We must be fair to Rudolf XIII and his forebears without descending into idolatrous excess. The massacres of the Transition must be painted with the same brush as those of the Inquisition; and I demand circumspection in discussing the former, for no man could have halted its progress. The blame belongs no more to those who perished than to those who survived. There was no individual alive at the time capable of changing the course of things or forestalling the events to which nature and circumstances had given rise.

For once, Zephyrin derived no pleasure from calling to mind his father’s writings. He needed no reminding of the inexorable march of history, of the merciless end that awaited his maternal relatives. He knew all too well that at this juncture there was no saving the monarchy outside of divine intervention, for which he had held no expectations. The Goddess had allowed the throne to collapse in the first timeline; there was no reason to suppose it would be otherwise in this world.

And if the dissolution of the current regime was her will, then he would not—could not—allow himself to be swayed by sentiment, by this fatal temptation—for what else could it be?—to meddle with history unnecessarily and jeopardize his father’s rise to power.

Knowing that intellectually, however, did nothing to dispel the shroud of melancholy that had fallen over him, and it only deepened as more passages penned by the Emperor welled up of their own accord from the depths of his memory.

… One must recall the kingdom’s finances, then in a state of perpetual disorder; the chaotic state of the unruly provincial assemblies, the self-interested aspirations of the Chambers, the complete absence of intelligence and resourcefulness in administration… the Gaulyria of yesterday, being rather more of a motley assortment of twenty separate kingdoms haphazardly amalgamated into a single state, was an entity utterly dissimilar to that which I fashioned out of the old order’s rubble… men can breathe freely now, living as they do in a nation that enjoys a harmonious unity of law, administration, and territory.

That the monarchy fell was as inevitable as it was necessary: the old order had ossified in its own corruption, the aristocracy deteriorated to a stagnant caricature of its former self, the clergy become grossly self-enriching, its gem-laden hand all too active in the affairs of kings. The spark of genius lay smothered beneath reams of bureaucracy, and the hot, vital blood coursing through the veins of vigorous men could find no outlet. No better confirmation of my theory do we find in the events that followed, for no sooner than the petrified remains of the old order were swept away that prodigies and heroic feats were multiplied beyond counting by those who fought under my banner.

However, a cathartic interval had to elapse before this energy could be redirected to its proper end. The commons had been too long oppressed to not seek relief in the venting of its fury; the parasitical upper classes needed punishing. This the masses did to their satisfaction, only to then discover that they had exchanged the yoke imposed by the crown for that of their own inconstancy. Rudderless, the bark of the nation was at the mercy of public opinion, a turbulent sea that alternately set awash one faction with blood, then another, until the whole country was inundated by the gory tide of a succession of needless killings. Gaulyria then seemed without hope, until I assumed her vacated captaincy and corrected her heading, steering her to the port of everlasting glory.

The storm was unavoidable, and its chaos eminently needed. It allowed the nation to realize that her pilot was inadequate to the task of guiding her safely to harbor, and that her survival was contingent upon another assuming the helm…

‘The storm was unavoidable.’ Was there any sense contesting that plain fact? Zephyrin willfully entertained the absurd for a moment, and very nearly burst into laughter for having done so. The ludicrous mental image conjured up by his imagination consisted of him singlehandedly opposing the tsunami of change that would crash upon Gaulyria; he imagined himself weaving a sword as Corentin had done during their duel and launching himself at the baseblood garrison forces that would soon hold the capital firmly under their thumb, armed to the teeth and thirty-thousand strong. He idly wondered whether his ward at full strength might be able to withstand a single cannon volley before it broke and he was blown to smithereens, then dismissed such speculation from his mind as useless.

The queen was waiting for an answer, and even if Madame d’Aurellis was as unresponsive as a statue behind him, he was conscious of her expectant gaze as well. He had to say something, anything. Zephyrin opened his mouth—

“I know what you fear, dear child,” said the queen suddenly, preempting his response. As Zephyrin looked at her questioningly, she continued in a calm, deliberate tone. “Zephyrin, I’ve observed you enough to know that you’re a pensive, studious boy. Tell me the truth: you’ve read in detail about the riots from nine years ago, haven’t you?”

“… Yes, I have,” Zephyrin replied with some delay, caught off guard by this line of inquiry. Though his grand-aunt hadn’t wholly penetrated into his thought, her shot didn’t land far off the mark.

Meanwhile the queen nodded, no doubt attributing his hesitation to a young boy’s embarrassment at having his worries uncovered. “As I thought. Zephyrin, please believe me when I say that there is nothing to worry about.” Her voice became soothing, her expression reassuring. “The riots were terribly frightful, certainly, but the soldiers were quick to restore order. You can be sure that if there is another uprising, His Majesty’s soldiers will waste no time in restoring order.” A pause, and then: “I know that you are opposed to joining my household, and wish to return to the lyceum. Are you afraid that you will be in danger if you remain here?” the queen asked softly.

How Zephyrin kept his surprise from showing, he wasn’t sure. Somehow or another, even without all the facts at her disposal, the queen had seen through him completely. As he struggled to come up with a satisfactory reply, Adelaide-Estelle regarded him with a gentle expression. She waited several moments for a response, before proceeding in the same placid tone when it was clear that none was forthcoming. “Well, you’re very mistaken if you think so. The Royal Army is not as weak as you seem to suppose; and, if the unthinkable comes to pass and a baseblood uprising proves more difficult to deal with than expected, my brother the King of Elysia will simply cross the border to assist His Majesty’s soldiers and help subdue it.”

The queen said this blithely, giving evidence of a trust in her elder brother that Zephyrin knew was deeply and tragically misplaced. Telling her to suspect him of betrayal was out of the question, however, and Zephyrin found himself at a loss for words as the queen kept her clear, steady gaze upon him. For a moment he feared she might actually draw him close with her arm to give vent to her affection; but she made no movement, and soon her eyes returned to the stream, in which she slowly resumed dipping her feet.

Zephyrin stared at the same body of water unseeingly. Was this how it would end? After a pleasant week in their company, a perfunctory farewell to those fated to die? Had the Goddess brought him into contact with his relatives only so that he might offer up the sacrifice of resigning himself to their deaths?

“I’ve already made all the arrangements for your journey back to Lyceum Rudolf VII.”

Quickly turning his head at her words, Zephyrin met the queen’s light-gray eyes once more. Though tranquil, her smile bore an unmistakable trace of wistfulness. “I know you have no intention of accepting my offer. If you desire it, I can have you brought back directly to the lyceum without passing by the Palace.”

“… That would indeed be my preference,” Zephyrin said, daring to make his wishes known.

“Very well,” the queen replied, and for another span no words passed between them.

“Madame, is it not time that we returned for your collation?” inquired Princess d’Aurellis in a murmur, speaking at last. The queen considered her sister-in-law’s suggestion and seemed on the verge of accepting, before shaking her head and giving Zephyrin a sidelong glance. “Before that, I have a favor to ask of our young friend. Zephyrin, I require a sunny song or snatch of verse! None of us will be leaving until you’ve made up for the cloud cast over this outing!”

Zephyrin absentmindedly twirled a blade of grass. This request, at least, he would be able to fulfill, and without much trouble; there was no shortage of imagery to work with in this secluded spot so full of charms. Still fiddling with the bit of spring-green turf, he recited:

Here at Douàzile, sweet asylum,

Amidst a sea of wheat and swaying pistil,

Where undulates chlorophytic phylum,

Not on leaf but heart scrawl I this epistle.

Above, a sapphire sky burns with ruby’s heat,

Whilst th’ cool stream crawls, languidly blissful:

Here at Douàzile, Adelaide’s crystal feet,

Meet with liquid crystal.

The queen tapped one hand against the other in light applause as he concluded. “If not as my son, then as my court poet I should make you remain.”

Zephyrin smiled faintly at her praise, but even as he did so his mind was still preoccupied by the royal family’s predicament. He had exhausted every possibility; try as he might, no solution presented itself…

And then, when he was least expecting it, a stream of words appeared in his mind that completely upended his understanding of the situation.

“I will not spill the blood of my people.” Beautiful, foolish words! Rudolf XIII was a virtuous man—a man too virtuous for the times in which he lived. His refusal to take up arms against the sanguinary miscreants athirst for innocent blood proved his undoing. Would that I had been at the King’s Isle with my Immortals on that fateful day! In repulsing the attempt on that soft-hearted sovereign’s liberty with our might, we would have safeguarded Gaulyria from the bloodshed that freed her of her shackles, but at the inestimable cost of her honor…

… Had the life of that monarch been spared, he would have eventually recognized the futility and even the undesirability of clinging to his throne, and ceded it of his own accord. After the renunciation of his rights, I would have endowed Rudolf XIII with a handsome pension and estate. In those reduced circumstances, more appropriate to a man of his modest talents, he would have shone as the sun of a lesser court and found his contentment therein, he and his surviving kin.

Zephyrin froze, and even the queen presence’s seemed to fade from sight as he considered, for the first time, a possibility that had never before occurred to him in his decade of planning. Yes, the monarchy was doomed. The hour was too late; the vessel was compromised; it had taken on too much water, and its wood was too worm-ridden… but, even if it were to sink…

… Could he not offer a lifeboat to its passengers? Rudolf XIII had refused to oppose his baseblood attackers, but Zephyrin remembered a throw-away, but now highly significant line from his readings…

The queen had wanted to do battle.

The king had denied her, but what if he could convince the silvern-blooded Adelaide-Estelle to override her husband’s wishes and offer resistance? Zephyrin’s mind raced, rapidly passing from one possibility to another as he tried to integrate this new line of thought into his previous projections. Was this scenario feasible? It was; history in its broad strokes would remain untouched, he was sure of it; as before, basebloods would supplant the nobility; the same turmoil would ensue; more moderate basebloods would rise to power; finally, his father would ascend and bring lasting stability. The restoration of Gaulyria and future unity of the continent did not hinge on the royal family’s death; it was Rudolf XIII’s crown that needed to be lost, not his life. The man could simply live out his days in peaceful retirement, either here in Gaulyria or abroad in a friendly neighboring country.

Zephyrin recalled that the king’s younger brother Efflam had sought refuge in Seaxland in the former world, and had received a very generous pension from King Mark II; there was no reason to doubt that the same favor would be extended to the former ruler of Gaulyria. And if Rudolf XIII refused to go into exile, then he would simply die as before, but this time there would be the possibility of his wife and children surviving.

Zephyrin thought harder, perhaps, than he had ever thought before. He had determined that the king and his family could survive without unduly swaying the events to come; but was this actually possible? What was the primary impediment to the royal family’s survival? Certainly, it was Rudolf XIII’s refusal to commit his Royal Guard to battle. They had simply stood in place as the mob streamed into the palace to slaughter them, waiting for an order to return fire that never came. Outnumbered more than ten to one, it was doubtful that armed resistance would have ultimately changed the final outcome—and yet, there was a chance, however slight, that the blueblood officers could have broken through and allowed the king and his household to escape.

Zephyrin raised his eyes from the stream and calmly met those of the queen, who like her sister-in-law seemed rather bemused by his long silence. Now, with all these considerations in mind, he couldn’t help but be keenly aware of the powerful, untrained auras that both of the royal women emitted. In terms of power, their abilities easily rivaled his own; it was only their lack of training as women that would keep them from being as formidable as him in battle.

He pondered. Was there a method of increasing their chances of survival?

… Of course. How could I forget?

Zephyrin’s hand sought out the gemstone set in the pendant hanging around his neck. He hesitated.

If I reveal this, there’s no turning back.

Clutching the gem, Zephyrin made his decision.