Prologue

"Look at the sky and tell me what you see," the father told the son. This far from the city the stars were still quite visible, and there were no clouds to obscure them as they danced ponderously high above the earth. There was a cool evening breeze slithering through the grass. The young boy snuggled his face against the soft fur of his father's chest before turning his brilliant crimson eyes to the sky once more.

"I see stars," he replied half-heartedly, raising a small hand and gesturing broadly above. Father gave a low hroom, hummm and caught his son's hand in his own much broader palm.

"Well, certainly," he said, guiding their joined fingers to indicate certain stars. "But what do these stars make when they all come together?"

Some of the insistently twinkling lights were blue, others were yellow, and yet others were red. Some were big, and some were small, some were sliding across the canopy of the night sky and others were anchored firmly in their places. Sometimes a bright star would zip across the canvas like a shot from a cannon, marking the sky with a glowing scar. The young boy followed his father's pointing fingers, but his gaze was lost in the vast multitudes of the heavens. Giving up, he closed his eyes and turned his head into his father's fur.

A low rumbling purr vibrated in the larger male's chest, and he released his son's hand to turn the boy's face back to the sky with an insistent finger. "Never give up so quickly," he admonished gently. "Some things only become apparent through time and observation. Now, what if I told you that the stars make the image of a mighty warrior-king, wielding his spear and shield? Can you see it now?"

Now that Father pointed it out, Amos could only just make out the image. There were some stars making the belt, others forming the shield, and lines which could have been his arms. "I see it!" he exclaimed.

"It is harder to see, now that the city is so bright and so near," Father said. "Some of his stars have gone dark. But that, my son, is Thereus, son of Phersus, god of warfare and of warriors. He was the one who wrote the Creed in stone back when the world was young and full of strife. Touched by the stars themselves, he was wise beyond his years. It was he who led his armies to conquer the mighty fortress Tyre, the namesake of the colony you know from school. Nothing remains of ancient Tyre because when he had conquered the city, he burned every building and leveled every stone, for he never wanted to face another Tyronian on the field of battle again so long as he lived."

Amos' young, active imagination conjured the images of a city aflame, of people scurrying about in the streets, and of a mighty king standing above the cackling flame and smoke with his spear held above his head, declaring his victory in sight of the heavens. "Did he really exist, Papa?"

"No, cub," Father rumbled softly. His voice was a mixture of gentle chiding and sorrow. "Or if he did, he was no god."

"Why are there stars that look like him if he isn't a god?" Amos wondered aloud. He turned to look at Father's face. In the starlight, he looked especially stoic, and his bold crimson eyes glowed so brightly in the night that Amos hardly recognized the features of his sire.

"The stars were special to us once," he said, and a sad smile ghosted upon his face. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced with Father's usual expression, which was about as expressive as a slab of marble. "We gave so much of ourselves reaching out to the heavens, and look where it got us?"

Now, Father's free hand gestured to the silhouette of the city in the distance, illuminated by the lights in a thousand windows. It was clear just by looking at the skyline that the city had been ravaged by some terrible calamity. Some of the shadows were conspicuously short and jagged, and others were shrouded in foreboding dark.

"Ah, but what am I saying?" Father shook his head. He rolled onto a shoulder and loomed above his son like a cresting wave. Suddenly his fingers began questing for Amos' ticklish underarms, and the boy was forced to come to his senses. A startled laugh burst from his lips as he rolled away and pounced onto his Father's shoulders, growling as ferociously as he could as a ten-year-old Surrassi boy could.

A rare smile graced Father's face as he caught his son in his arms and beheld his ferociousness. Before he could say anything, however, Amos managed to squirm free and topple the mountain of muscle and fur. Together they crashed into the grass, and Amos reared up victoriously, digging his claws into the tough skin of his father's shoulders.

"Aha!" he declared.

Hardly had the exclamation escaped him before the world began to turn and he found himself in a cage of hard limbs. Even his tail was caught up, and he blinked as Father leaned down to stare into his eyes. "Aha, you say?" he rumbled ominously, crimson eyes dancing. "Aha?!"

Helpless, Amos could do nothing save beg for mercy as he was tickled without remorse. The only thing that saved him was Mother, standing at the top of the hill. The sound of his laughter must have reached the house.

"Amosch!" she barked with her hands on her hips and her tail swishing over her shoulder. Despite the way her words cracked like a whip across Father's broad shoulders, a smile was playing around her lips and her emerald eyes twinkled like the gentle stars above. "What are you doing to my son?"

At once Father sat up with a bright gleam in his eyes, and Amos had a moment to gasp for air. Rising smoothly to his feet, Father ascended the slope and picked Mother up into his arms, even as she protested and swatted at his arms. "Put me down, you big oaf!"

"Make me," he rumbled, burying his face into the crook of her neck. Amos watched from the grass for only a moment, before scampering back to the house; there was no reason for him to stick around when his parents were acting like that.

Amos caught the sound of voices wafting up the stairs to his bedroom, and he stirred from a peaceful slumber. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, baring a mouthful of sharp fangs, before he sat up. The sun's warm crimson light shone through his open window and cast long shadows across the floor, and the sky was painted saffron with the break of dawn.

"...tell him about the Old Ways," Amos' mother was saying. They were making an effort to be quiet, but Surrassi have acute hearing, and Amos had no trouble making out the sound of her hushed voice despite the solid walls between his room and the kitchen.

His father's low timbre was much easier to hear. "He deserves to know his heritage. Besides, he thinks that I'm telling children's stories and wild tales. I suppose a lot of them amount to nothing more than that, in the end."

"His heritage is exactly why you oughtn't have told him!" his mother hissed. Amos winced, imagining her furious expression. He didn't know why she was angry, but he knew that making Mother angry was always a bad idea. Even if it was fun to poke the slumbering bear sometimes.

"What? Are you afraid that he will end up like me?" Father asked sharply. "An old, useless relic of an ancient past, without purpose or value? You are not the only one who fears that. However, allowing him to grow into adulthood without providing proper guidance would be a crime against him and a dishonor to me."

Amos wondered at his Father's description of himself. Surely, he was speaking in jest? "Proper guidance does not consist of myths and legends. Truly raising him in the Old Ways, even if he considers them only bedtime stories, will serve only alienate him from his peers. The Lord decreed that none of the Old Ways would survive in the coming generations."

"Is the Lord of the city also your husband and the father of your son?" Amosch rumbled rhetorically. "His place is to rule and defend the City in the name of the King, not to interfere in his subjects' family matters. Besides, I have no issues with alienating my son from a gaggle of mindless herd animals such as the rest of his weak generation."

"The Lord could have you killed! The King's own laws forbid dissemination of the Old knowledge," Mother warned. Amos started and shrank under the warm covers of his bed, contemplating the idea of interrupting the argument. He felt like this was something he should not be eavesdropping upon. "And regardless of your opinion of Amos' peers, you know as well as anyone that Surrassi are not meant to exist in isolation. Even your Creed tells you that much."

"Telling my son bedtime stories under the stars, as fathers have done throughout the generations for countless years in the past, is not grounds for execution and you know it, even under these new laws," Father replied firmly. There was a pause. Amos strained to hear what was happening. "My love, allow me to reassure you. The only thing that I live for is my family; I am utterly devoted to you both. I understand that you are afraid for Amos, for I, too, am terrified. Should he suffer the same illness of spirit that has befallen our people in recent years...I should never forgive myself. But, unlike the King, I don't see complete ignorance of our history as a solution to the problem."

"Why must you insist on the Old Ways? You of all people should know how dangerous false hope can be." What did Mother mean by that?

"There will come a day when my son will become a man, but that day can only come when he defines himself," Father said firmly. "It is always easier to do that when there is a standard against which one can be held accountable. When there is truth, all things become clearer. Would it not be better for our son to build a life for himself by his own merits rather than looking for fulfillment in the boyish diversions of his peers? I, for one, wish to ensure that the only thing which shall carry on the legacy of my flesh when am dead and rotting has some semblance of manhood about him, even if the things that he may achieve in the face of this new age are doomed to fall short of his capacity for wonder."

"Oh, Amosch," Mother hummed. There was a lot of meaning contained in those two words, but from what Amos could decipher it appeared that she was conceding a few points in favor of Father's argument, although he could tell that she was not about to give up so easily. Amos figured that she was probably embracing Father, or would soon be doing so; they never allowed arguments to last longer than a single day as a matter of principle. Amos smiled and turned over in his bed. The sun was warm upon his face as he fell back into a restful sleep, thinking about what his father had said and wondering what he meant.