Narielle

Tyden looked over his half-moon spectacles at Narielle.  His eyes, like chips of black glass, seemed to almost gaze past Nariel as if pretending she wasn't there at all.  With brown, twig-like, fingers, Tyden turned the pages of his compendium, frowning down at the crackling parchment as if they, too, had displeased him.
"Do you know why I am upset at you, Miss Nariel?" the black eyes cooly slid up to glare at her before sliding back to wish malefaction on the parchment pages.
A drop of sweat rolled down the crease of her spine, Nariel took a deep breath before answering, "No, sir."
"'No, sir?'  You do not know why I called you here?"
"No, sir." Nariel replied.
Tyden steepled his slender fingers, resting his little elbows on his desk.  His long, thin nose protruded over his fingertips; his skin was the color of parchment paper and crinkled just like it when he moved.  He, like the rest of his kind, were short, ugly, and Nariel loathed the little race.  She kept this loathing deep inside as she waited for him to speek.
"You really are a dumb creature, aren't you, Miss Nariel?  It is a marvel your kind became the dominant race; in fact, if it weren't for your kinds' physicality and tendency to make war, I believe it would be the cauliba ruling this empire.  But, let us focus.  Your problem, Miss Nariel, is your lack of cooperation: your seeming inability to become a useful and productive member of an organic machine; to become a well-oiled cog working in perfect conjunction with one another.
"Take my new treasure over there.  It is a clock, fresh from Corvon, and keeps time and ticks and moves its hands because of such a series of perfectly wound, perfectly made gears, springs, and chains.  Try to picture in your head what would happen if, say, one of the gears was misshapen or ill aligned?"
Nariel glanced over at the new contraption sitting on the mantle; clocks were a new invention in Terevas, having only been perfected in the last five years.  In the pause left by Tyden, the delicate ticking of the clock's hands could be heard.
"It would stop keeping time accurately, and halt?"
"Yes, precisely.  Do you see where I'm going with this?  You are that gear, Miss Nariel; that misshapen, improperly-made, out-of-place gear.  The Penesthasia School for Girls is the most prestigious boarding institution of higher learning in the entire eastern quarter of Terevas, and you think you can waltz through your classes and treat nothing with the gravity or focus it is due.  I, for one, am completely befuddled as to how you even got here in the first place: you are an orphan with no family name, no relatives, no friends; I would say you used sorcery to acquire the gold for your tuition, but then again, you would fail at that too."
"I do take my classes seriously!" Nariel couldn't help herself–no one could–under Tyden's cold barrage of disdain, "I have high marks in Dancing and History, and I did well in Fencing last semester!"
"Hardly the skills needed for an educated woman in Terevas!  We are not running a fencing club or ballroom here, but an academy of learning!  Unfortunately for you, your benefactors–whom ever they may be–unwisely paid for you to go to this school and receive an education, not become some housemaid or apprentice wastrel.  Some of us faculty thought 'Ah, she may be stupid and ill-mannered, but at least is a graceful dancer.'  But where are you now in your lessons, hmm?  Natural talent does not replace hard work and practice.  Later, some of us said; 'Aha!  She may be bad at arithmetic, grammar, and rhetoric, but at least she is a Compact mage.'  And where are you now with your studies in magic?"
"I haven't made it past Form IV." Nariel replied flatly.
"Form IV?  That is for hedge mages; children.  You should be ashamed to call yourself a student of this school.  Your marks are not enough to merit your moving up into Dorm VII; which in your case means... expulsion."
"No, I can't be expelled!  You can't do that!"
"I can and I will if you give me the slightest more reason.  As it stands, the gold given to us for your tuition is running out, failure to reach Dorm VII and finish school this year would dry up your funds, and thus mean expulsion.  You have only three options: bring your marks up to a respectable level by the end of term exam or–failing to do that, which I most certainly think you will–you may go ahead and drop out now, taking what little gold is left to you and making your way in the world the few ways lonesome young women have."
Nariel knew he meant whoring.  Professor Tyden was not abashed to talking of such things with other young students in her positon.
"And you must now I mean become a whore or other such lowly, dirty profession.  In fact, it is mockery to call it a profession; it is instead the disgusting plight taken on by women who, like you, were too lazy to do anything else.  Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life, as long as it will be, washing laundry or pleasing male customers?  Not that you'd be any good, to be sure, ugly as you are."
That was sick irony: ugly, coming from Tyden, the cruelest, ugliest cauliban Nariel had ever had to meet.
"Your third option, Miss Nariel," Tyden said, leaning forward over his book, a smirk playing at the corners of his thin lips, "is to accompany Professor Tavald on an expedition beyond the Wall. He has requested several more students to help him, and since history is one of the few things you are decent at, I put your name in the mix.  The expedition leaves in two days.  So there are your options, which do you choose, Miss Nariel?"

Nariel rushed past the gray flanks of columns, arriving at the great espanse of courtyard in the center of the school.  A cold wind blew from a cloudy sky, forcing those outside to wrap themselves in coats and cloaks; Nariel had not bothered to fetch hers from her dorm.  The wind snatched at her raven hair, ignored locks flailing loose from her bun as she leaned against the balustrade.  She knew it was unlikely she would be able to score high on the exam; she was a bad test taker and the exams here were arduous.  She couldn't merely drop put either as she had no where else to go and she didn't want to give that weasal-faced Professor Tyden the satsfaction of watching her drop out.  But... go across the Wall?  A shiver ran down Nariel's back at the thought: there was nothing beyond Markian's Wall except vast wilderness, outcasts, and heathen men who ate their own children.  Her stomach felt empty at the thought of venturing out into those profane wilds.  Terevas was civilization, safely tucked behind the comforting massiveness of the Wall raised so long ago.   Clusters of faculty and students traversed the cobbled stones before her, wanting to get back indoors and out of the wind.  The fountain sat cold and shunned.  As several professors walked by her she idly picked out words from their conversation, words others spoke as they hurried by her: the Isethen was dead.

***

"The Isethen was–is–the premier mage; defender of Compact Magic; guardian of Terevas's bounds.  He, or she, has a close connection to the Compact from which all magic is derived.  You've learned this in school, right?" Path look Nariel in the face as he talked to her.

Nariel nodded; "Yes, magical theory was one of the first things we learned in Form I.  The Accord is an ancient document composed during the late Prehistoric Age by early humans under the guidance of the Triad to define and control the free-flowing chaos that was magic back then.  That was the basics, if I can remember right."
Path and Nariel sat under a wild sun, its rays illuminating a strange, untamed place, literally–as far as Nariel knew–in the middle of nowhere.  She had chosen the third option given to her, and what a choice it was.  She had accompanied Professor Tavald, a shade less cruel cauliban lit with a fervor for history and archaeology, as an assistant in his expedition beyond the Wall of Markian.  She had visited Markian's Wall once before as a field trip when she was eleven.  She had forgotten just how mind-numbingly huge the Wall was: standing nearly seven hundred feet high and eighty-eight feet wide, the Wall of Markian was the biggest structure known to man.  It was guarded by Markian's Watch, an elite army numbering in the thousands that patrolled the miles of wall; entire cities had grown up around and on the Wall merely to provide supplies to the Wallwalkers.  It had been terrifying at first: seeing the Wall, stretching from horizon to horizon, disappearing ever so slowly behind her back and knowing she was now in a sea of thick forests, jagged, ancient mountains, and savage plains.  Someone else actually had to take the reins of her horse from her, forcing herself and the hesitant beast beneath her legs to move forward into the unknown.  She had no idea where she was; Tavald refused to share his maps with anyone except for his senior assistants and Path.  Her knowledge of geography was shaky–maps themselves of the greater world were in themselves limited–but by her own calculation they were some score miles southeast of the Wall.
Path rose, helping Nariel to her feet and leading her back to the camp.  They waded through the thick, dry grass of the heath they had at last ended their journey.
"The Isethen is most importantly the living embodiment of the Compact; with out an Isethen Wild Magic would most likely reign and the Accord lay forgotten.  The Isethens, as you know, have been important assets of the empire.  Did they not teach you this at your school?" Path took her arm like a gentleman as they navigated around tumbled stones.
"They were vague on the nature of the Isethen," Nariel said, "what was the Isethen's name?"
"And I thought everyone knew who the current Isethen is.  His name was Terciat.  Previously from House Tannix.  Why the curiosity in the Isethen?"
"I simply realized I knew quite little about them back at school when I heard Terciat had died.  Is there only the one Isethen?"
"I believe one is born every generation.  I'm not sure, of course, how it all works, but usually before they die they give the name of their successor.  Often they train the next Isethen in fact."
"But Terciat didn't name a successor did he?"
"As far as I know, that is correct."
They arrived at the camp, a hamlet of wooden poles and canvas roofs inhabited by trays and tables containing charts, maps, and the artifacts and sherds the diggers had found.  Professor Tavald stood on a stool before one such table, scrutinizing a small blob of rock through a pocket telescope.  Path stopped before the the pavilion.  Nariel took several steps under the canvas before giving him a backwards glance: he was such a mysterious figure, dressed like some vagabond hero right out of novels Nariel had read.  He had a hood which he often wore; his torso was covered in aleather jerkin so rough and so dirty from his travels that Nariel marveled the thing stayed together without the aid of magic; a broadsword of strange craftsmanship–not the work of any Terevasian forge as far as she knew–was slung around his back along with several other oddments and tools of survival; his pants, covered by a tunic bottom that stetched to his knees, were crudely sewn in places and patched with a variety of different materials.  Path was altogether a patched together man.  He had met the expedition by chance while it was journeying towards the Wall; Path had heard the venture could use a second guide.  Path was an exile and knew much of the world beyond Terevas.  He never told anyone why he had been banished, Nariel knew it had been for five years, normally exiles are avoided, but Path was able to assure Tavald of his honesty and passed Tavald's examination.  During the long trek here, Path had shared with Nariel some of his adventures while an exile or told her os some piece of history or lore he knew of places they passed, or else of other far-disant places.  Path was the type of person, Nariel had decided, that had very many secrets and, yet, made almost no secret of his secrets.  Nariel was called away by Raphinel, one of Professor Tavald's senior students, to help him catalog artifacts that had been dug up that day.  Hours passed by filled with the scratching of her ink quill on parchment paper backed by the continual scraping and clanging sounds that came from the pech diggers at the dig site two dozen yards from camp.  The small, homely shapes of the pechs moved in and out of the widening excavation scrambling over piles of dirt and over unearthed stoneworks with rodent-like speed.  At last, the sun sinking towards the west, Nariel extracted herself from under the canvas enclosure, stretching aching muscles and enjoying the evening breeze.  Path stod not far off, his eyes ever one the horizon.  She left behind the harsh sounds of Tavald's nasally reprimands, several pechs cowering around him, to join Path in his sentry.
"is it the nature of cauliba to be so cruel?" she asked Path as she reached him.
Path, a pipe clenched in between his teeth, gave her a small smile, "Ever full of questions aren't you, Nariel." he looked behind them to make sure they were well out of earshot from Tavald and any of his kin.  "I cannot say if, by their nature, they are cruel.  To say that the cauliban race was created to be mean and cold, made perhaps, to show man how not to be, is something I don't know.  Now, I have yet to meet a cauliban that takes joy from anything other than books, mathematical figures, mechanical inventions, and the plights of anyone but himself.  You could say that the culture of cauliba is one of cruelty: parents are harsh to their children; siblings are mean to each other; cauliban families are cruel to other cauliban families, and to everyone else.  Perhaps it is the way the cauliban mind works.  Or maybe it just a perpetuation of a legacy of callousness."
"They're such disgusting creatures!" Nariel exclaimed, "Little wonder they don't like anyone else; because no one else likes them.  Why is Tavald so mean to the pech workers?  The pechs are nothing but humble and simple."
Path took her arm to calm Nariel down, "Cauliba are all very intelligent and clever.  They have the minds of scholars and scientists, but the small bodies of pechs.  They could hate the pechs because maybe they envy the pechs' simpleness and contentment  this is why the cauliba have been so eager to enslave the pechs so and make them work so hard.  Pechs have large, tightly-bound families and a rich culture that binds them together.  The cauliba probably hate them for that."
"And what, cauliba hate men because they want our stature for their vast minds?"
Path chuckled, "That is what I have thought!  Yes, the way I see it cauliba are in limbo between mankind and pechs: they envy the stature of men so attempt to drag us down to their level via cruelty and envy the pechs because of their homeyness and so try to stamp it out by forcing them to labor."
Nariel stopped, eyes sweeping the empty vista spread before them.  A rapidly cooling evening wind moaned through the tall grass of the empty heath, dray stalk whispering with the passing of the wind.  The shroud of gras was disturbed by the periodic wrinkle; hills and gullies, slowly being blanketed by shadows, frowned back at Nariel.  Twisted trees with grasping branches stood in silent clusters on the edge of the heath, limbs creaking as if they were in some sylvan coven.  It was a barren, open place.  Nariel had yet to see signs of wildlife, or any life at all.
"We really are in the middle of nowhere, aren't we?" she asked Path.
"Let me show you something." Path led her farther away from the camp, "I found this while on patrol the other day."
They arrived at a small depression in the swath of wild grass.  Path bent down to pull away brown stalks to reveal smooth stones laid in the dirt.
"It looks like an old road to me," Path told her as he stood back up, "built maybe during the time of the kingdom of Balidaire, ro perhaps even before.  This barren void of a place used to have a highway through it, perhaps a town or city was somewhere nearby.  People used to either travel through here or live here.  Look at what Professor Tavald is digging up: the ruins of a lost citadel.  They may have been built at the same time, the road and the citadel.  Or maybe one was built long before the other.  This place may be nowhere now, but it was not always that way."
Path and Nariel, biding silent farewell to the road that now just ended in swaying grass rather than the gates of a city, returned to the camp as the sun–perhaps the only one that knew where that road had gone–sank slowly beneath the horizon.    

The Redemption of Viren

I, Viren Sorro, son to Lord Galba Sorro and Parthia Sorro, born 9,914 In the Year of the Empire on Londor, do here write down what befell Xadar Dromon and his loyal followers subsequent to our exile from the Gasha Order and the events leading to the death of our leader, Lord Dromon.  I and my companion, Nat Peilow, took the title Axath after our conquest of the primitive Dark Empire and the growth of the Axeum.

***

Viren huddled on the cave floor, cloak wrapped tight around him, slowly freezing to death.  A feeble bit of heat wafted across him from the few soaked twigs that had managed to catch fire.  His pack lay open and useless by his feet, the few supplies left were scattered on the icy floor.  His pulsblade, once a proud reminder of what he was, had been thrown into the darkness at the very back of the cave.  Qur, Viren's only loyal friend and an android, stood idly by the fire in attempt to keep his circuitry from also freezing.  Qur's eyes flickered on.  The blue orb blinked once, the Qur rolled himself next to his shivering master.

"I have received a transmission from the Holo.  It seems it concerns you."

Viren looked up at Qur, the human's face was ragged, tired by fighting and traveling, and unshaved, icy tracks ran down his cheeks, and his gray eyes had the glassy look of a man who had seen too much.  Viren rose with huge effort, an invisible burden weighing down his shoulders.

"Play it." Viren croaked.  He had not spoken in days.

Qur projected a hologram from his single eye, the image hanging in mid-air.  It showed a young woman with a newborn infant in her arms.

"It appears your wife has given birth, master." Qur said.

Viren stared at the hologram for minutes, the images reflected in his eyes, the reality of what he was seeing sinking in.

"Cantthra... gave birth?  A child?" fresh tears rolled down harrowed cheeks, "What is it: a boy or a girl?  Tell me!"

"A girl, master.  Myndorra Sorro, born on 3.20, 9,938 AI at 9 pounds and 6 ounces."

"Myndorra." Viren whispered.  He reached out to touch the hologram, only to have his fingers pass right through it, "We have a girl, Canthra, like you always wanted."

Viren doubled over, coughing violently into his hands.  Qur ended the projection; Canthra and Myndorra faded into the air.  Viren collapsed on the ground no longer strong enough to sit up.  He could feel death climbing up his fingers and through his frozen veins soon to reach his heart and forever separate him from his wife and daughter.  No, no, no, he couldn't die, not yet.  Viren placed his white hands on the cave floor, his fingers could no longer feel the cold of the ice, and pushed.  With a yell of effort that roared off the cave walls, Viren rose to his feet.

"Qur," he wheezed, "I'm going back."

***

I was in the Great Dasorium on the Capital, flushed with my triumph at ending the Rama Conflict.  Nat was with me in the Cenotaph Atrium as we were being welcomed by the Council and congratulated by our fellow knights.  With that boyish grin still plastered to his face, my friend Nat turned my attention to a party of three standing off by a statue detached from the celebrations.  It was Canthra Jan, an accomplished knight in her own right, discussing her recent return with Sirs Iodal Quigh and Xadar Dromon.  I had, before that, gone on several peacekeeping and investigative missions with Canthra Jan; as a Patrivian she was an expert diplomat, much better than I was, and a talented swordsman.  My look made Nat turn his attention elsewhere, though the grin stayed in the corners of his mouth.  I would not let my swell of emotions from my victory cloud my judgement and make me do some rash act.  Once I had properly greeted and been congratulated by all the assembled Gasha, I made my way over to where now only Canthra Jan and Master Dromon stood still talking over the details of her previous mission.  With an abrupt nod and a sweeping bow and jovial praise for me, Master Xadar Dromon left us.  As the atrium emptied of Gasha, Nat leaving to celebrate his return and ascension to knighthood with his family, Canthra and I passed pleasantries  each unwilling to discuss the obvious topic.  I felt like a boy again training on Kavos filled with the first flushes of manhood.  This, and the dark look hidden in her eyes kept me from making any advances.  She left, claiming she had other duties to attend to.  I was left alone in the dim atrium rather awkwardly.

Later, while making my way purposelessly to the festivities in Galactic Plaza, I was stopped from my brooding by Master Xadar Dromon.  I was very puzzled by this, for Sir Dromon was often preoccupied in the Council chambers or else locked away in his study.  I greeted him courteously enough with the respect due to a Gasha master, and he greeted me in a quite friendly manner.  He gave me more praise for my heroics and boldness, my prescient tactics and wisdom.  I was shocked a master such as Xadar Dromon was giving me so much attention.  I did not have a reply.  He then told me something that at first seemed so innocent, but haunted me the rest of the night.  He told me I deserved a seat on the Gasha Council, or a liaison to the Admiralty or some high rank, and that he wished to teach me personally of matters he had discovered in his studies.  My slight confusion gave way to pride and honor; that a master like Dromon wished to share some of his vast knowledge with me was more than I could've asked for.  I enthusiastically accepted his invitation, and he replied that that was exactly the attitude he expected: boldness and an eagerness to learn.  I went on my way to the grand party being held partly in my honor, my ego soaring to new heights up into the clouds above my reason.  I joined Nat as the focus of the celebrations when I arrived, with the Gasha Masters and the Emperor himself noting our noble services to the Galactic Empire.  The night, some 9 hours local time, blurred together in a haze of reveling, conversation, and consumption.  With my mind soaring over a sea of confidence, I, at some point during the night, ended up on a balcony overlooking a magnificent view of the Galactic Senate and Imperial Palace, but I was not looking at architecture that night but rather the face of Canthra Jan.  I let my desires, pulsing like the rap of a hammer through my diluted veins, take control during that night.  Our faces were so close as to be touching.

I awoke the next morning in my cell, amnesiac as to how I got there and most of the previous night.  I dressed quickly and reported back to the Council accompanied by a drunken Nat, who, I believe, had never even returned to his cell.  That was how Nat Peilow was.  After the debriefing Nat fled to solve the problem of how to cure a hangover while I stayed behind in the Dasorium, half hoping she was there, half not.  She was there.  Dressed ready for travel, she was still glowing from the night before.  We slowly found each other, both of us embarrassed by our closeness during the celebrations; I had not planned on making clumsy advances while intoxicated and egotistical.  I determined to do properly what I had done before.  I would have offered to accompany her on her new mission back to her home Patrivia, but–alas–I had a my first meeting with Xadar Dromon.  How much better would it have been if I had gone with my heart rather than my self?  How better the galaxy would have been?  How many lives spared?  I bade farewell to Canthra and dutifully marched to Master Dromon's study with a mind torn: torn between the secrets I was soon to learn or the woman I had left behind.  When I entered, Master Dromon rose quickly from his seat, a holoscreen vanishing into the air, to greet me with a friendly smile.  I hid my curiosity as to what he had been viewing.  We began my lessons in earnest; Master Dromon sat me down in a seat opposite from his.  I learned... so much, too much.  Most of what I learned I have since forced myself to forget, but while I was learning it, when I was a younger man, I absorbed it all thinking it not evil in any way.

Master Xadar and I delved into such arcane lore and ancient techniques, and my mind so eager, that soon I surpassed all my pears in knowledge and power.  Hours–days–I spent locked away with Master Dromon, preferring Canthra, when she was returned from her continual negotiations on Patrivia, and Nat's company second to Dromon's.  But as I grew in power, my mind I now realize, became weaker and weaker to Master Dromon's will.  Canthra Jan was absent during much of this time–I believe it was a year and a half at least–due to the tenuous situation in Patrivia.  I know now why the situation seemed to always return just when Canthra thought she had solved it and why Master Xadar was always bothered and impatient when she was around: he didn't want her distracting and diverting my mind.  I was granted the rank of Gasha Warden and made a counselor on the Emperor's own advisory council; as a Warden I was second only to the Gasha Council itself.  I am certain my master had a large role in my procuring these lofty positions.  When he believed my training sufficient and my mind properly his, Master Xadar Dromon revealed to me that I was not his only pupil, though I was his star student: he had in fact been training Nat Peilow in a similar manner and many other more feeble-minded Gasha.  He had also tried to persuade Canthra Jan to come under his wing, but she had refused.  He revealed many things to me that day, all of which should have made me turn on him in revulsion, but which instead led me more securely into his grip.  Though Nat was his other most powerful student, he said–truly–that I was the stronger and thus make sure Nat assumes his role of follower.  He said too that I would need to watch Nat warily at all times so he would not usurp my powers.  I'm sure now he poisoned Nat with similar words.  Thus ended mine and Nat's friendship.  Shaken but still loyal after these words, we studied and practiced for many, many more hours, Dromon finally nodding to signal me my training was complete: I was his full apprentice now.

Assured of my unwavering loyalty, Master Xadar initiated me as his first knight by revealing the ugly truth behind his secrecy and his power: he had, in his extensive studies, discovered a power, an intelligence, beyond what the Gasha called their Protector.  This intelligence had made contact with Xadar Dromon, choosing him as its disciple, giving new powers and forgotten secrets about the stars.  This being or entity he labelled with the name Charse.  A small part of my mind still yet free of Dromon's plague rebelled at this, realizing Dromon for what he was and also what was to happen to Canthra now.  I fled from Dromon, wishing at the same time to rescue Canthra from harm I knew was about to befall her and tell the Council the evil truth behind Master Xadar Dromon.  Both my wishes were granted at once; for as I was rushing through the Cenotaph Atrium with intent to go straight to the hangar, I came upon fathered members of the Council, Master Iodal Quigh was among them.  I pressured them to tell me what they had been discussing previous to my arrival; Master Iodal told me that Canthra Jan had, not an hour before, been taken hostage by the Patrivian government.  They were currently making threats on her life if the Imperial government did not start taking Patrivian demands seriously.  Horrified by the thought that I could not save Canthra, I hurriedly told them all the truth about Xadar Dromon.  Of course, none believed my tale.  Except Master Iodal: he looked in my eyes and saw the validity behind my words.  He also must have seen how far gone I was.  But I did not stay to see if they acted upon my claim or not, I flew straight to the hangar, boarded my ship, and jumped to Patrivia.  I arrived in a panic, pushing my way past the Patrivian port authorities and guards to the Embassy.  There I found Canthra Jan, wholesome and unharmed,  concluding matters with Jant Dajex, Lord Protector of the Patrivian systems.  I told Canthra all that had transpired, feeling very foolish while doing so, but my foolishness paid off.  After a conference with the masters, Canthra and I journeyed to my home Londor to be alone as we experienced the first days of marriage.

Those days... those days were the happiest one of my life.  I cannot put into words nor describe how blessed they were.  I was away from everything: from politics, from fighting, and most of all, from Master Dromon.  It was only my Canthra that I thought about.  Yet, yet there was that part of me still enthralled by what Master Xadar had to offer me.  And somehow finding out that Canthra's peril on Patrivia was only a fable meant that, perhaps, Master Dromon had no interest in her, not dark intent or ill will.  I was, of course, wrong.  Dromon knew that Canthra Jan was the one chink, the one ray of light, in the darkness he had shrouded my mind with.  Our time in paradise was short.  Before too long–much sooner than the end of our allotted time on Londor–a call came for Canthra Sorro to go not to Patrivia but the much more dangerous Corostis system.  Xadar Dromon was the author of this request, and he was such an eloquent speaker that he often got his way with things, especially since that Master Iodal was at that time distracted by dealing with issues on his native Nyrador V.  Canthra and I bade a sad farewell before she went to deal with the hostile Corost.

By myself now–a loathsome state of being–I decided on a whim to go back to Crux Terra to witness the trial of Master Xadar Dromon before the assembled Gasha masters and Imperial solons of the Galactic Supreme Courts.  I was filled with some desire to see this trouble caused by Master Dromon through to the end, but what I really would do was more terrible than anything Xadar had done to that point.  Why was I such a fool to go back into that twisted nest of lies constructed so intricately by my master?  How much better would things have been if I had simply stayed on Londor.  But, as I am still, I was a detestable wretch soaring once agin on updrafts of selfishness.  I arrived at the galactic capital and joined the masters in time to witness the heretic Dromon being lead under armed guard to the Council chamber.  He must have been planning everything, every action, and ever event, up to that moment.  He looked up to me, right into my eyes, as calmly as if we were back in his chambers learning together.  At that moment, Master Iodal, returned briefly to oversee the trial, received word that Corosti extremists had attacked and overwhelmed the Imperial Embassy.  Extremists that may have been, but I am sure they had Imperial credits behind them.  To add to the crisis, the Corostis government and Corosti Bannerets had done nothing to stop the attack.  Dromon almost had to hide his smile from me.  I knew what he would say before he spoke it, and when he did say; say that I knew how to save Canthra, that we knew how, that I had the power needed.              

Before anyone knew what was happening, Iodal was dead, my blade drawn.  Of all my actions, this is the one I regret the most.  I still awake in the midst of the night, cold with terror, the face of Iodal hanging in the air before me, my hands dripping, my body drenched, in his blood; his phantom his often joined by the twenty others I killed that day: twenty true Gasha Knights who did not even have the time to draw their swords.  On that day of slaughter, I was joined by Nat Peilow leading some of Dromon's disciples.  Soon the Dasorium atrium was flowing with Gasha blood.  While I went about the slaughter in a state of dark duty, Nat, once my apprentice, took a perverse delight in the blood of his fellow knights, in the way their bones broke and skin split open, in the way their blood tasted in his mouth and their screams felt in his ear.  Imperial Marines were ordered to aid the Gasha Knights fight back the heretics, but Runan Geminus, a prominent senator and leading member of the Emperor's council and Dromon's friend, held the marines back, wanting to see who came out victorious before taking action.  When all but the young or submissive knights remained, Xadar entered the Council chamber, throwing out all the seats but one.  Xadar Dromon announced to the Senate that a small but well trained number of the Gasha had betrayed the order, killing such revered masters as Iodal Quigh and slaughtering many others.  Conveniently, the Gasha who had, according to Dromon's story, risen up were all from or tied closely to the Corost Independency.  Marines were sent in to verify the Dromon's report; after their sweep, the Senate acknowledged the story and recognized Xadar Dromon as the only surviving member of the Gasha Council on Crux Terra.

Without receiving my master’s blessing, I jumped for Corost emblazoned by fury, ready to unleash upon the Corosti what I had given the Gasha.  When I arrived, the Corosti demanded, pleaded, that I stop my ship immediately.  They had learned of the battle in the Dasorium from Sir Doril Quy-Jel, a Corosti Gasha who had survived the slaughter.  Landing recklessly, I crashed my ship into the ground, causing much damage to nearby buildings.  Knowing me for what I was, common citizens hid themselves in their dwellings as I swept by.  I stormed the place they were holding Canthra in, no amount of pleading officials or Corosti Bannerets could dissuade me; I pushed through all of them.  I kept my sword sheathed, for it was not their blood I ached for, but that of those extremists who held my Canthra.  They had hidden themselves and Canthra in an old quarter of the governmental palace.  I turned over the building in my search, tearing apart room after room hoping each next one would hold my Canthra.  Even if I had not been probing the building with my mind, the ambush of mercenaries would have been slaughtered all the same.  I retraced their path back to the secret vault where I met a small division of the extremists.  I unleashed upon them such fury as they had never seen; surely they did not know what was to befall them when they accepted Dromon's credits.  Once I had put all those wretches to death, I found to my horror that Canthra was not there at all, only her diplomatic companions were there bound.  My rage overwhelmed me: my fury burned greater than any fire, I was at that moment ready to wreak such destruction as to devastate the city in its entirety.  I was nearly blinded by whatever and anger that I only just saw the looks of pure horror on those bound faces; my rage cooled just enough that I then noticed the dents and ruptures on the walls and the cracks spreading like a spider's web in the floor.  A voice not unlike Canthra's I suddenly heard whisper a contorting phrase in my head, at once making me feel surer of her safety and greatly ashamed.  I then caught an image of myself reflected in the smooth side of a column: I saw dark eyes lidded with guilt, a man full of anger, back bent by hatred's weight.  Was this the man Canthra had married?  Not pausing to think that they were my professed enemies or not I freed those bound Imperials and besought of them where Canthra had been taken.  They did not know.  They all fled from me after that and no more did I see them.  Blind to where my feet were taking me, I came outside onto the plaza

When I was returned, my master Dromon assured me that Canthra was safe, but going through intensive healing and thus unreachable at the moment.  Still determined to see my wife for myself, I once again took my place beside my master as we prepared to go meet the Kavosian Gasha in battle.  The ruling Gasha Council on ancient Kavos had demanded Xadar Dromon step down as Gasha master on Crux Terra or else be forcibly removed and tried.  He chose the latter; he gathered together all his followers, together led by himself, Nat, and me, we went to meet the Kavosian Gasha on the fields of Cliath.  I searched the battlefield for an opponent equal to or greater than myself in the hopes, perhaps, to vindicate my actions: if I prevailed, I must have been fighting for a noble cause, but if he prevailed, I would know I was in error.  Again the Imperial government held back, wanting to see who would come out victorious from this conflict.  We prevailed there on Cliath and at many other battlefields.

Xadar Dromon renamed the Great Dasorium the Axeum, a temple dedicated to his dread god, and called himself the Axath, the master of the temple.  War continued to rage between Kavos and its ally Tystus, ancient Gasha worlds, and our Axeum.  Axath Dromon corrupted many Gasha Knights to his side, even gaining the aid of the dasorium on Sekhotep.  Nat Peilow and I took the titles Axath as well and continued to serve our master faithfully through the bloody war.  While I did indeed serve my master faithfully, Nat was the most ambitious of us two–my lust for power being tempered with a dark melancholy.  Nat soon assumed the master’s role among him, myself, and the other disciples of Dromon.  In our quest to bring the Gasha Order on the right path to power, we ravaged settlements and conquered worlds, destroyed space stations, and spilt much blood; most of it innocent.  All this while I kept wondering deep inside myself where my Canthra was.  My master–at that point grown very powerful and very evil–kept soothing me with words of comfort, claiming that Canthra was safe, but I was far to busy to have time to visit her.  Like a dog that knows it will be beaten if it nudges its master too often, I obeyed my master and continued doing his dark errands for him.

At last the final confrontation between the Gasha and our Axeum came, though none knew it at the time.  Axath Xadar, Nat, and myself were leading the majority of our fleet into the Rhynon Nebula from which we would launch surprise assaults on the nearby Gasha outposts.  As it would happen, a Gasha Knight happened to scout into the nebula and spot us from a distance.  Soon he was joined by the gathered might of the Gasha Order and a furious space battle ensued.  I, in my fighter, destroyed many good Gasha Knights.  Our flagship was attacked, taking heavy damage, and soon chaos erupted as it was boarded.  In the thick of warning lights, klaxons, clashing swords, and raised voices, I felt a familiar and long sought presence: Canthra’s.  She was near, in the Gasha fleet.  Dromon hadn’t known where she was for this entire period.  He had been lying to me, as he had from the very beginning.  To me and to everyone.  My mind suddenly saw the truth that Dromon had blinded me to.  I was free.  

His back was turned to me, watching not his loyal underlings but the Gasha trying to force access to the bridge.  I knew what had to be done.  Drawing my sword that was so stained with Gasha blood, I struck down my master then and there.  He fell dead amongst the harried figures of his lesser disciples; some froze, shocked; others drew theirs swords on me, quickly following their master into the void.  The Gasha stormed into the bridge, sparing none: Axath Nat, now master of the Axeum, fled in an escape pod with several of his followers.  I remained only long enough to kill those the Gasha could not, and then I too, fled.

With Dromon dead and Nat and I vanished, an Imperial fleet arrived and aided the Gasha in sweeping the remnants of the Axeum away; the fleet was destroyed and a combined force of knights and marines stormed the axeums on Crux Terra and Sekhotep.  Axath Nat and his small band of followers drifted into deep space, away from the Galactic Empire, in search of the Dark Empire Axath Xadar had told them of.  And I, I gathered what meager supplies I could, and went into exile on an uninhabited planet on the Imperial Rim with only Qur, my loyal android, my only follower.