"Man no longer dreams over a book in which a soft voice, a constant companion, observes, exhorts, or sighs with him through the pangs of youth and age. Today he is more likely to sit before a screen and dream the mass dream which comes from outside." -Loren Eiseley

For a hundred years the kingdoms of earth prospered. The end of that century was marked by the death of Bredde, King of Daarken, a tiny country in the mountainous north. To most of the world, Bredde's death was inconsequential and overlooked in the larger scheme of things. But Bredde had been well-loved and was sorely missed by his people.

Under his kind hand Daarken had flourished. The sounds of mourning echoed off fertile hillside farms and in the well-kept streets of the towns scattered through Daarken's mountain country. However, the people of Daarken looked forward to the time when Bredde's small son, Aeron, would be old enough to rule.

Aeron was a sweet infant, bearing an uncanny resemblance in stance and character to his father, but one difference left many a noble staring as rudely as a noble can. Both Bredde and his queen had been fair; their hair pale blond and faces with a fresh, ruddy complexion, but Aeron was dark like the denizens of the southern countries, with a thick thatch of black hair.

There were some whisperings in the court speculating on this phenomenon, lists idly made of the black-haired men of the castle; Bredde, however, had quashed the quickly spreading rumours, and the gossips took up other subjects. But when Aeron's mother died only weeks after his birth, it was said that Bredde had sat by her tomb and railed for hours at the god that had betrayed him, and the faithless wife that had as well.

Bredde was not the same after the birth of his son and the death of the queen. He became ill, and one evening after months of drifting in and out of conciousness, he called his most trusted advisors to him.

"I have no time to waste now; I am dying, and I will be gone soon--sooner than you think. You must, you must hear what I have to tell you! I will not live to see my son crowned King. I will not be able to teach him anything concerning the governing of a nation. I will not be here to care for Daarken until he is of age."

"I ask you thirteen, whom I have known nearly all my life, to do these things. To teach my son the ways of a true King, and govern Daarken until his coronation. I give you this charge in the name of my ancestors, the Rulers of Daarken since beyond the reach of Time, and in the name of Daarken herself, that you do these things as I have said…asked…that you do these things…for me."

"I call you the Council, and you will rule Daarken until my son is sixteen. May you be blessed in your pursuits, may your life be long and your reward just and sweet…" Bredde's eyes closed gently as he spoke the last few words, and he was dead.

For three years the Council ruled Daarken with the same justice and wisdom as had Bredde. But in the fourth year they began to change. The Council were good men, and had had positions of great power under Bredde, but they had always had their king to guide them. They were unsuited for the immense responsibility the king had left them.

Also in the fourth year of the rule of the King's Men of the Council, a book was discovered in a long-empty storage celler of the castle. It was large, dusty, and the cover was blackened with age. Only a few court scholars showed any interest in this find, and it was soon forgotten by all but a few.

And in the spring of this year a girl-child, named Triste, born just a season before, disappeared into the wilderness. Her parents, who were of the most humble class of peasant, mourned for the daughter they had lost so soon.

Each succeeding year the Council found it harder and harder to resist the temptations of Greed. They began levying impossible taxes and charging fees for every imaginable service, from taking a portion of all the crops of all the farmers of Daarken (instead of taking tribute from a select few to support the castle residents) to charging a toll at nearly every usable road. The coffers of the Council overflowed with riches, and tons of food rotted in castle cellars and requisitioned warehouses while the people of Daarken began to starve.

In the seventh year, a huge storm gathered over all of Daarken and raged for seven days and seven nights. Only the high places of Daarken were not flooded. It took nearly two months for the water to dry up and drain away and in that time Daarken was plagued with sickness, and Death ran rampant through the starvation-weakened population.

But the shadow of the unnatural storm lingered beyond even this time; while the sun began to shine over other places in Daarken, the sky over the castle roiled constantly with dark, evil-looking clouds.

Six of the Council died of plague in the months following the terrible storm. The seven men left did not concern themselves with the plight of their ravaged country-they had become cold, cruel versions of themselves. A peasant pleading for aid in the Meeting Room of the Council was just as likely to be taken away and executed as given help.

Rumours once again flew around the castle: of mysterious late-night gatherings of the remains of the Council in isolated chambers, sightings of a mysterious black book and an equally enigmatic young boy who silently roamed unused wings of the palace-a boy, black of hair and eyes blue as the autumn sky, and also of hideous monsters that harrassed those living on the edge of Daarken's huge forests.

But these rumors quickly became bedtime stories and the tales old women told each other to pass the time as Daarken fell further and further into shadow in the hands of the Council.

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