“Returning in an hour, you don’t have to inform me,” the leader replied.

“No, I’m leaving. You’re on your own,” said Krish.

“What?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing. You know I’ll be watching so don’t screw up what I’ve tried to establish.”

“But, but—”

“You’ll do fine. Just remember what worked and what didn’t work on Soul and learn from your mistakes. But neither I nor the Prophets will be there to help you.”

“I, I will do my best, Krish.”

“You’d better. Now leave. I have to concentrate.”

“Yes. And, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, you saved our lives. You gave us a second chance. There are thousands here and we haven’t had a second to say it and everyone’s—”

“Enough. I didn’t do it to help you. I did it because I didn’t want to see you screw up so terribly like you did on Soul. Do your best, like you said, and make sure you never need me again.”

The leader nodded, then left, not wanting to bear Krish glaring at him anymore.

Krish closed his eyes and concentrated on the planet Spirit. It was smaller than Soul, in a solar system in the galaxy adjacent to Mother. His body seemed to shimmer and shudder as he used the power of fifty drained Whites to collect particles and radioactive materials from all across the solar system, using his drained Gold power to heal his body and harvesting with his Red hatchet. Minutes later, he was fully drained and a barrier of interstellar materials was set in the atmosphere of Spirit. It was night then, and a ribbon of colors glowing in a magnetic stream shot across the sky that had formerly been the plain night stars of an unnamed galaxy.

Krish sighed with relief that some of the Whites had recovered enough for him to drain them. It was just enough for him to shift himself and his captured Prophets back to Sevens. When he appeared on the steps before the home of the Sevens Prophets, he stood still as the entire building quickly emptied. Trainees and teachers and Prophets of all ages leveled their weapons on the power-filled man, as Krish held his glass-clear hatchet before him. It made a clinking noise on the stairway as he dropped it.

“And then several dozen Reds shot me seventy-three times before I lost consciousness,” Krish said to the Sept.

The gallery had been silent, leaning on their chairs. Now as the story was told, several of those dozens who had shot Krish began whispering statements that it was their blow which had stopped the man standing before the wide-eyed Blesser.

“Enough of a charge for me,” the Gold Chair insisted. “I call for his immediate execution.”

“Second,” the Red Chair added. “Draining against someone’s will is akin to rape, Krish of the Red. It should never be tolerated.”

“We don’t execute Prophets for this charge, Chair of the Red,” the Blesser noted. “I deny your charge.”

“I understand the ruling, Blesser. I only seconded on principle.” The Red Chair smiled at the Blesser. “Had I thought you actually would execute him, I would have voted against it.”

The Gold Chair snorted. “Defending Krish?” he asked.

“No. Defending Reds against future punishment.”

“You akin draining against one’s will to rape. And yet you don’t want them punished?”

“I want them punished in the worst way, but Prophet Law is very specific about this particular charge.”

“Prophet Law doesn’t refer to something in this far of the extreme.”

“Agreed, Chair of the Gold,” the Blesser said. “This requires a special case.” The Blesser pounded her mace on the pedestal three times and stood. “We have heard the tales presented. Chair of the White, are their stories true?”

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“Yes, Blesser,” the Chair of the White responded in ceremonious fashion.

“They did not lie, mislead, or refrain in any way?”

“No, Blesser, they told exactly what happened. All that is left is our discretion on whether their actions were right or not. The facts lay before us.”

“Very well.” The Blesser addressed the gallery. “All that Prophets do is public before all Sevens Prophets. The Blesser makes a charge, which is approved by the Sept. I will have the gallery silent while these actions are taken.” The Blesser leveled her mace at the first accused Red. “Harol of the Red Prophets. Step forward.”

Harol made a sound in his throat that might have been a whimper, might have been him choking on courage, as he approached the Sept seats. The Prophet guarding him also stepped forward. In all cases of Propheticide, the Sept delegated vie telepathic dialog. The faces of the Chairs and the Blesser remained silent as they debated the charge, Harol sweating with every blink. He knew that if the charge was leveled, the Red standing behind him with the ready, glowing spear would be told telepathically that the verdict was guilty.

“Harol of the Red Prophets. On the charge of Propheticide, the Sept finds you not guilty. Any charge of Propheticide is withdrawn,” the Blesser stated.

Harol let out an audible sigh of relief as he whispered, “Thank you.”

“On the charge of murder, I announce the Sept finds you guilty.”

“What!”

“Since this is not a charge of Propheticide, we will vote on this openly. How say the White?”

“Guilty,” the White Chair said.

“How say the Gold?”

“Guilty,” the Gold Chair said.

“How say the Red?”

The Red Chair stared at Harol, making eye contact before shaking his head and saying, “Guilty.”

“But I tried to stop it! I did my best!” Harol wept, taking a step forward before the waiting Golds stepped forward and held him, one with a glowing gauntlet and the other with a shimmering helmet. “They were going to kill everyone! I had to do something!”

“You were ordered to withdraw, Harol. It was not your responsibility to save them. Had you succeeded, it would have had far-reaching consequences I am relieved my descendants will not have to face,” the Blesser said.

“Even you knew they couldn’t be stopped. We tried for decades, Harol,” the Red said with pain in his voice. “Prophets have sacrificed themselves in the moment many times, especially we Reds. But there was no message in your actions, no meaning, no triumph to be had. It was only vengeance. You wanted to kill them for killing themselves. For that, I cannot stand.”

Harol fell to his knees and cried into his hands, mumbling about trying to save the people of Soul.

“Stand him up. Harol, fallen from the Red, in normal circumstance you would be stripped of your Prophethood and sent to the planet where your actions were taken to be held liable according to the local laws you violated. However, the local rule of law was destroyed in the apocalypse they created. And what few leaders might have survived, you yourself murdered. There is no precedent for these actions, so I will create one. You will be sent to the planet where you were originally descended, stripped of your blessed weapon, and with your charges known to the local authorities. What actions you take, and what actions the authorities on your home planet take, are no longer of our concern. Does the Sept approve?”

The three chairs voted in favor.

“Then it is decided,” the Blesser said. “Harol Tarnin of the planet Home, we are unable to forcibly shift you. You can either accept this judgment or become a servant for the Golds.”

Sniffling, Harol said, “I’ll go.”

“Very well. The Sept requires a Gold and a White to escort Harol Tarnin to his former place of citizenship on the planet Home.”

The Gold and White Chairs announced a pair of Prophets to escort the criminal. They stepped down from the gallery and approached where Harol Tarnin stood, their weapons out.

“Take him away,” the Blesser said.

Without another word, the volunteered White closed her eyes and disappeared along with Harol Tarnin and their Gold escort.

“Jerard of the Red Prophets,” the Blesser said, “Step forward.”

“If I am accused of anything it is of being loyal to the Sevens Prophets! I am no traitor! I helped—” Jerard shouted.

“You have not been asked to give a statement, Jerard. Be silent.”

“I will not be silent as the leadership of the Prophets allows traitors to go unpunished! You should have killed Harol for what he did! You should have—” Jerard’s voice winked away as the Blesser surrounded him with a shield that closed the air around him, deafening his voice. She closed her eyes and said a few words in his mind. When the shield disappeared with a light wisp of air, the accused was quiet.

“You will remain silent as the Sept discusses your crime. Jerard of the Red, step forward.”

Jerard kept his mouth shut as he stepped forward. The Red guard behind him also stepped forward, his scimitar glowing as he raised it above Jerard’s head.

The Blesser closed her eyes. It took a long time, several minutes, before the Blesser stood once more and looked straight at Jerard.

“Jerard of the Red Prophets,” she said, “on the charge of Propheticide, the Sept finds you guilty.”

The moment the word was spoken, the Red guard’s scimitar came down and slit across the back of Jerard’s head. The cut was slight, more an incision, but the crimson blade sent killing energy into the man the moment it touched skin. Jerard fell dead as his executioner flourished his blade and went to a knee. He proffered his weapon to one of the Golds guarding Krish, who took it and walked away. It was custom that someone forced to kill a Prophet would give up his blade for at least a day. This kept any emotional strain from adding further death.

“May your crime be overcome,” the Blesser said to the body.

The Red Chair stood as Whites came to collect the remains. “Melt his blade down and enter his name on the Pillar of Fools,” the Red Chair said. “May all Reds remember his sacrifice, and the reasons behind it.” This was the customary statement given when a new name was entered on the pillar.

“Krish of the Red,” the Blesser said. “Step forward.”