The silence in the dorm lengthened with the shadows. Zephyrin and the young heir of House Llegellion stood two paces apart, each waiting for the other to speak. With a challenging look in his eyes, Viristin jutted out his chin. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he demanded accusingly, breaking the stillness at last. “You’re the bastard son of an Alérian lord, ‘dy Valensis’ is your guardian’s name, and Narcissin’s your half-brother—that’s why you show him respect, as one Alérian to another, while ignoring us Gaulyrian invaders, as I’m sure you both pleased yourselves to think of us as.”

Zephyrin shook his head. “I did no such thing, and can assure you that Narcissin and I are not brothers, by blood or otherwise.” As he spoke, Zephyrin was disconcerted to feel a sense of relief wash over him, as if there had been a real possibility of his secret being found out. “As for the rest, I leave to your speculation.” Obviously, there was no way the blueblood child could have deduced his true relationship with Narcissin; still, that his observations and a little guesswork had brought him so close to a bullseye was unnerving.

“But you have Alérian blood?” Viristin insisted, unwilling to relinquish the key component of his theory.

Zephyrin paused. “Yes,” he answered. It was strange; he never thought of his paternal ancestry in that light. For him, Aléria was unquestionably part of Gaulyria, no different than the former duchy of Keltia to the west. In this time period, however, the newly integrated province might as well be just as alien as Tirrah, it and the ways of its rugged mountain men. “But though I am Alérian in part, Narcissin is not my brother. I never met him until coming here,” he stated emphatically.

Seeing Viristin’s brows arch in disbelief, Zephyrin added with some exasperation, “Think, dy Llegellion. If he and I were brothers, would I be wondering now why he’s left Lyceum Rudolf-VII? Were I able to do so, I’d simply write to him and ask.”

“If that’s the case…” Viristin said slowly, in a doubting tone, “then why did you spend so much time with him? His grades, his magic… there was nothing special about him.” In Viristin’s incomprehension was mixed a noticeable note of frustration.

“I…” Zephyrin realized the futility of trying to explain his actions. “I have my reasons. What they are is of no concern to you.”

The other boy’s lips twisted bitterly. “I see. You’ll stick to your own and confide only to your other countryman, is that it? Suit yourself. Though I’ll warn you, you may find your time here less than pleasant from now on.” The statement was more observation than threat, and Zephyrin thought he had a good idea to what the boy was alluding. Still, he decided to play dumb to elicit more information. “What do you mean by that?”

Viristin scoffed but elaborated all the same. “Everyone knows about your fight with Corentin. How you fought toe-to-toe with him. Then, not long after, someone started spreading the news that a student at our academy was staying at the King’s Isle. Oddly enough, you just happened to be absent for about a week…”

I was afraid of this. “And so? What are people speculating?”

The gleam in Viristin’s eyes briefly intensified, then faded again as the last sliver of the solar disk slid down the horizon. “The most popular rumor… is that you’re the secret son of Rudolf XIII.”

Zephyrin stared at his new dormmate blankly. “That’s simply…”

“Absurd? Good luck telling that to everyone who saw you hold your own against the king’s nephew. And destroy that ward during our entrance exams.” Viristin trailed off, scrutinizing Zephyrin as he silently absorbed his words. “That’s why dy Adhrosta won’t speak with you anymore, you know,” the young noble continued disinterestedly. “His father told him to avoid you.”

Zephyrin raised his eyes from the floor. “Is Théander’s father working against the absolutist faction?”

Viristin looked at him oddly, a hint of contempt showing on his face. “How are you this uninformed? House dy Adhrosta has had no love for the king for a very long time; it’s common knowledge.”

“But not House dy Llegellion? After all, you’re willing to speak with me,” Zephyrin pointed out.

“I have my reasons. They’re of no concern to you,” Viristin parroted airily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Emperor, I have some studying to do.” He archly crossed the room, indifferently knocking past Zephyrin with his shoulder to seat himself at Roger’s former desk.

That was fine by Zephyrin. It wouldn’t be long before the bell would sound for supper, and then for evening prayers and the day’s closure. If he wanted to speak to Roger before tomorrow, now was the time. There was a chance Narcissin had told his fellow Alérian something before leaving, and Zephyrin knew he wouldn’t be able to get a wink’s sleep if he put off their conversation until the morrow.

His head already bent over a grammatical textbook, blond hair lightened to platinum by the illumination of his lamp, Viristin paid no heed to Zephyrin as he quietly closed the door between them.

Entering the somber infirmary, Zephyrin halted for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Long and reminiscent of a hallway, with pillars lining the middle that clearly demarcated the parallel rows of curtainless beds, the infirmary was nearly identical to the illustrations he had seen of hospital wards. In the years to come the lyceum’s infirmary would, he realized, serve that purpose; and for a moment he could almost imagine the moans of the maimed and dying. Then these future ghosts dissolved, replaced by the occasional cough of a student. It was only early December and the flu had not yet made significant inroads among the student body.

The patient he had come to see, however, was not here because of a passing sickness. Zephyrin walked down to the bed in which Roger had lain when he had visited him last, presuming him to be in the same place. As he drew near, there was a shifting noise and a voice called out. “Eh? Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Zephyrin. I trust you haven’t forgotten me already.”

“Zephyrin! Yer back!” Roger’s squinting eyes lit up as he recognized the voice of his one-time dormmate. Raising himself under the sheets, he reached out to the bedside table for his spectacles, nearly tipping over a weakly burning candle in the process. Zephyrin waited for him to adjust them before speaking. “So, still lolly-gagging in here, are you? I must say, this is a nice little scheme you’ve hit upon. My compliments.”

Roger grinned, then nodded along sagely. “Aye, one fine mornin’ I thought to myself, ‘Hold on a tick, Roger: why’re ya hunched over a desk and freezin’ ta death, when ya can work just as well from a nice comfy bed?” He patted the nearby stack of school assignments on his bedside table. “Now I spend my days like a prince!”

“Very clever of you. But I expect you to grace us with your presence again before long.”

Still wearing his lopsided grin, Roger hoisted his shoulders. “It ain’t a sure thing just yet. I keep springin’ leaks.” He gestured toward a basin on the floor, filled with blood-soaked cloths. Zephyrin frowned, and, examining the boy as best he could in the dim lighting, saw that his pallor couldn’t be attributed just to the time he spent indoors. To say that he suffered from nosebleeds seemed an understatement given their severity, and even without extending his mana Zephyrin felt the fluctuations in the mana emanating from the boy’s core, a symptom of his arrhythmic heartbeat.

Not for the first time, he couldn’t help but reflect that in all his reading, he had never once come across the name ‘dy lé Prah’, and whether the provincial noble would live to see the next spring seemed an open question. Zephyrin perceived, however, that more than murmurs of sympathy, the character of the patient called for a lighthearted demeanor and good cheer. To that end, he provided a few details about his and Théander’s trek through the city that the boy had left out, followed by several anecdotes from his stay in the palace as Roger oohed and aahed. When he was done, and an enthusiastic Roger had finished plying him for details about the Dragon Cathedral and Saint Ùwuinaëlle’s relics, Zephyrin shifted the conversation to him once more.

“I see you’ve been bleeding quite a bit. Has a physician been sent for?”

“Aye, several times. Don’t ask me why; it ain’t a doctor I need, but a plumber!”

Zephyrin smiled faintly. “In the meantime, maybe I ought to buy a leech or two and stick them to your nose as a preventive measure.”

“Ha! Yer more’n welcome ta do so!” Roger’s thin legs kicked beneath the sheets in his amusement.

Zephyrin paused as he waited for the boy’s chuckling to subside, before remarking, “But Roger, I believe you have another reason to be grateful for your extended stay here.”

Roger cocked his head. “Eh? What’s that?”

“It spared you a whipping.”

Roger’s eyes widened, and then a shifty expression came over his face. “Ah, err…”

“Roger, why didn’t you tell Father Athand?” Zephyrin pressed.

“Eh? Tell ‘im what?” A stranger to artifice, Roger’s plain features now formed a picture of counterfeit innocence, like an oil-painted cherub over which water had been thrown and whose angelic features had melted into a leer. Zephyrin almost snorted. “There’s no weaseling out of this. I know you’re not the one who wrote those spiteful verses.”

Roger sighed, then readily conceded the obvious. “Aye. Yer right, it wasn’t me who write ‘em.”

“In all probability, the culprit was Foudris.”

“Yep.”

“Then why did you take the blame?”

“It would’ve gotten him in trouble,” Roger said placidly. “He’s already earned more demerits than half our year put together. He would’ve gotten expelled, most like!”

“Yes, and would that have been such a loss?” Zephyrin said this without much thought, but was surprised to see Roger’s expression turn serious. Raising and propping himself higher up against his pillow, he spoke quickly, the words that spilled out of his mouth tinged more strongly by his accent. “Ya don’t know what yer talkin’ about, Zephyrin. And, yer not the only one with a grand happenin’ ta share. Somethin’ amazin’ happened while ya were gone. Foudris’s turned over a new leaf!”

“… I very much doubt that.”

“You’ll see soon enough. Now,” he said, leaning over and opening the drawer to his bedside table, “I have a poem ta show ya. Take a gander at this!”

Zephyrin checked a sigh. “Roger,” he began, his patience wearing thin, “I’ll need to be going soon for supper. I can read your poetry any other time—”

“Read it!” insisted the young Alérian, grabbing his wrist and placing the sheet in his hands. Zephyrin raised an eyebrow, then, upon receiving a series of insistent nods, turned his attention to the text, written in a curving, elegant hand.

Lo! is this the Goddess who doth entrance

My wond’ring eyes as the heavens unroll?

Peace unmingled bequeaths her countenance,

And her gaze breathes new life into my soul.

A bright-burning brand that doth burn and bless

In her chaste hand blazes t’dispel darkness

And birth novel fires in the atmosphere:

What these soft tones, these dulcet mysteries,

Which harmoniously blend to thrill my ear

In one inimitable symphony?

‘Round her gathers a choir of spirits soft,

Who multiply tokens of obeisance;

Those on her right bear her crown aloft,

Th’others strew flow’rs of celestial fragrance.

O marvel! O beauties unknown to man!

Now I see, as angels deploy wingspan,

Form a feathery throne beneath her feet.

Ah! now I the sun-bright maid recognize!

Gaulyria, can you fail t’humbly greet,

Your own heroine standing ‘fore your eyes?

Yea, ‘tis she reveres in her heart Lutesse

As the steadfast foundation of her fame;

Ùwuinaëlle, aureol’d shepherdess,

Whose arm mightier than thine can she name?

Thou who, wielding invisible weapon,

Hast e’er o’er our affright prevailed upon,

To grant us unworthy ones great vict’ry:

The day has dawned for the glad memory

Of thy deeds, thy glory in days of yore,

To be renewed, and our country restore.

Zephyrin raised his eyes from the devotional piece to meet those of the bedridden boy. “It’s beautiful, Roger,” he told him sincerely, and without his earlier impatience; it had quite dissipated during his reading. “And though you may not appreciate my saying so, I have to tell you that I find your piety admirable.” Clearly, the poem wasn’t one that could be penned by just any child, even those attending a prestigious establishment like Lyceum Rudolf-VII.

Roger’s eyes twinkled and his lips curved in cryptic amusement. “Ah, that’s very kind of ya, Zephyrin. But you should know that… I ain’t the one who wrote it.”

“What?” Zephyrin gauged the boy’s sphinx-like expression for a moment, before looking down at the poem in his hand again once it was clear that he was speaking in earnest. “Then who did? There isn’t a name...”

“Ya can’t guess?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Roger’s enigmatic smile broadened to his trademark grin. “It was Foudris. He wrote it.”

Several seconds passed. At some distance from them, a servant-woman of impressive bulk moved from one wall-mounted sconce to another, bringing them to life with a long candlelighter. Zephyrin waited for her to approach and light the lamp nearest to them, then said in a low voice after she had passed by, “I don’t believe you. Or rather, I believe that Foudris is capable of writing such a thing, but only as part of a ploy.”

Roger shook his head vigorously, the wanness of his features more apparent in the light. “Naw, Zephyrin! I’m tellin’ ya, somethin’ happened in yer absence. It’s like Foudris is a new person!”

“Say rather that he’s added a new mask to his collection,” Zephyrin said dryly.

The young Alérian smiled but said nothing more, a reaction that only threw more fuel to the smoldering fire of Zephyrin’s exasperation. “Roger, you can’t be so gullible. It’s patently obvious that he’s trying to get back in your good graces after setting you up, only to have another laugh at your expense later on. You’ll find yourself the butt of his next joke, and the next, if you let him get away with this.”

Roger emitted a long, admirative whistle. “Hoo-now, sounds like ya got everythin’ figured out.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth. It doesn’t take a genius to see through something so obvious.”

“Hoo-now!”

“What are you, an owl? The last I heard, your nickname was Crow.”

“Hoo-now!”

“Keep that up and I’ll smack some sense into you, bedridden or not!” Zephyrin exclaimed, and then discovered to his surprise that he was sporting a reluctant grin. He then blinked as Roger’s index shot forward, pointing either at Zephyrin’s nose, or a patch of darkness behind his head. “Ah! There it is! I’ve been lookin’ for it for so long!”

Zephyrin turned in place, surveyed the empty infirmary, then faced Roger again with a puzzled air. “Where what is?”

Roger’s mirth-filled expression became gentle. “Yer smile. A nice big ‘un, as bright as the sun. I searched and searched, and ‘ere it is at last.”

“You’ve seen me smile before.”

“Not like that, I haven’t.”

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Wise choice. Ye’d lose, no contest. Now, Zephyrin! Don’t be cross with me!” laughed Roger, as Zephyrin raised his fist in a mock-threatening manner. “I’ve been cooped up in ‘ere for so long, ya can’t blame me for havin’ a bit o’ fun!”

“I won’t.” Zephyrin patted Roger on the hand and rose to his feet, remembering only then his original reason for visiting. “Roger, one last thing. Before Narcissin left—”

The boy shook his head, anticipating Zephyrin’s question. “He didn’t breath a word ta me ‘fore he left. Sorry, Zephyrin.”

“… I see. Thanks all the same.” After another brief word or two, Zephyrin raised a hand to pass through the curtain and let it fall behind him. He was aware of Roger’s eyes on him as he left. If, like Viristin, the boy was wondering about his solicitude for Narcissin, he gave no utterance to his thoughts.

Zephyrin lay still in the darkness, distantly aware of the sound of Viristin’s slow, steady breathing as he cogitated. Speaking with Roger had revived speculations that he had only half-explored before the flurry of activity in the palace had pushed them from his mind. Celerity. He found himself considering the spell that had appeared in his mind fully formed and with crystalline clarity, and could only attribute the spontaneous acquisition of that knowledge to the light that had enveloped him before Saint Ùwuinaëlle’s tomb.

Clearly, the Goddess had none-too-subtly steered events so that he would receive the blessing, wind up on the King’s Isle, and meet the queen. Whether he had acted according to her desires while he was there remained to be seen; but, at the very least, the course of events seemed to indicate that his and Narcissin’s separation was part of her designs. That being the case, he simply had to be patient and wait until their eventual reunion, most likely in the army.

That, however, was easier said than done.

*knock knock… knock knock…*

Zephyrin instantly released his train of thought. He listened for a moment, then slipped out of his bed when the knocking resumed, quiet but insistent. Zephyrin waited for a shiver to pass, then put his hand to the cold metal knob and opened it.

There, standing in the doorway... was Foudris d’Érazh.

A long moment passed as they regarded one other wordlessly. Finally, Foudris opened his mouth.

“Can I come in?”