When Nèreus said he knew a place where they could speak freely, Zephyrin had been far from suspecting that he had the library in mind. Were their objective to read without disturbances and out of the cold, its enforced silence would certainly be appealing enough… but he suspected that Nèreus had another motive for approaching him and his little group. Three days had elapsed since his being conferred the much-coveted emperor’s seat, and that distinction had brought with it not only respect but also heightened scrutiny from his fellows. In all likelihood, Nèreus’s intention was to speak with Zephyrin privately to gratify his curiosity.

How he intended to do so in the library, however, remained unclear. Momentarily eying the back of Nèreus’s head as the child confidently led their little company past book-laden shelves and upperclassmen engrossed by their studies, Zephyrin then allowed his gaze to take in the library’s interior.

It was difficult to conceive an image of its original appearance. After surviving avaricious flames in the seventh century, the library had ultimately fallen prey to the insatiable aesthetical demands of the ninth, when it was decided that sober monastic design lent itself poorly to the intellectual formation of noble-born youths. The austere stone slabs had been taken down one by one, recommissioned for various construction projects around the city, and in their place had risen dark hardwood walls and shelves, giving the renovated building the atmosphere of a gentleman’s private study, only on an incalculably larger, grander scale.

The impression was heightened by the inclusion of various inventions and artistic elements. First a stern marble bust of the much-lamented Rudolf XII greeted one at the entrance, before being succeeded by portraits of famous generals, ecclesiastics, and jurists, of which not a few were alumni of the institution. After being charmed by the mahogany shelves lining the walls and the oak parquet flooring spread out from one end of the long rectangular hall to the other, the visitor’s eye was then drawn to an intricately crafted brass orrey that held a central place of honor, its clockwork mechanisms and ancillary lunarium perfectly replicating the celestial choreography of the astral bodies. One hardly knew which way to turn as matter formed a mute encomium to the ingenuity of man and the accomplishments of the sciences.

Nor was it only the decor that had changed. The new library’s occupants and their alloted tasks painted a picture very different from the scenes of long distant days. Gone were the cowled illuminators and rubricators, replaced with students scritching at their school assignments; the hoary, tonsured heads had been exchanged for curly raven locks; the vellum and yellowed parchment for Fleurian white linen paper; the self-immured monks with fresh-faced noble children, destined for promising careers in the world…

“Where is he taking us?” Zephyrin heard one of Viristin’s companions mumble.

“Maybe he’s looking for a secret passage behind one of these shelves,” said another boy flippantly.

“Really? You think there are secret—”

Heedless of the whisperings behind him, Nèreus led them to the library’s rear, where fewer and fewer, and finally no upperclassmen could be seen. There they found an unobtrusive oaken door, its antique handle worn with age. The door's existence came as a surprise to Zephyrin, who had paid the library several visits since the school year’s commencement but never explored its recesses thoroughly enough to discover it.

He was taken off-guard even more when Nèreus produced an ornate nickel silver key from his pocket and stepped forward, inserting it into the lock. It released easily enough, though pushing open the heavy door proved a challenge for his thin arms, and the assistance of the much larger Garsil was required before it opened wide enough to let the party through.

When at last this was done a narrow passageway revealed itself to their eyes. It was made of stone, the library’s glossy flooring giving way to the original building’s construction, and at its end lay an upward spiraling staircase embedded in the far wall, also of the same material. Nèreus and his companions advanced and began mounting its steps without hesitation; after exchanging looks with Roger and Narcissin, Zephyrin followed, with the Alérians and Foudris bringing up the rear.

Zephyrin had never been in a lighthouse, but he had seen illustrations and supposed climbing one wouldn’t differ significantly from this experience. He only began counting the steps midway through the ascent but it seemed they had climbed at least three stories, when suddenly the winding stairway opened up, laying out before them a bright but barren room.

Seemingly circular at first glance, closer examination showed that it was laid out hexagonally, each wall inlaid with a man-height leaded glass window. Unfiltered shafts of sunlight intermingled and pooled on the centuries-old stone as motes of dust drifted in the air, each a little island unto itself, lost in a forgotten sea of light and silence. In the center of the circular room was a great bronze brazier with elaborate open fretwork, which Zephyrin realized must have been fed by mana rather than natural fuel as the room lacked a smoke outlet, the windows being unopenable.

“This is the scriptorium,” Nèreus remarked, breaking the stillness. “The monastery’s most skilled copyists worked here, where light was plentiful from dawn to dusk.”

It was at that moment Zephyrin realized they were standing in the monastery’s western tower, the second of a pair which formerly rose up to look down over the monastic complex, but were now quite overshadowed by the lyceum’s modern buildings. The towers were situated just beyond the rear of the church, on the opposite end of its bells, presumably to ensure that the monks wouldn’t be deafened in the discharge of their duties.

Curving even higher up the tower was a second, narrower stairway with an iron rail; Zephyrin supposed it led to a lookout at the very top. Undoubtedly it would have given the monks a commanding view of the city and countryside, offering them increased opportunity to sound—or more accurately, sight—the alarm if a rogue cockatrice, griffin, or dragon was seen on the horizon. In those days, it was customary for a blueblood monk to flare out some of his mana, as a warning sign for the city’s inhabitants, and for that reason no abbey was permitted to count only basebloods among its members.

“Wow…” Roger breathed; and then, as his wonder gave way to vague apprehension: “Hold on a tick, are we even allowed t’be here?” He looked round left and right, as if fearing a prefect’s imminent arrival.

“I used a key, didn’t I?” Nèreus replied easily. “And I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he added as a pointed rebuke.

“Naw, I’d never!” Roger hastened to say. “But do the prefects know that—”

“Yes,” answered Nèreus flatly. “The Director knows I have it. Does that satisfy you, dy lé Prah?”

“His fath—I mean, his uncle gave it to him.” Garsil said, clumsily amending his words as Nèreus pierced him with a look.

Even if it hadn’t been for his first slip, the conspicuous manner in which Garsil laid emphasis on the word ‘uncle’ would have sufficed for Zephyrin to know that if Nèreus had received the key from a family member, it had most definitely been someone other than his father’s brother. But why the secrecy? Was there a reason the boy had to be discreet about his father’s identity? Zephyrin had noticed that unlike the less well off students who had to share a dorm, Nèreus had a room all to himself; that just like the high nobles’ sons, he had a servant at his beck and call; that he sat at the front row of his classes, again like the more privileged nobles. Finally, it wasn’t an uncommon sight to see a master—or even a priest—escorting him to the refectory or back to his quarters at the end of the day. Which had to make him…

The bastard son of a silvern-blooded noble. That would explain his unusual mana and the preferential treatment given him. But what of the missing nobiliary particle…?

“Well! I congratulate you on your cozy little hideout!” Foudris said, folding his hands behind his head. “But why drag us all this way? I assume we’re not just here to choke on dust…”

“Obviously. But, before any explanations…” Trailing off, Nèreus held out a hand. Casually, without a change of expression, he conjured up a fireball and shot it in Zephyrin’s direction.

“Wha—”

Roger’s mouth dropped; Narcissin and Viristin tensed up; and all the boys with the exception of the apparent target reacted to varying degrees as Nèreus’s projectile hurtled past Zephyrin’s ear to impact in the brazier, where magical flames began writhing like serpents.

He’s testing me. Zephyrin returned the pale boy’s gaze calmly while at the same time Foudris approached the heat source with a grin, the brownness of his eyes deepened by the brazier’s black-streaked flames. “Oh, I like this! This is so much better than freezing our tails out in the courtyard!”

“We’re… We’re not allowed to cast magic outside of classes!” Viristin protested, sounding only half-convinced by his own words. Nèreus slightly lifted his shoulders in response. “We’re just keeping warm. It’s not like we’re sparring or anything.”

“But still…”

“If you object so much to a campfire then you’re free to leave, dy Llegellion.”

“… No, I’ll stay.”

“Good. Now, before the others arrive…”

The others?

“…I may as well tell you why we’re here.” As Nèreus sat down by the brazier, the others imitated him.

Zephyrin held out his hands over the flames and listened as Nèreus briefly explained that at the lyceum there was a group of older students in the habit of gathering together for the purpose of remedying the gaps in the school’s curriculum, which overwhelmingly favored literary and moralistic works at the expense of modern authors and the sciences. Most of the masters, he explained, were less than convinced in the suitability of the material but were constrained to follow the directives set by the priests.

Roger winced as Foudris laughed loudly in his ear. “I’ll say! I’ve never read so much drivel since coming here! Why, the poem we had to read earlier was just embarrassing!”

Intent on proving his point, Foudris clambered to his feet. Standing akimbo and with a gleam in his eyes, he began reciting singsongingly:

Eustace is a boy who takes care.

His clothes he folds and puts away,

Owns a comb, combs himself his hair.

So careful, grown-ups to him do say,

“Well, young man! oft new clothes you buy?”

He’s the apple of his mother’s eye;

‘Tis no surprise that should be so—

A tidy child’s fair as driven snow!

Other boys run thro’ mud with no qualms,

But nobody recalls the last smear

On Eustace’s clothes, nor his palms

And he, only in his fourth year!

It’s his mother’s singular joy

When ‘round her neck clings the loving boy,

Less precious to her, purest jaspe,

The priciest, pearliest necklace,

Than the caref’ly clean, crisp and clear clasp

Of Eustace’s spotless embrace!

Cleanliness is, in all ages,

Fitting vesture for all ages.

At the penultimate verse Foudris took a hand off his hip and leaned forward, wagging his finger in a parody of a schoolmarm’s admonishment in time with the poem’s conclusion. The undercurrent of mirth that had been steadily building up during the reading broke out into a explosion of sniggers and sidelong glances. Though few would call Foudris a friend, his readiness to mock the lyceum’s perceived absurdities and flout its discipline earned him at least a grudging sort of admiration.

Nèreus smiled faintly. “Have a little indulgence for our esteemed masters, d’Érazh,” he murmured. “Their options are limited, and Kosmæan poetry rarely makes for inspired reading… but your point is well taken. Fortunately, I happen to have something much more interesting…” Reaching into his cloak, Nèreus pulled out a slim hardbound volume. Its cover was embossed with an elaborate, crownlike insignia unknown to Zephyrin, around which curled a motif of silver, intertwining vines. Its page edges were gilded with gold.

Seeing it, Foudris let out a low whistle. “Well tar and feather me and call me a chicken! That’s a mighty fine tome, Neri!” he said, in an exaggerated—but undeniably accurate—Alérian accent. Narcissin’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but the one who retorted was Nèreus.

“‘Neri?’ I’ll ask you to refrain from such familiarities, d’Érazh,” he said coolly, his languid expression and mode of speaking briefly enlivened by the heat of irritation, before it flickered out like an errant spark and his features reassumed their customary apathy. “If you’ll but listen instead of spouting foolishness, you’ll hear something much more interesting…” Opening the volume to a bookmark and taking it between his delicate fingers, he read an extract with impeccable enunciation.

Mute, he pled his suit who o’er hand was bent,

The lady’s blush was no less eloquent.

She loved him: he rose, his mien complaisant,

Her to initiate in games pleasant.

With such a capable master, by dint

Of effort, this oh-so-willing student

Became in her own right a school-mistress;

Given as oft as taken was each kiss—

—that the amiable price of each lesson.

Draw nigh, lovely; school’s again in session.

Finishing his reading, Nereus raised his head from the book with an inscrutable smile. Not only Roger but also Garsil and his cohorts seemed uncomfortable, embarrassed even, while others—his father among them—stared blankly, the poem’s suggestive undertones going quite over their heads. As might be expected, Foudris wasn’t one of them. Pursing his lips and making exaggerated smooching sounds, he threw his arms around another boy, laughing as he was roughly shoved away.

Zephyrin wondered how Nèreus had gotten his book past the Grand Prefect, who was charged with inspecting the students’ reading material; even the humble tome he had picked up in Apolinary’s shop had passed under the man’s keen eye before being returned with a compliment.

Perhaps… a bribe? Had he misjudged the prefect’s character? As he turned the possibility over in his mind, Zephyrin was conscious of Roger repeatedly shooting him unhappy glances, as if hoping to prompt their departure from the scriptorium. Zephyrin pretended not to notice him at first, then finally answered with a slight shake of his head. Roger subsided as he deferred to Zephyrin’s judgment, though the frown on his face plainly spoke to his dissatisfaction with the situation in which they found themselves.

Zephyrin understood his feelings, but this was an opportunity to learn more about the high nobles that he couldn’t very well pass on.

And then, just as he was thinking this…

Zephyrin shivered, then wheeled around, staring at the empty stairway landing. Roger noticed his sudden movement. “Eh? Zephyrin? What’s…”

Zephyrin’s gaze hardened. There was no mistaking it; what he felt was…

*clack… clack… clack…*

… a prodigious source of mana steadily making its way up to their location. The powerful presence would arrive in a matter of seconds. Roger’s eyes widened as he finally sensed it as well. One by one, all the boys rose to their feet.

Nèreus snapped his book shut. “He’s here.” And then, turning to the others and murmuring in a tone of subtle warning: “I trust you will all give the courtesy that is due to His Highness Corentin dy Sanct-Àura, Prince of the Blood.”