"It is common belief that the rise of Xer and Xim marked the end of the centuries of interplanetary warfare that savaged known space. I posit, rather, that they were merely the inevitable culmination of that period. In physics all things may naturally decay, but in politics chaos moves inexorably toward order, good or bad." Taith Onderas, Xim and His Legacy, 548 LE

Year 12 of Xer's reign

505 LE

The conquest of Corlax, brutal though it was, marked a great victory for the combined forces of Xer's Kingdom of Cron and the Three Allied Kingdoms. The banquet celebration held in the Cronese palace on Chandaar boasted a table twenty meters long, with seats for every noble and guest hand-carved from whale-tusk ivory by the finest artisans of Spinnax. Kiirium mirrors framed by gold alloy hung off the walls, reflecting the gleam from chandeliers made of luminescent Kismaano crystal. The food was doled out by cooks and servants who'd served Chandaar's royalty for fifteen generations while Duinarbulon Lancers, dressed in their finest ebon armor, action as honor guards. It was a fete meant for conquering heroes but it didn't feel like one, at least not to the Lesser Prince of Sorasca.

When the royals of that world made their entrance at the banquet hall, Marco IV Jaminere did not come first in line, nor second behind his father, nor even behind Coros IX's three consorts. Jaminere entered as a Lesser Prince usually did; behind the king, three silk-draped concubines, and his half-brothers. After that followed Coros's daughters, a few more concubines, plus his father's chief admirals, old Edolfus and younger Kadenzi.

Like Ledo and Portaan, Jaminere was dressed in a stiff uniform, with a gold clasp at the neck, red braided epaulets topping the black shoulders and a tassel loop off his right sleeve. The garb was meant to present a martial image, but now that Jaminere had experienced the dirt, sweat, and bloodshed of real combat the so-called military uniform felt like a pantomime. Everything felt like a pantomime, made worse by the fact that he was relegated to a minor role.

What made it worst of all was that he'd hoped, against all experience and reason, certainly against his better sense, that his father would give him the plaudits he deserved. But Coros had barely spoken to his son since Jaminere's return from Corlax. At the banquet they sat three seats apart, separated by Ledo and Ledo's mother Deema, his father's favorite consort. Meanwhile, the only son of Xer sat right beside his father.

Not that Xim looked especially happy about it. Like Xer, he was dressed in a garish assembly of greens, golds, and reds (being Argai pirates they scorned the formality of uniforms) though Xim kept his outfit sealed at the collar, where his father had half his broad, hairy chest bared. Xer laughed boisterously as his Cronese servants poured wine into crystal chalices and stabbed at his food using knives and forks made of pure shining kiirium.

"Remember, this is just the beginning!" Xer declared after downing half a glass of wine. If he noticed the line spilling from his lips to his tangled beard, he didn't care. "Corlax is our foothold into Livien space. They'll fight all the harder now that they know what we're capable of, which means we have to fight even harder ourselves!"

Coros, seated directly across from Xer, smiled tightly. "You are a most ambitious man."

If Xer noticed to condescension in the other king's voice, he ignored that too. "Make no small plans, that's my motto. You're the born royal, you've got to feel the same."

"House Jaminere has a similar motto," Coros sipped his glass more politely. "'From our hearts, to every soul.'"

Xer hummed, then said, "It's all right, but I've heard better."

Coros frowned, politely. After a beat Xer laughed and slapped the table. "I'm only playing with you. Ah, you born-royals need a sense of humor. How can you enjoy life—enjoy your conquests—if you don't allow yourselves to live? Here's another motto. I'm pretty fond of it, since I made it up myself. It goes like this: 'May your fist enclose the stars.' What do you think?"

As Coros strained for a polite response, Ledo said, "It's impossible in the literal sense, but it's certainly poetic. A fitting motto, for someone who's scaled the heights you have. I imagine that, if you were easily satisfied, you'd have stuck to sacking cargo ships near the Ilhala Spiral instead of making yourself a king."

"Ah, your heir is perceptive," Xer nodded, then looked at his own. "My boy is too. If he'd talk more often you'd notice it. Must be why they worked so well together at Corlax, eh?"

Xim cleared his throat. "Actually, father, I worked with Prince Marco."

He nodded in Jaminere's direction; Xer's eyes lit on the lesser prince for the first time. His smile broadened and he said, "Well, why didn't you say so earlier? I was going to present you both with a medal and you were going to let me pin it on the wrong man!" To Coros he demanded, "Tell me about your son Marco. What is he, second in line? He must have been special for you to send him into battle over your other boys."

Less special than expendable. Coros sipped his wine politely and said, "He is a very attentive young man, and like all my sons he has military training. I thought he might blossom into a talented tactician."

"Well, we'll have to ask the Corlaxians about his tactics. Or what about you, son? Do you approve?"

He elbowed Xim roughly in the arm. The Prince of Argai barely flinched. "I think he shows great promise. I wouldn't mind working with him again in the future."

"All the endorsement I need." Xer slapped the tabletop. "Believe me, you'll have plenty of opportunities to hone your skills, boys. The Liviens won't go down easily. Coros, I can't wait to see your other sons in action."

"Ledo and Portaan have their own skill sets. I believe Marco's are best suited for the battlefield."

"Oh, you spoiled aristocrats," Xer rolled his eyes. "You're so soft and flabby. If I didn't need you now and then I'd put you all against a wall and shoot you."

Deema gasped. Ledo's mouth hung in shock. Coros tried very hard to maintain composure.

Then the pirate king broke out laughing again and downed another glass of wine. All the while Jaminere sat quietly, eyes flicking back and forth between Xer and Xim, wondering how these two could possibly be blood relatives.

"Clearly the alliance between our people is going to a nuanced one," Ledo said blandly. "We have much to learn from each other."

Xer slammed his chalice on the tabletop. "You're damned right we do. But that doesn't mean we can't have some fun. Bring out the jester! Let's have some entertainment!" the pirate king called, then belched aloud, actually belched. Deema covered her disgusted frown with a napkin while Ledo barely held in laughter. As for Xim, his face was hard as stone.

Jaminere had kept mostly-stoic until now, but even he showed surprise when Xer's jester appeared. It was an alien, and unlike any one he'd seen before. Standing on two stubby legs but only a meter tall, covered in brown fur, it looked like an overgrown pet freed from its cage. Bells jangled at wrists and angles and streamers colored bright yellow and red dangled from its long thin tail. Two dark eyes stared past a whiskered snout with oversized incisors. The creature was delivered to the table on a gilded bier carried by two human servants, who stopped and held it beside Xer's chair.

"Honored guests," he said, "meet my court jester. Call him Oziaf."

"Goodness," Deema frowned. "What is it?"

The little creature executed a bow and said in shockingly good Tionese, "Mistress, I am a T'iin T'iin of Rinn. My home was far from here, but now it is quite near."

"I got him in a cargo ship I took off the Spiral," Xer said fondly. "Didn't even know he could speak until I'd had him a week."

"How… fascinating," Coros said, because all other words failed him.

"Sing us a song, Oziaf," Xer said. "Make it a good one."

"Your wish is my command, Master." Oziaf snapped a short bow. And then he started to dance.

He jerked his little limbs and swung his little tail. Feet tapped the bier in a syncopated rhythm and his bells chimed against them. And then the creature started to sing in a bright and chirpy voice:

"What find I here, all gathered bright?
The bold, the brave, the pure, the trite.
They set themselves to seize a world
Now treat themselves to dinner gorg'd.
What future next? I dare not say,
To Xer belongs the light of day
And all the rest, myself among,
Are shadows cast by his great sun.
Yet they preen and yet they feast
But can they stand to Xer, the beast?
Well let them drink, let them swallow
Their doom lies waiting 'ere the morrow.
Or should it be, if Xer but wish
Forget that, though, and pass the dish!"

When the furry little creature was done he ended with another bow. Xer burst into laughter (in his case, literally belly-slapping) while the Sorascans stared in anxious shock. Xim clapped along with his father, and Jaminere caught the tiny hint of a smile.

As the servants carried Oziaf away, Xer took a swig of wine and soothed them, "Don't be threatened, 'twas merely a joke. Oziaf is my jester, after all! So don't worry, I mean you no harm, not today, not tomorrow. So let's bring more food in and enjoy ourselves!" He swung his glass high. "Let's get some refills too, eh?"

The feast continued, more awkward than before. As he drank more wine, Coros IX became a little less polite, though his regal veneer was so firmly implanted that it never slipped entirely. That was all right; Xer's drunken tales and constant bellowing made enough wildness. Thankfully, the pirate king passed no more threats.

Jaminere drank too, but it did nothing to buoy his mood. Instead he sank deeper into his usual frustration. By all rights this should have been a victory feast for himself and Xim, but both sons were eclipsed by their fathers. Such different fathers but smothering shadows all the same.

It wasn't that he craved his father's approval; he'd realized years ago that he'd stopped caring what his father thought of him. No, what Jaminere hated was being blocked from the approval of others, because without that approval he could accomplish nothing, become nothing more than a dust-mote in his father's palace.

But that was what he remained to everyone except, he dared hope, the son of Xer. From time to time that evening he caught Xim's dark eyes on him. They were as unreadable as ever.

Things became less formal after the main course of dinner was complete. Admiral Kadenzi excused himself, as did one of Coros's less-favored concubines. Xer was by now red-faced drunk, and he didn't seem to notice as Xim rose from his ivory chair. With a look, a twist of the chin, he bade the lesser prince to follow.

Nobody cared when Jaminere left either. He only got up and followed Xim out of the room.

Escape was a relief. Jaminere still didn't know what to make of this small, severe young man who seemed in many ways older than his father, but he found himself irrationally relaxing in Xim's company. He felt (again, perhaps, irrationally) that they must understand each other in a way others cannot.

As they walked through the palace halls, boot-heels clacking on the polished tile, Xim said casually, like they'd been conversing all night, "My father's had this place for seven years. It's the closest thing I've known to a home, but I still get lost sometimes. It's full of lesser hallways and forgotten rooms."

Jaminere, whose home had always been the lesser halls of his family's estate, suggested, "Perhaps that's because you're away so often, waging your father's campaigns."

"Perhaps," Xim said. He kept walking, hands clasped behind his back, and Jaminere followed.

Xim did not seem like a man wandering tentatively through unfamiliar halls. He moved fast, with long strides, like he was impatient to reach his destination. Jaminere had never seen the prince walk any other way.

"When my father ousted King Ferece," Xim continued, "he sent teams to scour every cranny. He said it was for security, to smoke out booby traps and secret assassins that might have been left behind. That's only partly true. What my father really wanted was booty."

Jaminere thought of several possible responses before saying, "He does enjoy the finer things in life."

"If by 'fine' you man 'crass and gaudy,' then yes he does."

Jaminere was taken aback. He'd gathered Xim and Xer had a cool relationship, but this was the first time the prince had openly spoken ill of his father. It felt wrong to Jaminere, who'd never voiced his own silent resentments aloud, not once.

Apologetically he said, "Your father is very… vital. He's more ambitious and brazen than anyone I've ever met. It's no surprise he's accomplished so much."

"My father might seem outrageous to you, but he's a man of Argai, through and through. Ever since the Liberation, our line has ransacked the spacelanes, collected plunder, and taken pride in brigandage." He looked back and performed another shocking feat: one tight smile. "My people are savages, Prince Marco. There's no point mincing words. Your Allied Kingdoms, the Livien League and the Cron, they're all civilized. And it's made you weak."

Was he being mocked? Jaminere said, "If we were weak, you wouldn't need our armies to conquer your enemies for you."

Xim's smile got a little broader. "There's different kinds of strength. My father understands some of them. Yours understands others. They're both incomplete."

"And yours is complete?"

"I aim to be. Come, we're almost there."

Xim walked even faster down the last corridor. He pushed through a set of heavy doors and stepped into a large, dim room. Jaminere only appreciated the scale when the lights were flipped on. Crystal chandeliers dangled five meters above. The wall they faced was twenty meters long, and while its base was piled with crates, all draped in dusty tarpaulins, the upper portions were adorned with a vast mosaic. White, brown, red and blue stones, each no larger than a thumbnail, were collected by the thousands and arranged in artful images.

Jaminere recognized some common icons of the Liberation: the phoenix crest, the human armies with spears and pikes, the tall, stalk-eyed shapes of the alien Tyrants being beaten to retreat. As he took in the mosaic it felt like he was being swept along with a triumphant tide. Which, he was sure, was the point.

"My father doesn't care much for art objects," Xim said, "unless you can pour wine into them. Or eat with them. That's why this one stayed down here, neglected."

"It's a shame."

"Is it?"

Jaminere looked to Xim, who stared back with unreadable intent. He'd thought the other prince had brought him here to show off favorite artwork and perhaps share private gripes about their parents, but it seemed he was still misjudging Xim.

A little awkwardly, Jaminere said, "I'm no art expert, but something that celebrates the Liberation deserves to be seen, not forgotten."

"Why?"

Now he was truly confused. "The Liberation… it's the high point of our people. Our entire race. We threw off the Tyrants and made our own destinies, our own governments and kingdoms."

"So goes the myth. But what do we really know about it? We base our calendar off it, but what happened? Did we really sweep away the Tyrants in one year, or was it the climax of some long struggle? And how were a bunch of enslaved humans able to drive them away? Even now we can barely understand their technology."

"There's plenty of recorded history about the Liberation."

"Most of that was written down within the past three centuries, well after the Tyrants were driven off—or left of their own accord. And every world has a different version. Who took the lead in fighting back the Tyrants, Sorasca? Or was it Barseg, or Chandaar, or Yutusk? Those 'histories' are works of self-aggrandizement. What we have is myth, not fact."

"Does it matter? Without the Liberation none of our kingdoms would exist."

"And what have those kingdoms been doing for the past five hundred years?" Xim snorted. "We fight amongst each other. We ravage each other's worlds and build up grudges like piled stones in a fortress. Tell me, how did the hatred between Corlax and Sorasca start? Do you even know for sure? Does anyone?"

"There are… competing stories," Jaminere allowed.

"Exactly. More myths. We were freed from the Tyrants and what did we replace it with? Anarchy." Xim scowled at the mosaic.

"Not anarchy," Jaminere insisted. "Humanity has divisions, yes, and we've fought wars amongst ourselves. Too many wars, I'll admit. But it's far better than being enslaved by monsters."

"Do we even know the Tyrants were monsters? No, only that they were alien. All we've been told about them comes from our ancestors, who were trying to paint themselves in the most heroic light possible."

He'd never suspected Xim might be an apologist for aliens. He was less appalled than intrigued; the prince was full of surprises. "Do you really think we'd be better off if the Tyrants were never defeated? I can't accept that. You certainly shouldn't. Your people—savages, you call them—would never have existed under the Tyrants. They'd have exterminated every last Aragaian. No, humans are better off ruling themselves, even if we do fight each other."

Xim looked at him again, that tiny flash of light in his dark eyes. "Do you think there's no third way?"

Now, finally, Jaminere saw what he was getting at. "You think your father can conquer all of humanity. That he can force peace and order through conquest, like the Tyrants did."

Xim shook his head. "Not all of humanity. There may be human colonies far outside known space. In fact, there probably are. But the Allied Kingdoms, the Cron, the Liviens, the Thanium Worlds and the Keldrath… why shouldn't they all be under one banner?"

Jaminere wanted to say that holding all those hundreds of systems under one empire was impossible, but Xer had already done more than anyone thought possible. Instead he said, "I don't know if your father has the temperament for that kind of government. Like you said, he's more interested in plunder."

"Exactly. There are strengths, and there are strengths." Xim clasped his hands in front of him, meshing fingers. "My people know how to pillage. Your people know how to govern. The Cronese are good at conquest and the Liviens are master traders. If we pool our talents, we can make something the likes of which the galaxy hasn't seen since before the Liberation. And this time, it will be an empire of humanity."

Jaminere took a deep breath. "What we have right now… barely holds together. Your father shocked the Cronese into submission after he chased off their king. Sorasca allied with you because, frankly, we'd never win a war with all of Cron. Now that we've settled scores with Corlax, my father and brothers think they can leave you to fight the Liviens yourselves." He found it didn't bother him to reveal his father's secrets.

Xim shrugged, like he'd assumed that all along. "What they want matters less than what they need. They can be made to comply."

"Like you made the Cronese comply?"

"If necessary."

And he remembered those nicknames he'd heard before: Xim the Brave, Xim the Bold, Xim the Cruel. For a moment he'd forgotten about all the young prince's purported actions dominating the Cron. He'd even forgotten their own actions—their shared decision—at Corlax.

It was because of that hard, shared choice that they were in this dusty room while their parents celebrated in the gleaming banquet hall. The two princes understood each other in ways Jaminere couldn't articulate. If Xim could, he wasn't sharing.

Something more important begged to be asked. Mouth dry, chest tight, Jaminere asked, "You say your father is a savage. Do you really think he's the kind of man who can unite all humanity?"

"In war? Perhaps."

"But in peace?"

To that Xim only shook his head. Sternly, perhaps a little sorrowfully.

Jaminere took a deep breath and looked at the mosaic, that grand depiction of history and legend. Xim was talking about making legends of his own. And he wanted Jaminere to help him.

Xim stepped close enough to touch, but his hands remained at his sides, clenched to hard fists. He said, "I'm not the kind of man my father is. Neither are you. That is good, because we can be more, do more, than they can ever dream of."

"Do you really believe you can unite all humanity?"

"Yes. And this time there will be no alien Tyrants to force peace on us. This time, humanity will unify itself. We can do that. And all our peoples will be better for it." Then Xim reached out touched him on the shoulder. Touched him for the first time. "I swear, history will remember me as Xim the Just."