Nèreus had no sooner uttered these words than a tall, sandy-haired youth emerged from the stairway. With refined features and eyes as near to cobalt as is naturally possible, the prince’s presence would have been striking even without the powerful aura emanating from his person. Zephyrin remained tense for a moment, before gradually relaxing as he perceived that the prince had no hostile intentions despite his poorly contained mana; more likely, it had undergone a drastic change with the onset of puberty and he had lost some control over it.

Following close behind the prince and walking at his sides were two youths similarly aged—third years, perhaps. Dark-haired and prototypically Gaulyrian in appearance, the one on the left had an aloof air about him, while his companion on the right seemed more genial but less alert, with his hair mussed up as if windblown and an absent-minded expression on his face. Their features had lost some of their childish roundness in favor of the imminent angularity of manhood, and they carried themselves with a self-possessed, adultlike air, giving their presences an unapproachable quality, at least for most of the younger boys.

Zephyrin shared their wariness to some extent. The entrance of a prince of the blood was entirely outside the range of his calculations. The children of the king’s extended family attended the royal academy, reserved for the upper echelons of the nobility; what was one of the king’s relatives doing here at Rudolf-VII, a school for the sons of cadet branches and a few exceptional cases?

As if to disarm their apprehension, once he had finished looking over the scriptorium the prince turned to the silent onlookers with a pleasant, open expression. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Prince Corentin dy Sanct-Àura, and these are my friends, Loris d’Arx and Raën dy Kastellélur.”

After the obligatory round of reciprocal self-introductions, the prince continued:

“You’ll have to forgive the lack of creature comforts; I was unaware that this disused corner of the old monastery was accessible until Tenéval here”—the younger boy bowed his head at the prince’s gesture—“brought it to my attention earlier this week. Until now, every fortnight a little group of us would get together in one of our dorms.” The prince paused, looking over the musty scriptorium once more. “Yes, this will do nicely. A few chairs and bookcases and we’ll feel right at home. In the meantime…”

He emitted a band of golden mana from his palm, which coiled around itself for a moment before splitting apart and forming approximations of the courtyard’s stone benches behind each student. The golden color of the make-shift seats diminished to a greenish-bronze, then dulled like cooled magma to a sooty black.

“… I hope you’ll please yourselves to make do with this temporary solution.”

Zephyrin’s brows rose, and he was far from the only one present to manifest surprise. A high noble condensing his mana into a sword for his own personal use would have been unexceptional; but this? A prince of the blood channeling his mana for his social inferiors, and for such a crude purpose?

“We have a lot to talk about. But first, I hope you’ll accept this little present from me.” The prince held out a colorfully decorated little bag, evidently expecting each boy to reach in and withdraw a wrapped candy. Only once they had all done so did he sit down, which permitted the others to do the same.

“Mind you eat them in one bite,” Corentin advised, crossing his legs and popping a confectionery whole into his mouth in demonstration. He grinned as several of Zephyrin’s peers did the same, only to splutter or make faces as they bit down and the strong alcohol burned its way down their throats. “Caramel, with a vervaine liquor interior,” he commented. “Oh! Looks like at least a few of you are able to appreciate them.” Indeed, Zephyrin found the taste nostalgic, while Narcissin chewed his thoughtfully, having probably built up some resistance by partaking in northerner family gatherings.

As he watched them, the third-year to the prince’s left wore a dissatisfied expression—but not from the taste. “They had better like them; each packet’s worth two crowns,” he commented dourly. While Roger’s eyes bugged out at the exorbitant price of the sweetmeats, Corentin laughed, a bright, charming sound. “Loris, I know you too well—you’re thinking delicacies such as these should be saved for those liable to appreciate them… such as yourself!”

“I wasn’t…” the youth muttered, averting his eyes.

The prince grinned. “Don’t worry, I have more where that came from. Besides, I had to offer something to our potential new members, didn’t I?” he added, turning to the younger students with a smile.

As Zephyrin’s classmates finished chewing, the prince diffidently expanded upon Nèreus’s earlier explanation. A number of the lyceum’s priests were holding out against a more modern approach to education, the prince said, and while his father was applying pressure on the board, its members were proving more resilient than expected. Meanwhile, in anticipation of the recalcitrant clergy’s eventual capitulation or ouster, the prince and some of his friends had formed a secret society of sorts.

“The Friends of Truth, is what we’re tentatively calling ourselves. We talk and share new books with some very interesting theories, ones we simply don’t learn about in school. For instance, are the words ‘equality of blood’ familiar to any of you?

As the majority of his young listeners shook their heads, Corentin invited them on intellectual ground they found highly novel, but which was very well trodden by Zephyrin. Though common in the era he had originally grown up in, the notion that all men, whether gifted in the magical arts or not, should be considered as equals before the law was still fairly radical in this era, and not at all accepted by the powers that be.

What Zephyrin found curious, however, was why the young duke of Sanct-Àura, a son of Aurellis, of all houses, should be a proponent of this egalitarian ideal.

Why… is the king’s nephew so enthusiastic about these ideas?

Nor did his questioning of convention limit itself to the social hierarchy. Zephyrin realized with a start that the boy was now quoting from the notorious Térouan d’Arime’s Liber Contra Superstitio.

“‘…What more shall we say of the absurdities of a religion which solemnly teaches that the world reflects the All Holy Goddess, and that in the natural order she herself is most fittingly represented by the moon—that same celestial body of which, in AUC748, Bonàti dy Scarpietro observed the myriad pockmarks and craters through his famed perspicile? Note how the theologians and votaries of the Unblemished One were constrained to scramble for excuses, and threatened the apostle of truth with the looming shadow of ecclesiastical censure, rather than admit the radiant sun of verity dawning before their eyes, dissolving by its ardor the gloomy mists of superstition.’”

Concluding his reading, the prince smiled in appreciation of the polemicist’s highly stylized but incisive prose, against which the Gaulyrian clergy largely inveighed in vain. One member of the audience, however, seemed less than impressed, and Corentin picked up on this. “Hm? You don’t seem convinced, dy…?”

“Dy lé Prah. Roger,” the young Alérian hastened to add, his discomfiture with the prince’s statements not causing him to forget his manners completely. “Where… did ya get that book?”

And how were you and Nèreus able to keep ahold of them after enrolling?

Corentin was unfazed by the question. “This? It was given me by one of the masters,” the prince said easily, but also with a delicate evasiveness that didn’t go unnoticed by Zephyrin.

The mottled, globular face of Master Gwuppe rose unbidden in Zephyrin’s mind, like a great toad surfacing from a swamp’s murky, impenetrable depths, but he dismissed the image just as quickly, knowing that there were any number of candidates for the position. Of the masters he had encountered thus far, perhaps Master Médallus was unlikely to give any time to the new theories of social equality; Zephyrin couldn’t speak to the Kosmæan orthodoxy of the others with any confidence.

“Still, I don’t think ya should be readin’ such things…”

Corentin smiled reassuringly in the face of Roger’s doubts. “Of course, I have no intention of contesting the Goddess’s existence, which would be folly indeed. But I do believe we must differentiate between belief in the Goddess, and belief in the religion which has sprung up around Her. The sacred books were written by men; they contain much that is profitable, but is it not reasonable to think that errors—minor errors, assuredly—have been introduced in them with the passage of centuries? Rather than undermining faith, I daresay a healthy skepticism serves instead as proof of our devotion, for it reflects our solicitude for the Goddess and for truth itself. Surely that can only be but pleasing to She who is one with Truth Himself.”

Viristin opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again with a troubled look. Nèreus murmured “Ah. I see…”, but there was a disquieted light in his eyes as well. Roger looked back and forth from one face to another, frustrated by the general apathy. “What’s the matter with all of ye? Don’t ye remember what we learned in catechism, that the sacred texts are free from error—”

“If you truly believe that, dy lé Prah, then I’m inclined to think you read Holy Writ least of us all,” interjected Foudris, a palpable note of scorn in his voice. “Isn’t it obvious that the scriptures are flawed? For example, we’re told in the account of creation that humanity had a duty to keep the Lamps lit; then, after the Failing, that ‘night fell, and for the first time the world knew darkness.’ Now, isn’t that interesting! What this means is that until the Failing, the luminals were tasked with keeping the Lamps ablaze… in a world of perpetual daytime!”

Judging by the number of stunned expressions that answered Foudris’s reflection, it was one that had never before occurred to a good many of the boys—and yet, once pointed out, also seemed absurdly obvious, like any puzzle or riddle when solved. Foudris’s grin deepened as he savored in particular the unease on Nèreus’s face, the boy’s composed air conspicuously absent for the first time. He then glanced Zephyrin’s way, as if expecting a riposte to come from that quarter at any moment.

Zephyrin said nothing. In this place, at this particular moment, seeing the noble sons dispute amongst themselves in their high-pitched voices, a curious feeling washed over him. He felt a sense of acute disconnection, stronger even than the usual disassociation from his peers due to the gap in age and maturity. Somehow the sensation was reminiscent of the hyper-awareness he had enjoyed—even in the midst of the soul-searing pain—when his existence had been laid bare before the Goddess, like a glowing bar of gold in a furnace.

He was experiencing a sudden, unexpected flash of insight, of heightened comprehension acquired by observation. It was as if he could discern from the disparate, interweaving threads of causality the vast tapestry of history; could identify the pattern, at least in part, and explain why the men of this era thought and behaved as they did. Without being able to pinpoint exact dates or name specific persons, he perceived how their reactions were conditioned, and by what historical trends.

He saw the boys themselves no longer as individuals only, but also as links in a grand chain, one extending nonspatially yet at immense distances in a mysterious, ineffable manner. At one moment, the distance could be vertical, like a massive genealogical tree, the roots of which sank into the depths of the world; it could just as easily be horizontal, like a countless line of souls in procession to the farthest reaches of space. It was neither, and it was both; it was finite in that it was created, yet infinite in that its scale defied Zephyrin’s powers of comprehension.

As the children stood before him, speaking and gesticulating like miniature adults, Zephyrin felt as though he were seeing their fathers in their oddly mature mannerisms and modes of self-expression. Already the obsessive attitude regarding status was heavily ingrained in them; each was anxious to prove himself, to not bring dishonor upon his house and family, to gain the approval of his superiors and avoid embarrassment at the hands of his inferiors.

And, in the case of Corentin especially, the susceptibility to the new ideologies was more than apparent. Yes, today’s nobles bore very little resemblance with their forebears.

“Zephyrin!” Roger whispered; and so distraught was the boy that he gave Zephyrin’s arm a little shake. He seemed instinctively to know that if one of their company would be able to retort to Foudris’s provocations, it would be him…

But it was too late. Zephyrin perceived this with perfect clarity. The vast apparatus was already in motion—more than in motion, had terminated its operation, leaving only the outcome of the process, the unleashing of its devastating consequences upon the continent. The flint had been struck, the powder ignited, and the bullet primed for the heart of Gaulyrian society was even now pursuing its inexorable flight. To avert the predetermined course of events Zephyrin would have needed to be born sooner, before even the pulling of the trigger, in the far distant era not of these boys, or their fathers, but their of grandfathers—and possibly even before then.

The crash would occur, and it would be left to his father and him to pick up the pieces.

However, on that note…

Zephyrin suddenly noticed to his great displeasure that Narcissin was drinking in Foudris’s words like a thirsty traveler at a well.

This isn’t good.

Zephyrin somehow doubted that his father had gotten himself dragged into this gathering in the original history, and only now he realized what unlooked-for consequences might follow this incident. In the original history, the Gaulyrian Empire’s relations with the Church had been strained at the best of times; giving Foudris free reign to fill his father’s head with his arguments was not likely to make future negotiations with the popes and hierarchy go any smoother.

I may need to step in soon.

“… Consider this as well. We’re told that after putting the last luminal to the sword, King Nomènuë was content to put on sackcloth!” Foudris continued animatedly. “A fine bit of indulgence for himself, that! Why was not the same offer extended to the fallen priestess, pray tell? What mercy! No, if one is to believe the Goddess is all-merciful as her ministers claim, then one is bound in conscience to ignore those same ministers who would besmirch her good—”

“—thank you, that will do,” interrupted Corentin. “Remind me of your name again. You’re…?”

“D’Érazh,” Foudris eagerly answered the prince; he then lapsed into silence, fidgeting a little as Corentin appraised him thoughtfully. Most likely, the prince was substantially in agreement with his conclusions but less than enthused with the abrasive form of his arguments.

Zephyrin decided to intervene before there was a change of subject, and on this occasion he wouldn’t have any scruples in flaunting his adult intellect. Reaching deep for memories of his first life and his old Elysian confessor’s lessons, he began: “D’Érazh, I have a few things to say about your statements, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, dy Valensis! Please, go ahead!” Foudris said, graciously inclining his head.

“First, regarding the Six Lamps: I believe you based that argument on the writings of Térouan d’Arime, but it bears mentioning that the Lamps were never meant to give off light—at least in a naturalistic sense. Prior to the obscurement, humanity was perfectly united to the Increate Essence through the Goddess, and the effects of our prayers were known to us. When we read that the luminals were charged with feeding the Lamps, what this means is that they would glorify the Goddess, and their prayers would result in an amplification of the streams of glory shed upon the Earth, rather than an increase of natural light—”

“—that’s right!” Roger burst in excitedly. “It’s like the peasant girl who saw a vision of an angel trimming the lamp in her heart!”

Thoroughly resenting the baffling, nonsensical interruption, Zephyrin stared at Roger, as did everyone else who was present. Fortunately, the boy had said his piece, allowing him to continue.

“… the second error of d’Arime was to suppose that lamps cannot exist in and of themselves, but only in response to the negative phenomenon we call darkness. That philosophical error in the metaphysical branch of ontological hierarchy, paralleling the central tenet of the heresy of Caligosinequanonarism, affirms that entities belonging to the second order of contingency are beholden to those occupying the third—a patent absurdity.”

“Consider that both the sun and my shadow are contingent in that they require universal laws like gravity to exist, but one is clearly inferior to the other because it is dependent on the existence of another entity—in this case, the being known as Zephyrin dy Valensis. In other words, while my shadow depends on the sun in order to exist, the sun can very well exist without my shadow. They are not causally equivalent existences; one is superior to the other.”

“It is for this reason that we also read of the Goddess wielding a “diamond-hilted sword” prior to the creation of the Earth—this is written not because she has a physical form, or because she had enemies to slay in Paradise, but to show her willingness to defend her children, regardless of whether or not an actual enemy exists to threaten them. Now, if one is willing to concede that a sword can exist in the absence of an enemy, I see no reason why a lamp should not be able to exist in the absence of darkness.”

“As for the king’s conduct, that will be easier to answer. Remember that the Extinction, or Failing, of the Lamps had just occurred, and as the world was plunged in darkness, so too were man’s faculties. Gone was man’s radiant intellect; he found himself groping in the darkness of ignorance, impeded in the exercise of his will by the morass of his passions. King Nomènuë was not exempt from this punishment, and though imperfectly, he identified that he was complicit in his city’s fall, and that the fault needed to be expiated.”

“Now, theologians are agreed that though the slaying of the luminals was not the positive will of the Goddess, it was nevertheless permitted because greater evils would have followed had their transgression gone unpunished. That the severity of this justice was not disproportionate receives more than ample support by the subsequent laxity of the survivors, their descent into bloody infighting, and later on the rise of the druids and practice of ritual sacrifice as the very existence of the Goddess was practically forgotten. The slaying of the luminals is not included in the sacred texts as praiseworthy behavior to be imitated, but as a simple fact of history.”

Zephyrin derived a pleasure from the confounded expression on Foudris’s face that would have done him little credit were he a child, and which consequently did him all the less as the adult he truly was. Ensuring there would be smooth relations between the emperor and the Kosmæan Church, however, was of paramount importance…

While a grinning Roger spontaneously jerked his hand up and down in a enthusiastic gesture akin to a handshake, Zephyrin glanced around himself to gauge the reactions of the other boys. Viristin was visibly awed, while the dreamy look on the face of the third year dy Kastellélur was now totally absent. The other boys were silent, some staring wide-eyed. But where was Narcissin…?

As he searched, Zephyrin heard one boy whisper, “That’s the Emperor for you.” “He’s a genius,” his companion replied.

… I may have overdone it a little.

Corentin rubbed his chin, an intrigued look on his face.

“Emperor… You’re dy Valensis, correct…?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“… Those were some interesting arguments, dy Valensis. My thanks.”

At first Zephyrin thought the prince would take his remarks badly, but instead he seemed pleased to have some new material to mull over. Loris, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly disinterested. “Free hour’s almost up. Shouldn’t we end this on a lighter note?” he suggested with a touch of impatience.

“What do you propose?” Corentin inquired.

Loris thought for a moment. “How about a riddle?” he suggested, and the way his eyes flicked toward Zephyrin hinted that he was hoping to stump one first year in particular. Hand in his pocket, he said casually,

Fengar sees her wander from star to star,

As every evening she strays near and far.

Fair from afar, craters her pale face score:

Speak I of th’moon; or…”

Zephyrin frowned. ‘Or’ what? The answer to the riddle was obviously linked to Selena, but if a rhyme was needed…

Loris smirked. “None of you can guess? Very well. The last line goes: ‘speak I of th’moon; or, of a painted wh—”

The youth didn’t get to finish. Roger’s fist in his face interrupted him, and he fell violently on the hard stone. Kicking his legs uselessly, he writhed in agony, moaning and clutching his face as blood poured from his nose.

Viristin gasped. The assembled students gaped at the collapsed third year, then up at Roger, who looked down impassively, his fist still clenched.

“Y-You… What did you do?” one boy cried out, then lapsed into silence as Roger turned on him with a blazing eye. “My bounden duty! A knight always stands up for his lady!”

“Roger, you—” Zephyrin checked his tongue and the step he had been about to take in the Alérian’s direction. With a feeling of dread, he turned around to see the prince radiating mana, now making no effort to hold back the torrents of energy surging from his body. Of Corentin’s formerly easy-going expression there remained not a trace.

“Step aside, dy Valensis.” He said this quietly, almost too quietly for Zephyrin to hear above the ominous sound of his pulsating mana. “I have business with the Alérian.”