King Altyr faced the well-dressed man that stood behind him.  “For the last time, Chancellor, the matter is closed.  Our country will not be swallowed by the Federation.”  

Chancellor Ruban looked upward as if searching for patience.  “But think of the opportunity we’re missing, sire,” he intoned.  “We can form an alliance with the most powerful organization in the world and lead in a new era of prosperity and peace.  Think of the opportunities for trade…” 

“Yes, trading what for what, Ruban?” Altyr interrupted curtly before the man could launch into another lengthy speech.  He was not in the mood for repetitions of today’s earlier negotiations.  “Autonomy for delicacies?  Our best resources for an occupying garrison?  What do you think keeps the Federation from overwhelming us completely?  The only thing standing between us and either a slow conquest or bloody warfare is diplomacy!”

The Chancellor’s eyes narrowed very slightly in the lamplight.  Altyr knew the man well enough to know that he was furious, and he decided to end the conversation before the man could repeat himself.  “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.  You’ve given great service to me and to my family, but I ask you to trust me in this.”  Ruban opened his mouth but he cut him off with a wave of his hand.  “Leave me now.  We’ll talk of it again in the morning.” 

For an instant, Chancellor Ruban puffed as if he would argue the matter further, but finally the gaunt man gave a very stiff bow.  “Sleep well, sire,” he intoned, his tight eyes wishing Altyr nothing of the sort.  He turned and walked quickly into the hall, the echoes of his footsteps fading.  He had scheduled the meeting for another hour, presumably to allow lengthy discussion of how Tygaras would incorporate its entry into the Federation.  Presumption, on his part, presumption and arrogance.  Despite all his experience, I am still the king,

Tall bronze standing lamps stood about the room, but only the one nearest the door was still burning. The quick walk from the reception room had put him in his bedroom ahead of his servants, something he appreciated.  Political intrigue had forced the royal family into hiding when he was young, and ever since then he had always felt awkward about some other man pulling his trousers on.  He kept the servants around more for their sake than his.  Many of them took pride in serving their king, and would be offended if they and their families were dismissed from his service.

He sighed at the darkened room, walls paneled with nearly black saltwood from the Treeline.  The wood was precious, harvested from the only forest to survive the Drowning, but it made for a very dim and depressing room.  It was just another part of his life that he had failed to get used to.  Pale green moonlight seeped through the open balcony window, angling off a gilded stand mirror on the other side of the room.  In that light, it was impossible to tell the fair hairs from the gray in his reflection. Undoubtedly, today had added more gray.   

He returned his attention to the window, and, on a sudden impulse, strode quickly to the balcony.  I only hope I haven’t missed it.  Neither the servants nor the guards appreciated it when he stood on the balcony.   A target for arrows, Captain Byrt reminded him time and time again.  But the green glow of the false moon had awakened a childhood memory, and he only hoped that he was not too late to see it. 

He sighed again as he stepped out onto the balcony, this time in relief.  A glance to the left showed that the smaller false moon had already passed over the horizon far to the north, casting the white stone of the capital city in a faint green light.  They called it the crystal city, thought the white stone did not compare to the real crystal on the mountain.  I haven’t missed it yet!  Anticipation filling him now, he looked straight ahead to the east.  

The horizon showed a pale glow, silhouetting the mountain range to the east of the city. Altyr hoped the moon was full; it had been quite some time since he’d had enough time to pay attention to the phase of the moon.  Only a moment later, slivers of light sprung from the peak, and Altyr smiled in satisfaction.  Few things compare to moonrise over Mount Euroclydon. 

An unbroken line of pure white now ran across the mountain, a jagged line marking the edges of the crystal spires.  As he watched, the line grew, swelled into a thousand different refractions of the moon, white and gray sweeping across the sky in front of him.  As he always had before, he glanced down at his own moon shadows, streaming out behind him in nearly all directions.  His mother had told him that each of those represented a path he could have chosen, fair to consider, but impossible to keep.  They always solidified into one shadow: your own past, cast from the present.  A harsh reality, he thought, as he looked enviously at the faint dancing shadows. 

He heard a soft sound of delight from off to his right.  He tuned to see Elyse, her red hair soft over her shoulder, her eyes also refracting the moonlight.  She glanced his way then, and smiled.  For an instant, she was her mother, the moonlight holding promise and hope.  Altyr smiled back.

The moon shadows disappeared as lamplight brightened in the chamber behind him, spilling out over the balcony.  With one last brilliant smile, Elyse turned and slipped quietly into her room, taking all the wonder of the moonlight with her.  He could hear his servants calling from inside the chamber, rushing to the window.  With one last look at the moon, now fully risen above the crystal peaks, and his long shadow streaming out before him, he turned and entered his chamber.   

His servants fussed over him, but Altyr barely heard them as they undressed him before taking their places at the head of the room.  He waved them away when he was in his nightclothes, turning down the bed himself.  It had been a long day of meetings with his council, and he was in no mood for ceremony tonight. 

Many of the council were in favor of uniting with the organization, whether through Ruban's rhetoric or personal greed.  The Federation for World Pleasure and Prosperity was the official name, and over the past thirty years it had found great success in the countries of the western continent.  Supposedly, the Federation’s largest interests were peace, security, and total freedom.  Government control was something the Federation's citizens might be willing to accept, but Altyr was neither willing, nor able for that matter, to take on all that responsibility.  And he would not be reduced to a figurehead while the Federation ran his country and glutted itself on his people.  

Repeating those abstract concepts made his head tight, and he tried to put the concerns of the day from his mind and concentrate on the .  Tygaras would never concede to idleness and hedonism while he was king.  No matter what Chancellor Ruban said. 

The door creaked quietly as it opened, admitting Jadir with his nightly draught.  He silently crossed the room, and surprisingly quickly.  It was hard to remember details about his servant, and it often surprised Altyr how tall he was.  He almost expected the man to creak as well as he bowed, setting his platter on the table.  The smell of herbs rose with the steam from the cup on the platter, and for some reason, Jadir had also brought a bottle of brandy.  “Your draught, sir,” he intoned, bending stiffly to place it in Altyr's hands, “and I’ve also brought something to help with your troubles.”  

“The draught will do, Jadir,” the king replied.  “You know that I prefer to heal my headache, not simply put it off until morning.  I have better ways to ease my mind.”  King Altyr took the cup and, as usual, he gazed at the large portrait of his family that hung on the wall facing his bed. 

The three figures stood impressively, larger than life.  Altyr looked years younger, though but three years had passed since the portrait had been painted.  Standing next to him was his wife, Elwyn, her pale face beautifully framed by her long red hair.  His life without her was the main reason that the years hadn’t been as kind to him.      

He was eighteen again for a moment, journeying with his father through the southern reaches of their kingdom towards the Filifimani islands to the south and supposedly towards his future bride, the Filifiman princess Lianapaali.  But as fate would have it, they rested at the manor of the Earl of Farthynton, and Altyr saw his daughter, Elwyn. 

They tarried there for three days, and that was long enough for him to know that Elwyn was like no other that he had ever met.  She met him as he was going to mount his horse, a cup held between her two hands.  “Drink this, my lord,” she offered.  

Altyr took a sip of the draught.  It took him a moment to catch his breath again.  “Thank you,” he said weakly when he was finished.  “What is it?”

“It is actually a traditional draught from the Filifimani, to restore strength and to calm the mind.  While many drink it alone, they say that it is less bitter when shared with a friend.”  She smiled as she put the cup to her lips.  

He had spent the days between Farthynton and the islands wishing that circumstances were different.  But his father believed that the marriage would cement the strained ties between the two countries, and Altyr was duty-bound to his country. 

It took another fortnight by land and sea to reach the palace.  He smiled as he remembered entering the palace on the main island of the Filifimani islands, and having the princess burst into tears as soon as she saw him.  No one had ever hinted that he was ugly.  It took some coaxing to find out what was wrong, but it turned out that the princess had already fallen for the young lord of one of the islands, and couldn’t stand the idea of parting with him.  

“I won’t go through with the marriage.  We may as well pay our respects and go home.” 

In the end, Altyr had proved the more stubborn of the two, even though it did take him convincing the guards to surround their entire party.  Lianapaali impulsively hugged him and thanked him when she heard the news, before running back to her lover’s arms.  King Kailua embraced his father, thanked him for his understanding, and the countries left on even better terms.   

On the way back home, he had made sure to stop in Farthynton, and invited Elwyn to come to the castle.  She had consented, and a few months later, they were married.   

Altyr laughed inwardly as he drained the cup.  They had had many great years together, with their greatest joy joining them when Elyse was born.  She stood between then in the portrait, and even at seven years, she showed both her mother’s hair and her mother’s smile.  That smile never completely left Elyse’s face; even when she was determined or frustrated, the ends of her lips still rose.  The only time he had ever seen it vanish completely was when Elwyn died.

The draught descended into his stomach, where it settled with its normal burning sensation.  Indeed, it was less bitter when shared with a friend.  He found the draught particularly bitter tonight.  Jadir approached the bed, and he set the cup on the platter.  

The most painful memory he had was of Elyse standing near her mother, cradling her hand, as Elwyn spoke her last words.  “This is not goodbye.  I could not be happier than when I…see…you…" He had her other hand between his own as she quietly left her fever-wracked body and departed this world. 

Despite the consolation that their beliefs of a better world brought, there was still the pain that only the Mediator could fully remove.  Elyse would regain her smile in time, but for that evening, she had kept her red-eyed vigil at her mother’s side. 

The burning inside was lingering longer than usual.  “Jadir!” he called, and then realized that the steward had been standing there throughout his reverie.  His eyes glinted maliciously, though his face wore the same bland expression.  “Something is wrong.  Go and fetch Yves and…” His breath left him with a groan as his stomach clenched.  He needed the castle physician immediately.

“Troubled stomach, sire?” Jadir said, making a gravely noise in his throat.  King Altyr realized that he had never heard Jadir laugh, but that he was doing it now.  It turned his skin to ice.  He tried to move, but the burning had spread to his limbs, and he was paralyzed.  

“Jadir!” he tried to cry, but his weakened voice was drowned out even by Jadir’s soft chuckles.   “Oh, sire,” he said, “I’m sure that the old man taught you enough to know the effects of firebane root.  Paralysis, starting from the stomach.  The outer limbs go next.  The lungs are the last to shut down as the poison goes through, making death long and very, very painful.”  Jadir now threw back his head and howled with laughter. 

The two servants at his door looked alarmed at the sound of Jadir’s insane laughter, and both tensed as if getting ready to flee.  Jadir made a throwing motion with one hand, and they stopped short, clutching at their eyes.  Altyr watched as they slowly sank to their knees, their hoarse cries weakening as the poisoned needles took their toll.  The firebane had been prepared in its strength for them; it wouldn’t matter how long they screamed for no one would hear them in time to save him.  It was too late the moment that he had taken the poison. 

“My good sirs,” Jadir said, his bland voice chilling when coupled with the violent expression of his eyes, “you must be more careful.  We can’t have any accidents.”  With that, he seized one of the staggering servants, and with a strength that belied his slight frame, threw him against the nearest standing lamp.  The lamp toppled, spilling flaming oil across the room. 

Jadir took the bottle of brandy from the tray.  “Would my sire like a nightcap?” he intoned, and then continued chuckling as he doused the furniture and furnishings of the room.  A leg from a table with a swath of cloth made a makeshift torch, and Jadir quickly spread his arson around the chamber.  The golden flames gave a bright contrast to a suddenly black night outside the large window to his balcony.  

He returned to the days of his youth.  Altyr’s father, King Ayron, had boasted of the strength of the royal heirloom, and blazed it abroad that it could call down the powers of the Mediator.  Father hadn’t been careful enough, and the warnings of the local prophets had gone unheeded.  Stubborn pride had marked his father’s actions, years of resisting the truth.  And even when his face had grown haggard from worry, and nightmares took his sleep from him, he refused to lose face by admitting that he was wrong. 

The messages from the Mediator changed from warnings against his pride to burdens of doom for mocking the sacred.  “The Vision Stone shall fly in fire, yet shall return, when the nation is purged.  And yet, Tygaras shall stand, and shall shine as a light towards the west.”  This was the final blow for Ayron, for Altyr himself had been the messenger for the final message from the Mediator, and that was on the day that the Stone was bestowed upon him.  From that day forth, Ayron had not spoken to anyone, and there was no thought behind his vacant eyes until he joined his fathers in death. 

Jadir would soon find that the Stone was not everything that the rumors made it out to be.  The will of the Mediator guided its every action, and there were dire consequences for those who were not of pure heart.  He had seen it in the life of his own father.  He held nothing but pity for the man.  Death was only a process, a step to the next life, but deception was the only curb for the torment of a soul in error.  Jadir would soon find the true power of the Vision Stone, and with it true horror in a soul stained with black deeds.  

Altyr turned his head with the last of his strength.  He knew that he was dying, but for some reason, he felt calm.  He barely noticed as Jadir lifted the Vision Stone from around his neck.  He gazed at the portrait of his family.  He found it fitting that as his most prized possession was the first thing that greeted him every morning, so it would be the image before his eyes for the last few moments in this mortal world. 

The golden frame was starting to melt, and the image was discoloring where the flames were catching, but there they still were: Elwyn, and Elyse.  Elyse was the only thing he regretted leaving behind, as he was only rejoining his wife on the other side.  What a twist of fate that as she died of a scorching fever, he would follow on a blazing pyre!  

His skin tingled slightly as Jadir poured the rest of the alcohol over his body.  Suddenly, a panoramic vision burst before his eyes, the first glimpse of the next world.  Past and future came together, and Altyr would have laughed if he had had the strength in his lungs.  He now knew that all of this was a part of the fate the Mediator worked to bring about.  He took his last glimpse of the world he knew, and he smiled as he looked at his daughter’s smiling face, which by now was the only distinguishable feature left on the flaming canvas.  Both he and Elwyn had been lost to the fire’s ravages, and there would be no reminder that he, Altyr of Tygaras, had worn the Vision Stone.  But none of that mattered now.  Nothing would separate him from his family.  Not forever.  Until they were reunited, Elyse would be safe.  He passed into the enfolding warmth.

The flames licked at the wooden roof beams of the king’s chamber.  Tapestries depicting the history of the realm, closely woven threads depicting the past conquests and glories of the kingdom of Tygaras, all were fast becoming ashes flying on the currents of shimmering air.  Jadir fingered his trophy, its crystal facets glowing blood-red.  He finally had it; the Vision Stone, the heirloom of the Tygaras line for generations.  This was his moment of triumph!

Yet, instead of the sense of superior power, the murder of King Altyr had left emptiness in his soul.  Fear was as alien as the other emotions he had cut from his life, for emotions hindered success.  Yet, he did not notice the inferno raging around him, nor was he concerned with the shouts of the guards finally coming from the stairwell.  

Despite dying a horrible death, King Altyr died with a smile on his face, and Jadir could not block the image from his mind.  So many others had stood in his way and fallen, and various degrees of terror or confusion had accompanied each of their deaths.  But here, he had finally succeeded in taking King Altyr’s most precious possession, and in his final moments, he seemed not to even taste his own death! 

The king’s sightless eyes seemed to stare at Jadir, and for the first time in his life, the full horror of what he had done reverberated to his center.  The death rattles of the servants behind him echoed in his head, becoming louder, and the kings smile filled his vision.  In a rage, he flung the small remnants of his torch at the king, causing him to burst into flames.  No, Altyr will burn, and I will finally have the glory that I deserve!  The thought sounded faint against the echoing of his seared soul.  Altyr’s face still gazed at him from the fire.  He frantically struggled with his fear, and gradually it faded.  Faded, but didn’t disappear.  

Jadir coughed as the smoke seared his lungs.  Behind him, one of the roof beams came crashing down in a shower of sparks.  He regained control of himself.  He would deal with Altyr later.  By the time they realized that this was anything more than an accident, he would be well on his way.  He ran to the window. 

Elyse awoke in a sweat.  Once again, she had had the dream.  Two swords, one made of crystal, the other black as night, flashed amidst images of people and places that Elyse had never seen nor imagined.  There was a sense of conflict, but despite the blades’ opposite appearance, she sensed that it wasn’t between them, but the blades together against a great evil.  Then, the two blades clashed, and she woke up.

Her darkened room was just as it always had been.  Mahogany furnishings made it a bit somber, but the light of the moon from the uncovered bay window provided just enough light to make out their edges.  Father seemed to smile again in the moonlight, and Elyse calmed down.  Everything was as it should be; her very fine and mostly unused dollhouse still stood in the corner, and her archery set was still hidden under the dresser.  Chancellor Ruban disapproved of most of her hobbies, but as far as she was concerned, he could mind his own business.  Ever since Mother had died of that fever when Elyse was young, she had been raised mostly by Chancellor Ruban and her many tutors.  He meant well, but he was just so stuffy!  Not to mention his firm ideas on the place of women in castle life.  He was the one who had given her the dollhouse, although he wasn’t very happy when she set up her dolls and used them as targets. 

That was when she’d promised Father that she would try harder to be the little lady everyone wanted her to be.  Chancellor Ruban had drawn himself up to his full height, waving his slender arm in front of him for emphasis.  He did that often, thinking it made him look regal.  It makes him look more like a scarecrow than anything else. Elyse thought.  Either way, she was obedient when father asked her to obey the chancellor, although she did catch the smile in his eyes while the chancellor was explaining the situation and she knew that the promise was more for the chancellor’s benefit than it reflected his own wishes.

Father understands me, Elyse thought, as she settled back under her sheets.  He understood that she would rather be drilling with Captain Byrt and the Home Guard than doing needlepoint, or some other useless, frivolous thing.  She didn’t mind the practical turn of things, and she had surprised the kitchen staff by demanding cooking lessons.  But whenever she tried to really learn something, Chancellor Ruban would swoop down like a kingfisher and order her back to her stupid lady things. 

So, she had started sneaking out at night for secret fighting lessons with her guard friends.  They had protested at first, but when she pointed out that she was just as easy to guard outside her room as inside, they saw things her way.  Everyone did, with enough time.  Soon she was learning for about an hour before bed each night.  That lasted until the chancellor checked up on her.  

Suddenly, smoke filled her lungs, and she started coughing violently.  Fire! she thought.  Instinctively, she jumped out of bed, the stone floor cold under her feet.  After all of Chancellor’s ranting, her escape artist tactics were saving her life!  Despite the danger, she couldn’t repress a satisfied smile.  Though she was short for a girl of ten, her legs carried her quickly from the room. 

Her smile quickly disappeared as she ran out into the hall and saw a wall of flames billowing from her father’s room far away down the hall.  She froze, staring at the scene, her long red hair flying in the back draft.  She barely heard Captain Byrt frantically calling her name, and she didn’t move as he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.  It was only after he had dashed around the corner and down the stairs that her dry eyes released their tears.

There was simply no other word to describe it.  It towered above the kingdom of Augustan, encompassing the capitol city of Dexia like a frozen tidal wave waiting for the right moment to fall upon the meager lives of its people.  Architects from centuries gone had built upon the foundations of the ancients, each successive level with all the style and beauty that his generation had to offer.  Stone catwalks seemingly wrought of lace connected domed towers to columned halls, all above perfumed hanging gardens full of exotic plants.  Waterfalls descended from high above, cascading past sculpture and banner, descending into the blackness below the foundation where the great river Rethra ran towards the cliffs of Dexia.  The years of war had come and gone; kings and rulers had lived, died, and been forgotten, not necessarily in that order.  The city had shaped itself around it, and The Building ascended ever higher. 

At the pinnacle of the Topless Towers, Xar Thanatos stood and watched the great shadow spread across the city as the sun set behind him.  The winds that were nearly constant at this height stirred his rich golden cloak, blowing his black and silver hair across the insignia on the breast.  Though the finely wrought clothes spoke of a life of pleasure and opulence, the bronzed face above them was harder than the stone of the tower he stood upon.  It consisted of planes and angles that seemed to be carved rather than shaped by any normal human experience.  He wore no visible weapon.  But it was said by his allies and his foes alike that worse than any weapon was the gaze of Xar Thanatos.

As the dusk deepened and the winds grew chill, he stood on his parapet and pondered the future.  His coming had brought peace to the kingdoms of the world; prosperity never before heard of in any of them.  In every land he conquered, he had promised a future full of freedom and riches, and he had delivered on that promise. 

As Xar Thanatos looked out over the city, the last sliver of the sun disappeared behind him, leaving fading red shadow.  He started to laugh quietly to himself.  All the rest of the tyrants of the world were too impatient for their own good.  Why use force of arms to conquer?  Freedom was far less messy and much more effective. 

He had searched the world for the perfect stronghold, and had found it in the kingdom of Augustan.  He had disposed of the former king, a foolish ruler who had glutted himself on the riches of a strong empire.  After defeating the last king in battle, King Bors had let his officials have a free rein in the city.  The common folk had no control over the affairs of government.  Taxation was high, and the mortality rate was rising.  Progress had all but halted, and the people were looking for a leader to overthrow the tyrant on their throne. 

They had found their leader in Xar Thanatos.  He came suddenly from the east with a considerable force, though smaller than the Augustan Armies.  But within weeks of entering the city, he had won the support of the common people, and they rallied to his banner.  It didn’t take much to overawe the simple-minded officers of Bors’ regime; most of them were little more than paid mercenaries.  One short year after his arrival, he beheaded Bors on his own throne, in the midst of the king’s most loyal supporters.  And even they had applauded his action.

Now in the city of Augustan, there was a theater on every other street corner.  Delicacies from all corners of the globe were shipped in to tantalize any palate, as well as the drugs to make every experience a new one.  The old moral code that had so strictly applied during the reign of the kings had been abolished.  They could have anything or anyone they wanted, for the right price.  For nearly two decades, no one had ever experienced anything but a free, peaceful, and ever-improving world. 

Quietly, slowly, he had taken control of all of the business of Augustan, under the guise of an organization called the Federation of World Pleasure and Prosperity.  After twenty years, no one even cared enough to realize that they were in just as tight of a hold as any crazed military despot could have put them in, and that the prices they were paying to the Federation were just as much, if not more, than the heavy taxes levied by King Bors.  The only difference was that they had taken responsibility for themselves, and just as quickly traded it for easy pleasure.

He took all means necessary to ensure that he was elected, time and time again.  No one dared; no, no one cared to try and supplant him.  Apathy was the foundation of his palace, and the laziness of his subjects the source of his power.  No one would break his hold on them.

The servant near the door shivered as he stood on the balcony.  He held a dark bottle of the finest wine available on a silver platter, with two glasses.  He had just entered the first part of his training, and would be on hand night and day.  Thanatos would personally mold him, or find his weakness and break him.  If he survived, then he would be fit for the Sons of the Morning.

“Lord Thanatos,” said a voice behind him.  Thanatos recognized the voice of his advisor Senarius.  Senarius was the Prophet of Augustan, although he did little more than stand as an ecclesiastic approval for whatever the Federation wanted.  But he was good at his work.  When he spoke, the people heard what they wanted to hear, and went on with the confidence that they had the divine on their side.  Fools. 

“Lord,” said Senarius, as the wind reddened his round cheeks below the framed lenses he used for his studies, “King Altyr is dead, and the Vision Stone has vanished.”

Thanatos did not turn.  The night was deepening, and despite Senarius’ many ceremonial robes of white and gold to match his master’s, he shivered.  He had become a creature of the court, unused to the outdoors after so many years of pleasure and comfort.  Quite different from the swindler that a younger Xar Thanatos had dragged from the streets years earlier.

“I want you to send our men after any rumor of the Vision Stone,” he finally commanded.  “Track it down.  Spare no expense.  It must be found, and, if possible, destroyed.”

Senarius blinked several times, which was his way of showing outright amazement.  “If I may say, Lord Thanatos,” he cautiously said at last, “I do not understand your interest in this stone.  You and I both know that those traditions of an omnipotent Mediator are antiquated myths.  There is no such person.  The only person who even claims to speak for him is I.  Through my guidance, as far as Augustan is concerned, you are the Mediator.  So, the stone is of no worth aside from a cultural relic.  Yet, you actively seek it, while there are so many other pressing matters…” 

Xar Thanatos raised a hand, and Senarius quieted immediately.  He knew too well what happened to those who stepped over the line between counselor and master.  It would be good to give him another reminder.  “Senarius,” Thanatos replied calmly, still gazing out over his city, “you are like most of my people.  You have forgotten history.” 

Senarius stiffened; as the Prophet of Augustan, he had studied all of the ancient texts, and considered himself elite among scholars.  There were so many knowledgeable fools in the world.  “I do not question your knowledge of facts and dates,” Thanatos responded to the unspoken protest, “but for all of those, you fail to see the larger pattern throughout history.

“When a true prophet of the Mediator arises, he doesn’t call down consuming fire to destroy his enemies.  He doesn’t immediately marshal armies.  He does something far more dangerous: he gives vision to the common man.  Senarius, what would happen if all of our people kept the laws of the ancient disciples of the Mediator?”

Senarius shuddered again, and this time, Thanatos knew it wasn’t from the cold.  “Yes, astounding, isn’t it?” he continued sardonically, preempting the prophet’s response.  He turned to face him, advancing as he spoke.  He was tall, with a wide build that dwarfed the man in front of him.  He saw Senarius prepare to back away.  “Astounding that such a small thing as a set of ideas could topple my empire.  It’s not logical, is it?  I have enough power to destroy any army!”  He lashed out at the platter with a gauntleted fist, shattering crystal and denting the silver.  The young man flinched but did not move, ignoring the dark blood that appeared above his eyebrow.  He showed some promise.  “But it is only mine as long as the common people give me their will.  They know that the system is corrupt, but they do not care.”

“But, sire,” Senarius quavered, “we control the outcome of the elections, and we own every judge from ocean to ocean.  We eliminate all opposition before it starts.  There isn’t a chance that anyone could topple your power.”

Thanatos smiled coldly.  It was easy to forget that Senarius had some mettle to him.  “And how long would those judges last against a public outcry?  How many assassinations can we pass off as accidents before a democracy becomes a tyranny?  How far would our treasury go if we had to buy the love of every person here?”  

As Senarius sweated in front of him, Thanatos glanced out of the corner of his eye. The young man stood still.  Later he would probably brag about the scar the wound would leave.  He had proved enough tonight.  “Go,” Thanatos commanded him, raising his arm to point at him without looking.  “Clean that up, then get that taken care of.”  The young man nodded, and knelt to get to his work. 

Senarius straightened silently, his neck craned to look into his master’s face.  “We rule only as long as the people believe that good and evil don’t exist, Senarius, and that all that matters is their own personal satisfaction.  That is reality.  The instant that any other conception of reality takes hold, we are doomed.  That is the only reason you exist.”

Thanatos saw Senarius' throat bob as he swallowed.  He knew how little of his life would matter without his Lord.  The young man hurried down the hallway at that, dabbing a cloth over his eye.  To drive the point home, Thanatos continued, “Do not ignore the Mediator because of others’ ignorance, Senarius. He will not force anyone to obey him.  His words are easily twisted, modified, and denied.  Yet when a people truly follows the Mediator, he has the power to re-arrange the face of the planet.” 

Senarius’ eyes widened again.  “Your task,” Thanatos said, thrusting his finger against the white sun insignia on Senarius’ breast, “is to ensure that they know no other Mediator other than Xar Thanatos.  And our work will not be finished until all opposition is exterminated, and every mind and heart willingly praises me as its god.  Understood?”  

Senarius nodded.  “Understood, Lord Thanatos.”  Thanatos glared at him for several more seconds.  Finally, he disgustedly gave Senarius a wave of dismissal and turned back towards the parapet.   

As Senarius’ rapid footsteps faded away, Xar Thanatos returned to the railing of the parapet.  Twilight had almost completely faded, and small pinpoints of light began to appear in the shadow of his palace, as the city began its wild nightlife.  Dexia never slept, and neither did the conquest of Xar Thanatos.  It won’t be long until they’re all mine, he thought.  The lights reflected in eyes that were exactly like the frosted stone around them, and a smile that was colder.  Just a little bit longer.

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