In the heart of a sumptuously decorated room, seated at a great mahogany desk, a slender, blond-headed youth wrote with studious concentration. The desk was strewn with papers, which seemed not to bother the young man as he periodically dipped his pen in a golden, eagle shaped inkstand. His uniform was blue with golden buttons, blending seamlessly with the room’s sky-blue lacquered walls, while the earthy tones of the glossy parquet flooring accorded harmoniously with the ubiquitous dark antique furniture. Everywhere the Elysian eagle could be seen: below the acanthus leaves of the low tables’ carved cabriole legs, tapering down into sphere-gripping eagle talons; on the mahogany drawers, each knob forming a pair of silver eagle wings; in the front of the gold gilt marble top table, featuring a golden eagle with a scroll in its beak, perched on four sphinxes.

There was a rap on the door, which the young man pointedly ignored. Two successive knocks met with no greater acknowledgment. At length the door opened, and still the young man didn’t raise his head. “I said I would eat later—” he began irately.

“Working as hard as ever, I see!” a male voice interrupted.

Looking up abruptly, the young man saw that it belonged to a dark-haired, sun-tanned soldier leaning against the doorframe. Grinning through his waxed mustache, wearing a fine blue-gold uniform with a saber at his side, he was the very archetype of a dashing Elysian calvaryman.

“Anato!” Zephyrin exclaimed, rising to his feet. The pair approached and gripped each other’s forearms familiarly, the older youth chuckling at Zephyrin’s exclamations of surprise. Soon they fell into eager conversation, Zephyrin plying the twenty-two-year-old for details about the battles he had fought, the sights he had seen, the customs he had observed in strange lands. Anato dy Ostalir was one of Elysia’s most promising young commanders, and Zephyrin would not allow an opportunity to speak with a man of his quality to pass him by.

As they conversed, Anato noticed that Zephyrin’s joy over their earlier than expected reunion gradually gave way to a nervous energy, an anticipation of sorts. When at last they finished exchanging their news and began to broach personal matters, the heir to the defunct Gaulyrian throne came to the concern that was foremost on his mind. His expression clouded over, he opened his mouth tentatively and said, “In truth, my friend, there is a matter that has been weighing on me more and more heavily since our last meeting.”

Seeing Anato motion wordlessly for him to continue, Zephyrin did so anxiously, almost hurriedly. “Be candid, do I have any merit, and am I called to a great future, or is there naught in me to arrest the eye? What do you think of me—nay, better, what do you hope from me, from my future? What will become of the great Emperor’s son? Will Orbe stand for his occupying a post of whatever importance? How am I to reconcile my duties as a Gaulyrian with my condition in Elysia? Yes, if Gaulyria calls me—not the Gaulyria of anarchy, but she in whose breast beats the imperial ideal—I will fly; and if all the monarchs of Orbe seek to chase me from the throne, I will bare my sword against the entire continent. But is there yet an imperial Gaulyria? I know not!”

Zephyrin began pacing agitatedly, while Anato weighed his response. Before he could give one, the blond prince continued: “What news can you give me of my homeland? You know how adulterated is the information that finds its way into my hands—is it true what they say, that public opinion is against the Gryphon’s return? That the country is well content with its diminished status as a protectorate, and has no appetite for a push for independence?” He turned his vivid blue eyes to lock with his companion’s in supplication.

Anato thought for a moment, then replied to his younger friend, “Sir, so far as it is given me to weigh the sentiments of Gaulyria as a soldier charged with the defense of his homeland’s borders, know at least that in my travels, every Gaulyrian who has been apprised of my position at this court has not failed to anxiously inquire of me as to your health and prospects. I am of the opinion that if you were to cross the border, let alone regain Lutesse, the general enthusiasm would render a popular acclamation and transition of power more than probable. As for your personal quality: I pray you will allow yourself to be convinced, sir, that if the crown of all monarchs weighed as heavily on their brows as that which you bear in spirit, Orbe would be the envy of the world, and this generation the first to enjoy the fruits of a new golden age.”

Zephyrin whirled around, the light of hope breaking in his eyes. “Oh, you cannot suspect how much joy your words afford me!” he exclaimed, striding over to Anato and clasping his hands with fervor. “How contrary your discourse runs from the consensus in this palace! Gaulyria, they say, would have nothing to do with a sickly, maleducated princeling such as I; would have nothing to do with one whose Gaulyrian plods rather than trips sprightly from the tongue, whose pale countenance borrows more from the pallor of the Elysian princess than the hale, Gaulyrian warrior; I know the accounts false, and calculated to plunge me into despondency; and yet…”

He hesitated. “… and yet, they are repeated so often I am almost of a mind to believe them. One certainly can’t say there aren’t forces working to that effect. My tutors… they hope to addle my wits with the sweet perfume of poetry to make of me a wastrel, no better than those fellows in the universities, who spend their days with their fingers curled around a plume and their nose in a glass of absinthe.” He paused. “Perhaps I should suggest they go the length of procuring the original manuscripts, in the hopes of intoxicating me on the residual fumes!”

Anato chuckled. “I would wish them well in the endeavor. However slim your shoulders, they bear a noble head, and you are not one to fall prey to illusions and dreams.”

“So you say, but I can see the allure of retreating into a dreamworld of epic myths, and glorious battles, and ethereal beauties well enough, when the world of one’s waking is less lavish in the gifts she bestows,” sighed Zephyrin, adopting a malcontented posture, his earlier elation fading as remembrance of his hopeless circumstances impressed itself upon him with its usual force.

“Surely you have other books to read?” Anato offered, picking up but making no comment on his companion’s sudden taciturnity. Zephyrin uncrossed his arms and straightened himself.

“Ah! You think me moody. Well, you’re right to. I brood; it is a bad habit of mine. But you have not known the frustrations reserved for one who attempts to escape this prison—and that not even in body, but in mind! Vapidity is prized and honored more highly in this palace than any other place in Orbe, I suspect, and I have the greatest pains in the world obtaining anything susceptible to improve my mind.”

“Indeed, rather than sharpening your wits, it seems you have been diligently applying the whetstone of cynicism to your tongue.”

Smiling good-naturedly, Zephyrin reached over and gave Anato’s earlobe a sharp tug. “I ought to thrash you for that! And be sure I would, were our positions reversed!”

Anato couldn’t help but allow his eyes to linger on the thin, translucent wrist, hardly more than half the size of his own. Zephyrin noticed his gaze. To forestall a sympathetic comment, he opened his mouth and quickly continued: “I won’t stand for any reproaches on this score; consider the unreasonable vigilance of my tutors. That I should read economic and agricultural works, they scarcely tolerate; mechanical treatises, even less, and to obtain military works—with the exception of those detailing Elysian victories over my father—now that is an impossibility.” Zephyrin abruptly laughed. “Their victories! I leave you to imagine how slender my personal collection would be, were it not for a few souls sympathetic to me in the city and this palace.” There was a coy light in his eyes as he said this.

Though it seemed to him that this revelation fell much too casually from Zephyrin’s lips, Anato couldn’t help but be intrigued. Leaning in, he asked in a low voice, “The reach of your friends extends to this place, sir?”

“Worry not about our being overheard,” Zephyrin replied easily. “The man in the wall is fond of naps. I hear him snoring quite often—at first I thought the noise the scurrying of mice, but now I’m quite certain the spy assigned is fonder of his cups than my conversation. As for my correspondence, though I’ve no doubt the spies have cracked my latest cipher, I daresay it’s as amusing a game for them as it is for me. At the very least, I am putting the king’s spymaster in my debt by securing his continued employment!” He smiled briefly; but then, despite his air of bravado, took the precaution of leaning in before murmuring in the young soldier’s ear, “Do not think I’ve suddenly developed a mania for all things equestrian. Every outing sees me return with a new book tucked in my breast pocket… thrown in the fire as soon as memorized, of course.”

Anato’s eyes flickered with understanding. His gaze strayed to the window looking out on the park.

“Precisely,” Zephyrin said softly; then, grinning, he whispered, “My allies have a sense of humor. Concealing the accounts of my father’s glory just by the Grand Chancellor’s latest folly…”

“Buried conspicuously enough to attract the eye, but shallow enough for you to uncover…” Anato murmured.

Zephyrin nodded wordlessly, then turned his own eyes to the window. He strode over and leaned his tall, slender frame against the wall, crossing his arms as he glanced out at the vibrant midday gardens. “The pain of having none to call my friends has been succeeded by one which both pleases and chagrins me to discover: that of being unable to render gratitude to my hidden sympathizers. But, one day perhaps…” He contemplated the extravagant view of the palace grounds unseeingly for some time, then idly commented, “Do you know, my friend, that there are projects of placing me on the Ellàdoran throne? Well, I say projects, but whispers may be more accurate. In any case, the thing is being discussed in high circles.”

Anato didn’t need to gauge Zephyrin’s facial expression or intonation; he fully anticipated his friend’s contempt. “Still, it would be a way out of this palace,” he ventured.

“Only to exchange the bars of one crib for another,” Zephyrin replied, now examining his fingernails. “They extend the crown of that country as they would a bauble to an infant, as something to amuse a prince who would have forgotten his birthright.” He paused, picturing himself as the king of that small island nation. “Were I to accept, I know not which would circumscribe my ambitions more, between the waves of the Baléran sea or my cowardice in accepting such an inglorious proposal. But let us leave behind such speculations in favor of more diverting ones!”

As Zephyrin pushed himself off the lacquered wall, Anato allowed himself to be pulled along by the hand as the late Emperor’s son guided him to the center of the room, where a war board was waiting. Anato was familiar with this table: it was where the grand campaigns of the second millennium were organized, their battles planned in meticulous detail, the destinies of kingdoms and empires decided. Zephyrin opened a large rosewood chest and gathered up small painted figures one by one, gradually populating the field of battle.

First came the infantry, their miniature hands clenched around mana-powered rifles, staples of the modern battlefield. Skirmishers, line infantry, volunteers—from the common baseblood infantryman to the trained blueblood officer, all were faithfully reproduced, down to the piping and buttons of their gold-blue uniforms. But most lavishly painted of all was the stalwart cohort in the rear of the formation, the grenadiers: tall, broad-chested, their grim, meticulously painted mustaches bristling, one arm extended back to fling their condensed mana spheres, bayonet-tipped rifles gripped in the other to carry out a dauntless charge.

But their mounted comrades rarely proved willing to let the infantry seize all the glory: next the calvary made their appearance, led by the cunning light horsemen, ready to dispense death from their pistols, wheel about and strike a dozen different places during battle; these were seconded by horse-tail helmeted dragoons, and the gallant formations were completed by heavy, silver armored and saber wielding cuirassiers, saved until the pivotal moment to deliver a crushing blow to the battered formations and last hopes of the enemy.

Anato watched Zephyrin line up his soldiers, the only he could command, and knew the army not yet fully constituted. Now came the engineers in their moon-yellow breeches, modeled in a permanent crouch, their hands held out to weave whatever might strike their general’s fancy: trenches, mines, bridges—all elegantly formed with mana, at the first, but if a battle lasted too long, and exhaustion set in, recourse they would have to the common materials offered by the earth. And then before his waiting eyes the lynchpin of the action finally made its appearance: the artillery, consisting of wheeled syphons that would rain down their magical payloads on the hapless opposing lines, manned by carefully handpicked crews with large mana reserves, able to recharge the formidable death-dealing weapons throughout the long, grueling hours of battle.

With these brave and loyal troops, their Elysian colors pointedly ignored and imperial purple Gaulyrian uniforms substituted in the mock-general’s imagination, a new sun rose over the reconstituted Gaulyrian Empire. The griffin banners waved, and the continent was united once more…

And then the game would end, and the soldiers strewn each way and that in simulated death would be resuscitated from the fields of glory, but only to return to another sleep. The battle-lines would be erased, the hills flattened and the forests razed, and all the figurines, decor, and landmarks returned to their respective boxes, where they would slumber once more—and dream, perhaps, along with their master, who even as they retired from the day’s battles, continued to envision them fighting: fighting man and nature as they waded through the muddy terrain of low-lying Fleuria, the thick brush of dark, treacherous Hercynia, ascended and conquered mountainous Tirrah, and further to the east, consolidated the fractious provinces of Aonia, before finally subjugating the northernmost reaches of the Rim.

Anato stood silently as Zephyrin leaned over the table and excitedly shared his strategies and demonstrated original tactics, moving the figurines rapidly on the board. Occasionally he stopped, straightening himself to explain a complex maneuver more fully. All throughout his hands were animated, his eyes flashing with fire. When he was done, he raised himself from the board and turned to face Anato once again, seeking his gaze with anxious, eager eyes, anticipating the verdict of one uniquely placed to evaluate the merit of his stratagems.

Anato cleared his throat and said honestly, “Sir, from the commencement of your plan to its culmination, I can find no faults, neither in strategy nor tactics. It is impeccable.”

Zephyrin leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes gleaming. “Really? Speak you truly, my friend? Please, do not think to soothe my ego with the balm of false praise; I would have your keen eye unblinded by our amity!

“Is it enough to assuage your fears of flattery, if I say that I am considering incorporating your tactics into my own troop movements? For you know of my love for my men, and how little inclined I am to play games on the battlefield to bolster my own prestige, as some of our generals are sadly wont to do.” Anato paused, then inquired, “Will you take up Grand Chancellor Lothar’s proposition that you captain an Elysian regiment?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Anato wondered if he should have avoided broaching the subject. Something of a shadow immediately came over Zephyrin’s face, and his eyes filled with indecision. He seemed torn, almost distraught. He glanced up at Anato, then averted his eyes, a trace of bitterness in his smile. “Ah!… You put your finger on the wound. Freedom I may have, but only if I consent to fight for my gaolers. A most diabolical bargain.”

“It is not uncommon for a soldier to end his career in an army other than that he began it,” the young commander said delicately. Zephyrin’s lips quirked upward.

“Though the least shred of military glory acquired would be magnified by my father’s name, and would serve as one more step toward the throne, I cannot become an adventurer, nor dabble in the disputes of factions. In any case, the situation in Gaulyria needs to become clearer before I engage myself to a soldier’s life, should my health even support its rigors.”

“Even if there have been skirmishes near the eastern border? There are rumors of hostilities breaking out with Rimphaea…” Anato suggested.

“Rimphaea!” Zephyrin repeated. “If I am to make my name on the fields of glory, how I would fain scatter the armies of the Rim. But for the moment, my duty consists of preparing myself to lead an army. I will neglect nothing leading to that end. It is said that war is not learned in books; but is not any strategic conception a model suitable to stoke inspiration? Is the resolution at which a great captain arrives in a critical situation not a lesson? By familiarizing oneself with historical accounts, do we not establish real and lasting ties, not only with the writers, but also the actors in the great drama of history?”

Anato appraised his golden-headed friend out of the corner of his eye. Zephyrin’s breathing was audible, as if he were mildly winded after a bout of exercise, but that could be attributed to his speaking so animatedly over the war board. Though pale, he was not deathly so, as Anato had seen on other occasions. This was one of his good days. The problem was that these good days were becoming less and less frequent, especially since his seventeenth nameday had come and gone…

After voicing his agreement, Anato inquired as to Zephyrin’s relationship with his grandfather, the Elysian king.

Zephyrin paused. “His Majesty lavishes me with affection, but it is a cloying, sticky sort—one that would cause the beloved to adhere to one’s person, rather than find fulfillment in other pastures, as should be the aim of all true, noble sentiments. In his mind I am but an extension of my mother—Elysian through and through. He sees nothing—or tries to see nothing—of the unclean Gaulyrian blood. In this, though for different reasons, he and his court are alike: they are of one mind in wishing me bound to an Elysian princess—one not so low as to entail disgrace, nor so high as to fan the flames of ambition, it goes without saying.”

“Did you not say when we last spoke that he is amenable to the prospect of a free Gaulyria, with you seated on her throne?”

“He says words to that effect easily, when the idea is a fancy, a castle floating in the sky. Propose the laying of its foundation on earth and see for yourself how quickly he is roused to opposition, even without the whispered warnings dripping from the Grand Chancellor’s poisonous tongue.”

Anato hesitated, then said, “I will speak with my uncle the First Marshal on your behalf; he is sympathetic to your cause, and is intimate with others who would fain see a prince of Elysian descent on Gaulyria’s throne.”

Zephyrin smiled faintly at Anato’s attempt at giving him hope. “You are kind.” He gave his companion a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, then wandered over once more to the window looking out at the gardens.

Placing his forearm on the window, he gazed out abstractedly at the marble terraces and manicured hedges, the rows of gently swaying linden trees and parterres filled to overflowing with roses representing half the colors of the visible spectrum, seemingly, while gracefully smiling stone fountains, carved in the form of angelic beings lifted on high gushing vessels, as if they would douse the sun. Elaborate gardens and picturesque ruins dotted the vast, interminable lawn. But no: it had an end, and in the distance one could faintly perceive the light of noon glinting off the spires of Saint Arnulf’s Cathedral, preeminent over the skyline of Èleuthèria—the Elysian capital he had ever laid eyes on in his waking as a prisoner, and only ever set foot in as a king in his dreams.

Anato waited as Zephyrin stared, lost in thought. Just as he was on the verge of speaking, Zephyrin abruptly said, “When is the day of your departure?”

“The fourteenth. It was thought that some delay would be occasioned by the recent losses, but the decision to meld my unit with the lately deceased Commander Belkev’s has expedited the process.”

Zephyrin started. “So soon! And here I had hoped to listen as you unfolded your tales in a leisurely manner!” He trembled a little; then, recrossing the room and reaching out impulsively, took Anato’s hand in his own and implored, “Stay by my side, sacrifice your life for me; we understand each other uncommonly well, you and I!” Several seconds passed as Zephyrin stared intensely into his friend’s eyes. Presently, he sighed. “Ah! could you but stay; but a path strewn with flowers and laughing prospects opens itself before you, one more than sufficient to tempt you from my side.” Zephyrin let his hand fall, and turned away. “Or rather, could I but join you,” he mused, then shook his head, dismissing the thought as an impossibility.

The foreign-born commander was moved by his younger friend’s appeal and plight, and though in his heart he wished to answer his impassioned plea, he knew full well there were impediments other than his duties to contend with. “Even if I were to stay, you know the Grand Chancellor would send a lackey with a knack for disrupting our meetings. He fears precisely what I have done today: my reporting to you the evolution of public opinion in your homeland.

“True enough, true enough,” Zephyrin murmured. He faced Anato once more, smiling wanly. “Well then! We had better make use of what time remains to us. You went to Lutesse! Tell me all about…”

“You’ll want to see this, laddie!”

Zephyrin started as a large hand smelling strongly of tobacco shook his shoulder, rousing him from his dream. His mind foggy from its nostalgic atmosphere, he blinked uncomprehendingly at the dark eyes kindly peering down at him.

“The capital’s coming into view! You don’t want to miss this!”

Blinking once more, Zephyrin sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. Finally deciphering the man’s words, he looked out the train window, his traveling companion doing the same.

Night had fallen while he slept, and the train had continued rattling on, cradled by the stars. Zephyrin would have thought the city could not be seen from afar, at this hour, but his expectations were magnificently upended. Lutesse appeared but then vanished by alternation, like the twinkling of a diamond, like a million fireflies forming a scintillating cloud, tiny pinpoints of light flickering in and out of sight at the edge of the deep-blue, violet tinted horizon. Though it was autumn, and most of the ancient rivers and lakes by which the city had once stood had long since drained, the city herself seemed to revive a scene from a summer older than memory, a primordial recollection taken from when the world was whole, and fairies and wonders were as numerous and common as grains of sand.

“Your first time?” the man smiled.

Zephyrin murmured ‘Yes,’ hardly hearing the man.

He had arrived. Now, for the first time, he would be able to say…

That he was home.