“Abdicatrix maxime supplices—”

“—Ora pro nobis.”

Zephyrin knelt in his pew, hand on brow, as the two hundred boys in the chapel provided the rapid-fire responses to Master Verenus’s invocations.

“Abbrocatrix provida—”

“—Ora pro nobis.”

His father had left the lyceum. Even after a sleepless night’s reflection, Zephyrin was no closer to wrapping his mind around the explosive revelation now than the moment it came out of Viristin’s mouth. Curiously, there had been no delay of comprehension, no interval of speechless incredulity. By some unexplainable instinct, he had known that Viristin’s statement was no prank, and after the initial shock subsided and he regained his senses, Zephyrin had become aware of Viristin’s terror-stricken eyes upon him, and needed to quickly rein in the crackling aura that threatened to erupt and tear apart the dorm.

“Sauroctocatrix indomitabilis—”

“—Ora pro nobis.”

But the damage had been done. After his inadvertently fearsome display, the blueblood youth had clammed up and refused to speak further, leaving Zephyrin utterly in the dark as to the details of his father’s departure. And so after the evening prayers he had sought out Théander—only to discover that Théander, who had willingly followed him through the city, now averted his eyes nervously whenever they ate in the refectory or crossed paths in the halls. Yet another mystery, yet another source of uncertainty.

“Cataplexatrix incomparabilis—”

“—Ora pro nobis.”

It was far from his first priority, however. The enigma that monopolized his immediate attention was of course his father’s inexplicable departure.

Had he made a mistake in coming to the capital? Was his mere presence a bigger variant than he imagined? Even if it were, how could it have possibly led to this result? The Emperor’s memoirs had not dwelt at length on his formative years, it was true, but enough was written for Zephyrin to know that his father had pursued his schooling in Gaulyria until his admittance into the army. Why the same should not be the case in this world, he was at a complete loss to explain. If anything, his interactions with Narcissin should have had the opposite effect; the tutoring sessions with Roger had only benefited the future Emperor…

“Pulchritudinatrix liberalis… Defensatrix impavida… Maïeuticiatrix fidelis… Spagyratrix incomprehensabilis...”

Rainbow-hued sunlight filtered through the stained glass to fall on the row of boys in front of Zephyrin. There was an almost martial quality to their prayer, as if each inhalation was ammunition and each exhalation a discharge.

When the echo of Selena’s last title had faded at last and was replaced by the scuffling of black winter boots on aged stone, Zephyrin raised his head and then himself off the mahogany pew to follow his fellow first-years as they filed out of the chapel. He was about to turn a corridor and make his way to his first class of the day when he thought he heard a discreet murmur. He paused, and heard it again.

“Dy Valensis.”

Zephyrin turned around to see Nèreus, the dark-haired boy looking as impassive as he remembered. “Yes?”

“Meet me in the library at recreation. There’s something you need to know.”

Balancing a package in one hand, Zephyrin closed the brass doorknob behind him with the other. Standing by the door for a moment, he withdrew from his pocket a sheet of paper that Nèreus had given him, the curious child’s even stranger words still swirling in his mind.

Roger, Nèreus had told him, had caused a significant uproar in Zephyrin’s absence. A satirical poem mocking one of the priests had been found in one of the envelopes to be sent to his family; confronted by Father Athand, Roger had not denied writing it and it was only his frailty that spared him from a severe corporeal punishment.

Zephyrin found the idea of Roger writing such a thing ludicrous, and plainly said so; Nèreus agreed, handing him a copy of the offending text and suggesting that he track down the true culprit and exonerate Roger. Before Zephyrin could even think to ask Nèreus about his reasons for wanting to help Roger, the boy had excused himself and slipped away.

Holding the text in question, Zephyrin considered its introductory stanzas.

Punctilious Doctor of Etiquette,

His prerogatives won’t e’er let you forget.

A well spoken prince he’s widely supposed

(So long as prim lips remain tightly closed),

Eagle-eyed for proper punctuation,

Wi’ peccadilloes his predilection.

Make no mistake: tho’ paradise’s the goal,

He, of a plenipotentiary soul,

Plunges into th’ depths of the multitude,

To forget his perfection’s plenitude.

Grasping the drift of the poem at a glance, Zephyrin jumped ahead and skimmed a few more stanzas to confirm his impressions.

‘Til the student, confusion perceiving,

Whispered, “Pray, wait. Sir isn’t yet receiving.

A rev’rential minute’s passage he asks:

Awed silence th’ paltry tribute he exacts.”

A pause: th’ consummate calotinocrat

Cringing posthaste, gained th’ craved nihil obstat…

Zephyrin crumpled up the sheet in his fist, then shoved it into his pocket. There was no doubt in his mind. Foudris was the one responsible for this. The style wasn’t Roger’s in the least, to say nothing of the subject matter chosen. That Father Athand had been so gullible as to swallow the transparent falsehood that the boy had authored the text he found incredible, while equally bizarre was the fact that Roger had apparently taken all the blame willingly—murmuring, if Nèreus was to be believed, not a single word in his defense. He would have to speak with Roger personally and get to the bottom of this.

Before that, however, Zephyrin turned his attention to the package that had arrived from Estrelti. He saw that it had clearly already been opened, but this wasn’t of much concern to him; it was expected that the academy’s priests would monitor the student’s correspondence and examine the parcels sent from home for illicit materials. He supposed it should rankle on him, but having his letters intercepted for as long as he could remember in Elysia had habituated him to a lack of privacy. Zephyrin opened the package.

He was glad to see that it contained no food. In his last letter he had told his parents that the students were well fed, and they needed not worry on that score. Instead, it enclosed several envelopes. Zephyrin took one and parted the top fold with his index and thumb to read the first line.

My dear son,

Taking a seat in his chair, Zephyrin fully spread out the coarse paper on his desk to better decipher his adoptive father’s cramped script. Though he set himself to reading the letter carefully, it wasn’t long before he began to struggle, finding it difficult to concentrate on the faithful report of the doings of the Calon family and the other villagers since his departure. Giving up, Zephyrin skipped several ink-blotched paragraphs to arrive at the end.

… Many of our naybors have fallen behind on their work because of hunger, sickniss, lack of manpower. So I worked at other peopel’s farmsteds. The first day at Raùl’s to clear his vineyard, one day to mend his fense, the next at Yan’s to patch up his dovecot’s roof. Because I’ve seen my fair share of suffering, I know what it is and I don’t want othrs to suffer more than me. Also, I want peopel to acknoledge that those who are well and truly Kosmæan are better than everyone else at working for the commen good.

Not everything went poorly. The turnips and cabagges we planted togethr grew well. We picked two thouzand. Many had nothing this year. We were blessed. I carried wood to Erwan’s sawmill for barril-making. I trust that next year’s harvest will be better. I brought Arnaud’s grown calf to market and bargined for a good price. The calf was very beautiful. It weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds. After, I bought fifteen lambs. It’s very nice to see them gambowl and explorr. They’re all white, no spots. It will good when it is spring again, I long to see flowers and sqwerrils again, all alerrt with their little ears. How grand it is to see them leep from tree to tree. To see just a few would rejoice me.

Pray that this winter may not be too harsh.

Your mother is doing well. She sends her love.

May the Goddess keep you safe, my beloved son.

J. Calon

Zephyrin refolded and placed the letter back in its envelope and opened a drawer to store it in. He would read it again another time, when he was less preoccupied and could give it his undivided attention. His fingers moved absently in the drawer, then stopped. They hesitated, before beginning to rummage around more rapidly; again they stopped, until Zephyrin finally yanked the drawer out with a mounting sense of alarm.

It can’t be…

Where… was his encoded journal?