A swift, abnormally cold spring wind rolled down the Black Mountains, sweeping across the fertile plains of southern Gaulyria and battering the well-worn shutters of the Calon farmstead. Dark clouds rushed overhead in an overcast sky, ostensibly fleeing in terror as the wind probed around the stone domicile, seeking ingress with a writhing, many-fingered hand, its howls of rage funneling down the chimney. Soon its moans were seconded by another complaint, that of a rusty, creaking bolt being unlatched. Laboring against the wind, a woman opened the house’s heavy front door. She surveyed the green-gray landscape, then closed the door again, having caught no sight of the presence for which she was waiting.

Through the bars of his crib Zephyrin watched as Mari sat back down in her rocking chair. Judoc had not yet returned since departing several hours ago. She voiced no prayers now, fingering instead her beads in silence. From time to time she looked up, gazed out the window, then lowered her eyes again.

Zephyrin… felt an acute sense of déjà vu, despite the novelty of his circumstances. Lying on his back, helpless, unable to do anything—this was all too reminiscent of his first life, with the added bonus that he was now deprived of the consolation of speech. Almost he was tempted to break silence, to reveal his identity to his adoptive mother, to speak adult words of reassurance with his infantile voice, to divulge the tumultuous events to come— but his better judgment prevailed over the temptation. Other than emotional gratification, there was nothing to gain from revealing his true identity at this point, nor did he think there would ever be. The Empire’s fate rested on his foreknowledge of future events; calling attention to himself unnecessarily only imperiled the natural course of events and invited future mistakes. Zephyrin had very early on in this new life bound himself to complete and utter secrecy.

Presently, the wind died down. Silence supplanted noise, granting a temporary but welcome reprieve to the house’s occupants, though the suddenness of the transition had an odd, unsettling effect. Then, without warning, a shout was heard in the stillness:

“Mari!”

Zephyrin’s mother rose in a flash. Crossing the foyer rapidly, she unbolted and threw the front door wide open. “Erwan?” Zephyrin heard her call out in a steady tone.

“Judoc sent me!…” Erwan’s voice trailed off as his sister-in-law stepped outside, shutting the door behind her. The wind resumed its groanings. It was in this moment that Zephyrin felt his physical helplessness most keenly. What was happening? He waited impatiently as the house’s shutters beat dully against its fissured stone walls. Why wasn’t his mother ushering in Erwan? What could they be speaking about?

After the elapsing of seconds that had gained the proportions of minutes to Zephyrin’s impatience, the door reopened. Reentering alone, his mother purposefully moved from room to room with a quick stride. She gathered a number of small objects unseen by Zephyrin, went into the kitchen and wrapped up some bread and cheese in an old cloth, then threw an old cloak and a shawl around herself. Her preparations complete, she hastily scooped up Zephyrin from his crib before he could even wonder at her actions. She enveloped him in a simple but warm fabric as well, then carried him outside.

Zephyrin shivered as a blast of cold air hit his face. His mother drew her shawl around herself, shielding him. Soon Erwan came into view, leading by the bridle Àdan, Judoc’s faithful nag. He helped Mari up, then coaxed the reluctant pony forward as she held Zephyrin securely, preserving him from the worst of the jolts as they silently quit the farmstead and began ambling down the rocky, meandering path to the village of Estrelti.

A million questions raced through Zephyrin’s mind. Why were they leaving? Had the situation escalated? Were they in danger? Erwan had apparently briefly explained the situation to his mother, but he had no idea what was going on. None of this lined up with his historical knowledge of pre-rebellion Gaulyria. Whether given by his Elysian tutors or procured by himself in secret, the history books he had read were unanimous in affirming that the popular uprising against the king had begun in the cities, specifically the capital, then diffused across the countryside. Was he truly living through history as it had originally unfolded?

Preoccupied by these considerations, Zephyrin saw naught of the vast Gaulyrian landscape that would have ordinarily sent a thrill of elation through his heart. Instead, he circled vainly around unverifiable possibilities in thought, and brooded.

The village, Zephyrin reflected, differed greatly from how he had seen it during his first visit for the occasion of his lachrymation. Though the only apparent change was the desertion of the main street, there was a strange, palpable energy in the air, a tension that thoroughly transformed its character. The plain, two-story wooden houses lining the street now had something mildly foreboding about them, and Zephyrin noticed that from their window sills wary eyes were watching the slow progress of his uncle and mother. No attempt was made by Erwan to engage the residents in conversation; bridle in hand, he simply advanced wordlessly toward their destination.

That destination was the village church, dedicated to Saint Ùwuinaëlle, patroness of Gaulyria and much beloved by the baseblood peasantry, from whose ranks she had sprung. As they arrived Erwan helped Mari down, who then stood patiently while he attached the pony. Upon his return they entered the church together.

Inside the church’s dim, candlelit interior, Zephyrin found a most curious scene. From what he could tell a sizable portion of the village’s inhabitants, as well families from the outlying area, were currently located in it. That in itself wasn’t unusual, here in the religiously devout south; no, the anomaly lay in the fact that it was so crowded independent of an on-going religious office. At present, it appeared that the church was serving as a meeting place…

Or a refuge, the thought occurred to him. Indeed, the way people huddled together in pockets, conversing in subdued tones, gave one the impression of desperate people seeking shelter in a warzone, or during an epidemic. Zephyrin’s mother looked around, but Judoc did not seem to figure in any of the groups.

“I’ll speak with the abbé,” Erwan murmured, striding forward. Zephyrin looked and perceived the black-robed priest at whose hands he had been purified, standing near the door to the sacristy. A wizened, elderly priest, he had a bald pate, with wisps of hair protruding outward from his temples that were vaguely reminiscent of wings. A beak-like nose, sallow eyebags and a frail, reedy voice only contributed to the bird-like impression given. Zephyrin remembered him as a genial, if somewhat eccentric cleric, with a penchant for disconcerting remarks. Erwan spoke with him at some length, then recrossed the nave. In answer to Mari’s inquiring gaze he merely shook his head. Judoc had not yet returned. Zephyrin felt rather than heard a small sigh escape her.

Several stools had been set up near the walls for people to converse without importuning those praying up front near the altar. Zephyrin’s mother tentatively took a seat alone. He tried to make out the words of the people nearest to them, but failed. All he could do was wait as his mother rocked him back and forth, somewhat less peaceably than her wont. For his part, Zephyrin’s uncle knelt down in a pew and bowed his head.

Time passed. It began to drizzle. Still in a pew but seated now, Erwan tapped his fingers lightly on its gnarled surface, the sound imitating the faint downfall on the church’s roof. “C’mon, Judoc,” he muttered.

As if in answer to his summons, the church’s double doors burst open. People turned their heads at the sound of animated voices; Zephyrin craned his neck as best he could. In from the rain came several persons—an old man he had never seen before—the sacristan, perhaps, followed by several men he thought he recognized, farmers who had visited his father and mother after his birth. And, after them came…

“!” His mother rose at the sight of her husband, but the sight of the next entrant into the church forestalled her advance. From his vantage point in her arms Zephyrin saw a youthful man enter, whose disheveled state did little to diminish his distinguished air, if anything accentuating it instead. He wore an expensive green coat with golden buttons, and as he raised and tiredly ran a hand through his slick, jet-black hair, Zephyrin caught sight of a sleeve’s wool-white ruffle. His elegant black breeches were made of silk, and a dark red cravat completed the fashionable ensemble. Only his white stockings did not fare so well from his precipitated flight, splattered with mud as they were.

As he wearily penetrated into the church, an even younger-looking, pale-faced woman with straight hair of an identical hue followed closely behind him. She was no less finely appareled, in a white, high-neckline muslin dress decorated with miniature golden heads of wheat, of which the train was lamentably sullied. She was succeeded by a very tall, very dignified manservant with gray streaks in his temples, a nervous-looking brown-haired valet at least three decades his junior, as well as two maids, simply but respectably attired. These people, Zephyrin safely concluded, were baron and baroness Levisse, along with several members of their household. The abbé walked forward to greet the baron.

“My lord, thank the heavens you and the baroness are safe…”

“The heavens! Yes, they’ve graciously preserved us from the bloodthirsty hounds loosed by them! Fides superum!” Lord Levisse replied in a tone laced with bitterness. Diplomatically ignoring this comment, Abbé Beauvran encouraged the baroness to seat herself and rest. Meanwhile, Judoc and Erwan’s gazes met. Erwan nodded reassuringly with a broad smile. Following the movement of his head and confirming the presence of his wife and Zephyrin, Judoc’s eyes briefly closed in relief. Immediately after, however, he was solicited for details.

“What news, Judoc? What’re the others doin’ outside the village?” an elderly villager asked him.

He cleared his throat. “They’re rovin’ around the lands, askin’ folk whose side they’re on. A militia, they’re callin’ themselves. Aubert’s farm was set alight when he refused to join them.”

Zephyrin felt his mother’s arms tense around him. If Uncle Erwan hadn’t warned them in time…

The man was astonished. “Settin’ fire tae folks’ homes, all for defendin’ the lord? That ain’t right; that ain’t right at all…” he muttered, backing away. Judoc continued:

“There were a few lads in Estrelti talkin’ of joinin’ up with the bands from Chazel and Alys. Erwan and I calmed ‘em down right quick. Then Renaud’s son told us about a plan to coerce the lord. Erwan an’ his group went to warn the families, an’ the rest of us rode to the lord’s manor. A good thing, too, ‘cause there were men—an’ women, if ye can believe me—from twenty miles ‘round, it seems.

The fresh-faced valet nodded, stepping forward. “It was a terrifying sight. There were over a hundred of them at the gates.” He shuddered. “The stable-hand and groundsman were killed. We saw the mob wave their heads on pitchforks…”

Lady Levisse’s pallor increased further. Erwan cursed, interrupting the youth’s grim recital. “None o’ that in front o’ the women,” he growled.

“And none of those expressions in a house of the Dame, if you please,” said the abbé dryly. The farmer blushed. The valet gave an apologetic look to his mistress, then continued: “His lordship attempted to calm them, but there was no convincing them.”

“So how did you get past them?” the abbé asked, turning to face Judoc.

“We didn’t. They had the front gate well surrounded; we couldn’t get through. Twas only thanks to this lass’s quick thinkin’”—the farmer gestured to the smallest of the two maids—“that we were able to meet up with the lord.”

The maid in question, a mousy looking creature with prominent front teeth and ears reddened as multiple pairs of eyes turned her way. “It… It was nothing,” she mumbled. “In one of the bedrooms… the linens…”

“There was a fresh basket just waiting for us in milady’s bedchamber. We tied it all together and hung it out the window and climbed down,” her companion supplied.

“O praiseworthy womanly wiles!” said the abbé. “What next? How did you complete your daring escape?”

“We considered risking the stables, but feared watchful eyes on the horses. But, just as we were resigning ourselves to fleeing on foot, Judoc and his men found us,” she said. The hero of the hour nodded.

“Aye. Me an’ the lads were searchin’ for a way in through the back, and despairin’ of bein’ able to help. Then I caught a glimpse of milady’s white dress near the tree line, at the domain’s edge.”

“Whereupon you rode up, knights-errant with bidet horses for valiant steeds, and whisked away the gentlemen and damsels in the pitch of their distress,” the abbé completed.

“Had you not found us, I dread to think on the fate that would have befallen us,” said the graying manservant in a low, deliberate voice. “The mob was working itself into a frenzy when we left. Now they’re ransacking the lord’s manor and scouring the countryside for us, doubtless.”

The baron’s lips curled at his steward’s words. “Filthy basebloods!” he spat.

A light kindled in the abbé’s eye. “Well do I sympathize with your outrage, milord,” he said mildly, “yet may I caution you not to lash out too passionately at the fox, for fear of striking your hound; for, ‘… at inde agrestum pro rege manus.’” A guilty look came over the nobleman’s face at the reminder of his rescuers’ condition—basebloods were they to a man, these humble farmers, with nary a drop of highborn blood in their lines.

“... My temper got the best of me. Forgive me,” he said stiffly, inclining his head in apology. Zephyrin’s father bowed his own head.

“Deservedly may’st thou reproach us men of low blood for our lack of gratitude, yet may it please thy lordship to know that not all of our strain are as prompt to forget their benefactor’s mercies,” he said quietly. The uncomfortable nobleman gave a curt nod, then tramped over to the sacristy to confer with the abbé in private. His wife remained behind, sitting awkwardly on her own. In an attempt to set her at ease, Zephyrin’s mother approached her, offering the baroness her shawl as she did so. Lady Levisse accepted it gratefully, then regarded the plainly garbed peasant woman attentively. While the nobleman had paid no more than a cursory glance to the babe in Mari’s arms, her gaze lingered on the infant. “How old is she?”

She?!

Had his surprise been any lesser, Zephyrin might have actually reacted; as it was, he was so taken off guard that he didn’t so much as twitch. Of all the trials that might test his resolve to conceal his identity, he had not foreseen this!

His mother smiled. “It’s a boy,” she said softly.

“Oh!... he’s very pretty,” the noblewoman said, ignorant as to the reason why Zephyrin suddenly began writhing at that moment. Apparently it was his destiny to be fussed over by women, whether Elysian or Gaulyrian!

Zephyrin’s mother looked at Lady Levisse kindly. “Wouldst thou like to hold him?” she offered. As a look of faint surprise came over the noblewoman’s face, she hastened to add, “Many years was I sterile, and had despaired of ev’r bearin’ a son. But after many prayers the Goddess deigned answer my prayers, an’ I ween this little one is blessed by the heavens. The Goddess may bless thee thro’ my babe, mayhap.”

Lady Levisse hesitated, then nodded. She held out her arms gingerly as Mari handed over a disgruntled Zephyrin to her. Their gazes locked.

Closer proximity to the noblewoman gave Zephyrin a better look at her. Though not plain, neither was she conventionally pretty, her refined mouth and nose being undermined by a weak chin, lifeless skin, and a high, overly wide brow. The day’s sorrows deepened the native melancholy of her eyes, giving the impression of a young girl overwhelmed by events, one which was only reinforced by her well-rounded, almost babyish cheeks—not that he was one to talk. Zephyrin wondered whether she would have the strength to withstand the trials to come. At least, he told himself, the day’s harrowing experiences had not succeeded in breaking her yet.

For her part, Lady Levisse regarded the blond, blue-eyed infant intently, temporarily forgetting her misfortunes. “What eyes he has,” she mused aloud. “It feels as though he’s seeing right through me. And how quiet he is!”

Mari smiled. “Aye, he’s a pensive one.” Zephyrin noticed the noblewoman giving his mother a curious look—wondering at the lack of resemblance between mother and child, perhaps—before returning her gaze to his. He began staring blankly at nothing in particular, playing the part of an ordinary infant to avert suspicions; then, on a whim, extended his mana imperceptibly toward the noblewoman. Being a woman, she wouldn’t have been trained in the arts, and he didn’t fear her noticing the extension of his fledgling powers.

… Hm?

It was hardly noticeable, but Zephyrin thought he felt not one, but two sources of mana. Though seeming no more than a day over sixteen, Lady Levisse was with child. A curious sensation came over Zephyrin at this discovery. He had no idea what future lay in store for the child; he didn’t even have any knowledge of a “Lord Levisse” from his first life. But in the original world, this was a child which had grown up in his father’s era, and perhaps lived to see him ascend the throne. It had seen the Empire’s rise and subsequent fall, and then Gaulyria’s final humiliation. Whoever this person had grown up to be, he would have been well into middle age by the time of Zephyrin’s death, which was a most peculiar thought.

Things would be different this time. The era of golden promises wouldn’t extinguish before the ardent hopes it stoked in the hearts of its loyal sons and daughters were realized. He would make sure of it.

Grow up well for the Empire, little one, he thought, withdrawing his mana.

After tentatively caressing Zephyrin a couple of times, which he grudgingly endured without complaint, Lady Levisse returned him to his mother. Mari worked up her courage and asked the (to her) great lady about her circumstances, and how events had come to such a pass. Falteringly, with occasional pauses when an upswell of emotion accompanied a particular recollection, the noblewoman unraveled her tale. In doing so she gave Zephyrin a few clues with which to form a clearer picture of the events that had transpired, and conjecture as to their wider context.

Lady Levisse did not know much. Entirely without warning, it seemed to her, had tensions reached fever-pitch and the fief’s subjects risen and taken up arms. Their reason for doing so eluded her. Being the lord of the small barony of Armora, Lord Levisse was necessarily implicated in tax collection, but in nowise responsible for the policies of the province of Baras, never mind the kingdom. It was therefore a complete mystery to his wife why the peasants of the barony’s assorted villages had suddenly swarmed her husband’s domain, demanding that he remit a cripplingly burdensome and supposedly imminent tax, the existence of which neither she nor her husband had heard of until today.

The baron had sought to reassure them from the window of his study, but his words had fallen on deaf ears and hearts rendered obdurate by fear—fear and the absolute conviction that all the baron’s words were lies, their demise a preordained and meticulously planned out affair, and only starvation awaited them while the lord and his fellow nobles would hold a riotous feast by means of the scanty tribute. Where they had acquired such notions, the baroness said with a sigh, she was quite at a loss to explain.

What had happened next proved more disturbing. Disregarding the baron’s words, the peasants had demanded that he grant them free entrance into his home, that they might destroy the draconian orders he had supposedly received, and avail themselves of his property and wife’s jewels, which latter they particularly coveted, hoping to sell them and provide for their hungry children with the proceeds. Lord Levisse had flatly refused them all admittance, and that was when the scene had degenerated badly. Lady Levisse gave no details concerning the two deaths, and Mari did not pry for them. Zephyrin didn’t need to hear more to draw a link between them and the blood-letting which would soon occur in the capital; the motives and methods seemed much the same. The only baffling element consisted of the timeline.

Had his existence already altered history? Zephyrin entertained the possibility with great difficulty. What had he done these past six months apart from drinking his fill of milk and allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by lullabies? No, more likely it was that this incident in the south had originally happened as well, but simply gone underreported. and that he was presently suffering from a historian’s omission of an outbreak deemed unimportant in light of the much more dramatic events to come. This was an important lesson. He would have to be careful not to take for granted his foreknowledge in future.

“There ‘ave been whisperin’s ‘bout that ‘ere in the village as well,” said a middle-aged peasant woman, breaking Zephyrin out of his reflections. “Rumors ‘bout a requisition of grain…”

“… and it’s absolute nonsense,” intervened Lord Levisse, who had returned in time for the tail-end of his wife’s account. “This year’s harvest tax will remain the same as last year. We are not blind to the plight of the rural regions; we know that this year’s harvest risks being just as poor as the last four, after the recent hail storms. The viscount’s directives haven’t changed.”

“But the crowd didn’t believe you,” the abbé commented.

The baron scowled, crossing his arms. “No.”

“Will we be able to think of a more persuasive line of argument now, I wonder,” Abbé Beauvran murmured.

An earnest discussion began regarding the ideal course of action to take. It quickly reached an impasse. Abbé Beauvran and the villagers were alarmed by the virulence of the riots and their spontaneity, and advocated on the side of caution. Seeking temporary refuge in a neighboring province until peace was restored, they argued, was the most prudent course of action. But Lord Levisse staunchly refused to abandon his lands, even if only temporarily. “The provincial governor will send troops to restore order before the week’s end!” he hotly exclaimed. “I will not give that rabble leave to plunder my ancestral home in the meantime!”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship, but what’re ye expectin’ us to do in the meantime?”

“That’s!—” The baron trailed off. After thinking for a moment, he tried again. “Don’t some of you know how to channel your mana, if only a little?

Blank stares greeted this statement.

“Channel… our mana?” one of the villagers asked slowly. “We’re basebloods, yer lordship. Lightin’ a bedside wick is ‘bout the best we can manage.”

Lord Levisse chewed his lower lip in frustration. “Even so, can’t you—”

“Abbé Beauvran! Abbé Beauvran!”

Heads turned as a man burst into the church. Abbé Beauvran winced at the continued irreverence shown to the Goddess, but simply inquired, “What is it, my son? Has something happened?”

“A-Aye, Father!” the man panted. “The militia! They’re done wi’ the lord’s manor, an’ now they’re on their way here!”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. Lord Levisse stepped forward. “How many are they?” he demanded.

Addressed by his lord for the first time, the man gulped and stared at him wide-eyed for a moment. Then, drawing a deep breath he answered, “More than five hundred strong.”