Zephyrin sat with all the patience he could muster in Abbé Beauvran’s office while the priest sorted through a variety of school assignments and original compositions. Arithmetic, geography, languages, music theory, short stories, snatches of poetry—even the odd theological argument. Zephyrin had gone all out since he began attending the small rural school. In truth, he knew his abilities to be merely above average to good in most categories, but given his age an ordinary observer couldn’t be faulted for thinking that they represented the work of a once-in-a-century wunderkind, whose intellectual powers would only continue to develop as he matured. However, cognizant that he was already at his intellectual peak, Zephyrin realized the necessity of profiting off the capital of his tantalizing potential while he still could.

The elderly priest paused over one of his earliest works, a rag paper littered with algebraic formulas. “I say this every time, but it’s really beyond me how a boy your age, let alone one in your circumstances, managed to acquire such an impressive body of knowledge in so short a span,” he remarked.

“It’s all by the mercy of the Goddess,” Zephyrin replied, thoroughly annoying his curate.

“Yes, and it’s thanks to Her mercy that fish cavort in the seas and birds frolic in the skies, but that doesn’t clarify matters in the least—such trite remarks are wholly inadequate to the phenomenon at hand, my boy,” he replied dryly. “Especially in light of your lack of forthcomingness. Don’t think I don’t know you’re hiding something from me. No, don’t bother arguing; my mind’s quite made up…Hm.” the priest scanned another school assignment, then laid it back down on his desk. “Well. You know what I told your father, I presume.” The priest peered at Zephyrin over his reading spectacles.

“Yes, Father. You think I should pursue an ecclesiastical career.”

“Yes. With your abilities, anything else would be a waste,” said the staunch clericalist bluntly. “But what’s this I hear about becoming a soldier? Whyever would you choose that career, of all those available to you?

Zephyrin made no response. Abbé Beauvran sighed. “More mysteries,” he murmured. “You are making my decision more difficult than it needs to be.”

Zephyrin’s fist tightened on his thigh. The biggest impediment to his advancement in the world was his status as a baseblood. If this opportunity didn’t go through, he’d be out of options until the age of fourteen at the earliest. “I… I’m willing to attend a religious preparatory school. But I can’t promise that I’d pursue the priesthood.”

Abbé Beauvran leaned forward, intrigue plainly written on his features. “That is more than enough. All I and Monseigneur Puch ask is that you test the vocation, nothing more. As for the army… I assume you have your sights on the Royal Army? Why would you expect to carve out a career there as a baseblood? Are you pinning your hopes on your bloodline?” the priest quizzed Zephyrin. “Have you perhaps arrived at mistaken idea of your father’s status? What notion have you formed of his allodial land, exactly?”

“To be honest, I thought it might have been passed down by an obscure blueblood ancestor,” Zephyrin admitted.

Abbé Beauvran shook his head, immediately quashing his hopes. “The land was ecclesiastical. It was conceded several generations ago to the baseblood Albrech Calon, a man of some reputation in the community, on account of an heroic service rendered to the diocese. When a band of Solitarians were roving about, looting and burning churches (my, how history repeats itself), Albrech concealed the parish’s relics and priceless works of art on his property until the Crusaders restored order. In recognition for his services, the bishop of the time (whose name I’ve shamefully forgotten) partitioned it and ceded him a small holding. Before then it was simply part of the assorted farmland under the jurisdiction of St. Ùwuinaëlle’s pastor—of which title I am presently the happy possessor. Were it not for your great-great-great-great-grandfather’s devotion, your father’s land would be under my purview, cultivating grapes rather than wheat, and the last five years of drought would not have seen me dip so acutely into the reserves of my vintage of choice. But we digress. The long and short of it is…” The abbé frowned. “Is what, again?”

“Is that I have no noble descent,” Zephyrin supplied resignedly.

“Yes! That! Your blood is as red as a Lusitanian’s nose after his brawl of a wedding feast. Thus, you have no possibility of studying at any of the continent’s prestigious schools,” concluded the priest with a triumphant air.

“So what’s the solution then, Father?” Zephyrin asked, somewhat testily. “How can you propose that I study in Doëndessa?”

“Indeed. This conundrum certainly deserves a steepling of hands,” said the abbé in a tone rich with allusion, as he performed that very action.

Zephyrin stared blankly.

“Surely you follow my drift, boy! A steepling…?”—the abbé gestured toward the window, through which the church’s spire was conspicuously visible—“No? Pah, you’re no fun,” he said dismissively.

Anxious not to fall out of his pastor’s good graces, Zephyrin labored to form an awkward smile. Placated, the priest continued with a smile of his own: “You are correct that as a baseblood, you have no hope of studying in Gaulyria’s elite academies, much less those in Doëndessa. Such a privilege is not granted even to most bluebloods. But it is not at all out of reach for a member of the House of Valensis,” he said quietly.

Zephyrin opened his mouth to retort, but checked himself. He noticed the curious light in the old priest’s eye. Could it be…? Suddenly, Zephyrin was reminded of the violent incident in Estrelti eight years ago, and its immediate aftermath…

His vision dim, Zephyrin stirred in his mother's arms. In his ears sounded a monotonous droning, like the buzzing of insects.

(Oh be quiet,) he thought, and yawned. The buzzing ceased.

“The little fellow certainly doesn't hold back, does he,” remarked Abbé Beauvran.

You'd yawn too if you had to extend a personal ward over an entire building, thought Zephyrin grumpily. The adults’ conversation resumed. Though weakened, Zephyrin managed to piece together what had happened in the immediate aftermath of his uninhibited display of mana. He gathered that the ward had sufficiently cowed the rioters, causing them to flee and putting an end to the chaos; the madness had subsided as quickly as it came.

The baron and his wife, however, had still elected to depart. To their considerable chagrin, Lord Levisse and his wife learned that their mansion had not escaped the fate so narrowly avoided by the parish church, having been set aflame by the mob before it made its way to St. Ùwuinaëlle’s. Fearing a recrudescence of violence, and urged on by the priest and peasants, the baron had decided to seek out accommodations in the city of Sècludys, capital of Conte Vaïsse, the enclave located two provinces east of Baras. He and his wife had profusely thanked the abbé and baseblood villagers, then left with the surviving members of their household. Now the priest and several pillars of the community stood about discussing their prospects of gaining the border unharmed.

“I’ve little doubt of that; it’s more of a question whether the enclave will prove a durable refuge,” the abbé murmured. The peasants made no notice of this comment, but Zephyrin did. Did the cleric suspect that the violence of the day was but a prelude to the chaos which would soon spread like wildfire across the whole country, before shaking the foundations of the entire continent?

Zephyrin feigned sleep. This priest... was no ordinary cleric. What was he doing in a backwater like this, he wondered. Then, before long, his feigned slumber became very real…

Yes, thought Zephyrin, it was at that moment he began to suspect the abbé of being more than a simple rural parish priest. An early indicator had been his erudition, of course, but freethinking priests were hardly a novelty in this era; they would apostatize and leave the Church in droves as the reformation of Gaulyrian society began in earnest, after all. No, what was curious was the mixture of learning and attachment to old values. That Estrelti’s curate belonged to the nobility was therefore not wholly unexpected; that he was a son, however minor, of the House of Valensis, the largest and most illustrious in the northeast, on the other hand… that was a surprise indeed, and a most welcome one; for, if Abbé Beauvran was suggesting what he thought he was…

Satisfied with the impression his words made on the normally unflappable child, the abbé continued: “You would be my heir, which is to say you could hope to inherit no more than an ivory cane, a pair of ill-fitting spectacles, and the ire of any disgruntled parishioners, for I renounced all my original claims to land and property, however petty, when I entered the priesthood. But society would count you among the Valensi, and unless someone thinks to inquire into your origins, you can be reasonably certain of passing as a noble, if minor and impoverished. But I trust that would be of little consequence to you, given your even humbler origins.”

Zephyrin nodded, perhaps unnecessarily. He pondered over this tremendous proposition. It would allow him to change his plans considerably. As he integrated this new information, the elderly priest mistook his silent cogitation for a rare display of childish hesitation. His features crinkled into a benevolent smile. “Now now, my boy! There’s no need to worry! It goes without saying you’d stay with your parents until the day of your departure! This would be a transfer of guardianship in name only!”

“Ah… yes.” That was in accordance with his expectations, but it was good to receive confirmation of it, actually. Meanwhile, the priest looked at him expectantly. “So? Is this arrangement suitable? I’ve already discussed the matter with your father; if you yourself are willing…”

“There’s just one last thing,” Zephyrin said.

“Oh? What is it?”

“The school. I don’t want to study abroad. My goal is the Lyceum of Rudolf VII, in Lutesse.”

Abbé Brauvran blinked several times. “Eh? Eh? The lyceum of… the one in Lutesse, you say? How did you even find out… oh, never mind. Certainly, it’s a school with a good reputation, and it admits only blueblood sons, but… well, it’s no boast on my part to say that the name of Valensis would easily procure you admittance to a superior institute. If you will not study in Doëndessa, why not attend the finest school in Gaulyria? The royal lyceum is hardly more than a stone’s throw away…”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry, Father,” Zephyrin amended his words quickly as the abbé quirked an eyebrow, “but if I am to leave Baras, it must be for that school.” Zephyrin held his breath. That was a bit of a bluff, but if he had a correct read on the situation…

The priest twirled a quill between his fingers, not taking his eyes off the boy. He set it down gently next to the administrative forms on his desk. “I don’t know why you’ve set your heart on that one in particular. With your intelligence… Is there really no changing your mind?”

Zephyrin shook his head. The priest regarded him for some time more; then he sighed. “Very well. Wait here while I have a word with your father.”

‘Zephyrin dy Valensis. dy Valensis…’

On the way home, Zephyrin experimentally repeated the name a few times. It had a nice ring to it. It paled before ‘Zephyrin dy Aléri, Emperor of Orbe, King of Gaulyria, Archduke of Ascana,’ of course, but baseblood beggars can’t be choosers. At this point in his life, obtaining a noble title was worth its weight in blood. As for tuition… the priest had breezily overridden his father’s objections and said the diocese would cover the costs of Zephyrin’s studies. There was the concern of what he would do when the monarchy was toppled and the new government would break up the country’s ecclesiastical domains, of course, but he would worry about that when the time came. Finally, he was leaving Estrelti. The school year began in October; he would be leaving in three months’ time.

Though dinner passed peaceably that evening, as it always did, Zephyrin was conscious of a tangible difference in the atmosphere, which was subdued rather than tranquil. As might be expected, though overjoyed by the vast horizons expanding before their son, an anticipation of the bitterness of separation mingled with their present joy. Zephyrin excused himself from the table quickly, intending on retiring early to his little room and leaving his parents to confer quietly; to his surprise, however, his father insisted on visiting his room and reading him (of all things) a bedtime story.

“Aren’t I too old to—” Zephyrin cut his protest short. He saw the melancholic light in his father’s eye. A feeling of shame came over him. Hadn’t he been ‘too old’ every step of the way during this second childhood of his? Now that he was on the verge of leaving, maybe it was time to redouble his efforts at playing the part of a loving child. Zephyrin held his tongue as his father sat on his bed, book in hand. It was a handsome one, procured at considerable expense for the humble farmer. He recognized it as the storybook his father had bought him for his third birthday, when his intelligence was already on display and it was obvious wooden toys and the like would only ever fail to capture his interest.

Judoc opened it and began reading slowly, with frequent pauses, his delivery halting from disuse and the erosion of rudimentary knowledge acquired long ago in the parish school. He reminded Zephyrin of a child practicing his letters, alternately quietening as he came over a more difficult word, then growing louder as he overemphasizing others. But his voice was strong and agreeable, compensating for his faults in diction. As Zephyrin lay in bed, he closed his eyes and listened to his father read aloud:

“Enri is a good little boy. Every morning after he wakes up, he goes down on his knees at the foot of his bed, joins his hands together, closes his eyes, and no sooner is this done than a little golden Car appears before him, and then an angel to swing open the door and close it again. Off the little Car goes, out of the room, flying through the streets where small children are already rushing off to school, to their fun and games. Looking on with astonishment, they ask, ‘Just who could possibly be inside that little golden Car?’

The Car climbs up, up, and seeing it the singing birds and swaying flowers ask themselves, ‘Just who could possibly be inside that golden Car?’

The Car passes through the clouds, which wonder much the same. But the curtains are drawn. No one knows who’s inside.

Then come the stars in the azure, through whose midst the brilliant Car comes shooting, outshining and astonishing them all. Oh, how they would like to know just who is inside that beautiful Car!

Now the Car arrives in Paradise. Floating aside, the angels exclaim: ‘Make way for the Golden Car!’

Selena receives the Car, opens the door, and out before the eyes of the breathless angels, stars, clouds, and flowers comes… the soul of little Enri. There he is, at the feet of the Goddess, Who embraces and blesses him.

The Goddess showers Enri with caresses and then with gifts, until the Golden Car is overflowing with presents.

Then, back in the Car goes the boy, and back down to earth the Car goes.

Enri rises from his knees. He’s finished his prayer.”

Judoc’s fingers lay still on the page. He stared unseeingly at the book for some time, then cleared his throat and closed it shut.

Taking both of his lifespans into consideration, it was evident Zephyrin was a couple of decades too old to appreciate the story as its author intended. And yet… And yet, he thought, perhaps it was his advanced age that made its simple, childish style so poignant. His advanced age that made these moments with his adoptive parents so—yes, that was the word he was looking for—so precious.

Zephyrin closed his eyes as his father blessed him, murmuring an invocation to the Goddess in his deep voice. As the prayer ended, Zephyrin thought he detected a glistening in his adoptive father’s eyes. At that moment, a doubt suddenly seized him: had he truly been a devoted son to the farmer? Was there more he could have done? Now that the day of departure was fixed, and the carefree days spent in Estrelti would drift away for good, like autumn leaves in a free-flowing stream, Zephyrin wondered whether he could not have done more for his parents. Lying still in the darkness, as a small candle flickered by his bed he resolved to compensate his parents for their affection and devotion. It was the least he could do.