Oftentimes topography communicates to us more reliably than men, for while the collective memory of a people can fade, so that the characteristics of a city or keep become a mystery even to its inhabitants, the earth remembers, and offers more insights in her testimony. A shallow bank of earth encircling a city speaks more eloquently of a neighboring tribe’s hostile intentions and the mentality of the defenders than the hazy suppositions of their fat, prosperous descendants; a church situated on a hilltop speaks unerringly of a ruler’s failure to extirpate his lands of bandits, and the peasantry’s correspondent need for a potential refuge…

Pondering on the writings of his father, Zephyrin contemplated the city from the heights of his new quarters in the Cygnon’s apartments, striving to see it as the Emperor undoubtedly had, when he had stood in this same palace as its ruler. He watched as the late autumn sun painstakingly clambered over the horizon, like a decrepit man feeling more and more the age in his bones, until, at last, his shafts of glory pierced through the mist enshrouding the capital, giving Zephyrin a better view of the cityscape below.

From his vantage point the Seicwan River ran oily-black, its currents languid and coiling as it caressed the Illoï-arhz-Ulluir-Unbenni—‘the Isle of the Moonbright Kings’, perennial residence of Gaulyria’s monarchs since the first Emperor’s decision to transfer his capital from Douarensis in southern Fleuria to what was then central Gaulyria.

The river acted as a natural moat, that was clear enough, but was there another reason why Kaul had made the river island the seat of his power…?

Of course. The dragon menace. In his day, when the dragons still posed a grave threat to mankind, building his palace near a major body of water would have seemed obvious, even indispensable to that sovereign. And yet, it was—and this Kaul could never have foreseen—that same river which would eventually prove the undoing of Gaulyria’s monarchy, and the end of his royal line…

Hearing a faint knocking on the door, Zephyrin let the damask curtain fall from his fingers as he turned from the window. “You may enter.” Zephyrin expected to see Countess Valmont’s delicate, deceptively youthful visage when the door opened; his expectation was met.

“Is Her Majesty desirous of my presence?” Zephyrin asked after they exchanged greetings, not expecting an affirmation but nevertheless receiving one in the form of a slight inclination of the head. Reading the surprise on his face, the countess explained, “Her Majesty has just yielded her hair to the ministrations of the celebrated Faramond, and a good three hours must elapse before the completion of his latest masterpiece. Filling the interval is an ever-recurring dilemma, hence Her Majesty’s request.”

“Very well. Is that all that is expected of me for today?”

“Oh no. Madame is most desirous that you should be present at Monsieur the Cygnon’s morning lessons, so as to offer him a good example.”

“Will he be clad as during our first encounter?”

The countess failed to wholly suppress a smile. “Though His Royal Highness is very proud of his suit of armor and exceedingly fond of patrolling the palace’s halls, a want of respect for his governess saw him deprived of it and sent to bed without supper last night. You will find him in contemporary attire today.”

This information did not come as a surprise to Zephyrin; Gaulyria’s crown prince had struck him as an earnest and essentially kind-hearted boy, but of a strong character and prone to outbursts when he didn’t get his way. Were it not for his foreknowledge, he would most likely enjoy spending time with his second cousin; but, knowing what he did…

“After that,” continued the countess, “you are cordially invited to join Madame as she fulfills her religious duties in the chapel; then, you are expected to be present at her portrait sitting, the monotony of which will be relieved by your presence.”

“… I see. As I hope to meet Her Majesty’s expectations, can you tell me if I am presentable?” Zephyrin inquired diffidently, all the while turning over various stratagems in his mind, all aimed at a posthaste return to the lyceum.

The countess assumed an evaluating air as her gaze took in Zephyrin’s appearance, traveling from his beige silk taffeta breeches to the high-collared tips of his silver-buttoned imperial blue waistcoat. “Monsieur looks every inch a prince.”

“Pray, don’t refer to me as such; I’m no prince,” Zephyrin murmured, but with the distinct, uncomfortable impression that his protestations were becoming increasingly futile. He had managed to stall for time during his first interview with the queen by appealing to his weakened state, and his inability to give proper consent to her proposition; as he regained his strength, however, that excuse would soon cease to hold any weight.

He stood for a moment in silence, then finally posed the question that was foremost on his mind. “Are there others? Other children adopted by Her Majesty, I mean?”

“Yes, two,” answered the countess simply, having perhaps expected this question all along. “Her Majesty was most keen that the Cygnon and his sister the princess should fraternize with children of varying backgrounds from an early age. If it will set your mind at ease, know that you would not be the only one of humble origins; the first, an orphan, is the daughter of a recently deceased baseblood serving woman; the second is a dusken boy from the southern colonies. The girl dwells here at the palace, while the boy is a student at the royal academy.”

Zephyrin considered this answer carefully. It was strange and more than a little disquieting, he thought, that none of the authors whom he had read had thought it necessary to make mention of the queen’s adopted children. Had they perished along with her biological offspring? If so, then all the more reason to decline, with as much tact as possible, the queen’s generous but unknowingly fatal proposal.

“Thank you very much for answering my questions, madame,” Zephyrin said at last in a subdued voice, before turning back briefly to look outside once more. He laid a hand on the window’s glass but did not leave it there long; it was glacially cold. Though only three days had elapsed since the incident outside the opera house, the temperature had dropped precipitously, reminding him that the coming winter would be the harshest in well over a century, and of the significant role it would play in the unrest to come.

Withdrawing his fingers from the frigid glass, he glanced at the countess to signify that he was ready, then allowed her to lead out the door and down the hall connecting to the queen’s apartments.

The first snows were soon to fall.