she could send her thoughts via telink through the trees to her counterpart at Oncier.