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Critcism, please! posted 29 May 2006 in Member Written WorksCritcism, please! by Erthaelion, Candidate

The Genesis


When beginning an account of this magnitude, one must be mindful that the true outset of great and catastrophic events can in fact be rooted in relative obscurity. With such factors in mind, the author has chosen to begin his narrative at the time of the appearance of a strange star, and the corresponding birth of a mysterious child...


603rd Year of the Luralian Empire
10th Year of the Reign of Mithratus Kallikos II

Nothing inspires fear so much as that which cannot be understood.

A trail of incandescent flame scarred the geography of the night sky. Panic engulfed the great nations of the Valasian Sea as men struggled to make sense of the impossible. Mighty and nameless alike across the breadth of the world looked to the heavens in wonder, their eyes wide with disbelief and helpless dread. Kings consulted priests and trusted seers; the lowborn beseeched both gods and ancestors for protection. In Immortal Luralius, inviolable heart of the greatest empire ever known, the populace was frantic with trepidation. Even those ignorant to the language of the stars offered delirious speculation at the anomoly's meaning. And with a sign so brazen, there could be little variance of opinion. There was one, and only one, plausible explanation.

A harbinger of doom. A herald of woe written through the heavens.

Were it not for the times, the strange star may have been seen as a miraculous display of cosmic splendor, a gift from the Gods to their most favored city. Twelve days had passed since the foreboding comet had plummeted across the celestial planes, and for twelve nights it had hung suspended over Luralius like a great beacon amid the calligraphy of stars and constellations. As always, rumours were exchanged in the great bathhouses and agoras of the Imperial City. Some spoke of learned scholars and wise magi who had reputedly traveled from as far away as Arabel to witness the phenomenon. Others whispered that the star was a dire omen - an undeniable portent of their glorious city's impending doom. And with the distressing news trickling in from all corners of the Empire - uprisings and border raids in the East, open war on the River Genari, piracy plaguing the Valasian Sea - the whispers had quickly swelled to an unremitting roar.

But now night had again fallen on Luralius, and though the great city was far from silent, the public haunts where such talk had become frequent were all but deserted. High atop its natural perch, the Aregallian Palace, home to the Emperors of Luralius for time immemorial, towered over the sprawl of the City of Cities like a glistening leviathan. Yet on this night the gilded corridors and pillared galleries of the Imperial Palace were devoid of pomp and ceremony, ominous with their uncharacteristic silence. A night without song and revelry in the Imperial Luralian Court was a true rarity. But then these were rare times, and despite the ribaldry that often clamored along the Capital's most impoverished streets, the Emperor of Luralius was no fool.


Submerged in the opulence of the Imperial Court, the dining hall was lavish and ornate, a garish blend of old and contrasting styles. In terms of sheer beauty, the hall knew few rivals, but with its peculiar artwork and statuary its decor seemed strangely out of place amid the austere elegance of the Emperor's Palace. And though it had seen little use over the centuries - the Palace possessed halls of far more subtle grace for any formal affairs of state - on this night, the gaudy chamber teemed with activity. Droves of lithe-bodied slaves filtered through the hall toting silver decanters, serving trays, and peacock-feather fans. Musicians bathed the expanse in the droning rhythms of flute and lyre, their naked backs braced against columns of polished marble. Platters of the finest delicacies were arrayed on a great table of alabaster and ebony. The scent of rich wine mingled with that of incense, myrrh, and scented oil.

“Every oracle I’ve consulted is at a loss,” Mithratus Kallikos II said to his two closest advisors, his tone airy with futility and regret. “I fear there is no one left to ask.” He shook his head and slurped back more wine. Over the past several days, Mithratus had pondered this alarming star with a tenacity that bordered on obsession. Since its appearance, sleep had become a rare and burdensome obligation. Even his dreams were fraught with baleful omens. Everything, he was convinced, came back to this star. He simply had to know what it meant! His fate - indeed, that of the entire Empire - depended on it.

His eyes downcast, Mithratus sighed heavily. When his ministers still failed to reply, he peered at them narrowly, scrutinizing them, struggling to find more to say. He opened his mouth to speak but then paused, hesitating. After a moment's contemplation he brought his cup to his lips, sipped his wine and remained silent. He did have more to say - far more, in fact - but the time was not yet right.


Reclined on couches adjacent to his own, his ministers carefully avoided his gaze, affecting distraction and acting as though he hadn't spoken. Restless, Mithratus found himself shifting in discomfort, nervously adjusting the shimmering robes that veiled his frame. For some foolish reason, he had hoped to find reprieve in the presence of these two once-great men. But it seemed he had been afforded no such thing. Perhaps, he mused, this was a bad idea. How could he dare hope for reprieve? The very world seemed to conspire against him.

And well it should. He was the Emperor of Luralius. No man living could boast more power than he.

Or more enemies.

This thought had come to him, quite without warning, several days previous. And like any other horrifying revelation, it had come to tyrannize his thoughts, permeating his mind like a drop of blood in pure water. For the first time in his glorious life, Mithratus truly felt vulnerable. To have worldly enemies was one thing; to have the very heavens so blatantly express their disfavor was a different thing entirely.

He gulped down more wine, desperate to soothe the flutter in his bowel. He shuddered and squeezed shut his eyes.

Intent on discussing the string of catastrophes that had recently befallen him, and eager to deliver some news of his own, he had summoned his two most able ministers here in secrecy - although he could safely assume that by now all Luralius knew of their meeting. Secrets spread like plague in the Imperial City, and always had. But at this point it made little difference. His plans had been set in motion, and soon enough his Empire would again be secure.

My Empire… Such sweet words! All the more sweet because no man but he could think or say them.

Suddenly rejuvenated, Mithratus smiled, felt the worries that assailed him melt away in an exultant heartbeat. He opened his eyes, once again intent on his advisors.

Seemingly immersed in thought, Teladorus, High Chancellor of the Imperial Court, gazed into his cup of wine for several moments before finding the nerve to speak. “The Empire has seen dark times before and survived, Emperor. We will do what we must to get past this.”

Mithratus nodded vacantly, his eyes distant, devoid of passion. Ever since their arrival several hours ago, his two ministers had been saying everything imaginable in an effort to console him. Mere days ago he had found the insistent reassurances of his courtiers heartening - so much so that he’d even found himself encouraging them. Given the circumstances it had only seemed reasonable. How could he not be desperate for reassurances? These were desperate times. Few things comforted the mind so easily as vanity - or so it had seemed to him then.

Now, however, after weeks of enduring this disgusting charade, he found their incessant flattery both irritating and disturbing. The reason, he now knew, was strikingly simple. All of them - the unending train of augers, generals, astrologers and advisors - sounded precisely the same, as though they merely recited different versions of the same oft-repeated tale. All of them would swoon over his manifest divinity, spout wide-eyed reassurances of his incontestable might - anything that might appease their Emperor. But as soon as he turned his back, he had no doubt, the act would come to an end, and they would resume their whispering and conspiring as shamelessly as old women at market. The fawning sycophants. And to think he had actually encouraged this!

But no longer. He would hear no more of it - tonight, or ever again.

It was time, he decided, to re-assert his authority.

“I would have you both know,” he began, his expression at once stern and serene, “that I have begun assembling a force to deal with this pirate threat.”

Resplendent in full ceremonial armour, Callistares, High Tribune of the Emperor’s own Principate Army, cleared his throat around a mouthful of food. “You must be cautious, Emperor. You must ensure that the Army is not spread too thin. With this talk of insurrection in the eastern satrapies…” He paused, shook his head grimly. “I would not have us pour too much of our manpower in one place.”

Mithratus smiled, comforted beyond measure by the old General’s ignorance. For whatever reason, acting outside the designs of his ministers never failed to hearten him. It was a childish pleasure, he knew, but keeping his own counsel was perhaps the most effective way of affirming his ascendance over these fools. The secrets of the Emperor were, above all else, precious. In the past, advisors and generals alike had made themselves all too powerful once armed with such secrets. With time and ambition, they could make themselves into enemies - even emperors.

But this time was different. This time he had more immediate motives for his secrecy. The whispers of Percalaus Valerus's mounting ambitions had spread far - far too far for his liking.

“You’ve not heard, then.” He paused for a sip of wine, savoured its sweet burn in his chest. “I’ve had Percalaus Valerus recalled. If he does not return to Luralius in a timely manner, he will be declared an enemy of the State. An outlaw.”

Teladorus snorted in disdain. The balding minister was holding a dubious olive between thumb and forefinger, and was carefully appraising its merit. “Percalaus is a fool. He wins a few skirmishes against barbarians and thinks he’s earned the loyalty of the entire Army?” The old man shrugged and sent the olive skittering across the mosaic floor beneath their couches. “You must make sure he’s punished, Mithratus.”

For several instants, Mithratus could only gape at the man in stunned outrage. There was a marked difference, he had learned, between counsel and command. And his minister’s previous statement - in his mind, at least - had come perilously close to the latter. Only the Emperor could command the Emperor.

Mithratus breathed deeply, looked away from his brash minister. Composure. Only with composure would he survive the coming days.

Another of his father's lessons.

“The man will stand trial, Teladorus. You should concern yourself with it no more.”

Though the old man nodded in compliance, his canny eyes remained sceptical. “Trust is a luxury no Emperor can afford…”

Mithratus smiled weakly, recalling those very words from the jaded memoirs of a long-dead Luralian Emperor. Born into dynastic tradition, he had been educated extensively on the successes and shortcomings of his predecessors.

“I understand, Teladorus.” His tone, he realized after, was seething with impatience. But it could not be helped.

Callistares fixed Mithratus with the paternal eyes he had grown so fond of as a child. “Your father,” the old General began, “knew that the undivided loyalty of the Army was something that had to be earned, not simply given.”

Mithratus sneered. There had been a time - one of uncertainty and perpetual dread - when he had actually cherished such lectures. He had inherited the Imperial Diadem at an atrociously young age, and advisors of Callistares’ status were, as his father had so often preached, a precious commodity. But now, after a decade as Emperor, he found himself loathing these talks more and more with every time they occurred.

He was the Emperor of Luralius, not some stupid boy. How long would it take for them to realize this?

Before his death, Mithratus’s father, Arius Kallikos I, had installed Callistares as commander of the Principate Army, the elite warriors normally under the Emperor’s direct command. At the time, the honour had been a testament to both Arius’s faith in Callistares and to the old General’s unwavering loyalty. For these reasons, and for countless others, Mithratus might have found himself loving the old man as he might have loved his father - had things been different.

To love was to trust. Mithratus had known this since he was young. And yet through the course of his short life, he had never once loved anything or anyone. Not truly. In the Imperial Court, trust was a dangerous thing. Love perhaps even more so.

“But fear is as potent a tool as adoration, Emperor,” Callistares was saying. “You must always remember that.” The dignified General flashed a rare wolfish grin. “Perhaps this is as good a time as any for a demonstration.”

Mithratus smirked and arched his brows in amusement. Not long ago, he might have found such talk from Callistares distressing. But no longer was it out of character. Over the years, the scheming and politicking of the Imperial Court had left the General as cold and calculating as even the most ambitious of his advisors. For Mithratus, it had been a perversely fascinating thing to observe.

Callistares had been a hero once. While his father yet lived, the old General’s military exploits had been the subject of song and story across the breadth of the Empire. The General Without Peer, some had even called him. This alone, Mithratus realized, was reason enough to suffer the man’s often-irritating tutelage. While many still found themselves in awe of the man’s accomplishments, Mithratus had watched Callistares grow frail and forgetful with age while he himself grew virile and intuitive with manhood.

Perhaps, he thought, the old fool could be excused for forgetting his place from time to time. Perhaps a man of his stature was worthy of better than a grisly execution.

“Percalaus’s fate,” Mithratus said decisively, unwilling to discuss the matter further, “will be decided upon his return.”

A moment of silence passed between them, the unnerving hush of men struggling to broach difficult subjects. Feigning distraction, Mithratus watched as a child-slave came forward to refill the mixing bowl at the tables’ heart. But in his periphery he glimpsed the surly eyes of his advisors, the discreet expressions of mutual disapproval. Mithratus had witnessed such exchanges before: his ministers - Callistares and Teladorus in particular - chafing at his unwillingness to heed their counsel.

Finally, Teladorus dared venture: “I hear that Valerus’s wife has given birth to a son.” The old man smiled. “Perhaps that is why the gods have realigned the sky so…”

Callistares laughed at this, but Mithratus could only sneer and shake his head in disgust. This, he felt, was no time for wit. Dire omens were no laughing matter. Especially when they corresponded with dire events.

As the General’s laughter trailed, a soldier garbed in the elaborate armour of a Principate strode into the lavish hall, his helmeted head bowed in obeisance. Upon seeing him, Callistares lurched upright on his couch - a startlingly agile movement, Mithratus thought, for a man his age - and clasped his hands about the neck of his gilded cuirass.

The soldier came forward and placed a fist to his armoured breast. “Lord Emperor,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “Lord High Tribune.” The soldier paused. For an instant he seemed to struggle with his composure. The lolling song of slave-musicians punctuated the silence.

Mithratus stiffened, momentarily overcome by a cascade of disastrous images. More dire news? Somehow he could feel it…

At length, the soldier barked, “Diodotus of Cayranus is here.”

Mithratus raised an eyebrow, nodded in acknowledgement. Had he been alone, he might have gasped for relief. But he was not alone. Not at all. Teladorus was regarding him carefully, his eyes narrow with bewilderment and astute curiosity.

“The Diodotus of Cayranus?” Callistares snapped, at once shocked and sceptical.

Once again, the soldier hesitated. “So the man says, Lord High Tribune.”

With his two advisors staring at him in apparent astonishment, Mithratus suppressed the urge to smirk. The shrill terror of moments before had become scintillating glee. Again he had outwitted them. Again he had moved outside their crude designs.

“Bring him in,” he ordered.

The guard bowed solemnly, saluted, then withdrew from the columned hall. The rasp of iron against leather momentarily drowned the droning melody of the lyre.

Once the man had gone, Mithratus raised his cup and watched a charming waif - a Northerner by her fair colouring - scuttle forward to refill it. Their eye contact was brief, but the Emperor nevertheless resolved to remember her. Beauty such as hers deserved his sampling.

After she'd completed her task, he cried: "Leave us, all of you!"

The music ceased mid-note. After the sound of scurrying feet had faded down the adjoining passage, the silence was encompassing.

With the easy manner of a life-long soldier, Callistares lay back and stretched the length of his plush couch. With one hand he held his painted wine cup aloft, using the other to smooth the leather lappets of his military skirt into place. Without turning his head, Mithratus peered askance, studied the man. The normally-taciturn General was smiling, but his eyes were utterly devoid of mirth. His stern gaze was fixed upon the smoke-hazed, frescoed ceiling.

“Would our Divine Emperor,” he said with deceptive mildness, “be so kind as to tell us just what this is about?”

Mithratus could no longer resist a self-satisfied smile. He’d always relished the sweet stink of desperation on his subordinates. It reminded him that their lives were a game to him. A game in which he made the rules…

But perhaps Callistares was right. These were, after all, monumental events, and such events demanded a modicum of understanding. The stakes, being as high as they were, had to be made clear. Diodotus of Cayranus - arguably the greatest mind in the known world! - was here. Here, in the Imperial Palace!

At last he would have answers.

“As you may have heard,” Mithratus said, his tone one of explanation rather than defiance, “Diodotus was recently in Cathios. I took the liberty of inviting him to the Imperial Court.”

“But, Exalted One…” Teladorus said breathlessly. “This will no doubt spark uproar. Galeapylus will not tolerate it.”

The pompous wretch. Always lecturing...

Mithratus sneered. He had heard enough of the man for one night.

“This is just why, Teladorus, I took care to tell no one of his coming. Even you couldn't be trusted to keep this a secret.” He smiled menacingly. “Especially you, old man.”

A heartbeat of ominous silence. Then, from down the adjoining corridor, the faint sound of approaching footsteps...

For a moment, Mithratus was afflicted by something akin to panic. His ears roaring, he downed another gulp of wine, swallowed hard. He gasped and purged his face of all expression. Then he hissed, “Neither of you will speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

The footsteps drew nearer. When neither man replied, Mithratus repeated, “Do you understand?”

He looked to both men in turn, scowling at their reluctant nods. Without warning, something within him - something vicious and utterly inhuman - seemed to break. His face twisted in fury. His nostrils flared. He wanted to berate them, to scream them into submission - if for no other reason than to remind them the penalties of disobedience - but there was no time.

Two Principate Guardsmen filed between the painted marble sphinxes that graced the hall's entrance. With an air of rigid formality, they saluted, then parted and retreated to a discreet distance, revealing the man who could be none other than Diodotus of Cayranus.

Mithratus found himself squinting through the gloom for a better look at him. For some reason, breathing had become painful. What was it he feared? In his ten years as Emperor, he had hosted countless embassies of political or commercial significance, men of wealth and power from across the Empire and beyond. And though none could rival Luralius in military strength, all of them would have considered a man such as Diodotus of Cayranus little more than a curious delicacy, a rare and enlightened treat. He was no warlord, no general or king. He was a scholar, a humble man of letters. Nothing more. But then why did he, the Emperor of Luralius, feel such terror at his looming presence?

Truth, Mithratus realized. It is the truth I fear...

There could be no other explanation. Unlike the preening fools he found himself perpetually surrounded by, Diodotus of Cayranus would spare him no sentiment in whatever explanation he chose to offer. Whatever this prodigious star meant, this man would, without any hesitation, tell him.

Which, despite his terror, was precisely what Mithratus needed.

Eyes wide and mouth slightly agog, the surprisingly youthful man took several distracted steps into the hall, grinning as his gaze happened upon this or that masterwork, obviously overcome with awe. The subtle elegance of the Imperial Palace, Mithratus realized, had left him unprepared for a place of such beauty. Since his childhood, Mithratus had always found himself drawn to such places. He had a far greater appreciation for beauty, he knew, than men such as his father.

When the man stepped through a globe of light cast by a bronze brazier, Mithratus was granted his first distinct glimpse of the far-famed Diodotus of Cayranus. Dark hair cascaded in curls across his slim shoulders. In the fashion of Galeapylan aristocrats, he wore his pale blue robe draped in folds across one shoulder. His sandals, Mithratus noted with contempt, were chased in gold. The Saladuecons, it seemed, paid their scholars well. The fools.

Beyond his periphery, from somewhere to his left, one of his guards called out: "Diodotus of Cayranus, Court Historian and First Friend to the King of Galeapylus. The Emperor of Luralius welcomes you."

At the sound of his name, Diodotus blinked and shook himself from his reverie. For a moment he stood motionless, smirking as though amused by his own childishness. Then he locked eyes with the Emperor, and his jubilant wonder faded. Frowning as though in resolution, the young scholar strode forward with an air of self-assured dignity - the walk of a man who felt he had no betters. His eyes momentarily chanced upon the gaudy basalt idol that adorned the hall's recesses: the towering likeness of some vulgar Hailatasi god whose worship had been abolished, or so Mithratus believed, some centuries ago.

Diodotus paused mere strides from the alabaster table. Though there was no trace of deference in his bearing, the young scholar lowered his strong chin to his chest as he muttered, "Emperor."

Mithratus gifted the man with a benevolent smile. "Welcome, Diodotus. I trust you told no one of your coming here."

"As you requested, Emperor."

When Mithratus could think of no more to say, Diodotus smiled nervously and opened arm and hand to the pillared hall. "This place is magnificent. I hadn't expected to find anything like this in the Imperial Luralian Court, Emperor. I wasn't aware any of your predecessors possessed any appreciation for Hailatasi art -"

"I think you might be surprised," Mithratus snapped, "at what my predecessors and I appreciate, Diodotus." He smiled bitterly. He had no more patience, he decided, for false flattery. "This is Teladorus, my High Chancellor," he said, gesturing vaguely in the old man's direction. "And this is Callistares, my Counsel of War"

Diodotus directed a respectful nod at Callistares. "I've read a great deal of your exploits in the Kelgaroi Wars. I am honoured, General."
"I take it this," Teladorus inquired, "is your first time in our Capital, Diodotus?"
“It is. And I must say, your fine city has thus far lived up to its glorious reputation, Chancellor. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Mithratus cocked an eyebrow, uncertain how to take such a comment. “Indeed.” He stifled a grimace with a gulp of wine. “You know why you are here, do you not, Diodotus?”
“I know,” he replied, his frown belied by a petulant smirk. "But I must admit to being confused by all of this. I would think the Emperor of Luralius had access to a multitude of esteemed astronomers…"
Irritated by such impudence, Mithratus glowered at the man, felt his lips tremble with barely-suppressed wrath. He could hear Callistares squirming with impotent rage on his couch. For a mad instant, Mithratus actually contemplated having the man killed. It was a fleeting thought: the lucid image of this renowned scholar's blood spraying across the mosaic tiles of his hall flashed through his thoughts like a wanton memory. Such sweet satisfaction! But the repercussions were simply too dizzying. Instead he grinned pleasantly, drowned the idea in a mouthful of wine.
"But none with your remarkable reputation, Diodotus."
The scholar nodded in stiff mimicry of gratitude.
“I hear you’ve been spending a great deal of time away from your employer’s residence,” Mithratus remarked, his eyes laughing. “Is this true?”
Clearly discomfited, Diodotus swallowed and nodded haltingly. “It is true.”
“There was a … An incident at the Royal Court. A rumour.”
This surprised Mithratus little. Rumours of scandal and deceit were perhaps even more rampant, or so he’d heard, in Galeapylus than in Luralius.
Teladorus leaned forward on his couch, his eyes thin with sudden interest. “What kind of ‘incident’, Diodotus?”
The scholar smiled. “Merely a rumour of an incident, Chancellor. Somehow the King heard that I had… relations with his sister. He thought it best that I spent some time elsewhere while the rumours settled.”
Callistares, who had till this point kept his silence, snorted in amusement. “An unfortunate affair, it would seem.”
His eyes bright with mischievous bliss, Diodotus smiled once again. “Obviously there’s no truth whatsoever to the rumours, General.”
A moment of hesitant silence, then raucous laughter pealed across the marmoreal expanse. Mithratus threw back his head and roared in elation. Perhaps he’d misjudged this Diodotus. Perhaps he was a worthy man after all.
Teladorus was first to regain his composure. “So tell us, Diodotus: Where is it you have travelled during your imposed exile?”
Smoothing the smirk from his aquiline features, Diodotus said, “As your Emperor knows, Chancellor, I spent the last several weeks studying philosophy in Cathios. Before that, I was in Hailatas, learning the wisdom of their priests.”
Blinking and wiping jovial tears from his cheeks, Mithratus attempted to regard the young scholar flatly. "Did you know that I myself had a great deal of interest in the Helatasi during my younger years, Diodotus?"
“Is that so?” Diodotus arched his brows in apparent surprise. “I suppose I might have guessed, looking at this place.” He nodded, again letting his eyes roam through the extravagant chamber. “How old is this hall, Emperor?”
Mithratus smiled. “My father, himself a student of ancient thought, claimed it was built by Horanius II after his tours of the Eastern realms.”
Diodotus nodded, avoiding the Emperor’s eyes. “Remarkable. A man of true culture.”
“Yes, of course." Mithratus sneered. In truth, Horanius II had been a barbaric madman, but he hadn't the patience to tell the man as much. “Nothing compared with yourself, however, Diodotus.”
“One can learn much,” Diodotus said patiently, “from the Hailatasi, I think. They are a people who have become devoted to a life of introspection and reflection -"
“And,” Callistares interrupted, “to the subtleties of intercourse.”
Laughter. Diodotus lowered his eyes to his sandalled feet. “Yes, that as well…” The Hailatasi, it was widely known, had written numerous texts through the ages on the intricacies of human indulgence. “I take it your interest in Hailatas was somewhat different from my own, then, Emperor.”
Mithratus bowed his head in thought. What the man said was no doubt true. In all liklihood, Diodotus of Cayranus sought the profound wisdom of the most ancient and sagely people in the Valasian Sea; his own interest would seem merely a child’s enthrallment by comparison. He could remember the images of glory evoked at the thought of the all-conquering Divine Kings of Hailatasi legend, but his fascination had amounted to little more than this. And while to this day, these images never failed to stir something within him, his obsession had diminished with the realization of his inheritance.
To be Emperor required logic, reason, discipline - in short, clarity of thought. And there was no justification, in his mind, for clinging to childish delusions when one ruled the better part of the Valasian Sea.
Now, as Emperor, his interests in Hailatas hinged upon delusions of a far more practical nature. There was little purpose, he decided, in denying as much.
"Purely academic, I assure you, Diodotus," he said dismissively. Then, afflicted by reckless vanity and prompted by scarcely-watered wine, he whispered, “But all of us know what a magnificent addition to the Empire Hailatas would prove…”
Again silence, breathless this time.
Diodotus smiled cautiously. His manner became at once servile and wary. "Emperor, I'm afraid that even with the might of the Imperial Phalanxes, Hailatas would prove beyond the reach -”
“Nevertheless,” Mithratus fairly barked, “Hailatas was my father’s wish, and if he thought it possible, then I do as well.” He could sense the disaproving looks of his ministers, but he chose to ignore them. To their credit, they refrained from interrupting their Emperor.
“You, Diodotus, would be wise to speak of that to no one. When the day comes, you may be paid well to share any information you have to offer on the barbarians.”
Seemingly unnerved, the young scholar swallowed forcibly and fumbled with the hem of his robe. “Yes, Emperor. Of course.”
Mithratus frowned at this but elected not to push the matter further. There was good cause, he knew, for the man's unease. What they spoke of was no less than a conspiracy to destroy - or at the very least undermine - the power of his patron and employer. Diodotus had every right to be insulted, even outraged, by such presumption. Come morning Mithratus was certain he would regret this outburst. But for the moment, wine, laughter, and the mockery of his hated and ancestral enemies, the Saladuecon Dynasty of Galeapylus, had made this Diodotus worthy of his heart’s most guarded secrets.
“But enough of such things," he said breezily, shaking his head. “You've had a long journey. I take it you will dine with us tonight, Diodotus?”
"I would be honoured, Emperor. You are most gracious."
In the uncomfortable pause that followed, Mithratus locked eyes with the man, stared at him for a hard moment. Finally, his stomach light with anxious dread, he muttered, “I would ask, before you join us, Diodotus, that you offer me some explanation.” A shuddering breath. “About this star...”
Too terrified to move or even breathe, Mithratus momentarily pondered the cold indifference of his tone. How could he be so calm? The fate of his dynasty was at stake! The fate of the very Empire! Have I become such an arrogant fool?
The lengthy silence was broken only by the sound of distant laughter. More of his slaves, Mithratus guessed, or perhaps his idle, vulgar soldiers…
After some time, Diodotus cleared his throat nervously, blinking in confusion and sudden panic. "I... I can't quite say, Emperor."
Mithratus grimaced, hissed air through his teeth in contempt. “What do you mean, ‘You can’t quite say,’ Diodotus?”
Could he simply not know? Surely that was impossible!
He hides something from me! It must be.
“Emperor,” Diodotus said, his tone at once soothing and illustrative, “after you contacted me, I consulted as many texts as I could find regarding astronomy in Cathios. But as you may know, many of the city’s most ancient works were lost or sent to Attalonia during the reign of the First Emperor.” He pursed his lips. “I’m afraid that without the resources of the Great Library, I could find little.”
A likely explanation. Diodotus was accustomed to the Great Library of Galeapylus - to a wealth of textual knowledge unrivalled across the Valasian Sea.
And yet still… “But surely you’ve heard some speculation,” Mithratus said, struggling not to sound desperate. “Anything that might offer you some clue.”
Diodotus nodded sagely. “Nothing you haven’t already heard, I’m sure. I’m told the Yanite population in Galeapylus has been thrown into an uproar over this star. They believe it heralds the approach of their ancient prophecies.”
Mithratus snorted derisively. The Yanites were fanatical pigs, fools who believed the time of their Salvation was nigh every time a mule shat in the street or an old woman griped about the injustices of the world. “The Yanites have prattled about prophets and saviours for generations. Surely you don’t actually believe any of it?”
The scholar shrugged. “Of course not. We all take the Yanites for zealots. In truth, Emperor, when I first saw the star, I was reminded of a certain story from myth. A story you may recognize…”
Horror and exhilaration. “To which story do you refer?”
Diodotus lowered his head, paused to collect both his breath and his thoughts. When he looked up, his expression was dark, as though he’d at last grasped the gravity of this exchange. “There is a legend surrounding the founding of the city we know as Mykantos, Emperor. That the sight was chosen when a child was born - the son of Luril, the legendary founder of Luralius…”
Yes… House Telcoaros. Mithratus’s eyes narrowed in dawning understanding. He had indeed heard of this legend. It was said that that very line of ancient kings had fought against primordial demons before the Rise of Men. His father’s tutors had said that Attalon, Luralius’s famed First Emperor, had claimed descent from that exalted line of heroes.
“You refer,” he said harshly, “to the legend of Myaril. To the first High King of Mykantos.”
Another sage nod. “Yes.”
“Are you saying,” Callistares growled, his tone thick with disdain, “that a scion of House Telcoaros - a line of Kings supposedly extinguished millennia ago during the fall of Mykantos - has been born here? Now? And that this could explain the star?”
Diodotus’s expression slackened. “I’m afraid I have no other explanation, General.”
Mithratus felt his face contort in momentary fury. “Do you take me for a fool, Diodotus?”
“Emperor, please… Would I come to Luralius only to tell you fables and petty lies?”
No, Mithratus thought. No, you wouldn’t. But then why was he here? Why had he come -
Was this some plot? Was this… Was this murder?
Why else had he come if not to kill him? Perhaps… Perhaps this wasn’t even the real Diodotus!
Snarling, his thoughts buzzing, Mithratus swung his legs from his couch, staggered to his feet. Then, with one hand braced against the couch to avoid reeling, he screamed, “Guards!”
Diodotus’s eyes grew wide in shock and horror. “Emperor, no! You must see-”
“I see well enough, Diodotus.” He straightened, threw his faience cup to the tiled floor. “I see well enough.”
Within moments, several of his Principate Guardsmen spilled into the hall and formed a wary circle around the dumbstruck scholar. Mithratus nodded, and two of them grasped the young man about the arms.
“Take him from here. Keep him under guard. He is not-” he paused to glare them into understanding - “to be harmed.”
He nodded once more, and Diodotus of Cayranus was carried bodily from his presence, shrieking and flailing as he shrunk into the pillared distance.
His chest heaving, the Emperor of Luralius turned to face his prostrate ministers. When he glimpsed the terror on their faces, he could all but guess the question they dared not speak: Is this wise?
Mithratus smirked, beating down the premonitions that assailed him. “I have no time,” he whispered, “to be lectured on myths.”
The two men looked away from his eyes, their expressions blank with horror and stupefaction. And how could they not be horrified? They sat in the presence of a God. At His merest whim, great men were made prisoners, whole nations made slaves. What could their lives mean to such a man?
No, His dynasty was not at risk. Not in the slightest. He was Mithratus Kallikos II. He was Emperor. Only the world was at risk - from His wrath.
Mithratus knelt and reached for his cup, screaming for his slaves as he did so. The multi-hued tiles seemed to swim beneath his feet. Then he rose and climbed onto his couch. He reclined and exhaled. The slap of bare feet on marble filled the silence.
“Now, Callistares,” he said amicably. “I’m told you have recent news from the North. News about the Kelgaroi tribes…”


It is said that only the Magi of Arabel possess more knowledge concerning the cosmos than the Hailatasi. For centuries their hereditary priests have mapped the skies, plundering what knowledge they can from the movements of the Heavens. And though I have never seen their temples, I shudder to think what wisdom they might contain. What frightens most, I think, is that none may ever know.

- Tuecarius, The Imperial Chronicles

My Regency goes well, Brother. For who would dare foment against their Sublime Emperor? There are those who already worship you as a God.
But I worry for you. There are murmurs in Luralius that your Spear-Bearer and trusted General, Saladuecon, has ambitions of his own. Dynastic ambitions. Be careful, my Brother. Perhaps it is time that you return home. Luralius would give you a welcome all the world would remember. Perhaps Hailatas is too far. I know you believe your army invincible, but you yourself are not, Attalon, my sweet, godlike Brother. I beg you to remember that.

Enekleas I, Letter to Attalon II, First Emperor of Luralius

Alone in his private apartments, Mithratus Kallikos II sat bent before his polished mahogany desk, his eyes roaming across a scroll of rich papyrus - a missive from one of his Satrap-Governors. Once again, the news was decidedly comforting - precisely as he had feared. He had read several such missives in recent weeks, having decided he no longer trusted the chore with Teladorus and his secretaries. Any number of conspiracies could be changing hands, he had realized, and it was only sensible that he ensure the loyalty of his servants beyond the confines of the Imperial Precincts.
So far his efforts had been fruitless. He had found nothing of value. Nothing of even the slightest significance. No plots. No treason. Nothing that might affirm the apprehension in his heart.
A faint knock at the great bronze doors of his apartments stirred him from his reverie. Mithratus sighed in irritation, pinched the fatigue from his eyes with thumb and forefinger. His body slaves, he imagined, come to prepare him for sleep. Or perhaps, he couldn’t help but hope, word from one of his Generals…
Consumed by a pang of curiosity, he abruptly rose from his desk and approached the doors, his stride brisk. His eyes momentarily drifted to the chalcedony cameo that adorned his panelled wall - a depiction of the great Emperors of antiquity enthroned among the Gods. Then he strode between the gilded lions that marked the entry to his antechamber. He paused before the engraved doors. After a calming breath, he shoved them open, his heart thundering with anticipation.
His ardour was extinguished when he glimpsed the timid figure squirming and fussing with the sleeves of his robes in the shadows of the corridor. Mithratus scowled in frustration and scorn, then brusquely turned from the doorway.
“What is it, old man?” With haughty disdain he marched to the heart of his chambers, certain the old fool would follow.
“Lord Emperor,” Teladorus began, his tone apologetic, “an emissary has arrived.”
Mithratus resumed his seat at his desk, not deigning to look from his scroll as he spoke to the old ingrate. “At this hour? Who?”
The High Chancellor of the Imperial Court approached his desk with the ponderous dignity of the elderly. Mithratus heard the bronze doors close behind the man and began imagining scenarios he might concoct to explain away a sudden, accidental death. A fatal fall? Mithratus smirked. Maybe it was too late in the night for blood. Tomorrow, maybe, he would find a better opportunity.
Teladorus clasped his hands together at his waist, his face slack with embarrassment. “From Hailatas, Lord Emperor.”
For an astonished heartbeat, Mithratus sat utterly still, eyes unfocused, thoughts racing. Hailatas. As far as he was knew, no Emperor of Luralius had ever hosted a delegation, whether of peace or otherwise, from Hailatas. Only in the days of Attalon, Luralius’s all-but-invincible First Emperor, had that far-away nation’s conquest ever appeared feasible. Now Hailatas had become the legend of an impossibly wealthy and exotic land, spoken of in the manner of a regal but increasingly-senescent royal wife. In distant antiquity, long before the ascendance of Luralius, the Divine Kings of that desert kingdom had been the most feared potentates in the Valasian Sea. But now they possessed neither the strength nor the authority to be demanding audiences with the Emperor of Luralius. Let alone arriving uninvited. The presumption alone was outrageous.
Numbly, his palms braced against the smooth surface of his desk, Mithratus pushed himself to his feet. “What do they want, Teladorus?” An echo of the words he’d uttered to Diodotus of Cayranus afflicted him with sudden panic. Did the man have the audacity to warn Hailatas of his plans? Surely he had seemed to possess audacity in excess…
But this?
Could this mean he would have one more enemy to deal with? One more war for him to somehow win?
But the Gods have been appeased! Or so he had thought…
“They would not say, Lord Emperor. They demanded to speak with you at once. They say it is a matter -”
“Demanded?” Mithratus roared, storming around his desk to confront the old minister. “They would make demands of me?”
Teladorus cringed from the furious aspect of his Emperor, helplessly bowed his head to his chest. “I-I said as much at first, Lord Emperor, but they were most insistent. I fear this matter is as serious as they say… So I allowed them to believe that you may see them tonight…” His voice trailed away pleadingly, a child begging mercy of his domineering father.
Mithratus opened his mouth to rebuke the old man, but then paused, struck by a sudden insight. Who better to confirm his fears than this old windbag? “You think Diodotus has repeated my words to the wrong people…”
His eyes wide with relief, Teladorus nodded emphatically.
“I thought as much,” Mithratus said in weary dismissal.
“But it only makes sense, Exalted One. Why else would they come now? Why else would they be so insistent?”
Disturbed by his vehemence, Mithratus slowly turned away from his High Chancellor. For a moment he could only stare dazedly into the flames of the oil lamps that adorned his desk. Finally, when he could sense his Chancellor’s growing unease, he muttered, “Send for my body slaves. Delay them for as long you can, Teladorus, then have these men brought here.”
He could hear the rustle of the old man’s silk robes as he bowed, but he acknowledged nothing. Even before he heard the bronze doors grind shut to announce the Chancellor’s departure, he was behind his desk digging through sheaves of papyrus.
Hailatas. The very idea beggared belief. Mithratus leaned back in his chair and brought a hand to his cheek in contemplation. Who had the Divine King sent to treat with him? And who, for that matter, was the Divine King? Did the title still even exist? Or had it, like so much else that had once defined that ancient nation, become obsolete? Mithratus shook his head in stunned exasperation. He could remember much of what the palace tutors had taught him in his youth, but never, it seemed, could he remember enough.
Recently, in particular…
Never in his life had he been so desperate for knowledge. After the mad evening with Diodotus of Cayranus, he had become increasingly aloof. At the urging of his ministers, the young scholar had been set free mere hours after their brief meeting. Keeping him was dangerous, Teladorus had fairly screamed, and would only increase the already substantial enmity between the Saladuecons of Galeapylus and the Imperial Court. Mithratus had agreed, albeit grudgingly. Given their straights, it had made little sense for the Empire to be unlawfully detaining the servants of their enemies.
Then, for a time, it had appeared that matters in Luralius were improving. Shortly after Diodotus departed, Mithratus had found himself standing alone amid the porphyry columns of his palace, his eyes riveted on the deepening gloom of the sky. For hours, it seemed, he stood in silence, restively awaiting the inevitable appearance of the star that heralded his doom. The doom of his dynasty! But what more could he do? What more, save wait?
Then the stars had begun to press their brilliance through the dark mantle of night. But the one star he had waited to glimpse - the one star that truly possessed meaning! - had never appeared. It was simply no longer there…
Never before had an absence caused such commotion. Many in Luralius dismissed the star outright, claiming that the Gods had at last been appeased, that the hundreds of gold-horned oxen the royal priests had sacrificed at the Emperor’s behest had finally sated their thirst for blood. Even the augers and astrologers of the Imperial Court began to gainsay their initial catastrophic conclusions.
Mithratus had been delirious with relief. Only the mounting hostilities between his Phalanxes and the Kelgaroi tribes of the North had apprised him of Luralius’s true peril.
But then the news had reached the Palace: the Kelgaroi had been broken.
At first, Callistares had been infuriatingly sceptical. Mithratus was incensed: how could the old fool not see? The Gods had been appeased. Order was returning. Of course, Mithratus knew very well the source of the man’s doubt. Not even he, the great General Without Peer, had pacified the Kelgaroi with such effortless facility.
“Surely,” Callistares had exclaimed in one council, “this is some trick, Emperor. Someone tries to play us for fools!”
Mithratus had almost agreed. Words his father had once uttered returned to him unbidden. “They are savages, Mithratus, a people born to bring death. Their man-children are born to the sword and the spear and the bow. They care for nothing but warfare and plunder. They know neither honour nor remorse. They are not to be respected, Mithra. Only feared. ”
How could he not be sceptical? For centuries these same illiterate brutes had plagued the Northern provinces with fire and death, murdering and pillaging relentlessly despite the valiant efforts of the Imperial Army. Even Attalon, perhaps the greatest Emperor in Luralius’s mighty history, had failed to exact tribute from the Kelgaroi tribes.
And now some nameless general had broken the backs of these savages?
For days, he had avoided sleep. He’d spent his nights poring over scrolls and treatises written by historians and Imperial generals on the Kelgaroi: of their anarchic method of war, their ruthless savagery in battle, their practice of severing the hands and feet of enemy captives and leaving them for carrion. And the more he read, he soon found, the more terrified he became.
Only when the victorious Luralian general, a young noble by the name of Porthios Scaevan, had returned to the Capital were his fears finally allayed.
He had triumphed. His dynasty was safe. Plunder was counted, spectacles prepared, and sacrifices arranged. Luralius, it appeared, was once again secure.
If only it had ended there…
Days later, Percalaus Valerus, the notorious general who had reputedly fomented against his Emperor, had entered Luralius - in chains. It seemed that a party of auxiliary phalanxmen had chanced upon the delinquent general by night, apparently travelling west with only the meanest retinue of slaves and bodyguards. Having heard their Emperor’s decree against the former High Imperial Officer, the soldiers quickly seized and shackled the man, beat him into submission, then dragged him back to the Capitol.
At the mere thought, Mithratus shook his head in disgust. Paraded in manacles through the streets like a common criminal. Beaten and bloodied, deprived of all dignity by the very men he had led to victory. It should never have come to that.
But it had. He had heard as much. Whether traitor or not, no High Officer of the Imperial Phalanx should be forced to endure such indignity. Such shame.
Then to have these mercenaries, these cowards, paid in gold for Percalaus’s capture? Paid with gold from the Imperial Coffers? Of all the outrages! Teladorus had very nearly overstepped his authority for the final time.
Haggard and humiliated, Percalaus Valerus had been taken into the custody of the Principate Army, smuggled to the Palace under cover of darkness and finally brought before the High Chancellor. After hours of brutal interrogation, the old wretch had been prepared to have the man killed.
Had it not been for Archamenas, Mithratus’s admirably loyal Grand Treasurer, things might have ended very differently. Having one dependable man in his collection of despicable ministers had, in the end, proven invaluable.
Drawn to the sound of the wounded General’s screams, Archamenas had entered the Palace’s Hall of Audiences to find the bloody interrogation well in progress, and had immediately fled to warn his Emperor of the High Chancellor's unwarranted actions. Fully intent on killing both Percalaus and his seditious minister, Mithratus had stormed into the Audience Hall in full ceremonial armour, his eyes wide with bewilderment and incredulous wrath.
But the sight of the General’s broken form had stilled his hand. Surrounded by a herd of black-gowned Court ministers, Percalaus’s head was hung in abject shame, his body smeared in blood, his shockingly-thin arms chained behind his back.
Mithratus shoved his way into their midst. Teladorus had fairly gasped, staggering from his path. Clamorous with shouts and harsh questions only moments before, the pillared hall had abruptly fallen silent.
With his left hand Mithratus drew his sword, aimed its tip at the bloody breast of the former High Imperial Officer. With his right he pointed at the huddle of his trembling ministers, reducing them with his furious gaze. “This,” he screamed, “is not justice.”
Teladorus had crept forward, his shoulders hunched. “Exalted One,” he muttered, “I wished only to do your will-”
Harsh laughter. “You wished only to curry favour, you old wretch.”
“Were my father still Emperor,” Mithratus continued, “you would all be flayed alive for this.” He looked to Percalaus, who was eyeing the sword the way a starving man might eye a rotten onion - as though considering the inevitable.
But Mithratus had only sighed and lowered his blade. “Be thankful I am a more merciful man than he.”
Again Mithratus regarded the broken General. “I would remind you, my one-time General, that you may leave here tonight an Officer of the Imperial Army, or you may never leave here.” He removed his plumed helm and tossed it toward his baffled High Chancellor, his gaze never straying from the defiant eyes of Percalaus Valerus. “You stand in the presence of your Emperor. In the presence of justice. Speak only the truth.”
And Percalaus had done just that.
“I spoke against you Emperor, but what I said was not treason. I said what I said for the sake of my men. The men who fight and die in the East while their Emperor acknowledges neither their efforts nor their deaths.”
Breathless, Mithratus blinked in consternation, suffered a moment of unaccountable shame.
“Why do you say this?”
Then Percalaus’s face had become the very image of indignant fury. Even then Mithratus had known he would never forget that face. Nor would he forget the words the man next spoke. “You in Luralius speak of the Kelgaroi as though they were Demons of the Beyond. But you know nothing of Demons. I promise you, Exalted One, that it will be the Insacai, and not the Kelgaroi, that will one day put our Immortal City to the sword.”
Stunned silence. Mithratus’s eyes had rounded in horror and revelation.
He had heard those words before…
His father had said much the same to him before he’d died. And Mithratus had believed him. He’d have been a fool not to. All his long life, Arius Kallikos I had spat the name “Kelgaroi” like a curse, like the name of a despised rival or a petulant slave. But when he spoke of the Insacai, his voice would always possess a curious blend of awe and dread, as though he invoked the name of a frighteningly capricious God.
“The Insacai...”
For several instants, Mithratus had stood dumbfounded. He realized then that he had been remiss. All along, he had known this. All along he had known that the nomadic horsemen of the Eastern Steppe were the greater threat. And yet he’d heaped glory upon this Porthios Scaevan, piled wealth upon the Armies of the North. All along…
Chastened, Mithratus stared down at the man, moved to penitence by the sight of his tears. “You’re right, General. You speak truth.”
Mithratus stared into the wall of glittering lamplight before him, shaken by an image of a burning Luralius, the sight of his City, the glorious City of Cities, overrun by the elemental might of the Insacai. Not while I breathe.
He had forgiven Percalaus then and there. He had offered the man anything - rank and riches for his men, land, women, and even the title of Spear-Bearer of the Empire, commander of all the Armies of Luralius, for himself. Though flattered, the General had declined, claiming that his newborn seed, a boy named Prophilus, was now the sole object of his concern.
Unchained and cleansed of his wounds, the General had gone on to speak of the alarming strength of the nomadic warriors, and of the fortuitous turn of fate that had seemingly saved the Eastern Phalanxes from destruction. For no apparent reason the Insacai had simply disbanded, disappearing into the Steppe mere days before the imminent confrontation. It was rumoured that a prince had been born in the distant East, and that the horde had turned from battle to begin their pilgrimage home and pledge allegiance to this newborn child. That, Percalaus had claimed, and that alone had saved the Empire from their wrath. “Next time we may not be so lucky…”
Humbling words. Humbling, terrifying words.
Mithratus massaged his temples, ran his hand across his smooth-shaven cheeks. So far his spies had heard nothing of this young warlord, this Chieftain who would no doubt grow into a scourge upon the Imperial frontiers. No matter how many eyes he possessed, he realized, there was still far too much he simply could not see.
It was not long after the scandal with Percalaus that the whispers had begun - whispers of treason. It was said that Teladorus was conspiring in secret with several of his Imperial Satrap-Governors. And though Mithratus had been loathe to believe such claims, he couldn’t help but admit that if anyone had the resources, if anyone had the sheer temerity, it was Teladorus.
What was the old ingrate planning?
Mithratus pursed his lips and swallowed at the pang in his throat. Nothing terrified him more than the thought of losing his hegemony. Perhaps this was why he demeaned himself in this way. Night after night, searching for treachery across scrolls of papyrus. Night after night, reading the reassuring words of fawning worms. Ever since he was young, he had considered such tasks far beneath an Emperor’s contempt. But why, then? Why, if he was so frightened, did he not simply have these whoreson Satrap-Governors killed? Replaced with ones whom he could trust?
Because, he thought, I trust no one.
Another gentle knock at his doors. A rush of cold terror thrashed through his innards. Jolted from his thoughts, the prospect of the emissary’s early arrival struck him bodily, deprived him of all breath. Then he remembered his earlier instructions to Teladorus, and some semblance of calm returned. His High Chancellor was a deceitful snake, but in small matters such as these his obedience was indisputable. It was the sole reason, Mithratus supposed, that the man still lived.
The Emperor rose from his desk, bellowing his assent. The great bronze doors exploded open, and within moments his chambers were overrun with the palace’s stewards, lighting censers and frantically preparing the apartment for this impromptu audience. His body slaves followed bearing vials of perfume and his ceremonial armour.
He hurriedly exchanged his simple linens for a glistening silk robe, forgoing his armour and weaponry on this occasion. What reason did he have to look the conqueror for these foreign dogs? What could they expect, showing up in the depths of night like beggars at his door? Then to expect - no, to demand! - an audience with the Emperor of Luralius? They were lucky he hadn’t had them castrated and flayed alive…

Through the crowd of slaves and frantic ministers, Mithratus briefly glimpsed the wizened figure of his High Chancellor. Dressed in the official red silk robes of his station, the man pressed through the throng of servants, his eyes fixed upon his Emperor. Mithratus affected to ignore his approach as his body slaves arrayed him in finery: his golden diadem, his gilded sandals, and the signet ring that proclaimed his rank.

“Exalted One,” he said, breathless with what Mithratus could only presume to be exertion, “the envoy will arrive shortly. I’ve come to brief you.”

His expression impassive, Mithratus stood motionless while his limbs were rubbed with perfumed oils. “Brief me on what, old man?”

“I have spoken with the Hailatasi. I am to be your translator for these proceedings.”

Mithratus scowled involuntarily, faintly shocked by the old man’s knowledge. “You speak their tongue?” The Hailatasi spoke an old and convoluted language, one that had fallen out of use across the Valasian Sea several centuries ago. “How is this?”

The High Chancellor’s expression slackened in imitation of innocence. It was understandable, Mithratus thought, for the man to mistake questions for accusations. In the presence of the Emperor, all questions were usually as much.

“I studied in Galeapylus for a time, Emperor. When I was a boy… I thought you knew.”

Mithratus felt chills of suspicion tingle through his chest. “Is this another of your games, Teladorus? One more scheme against your Emperor?”

For an instant, the old Chancellor appeared thoroughly mortified. Despite the commotion in the chamber, an uncanny hush had fallen between them.

“I swear, Lord Emperor, it is not…”

Mithratus let his lips twist into a sneer as he glared down on the aged man. “So be it, Teladorus. What have they said?”

Recovering his composure, the High Chancellor straightened and folded his arms across his stomach. He stepped closer, glancing nervously to the slaves about them, and in hushed tones said, “They say they bring news of The Star.”

The fury and tension of moments before was forgotten, squelched by a throb of curiosity. Frowning, Mithratus stared into the old man’s rheumy eyes, said nothing.

“They would tell me little more,” Teladorus continued, his expression at once troubled and thoughtful. “But they did ask me one disturbing question…They asked whether any of your wives had recently given birth to a child.”

Wives? Child? What kind of questions were those?

“Surely they must know I have no wives.”

“But as you know, Exalted One, the Hailatasi have paid no heed to the events beyond their borders for centuries. They undoubtedly think you no different from the Saladuecons.”

Mithratus nodded, his expression calm despite the terror lurching through him. It was, he admitted with some reluctance, a likely interpretation. While the Saladuecons of Galeapylus had succumbed to the extravagant degeneracy of the East, the Emperors of Luralius had remained - though not immune to scandal - entirely incorruptible. The Aregallian Palace could boast no harem, and only rarely had its chief occupant married for reasons other than political alliance. Could the Hailatasi be that ignorant?

But it was not the indecency of the question that troubled him so deeply.

His hands trembling, Mithratus banished his body slaves with a mere glance, then barked, “All of you, out!”

Shocked by his outburst, Teladorus flinched visibly, looked to his sandalled feet. One of his slaves, who had moments before been pouring wine from an amphorae into a mixing bowl, stared dumbfounded at him before fleeing in terror, spilling wine across the black marble floors in the process.

Again the doors ground shut, punctuating the silence between Emperor and High Chancellor.

“You worry,” Teladorus muttered, “that this has something to do with what Diodotus said? About a child of House Telcoaros?”

Mithratus spun to face the old man. “Could they know of that?”

A shrug. “The Hailatasi are an ancient people, Emperor. Perhaps they know even more of it than we do.”

“But why, after all these years, would they offer us their knowledge so freely?”

“Perhaps they aren’t offering their knowledge.” Teladorus stopped, his expression pained. “Could it be they’ve come to see that this child - if the legend is in fact true - dies?”

Yes… Yes! Suddenly it all made sense. After all, it was the Hailatasi who, millennia ago, had sacked Mykantos - burned the hallowed city to the ground! Killed the Last High King as he lay weeping for his people! His tutors had told him as much… Perhaps the Hailatasi had come to finish the task they’d set before themselves all those years ago.

Mithratus shook his head in dismay. How could he have forgotten? And to have Teladorus, of all people, remind him… A moment of anxious disbelief accompanied this thought.

The old fool never failed to astound him. Just when he’d thought that he had outlived his purpose, that old age and depravity had robbed the man of both loyalty and intellect, he offered insights such as these.

Mithratus stared hard into his wrinkled face. “So you think they mean to kill me, as well, old man?”

Again, the old man merely shrugged. “Perhaps…”

His eyes narrowed, Mithratus regarded his aged Chancellor warily, smirking all the while. Did Teladorus have gall enough to simply indulge his Emperor’s paranoia? Perhaps he did…

But whether warranted or not, his suspicions would have to wait one more night. Turning for his desk, Mithratus said, “Have guards placed throughout the chambers, Teladorus. We’ll not make these worms wait any longer to look upon the Emperor.”

Teladorus’s robes whispered against the marble as he withdrew from the apartment. After what seemed only a few heartbeats, the High Chancellor returned, a retinue of Principate Guardsmen in tow. Mithratus stood motionless behind his desk, casually observing the old man as he positioned the soldiers through the apartment. He shook his head imperceptibly, even smiled at the man’s doddering senility. Seeing Teladorus bark commands was, he thought, perhaps as ridiculous as imagining the old fool as Emperor. He half expected his soldiers to laugh at the ancient ass, so comical was the sight.

But no… Now was not the time. These were great matters. Their Emperor’s life was at stake. This, they no doubt knew, was no time for laughter.

Through the sound of the High Chancellor’s prattle, Mithratus could only faintly hear the knock at his door. When it came once more, heavy with in view post


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