“From where? … What cities?” Elan asked.

“From none we know,” the guard replied.

“By horse or foot?”

“Both. Horsemen first, followed by an infantry of magnitude.”

“Then send the Vollkons. We’ll set the cities blazing in their path. The fire will turn the rebels back.”

“They are said to be a buoyant army,” the sentry offered.

“Buoyant?” Elan seemed puzzled.

“Buoyant!” the sentry repeated. “They sing as they march.”

“What about their marching makes them sing?”

“The words, sir, have to do with the crowning of some singer as their universal king.”

“The Singer!” cried Elan. “We sealed his gilded temples!”

“We have. Many have been burned.”

“And still his superstition lives,” said Elan in disbelief.

“They sing of him … this army. A general leads them. His horse is said to be so white that he appears to be illuminated from within.”

“Send the Vollkons! Burn cities in their path!”

The courier left. From high in the Crystal Range the Vollkons flew. East of the Plains of Man twenty cities burned. Elan was sure the burning cities would repel the rebel horde, if such a horde existed.

The Prince of Mirrors was undaunted by rumors of a coming war. He preached his doctrine of the glass in the capital as he had preached it throughout the troubled provinces. By now the insignia and seal were everywhere. Invader forbade Singerians to accept or wear the chain. Their disdain of mirrors and the Prince was widely known.

So persecution came. Those who refused the mirror and the seal were put in prison. When Singerians could obtain bread from the prison larders, they crushed the loaves and ate the Singer’s Meal. Beyond the prison walls men smashed mirrors and laid by the seal of Elan.

Each month thousands cried out to be unchained and received the Stigmon as Terra’s men had done in every generation. The prisons quickly filled and overflowed to improvised detention centers and temporary workhouses.

Elan began a curious plan. The temples of the Troubadour were many, for Singerians had thrived in freer days. Elan ordered the gilded temples converted into prisons: windows were barred and doors were bolted. Singerians were imprisoned where once they were most free.

Their liberation, Elan said, would be an easy matter. They had only to take the chain and publicly profess the doctrine of the glass.

“Do you believe the Singer lives on?” said Elan to the Prince of Mirrors.

“He never lived,” the World Hater replied.

“Yet they say he’s coming down some magic skyway and soon sets foot on Terra.”

“It is the hopeless tale of the oppressed. Every desperate age invents messiahs,” said the Prince.

“But, were it true …” Elan hesitated. “Were the Troubadour alive and general of an alien horde, could he be stopped with Vollkons or with armies?”

“I can’t say. Men have talked for centuries about a War of Fire. The old Singerians have it written in a book called THE FINALE. But why be troubled? If the Singer stood now upon the Plains of Man, would you surrender or fight?”