The astrologer, the augur, and the chronicler were ushered into the presence of Cyron, "The Vengeful," King of Leorica, Begotten of the Sun. They stood respectfully in the light cast by torches mounted on the marble columns and suspended in arches around the anteroom, highlighting the gold and jeweled ornaments, and the helmets and armor of the guards posted by the walls and inside the entrance. Forborem, Chief Counsel to the Throne, standing two steps below and to the right of Cyron's chair, made a motion with his hand. The astrologer stepped forward and spoke, gazing downward without meeting the king's eye.

"In just over three months, the Messenger has grown brighter than any star. Its motion has altered such that it now turns with the heavens but more swiftly than the heavens, traversing the vault east to west five times between setting and rising of the sun. Thus has it retraced its path precisely and without deviation through the past seven nights."

"And what message does it bring? What interpretation have you made?" Cyron asked.

"Of such as this, our tables offer no precedent to guide us, Majesty. We are still consulting the charts. It seems that the gods whose word the Messenger brings have not yet chosen to make their purpose known."

Cyron snorted and shifted his gaze to the augur. "And what of the winds, the clouds, and the beasts that fly? How do they foretell? Times of plenty or of famine? Should we vigorously prosecute war? Shall the mountains send down clear water and fish, or earthquake and fire?"

The sky-reader replied, "Mornings are streaked with violet and pink, but the days become troubled with rains from the east. At dusk, high furrows of gold point north, and the hooked-wings soar close to the cliffs. Build thy plans carefully. Caution is indicated in all contemplations of change."

A worthless appraisal. The High Priest, Ishtelar, who was standing by Forborem, interjected before the displeasure on Cyron's face could translate itself into action, "There is a seer come into the city, a one they call Serephelio, who is spreading word that prophecies handed down from times long forgotten are soon to be fulfilled. Excitement and agitation are rife among the people. Some say that the Vozghan war will end, and our expedition against Halsabia will be recalled." The prelate's tone carried warning as well as disapproval. "It will be as much to the detriment of morale and discipline in your army as of the faith that holds mine."

"What are these prophecies of which this seer speaks?" Cyron demanded. Ishtelar nodded for the chronicler to answer. The chronicler spoke nervously, unaccustomed to being summoned to the royal presence.

"The Essantine Oraculars, Majesty, parts of which trace back to before the Conflagration, tell that a new light would move in the sky at a time of great conflict. It is written that gods of silver would come down to walk among men..." The chronicler hesitated.

"Go on. And?..." Cyron commanded.

"The Warrior Kings will learn ways of gentleness, and peace come upon the land."

The astrologer and the augur kept their eyes averted. If a bolt wasn't about to strike from above, one surely would from the king. Counsel and priest eyed each other for a moment, saying nothing. Then Cyron rose and strode out onto the terrace, waving an arm for his ministers to follow, out of earshot of the other three.

Around them, the domes and columns of Aranos, Leorica's principal city, loomed into the night, transformed into pillars of orange, yellow, and murky whites by the watch fires on the ramparts and in the squares. In one of the streets below, visible over the top of the palace's outer wall, captives from a recent battle were being driven by mounted guards in the direction of the prison behind the circus stadium, to be sent to the galleys, picked for the public games, or disposed of in whatever other way might be decided. Every now and again one would stumble or fall. The motions of the guards as they raised their arms to wield their rods and whips were indistinct in the shadows.

"I see the plot clearly," Cyron said. "Nothing proves this supposedly prophesied light in the sky to be the Messenger that now passes above us. The Vozghans have taken advantage of an old fable and sent their agent to spread disunity and subversion.

Have this Serephelio arrested and brought to me. Let's see if silver gods intervene for him when he is questioned."

"The mischief that he has spread has caused much damage already," Ishtelar reminded him. "And there may be others at large of which we know nothing, spreading similar tales. What of them?"

Cyron glowered down from the terrace in silence for a while. How many prisoners has Gallestari brought us in his triumph?" he asked Forborem finally.

"I am told, upward of five thousand, Majesty," the counselor replied.

"Select five hundred of the wounded and least fit, unsuited for work or to perform ably in the games, and have preparations made for them to be impaled and burned before the main city gate," Cyron ordered. "We'll see what that does for the people's morale and discipline." Forborem glanced at Ishtelar, read his approving look, and nodded.

In the cloudless black above, half the sky's width from the moon, a bright light moved silently across the background of stars.