“So what happened next?” Narcissin’s gaze was keen with interest, his flinty eyes fixed on Zephyrin as he listened to his account of the incident from two days ago.

“Master Médallus came over at that moment, having noticed the commotion. He showed dy Larzgô how to form his house’s emblem.”

“But what about Foudris? Was he the one who insulted Rozarius?”

“I don’t know. The class ended before I had a chance to confront him. We haven’t spoken since.”

“Oh.”

A silence fell as they sat under a stairwell, interrupted only by the whine of old pine wood flooring yielding under the polished black boots of an adolescent upperclassman, who glanced at them disinterestedly before proceeding into the library. Not a word passed between them even after the closing of its double doors and the passage of several seconds. And yet, it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Shortly after learning that Zephyrin and Narcissin ‘had had a bit of a tiff’, as he put it, Roger singlehandedly brought about a reconciliation by pooh-poohing Narcissin’s mutterings and pressing Zephyrin to apologize for whatever he had said to cause offense.

Though still mystified by his father’s virulent reaction and antipathy for Gaulyria, Zephyrin had readily done this and the tensions between them had just as quickly evaporated. Admittedly, their conversations remained stilted and a certain awkwardness continued to pervade all of their interactions, giving little expectation of imminent easygoing companionship; and yet, in Zephyrin’s eyes, this latest development was a resounding success. Slowly, a ray of hope was beginning to show, allowing him to project into the future once more, to the day when he and the future emperor would be able to speak freely and familiarly—not as father and son, of course, but as brothers-in-arms, comrades bound by a single, crowning purpose. Now, if he could just manage to slip in allusions to future events that would be useful to his father…

“By the way, thanks for the recommendation,” Narcissin suddenly said, withdrawing a thick tome from his cloak’s inner pocket. Zephyrin hadn’t read it but he recognized the cover well enough; it was Wessali Urias's Kalédvohwch, a compilation of myths and sagas antedating Gaulyria's foundation. They centered around the legendary heroes who were said to have flourished in the aftermath of the Failing of the Lamps, after the return of the gift of mana but anterior to the establishment of the Kosmæan Church and the revelation of the Promise to humanity. Zephyrin was aware that in this era there was a resurgence of interest in the old legends—and more importantly, that the work had been a favorite of the emperor, even receiving a few scattered mentions in his memoirs.

He felt vaguely guilty about exploiting his foreknowledge in order to get into his father’s good graces, but with most of their common heritage being off limits, appealing to his personal tastes seemed the best means of rapprochement. “I’m glad you like it. What’s your favorite part so far?”

“Uh, the first saga, with Èstilmír and the Ten Treasures.” Narcissin paused. “Do you… mind if I read from it?” He looked askance at Zephyrin, who was only too glad to shake his head. “Not at all! Please, go ahead.”

“Alright.” Still in a seated position, Narcissin took a moment to adjust the thick tome in his small, delicate hands, then began to declaim in a slightly muddled but high voice:

Arise, ye pale Muses, and ope

Your mouths t’fill earth, and seas, and cope!

As the war-horn his voice doth pour,

Let your strain cross from shore to shore,

And your transcendent accents pledge

To thunder crashing at world’s edge.

Praise in your tones ethereal,

Those demi-gods who lightning wield,

And since time immemorial,

Bear oak-bound brows from battlefield…

Though Narcissin read unevenly, the impassionedness of his delivery compensated for the incorrect stress laid on certain syllables. His eyes glinted brightly, and as he read one could almost see reflected in his gray eyes the heroes of the ancient epic, wielding the elements and doing battle with the fantastical creatures and fiends that stalked the continent in the aftermath of the destruction of the Six Cities.

Zephyrin listened as his father animatedly recounted the tales of Prydwenna of the Starlight Robe, the diaphanous folds of which she had but to draw around herself to vanish like a fine mist before the rising sun; of Gàlahir Bole-Brandisher who for a spear wielded an oak tree fashioned into a shaft, surmounted by an ever-flaming metal tip forged from a meteorite that had dried an entire sea as it crashed to earth; of Gryfflam of the Golden Helm, whose crimson mantle smoked unceasingly after he slew an Elder Dragon and steeped it in the blood fountaining from its gouged heart.

He heard of the exploits of Derwyn the Trickster, ruse-rich and fraud-fraught; of Rohanayir Stormstrider, Deirdre of the Silver Harp, Eidherys of the Jeweled Scabbard, Llyrys of the Unerring Bow, Yarne the giant-killer, and finally, of Prince Èstilmír, sole survivor of Lôst Téren and wielder of the sacred blade Lamardant, wrought of rarefied aether and nearest to the Increate in substance after the gods themselves. Holy weapon in hand, the hero pitted his arm against the claw of the Great Wyrm, Skrajitnír—Skrajitnír the Terrible, the World-Bane (e Kraokou, e Urhz-Barak), and it is said that when they clashed, the resultant shock rent the heavens, allowing the gods to peer upon the doings of mortals once more.

Narcissin read for some time, long enough that Zephyrin actually felt a rising urge to grab the book from his father’s hands and declaim the verses himself. The eager light in Narcissin's eyes and evident pleasure he derived from reading (Zephyrin had to acknowledge the progress made since last time) impelled him to forbearance. Zephyrin had just resigned himself to waiting patiently until Narcissin finished, when all of a sudden…

“What’re you doing here, you lot!” barked an authoritative—but incongruously high-pitched—voice, breaking into Narcissin’s reading and startling him. Two heads turned to see a grinning Foudris D’Érazh looking down at them, stupendously indifferent to the rule of silence in the corridors. “How was my prefect imitation? Pretty good, right?”

Zephyrin drew, then released a breath soundlessly. “Are you trying to get yourself caned?” was all he asked mildly. He might have said instead ‘us’, but something in the boy’s insouciant smile told him that Foudris was the type who would consider himself amply compensated by having others partake in his miseries.

Still grinning, Foudris plopped himself down on the floor next to Zephyrin and Narcissin. “Don’t you know the hall monitor’s schedule by now, dy Valensis? There’s nothing to worry about!” Then, turning to Narcissin: “Why the long face, dy Aléri? Cat got your tongue?” That Narcissin had retreated into his shell as soon as Foudris accosted him and Zephyrin hadn’t gone unnoticed by the shrewd child. And then, before Narcissin could respond or Zephyrin speak in his father’s defense, yet another voice called out—though this one with more restraint, at least.

“Cissi, Zephyrin, there ye are! I thought we were meetin’ at the library…!” Roger came over excitedly, only to slow down as he caught sight of Foudris, his lips curving in malicious amusement at the unfortunate nickname. “Sissy! Oh, I like that!”

“Cissi! Not sissy!” Roger protested. His eyes darted nervously to Narcissin, who grimaced but said nothing.

Foudris giggled, a tittering, airy sort of sound. “Sissy and Crow, having a row! What a droll pair you two make!”

“Crow? Why is Roger a crow?” Zephyrin asked levelly, his blood boiling at the high-pitched, giggle-prone boy’s flagrant impertinence. How dare this brat insult my father? Were he a master, the boy would count himself lucky to get off with a pair of boxed ears—and if a soldier, and Foudris himself not a child but ten years older, to leave the emperor’s presence without leaking blood from his abdomen like a wine-barrel perforated by case shot… but, of course, he was a child, and in a certain sense, so was Zephyrin—and Narcissin wasn’t an emperor, but merely a low ranking noble from a backwater province.

I’m overreacting, Zephyrin thought, though this reflection scarcely seemed to make the boy’s smirk more tolerable. Foudris nudged Roger’s side as soon as the other Alérian tentatively joined them on the floor. “The fable from last week’s test. You remember—the crow that mistook itself for a songbird—est enim cornix quae crocitavit! This little birdie was pleased to sing—or should I say croak?—its praises to Saint Alanna’s statue in the courtyard.”

“Y—Ya saw that…?” Roger spluttered, blood rising to his cheeks at the realization that his discreet devotion had not been so secret after all.

Foudris sighed melodramatically. “Alas, if it had been but that! Why, I thought someone was strangling a cat! Imagine what the poor saintess thought!” Gripping his throat, Foudris bugged out his eyes and lolled out his tongue. Despite his dislike for their classmate, Narcissin’s lips quirked upward at the grotesque expression, while Zephyrin’s twisted in distaste. Truly, this Foudris d’Érazh was proving to be more trouble than he had bargained for. Zephyrin resolved to have a word with Father Athand about him… and the sooner, the better.

Meanwhile, heedless—or indifferent—to the annoyance he engendered in the midst of the small party, Foudris took a hand off his throat and patted an embarrassed Roger on the back good-naturedly. “There there, Crow! Don’t fret! There’s no shame in… murdering every note!” he exclaimed gleefully, and however mean-spirited the witticism, Zephyrin had to admit it flew true to its mark. He himself had been granted the dubious privilege of hearing Roger massacre a hymn in the pew directly behind him during a feast day; in fact, upon the boy opening his mouth, had thought his wildly out of tune singing an uncharacteristic prank, only to find out he was in fact singing in utmost earnest. That Roger was perhaps the most enthusiastic student about singing at the academy and assuredly the last whose services the choir director would think to call upon only compounded his misfortune.

Deciding that the best means of combating Foudris’s taunts was to simply let them pass without comment, Zephyrin simply asked, “And you, d’Érazh? What are you?”

“Oh, that’s obvious enough. I’m a raven; the jolly, jesting, best friend of the crow. The first to notice when he murders a song, and the first to laugh.”

“Keen ornithologist that you apparently are, I’m sure you’ve already thought of a nickname for me.” Zephyrin couldn’t help going along with the boy’s provocations, posing a question he felt sure Foudris would struggle to answer. Instead, without missing a beat he replied, “Of course. You’re an eagle. A magnificent, all-seeing eagle.” Foudris smiled pleasantly, brazenly hinting that he knew Zephyrin had correctly surmised who it was that had denigrated their Primævan classmate two days prior.

Between that incident and his mockery of his father, Zephyrin found himself sorely tempted to issue a stinging rebuke. He opened his mouth—

“You… what are you all doing here?”

What is it now?

Zephyrin and his three companions looked up to meet the gazes of a group about three times their number. Viristin stood at its head, frowning slightly, as if trying and failing to comprehend why the class emperor he so much desired to outdo was spending his recreation hour with two Alérian thinbloods and a petty noble considered a nuisance by masters and students alike. Zephyrin recognized the tall, red-headed boy and the two closest to him as Garsil and his followers (the word ‘lackeys’ strongly suggested itself to his mind); the others were unknown to him with the exception of a drowsy-looking black-haired boy…

Nèreus Tenéval. Would this be the day he solved the mystery of the commoner’s identity?

Perhaps similarly intrigued by Zephyrin, Nèreus took a half-step forward as he and Roger rose to their feet. Inclining his head slightly and eying the book in Narcissin’s hands, Nèreus said with studied politeness, “Dy Valensis. Would you and your friends care to join us? I know a place where one can read—or talk—without fear of being disturbed.”

Zephyrin took a quick glance at Narcissin, who seemed reticent but not completely unwilling. Roger merely blinked curiously through his cloudy glasses, while Foudris’s eyes flicked from Zephyrin to Nèreus with thinly suppressed mirth.

Zephyrin made his decision. Returning Nèreus's nod, he said simply, “Very well. Lead the way.”