Standing in the center of the King’s Apartments as the residue of his magical maelstrom rejoined the aether, Zephyrin calmly withstood the watchful eyes of the king. The royal hairdresser and governess shared a look, then precipitated to his side. Like the synchronized cogs of a well-oiled machine they went about their tasks efficiently, the former working to remove stray blond tresses still adhering to Zephyrin’s hair, the latter to extricate him from the voluminous dress of the princess he had impersonated.

Zephyrin did not wait for Faramond and Madame Ehzvina to finish. Even as he was divested of his disguise to reveal a plain white shirt and trousers, Zephyrin spoke, knowing that time was of the utmost essence. “Your Majesty’s servant awaits his command.”

Making no immediate answer, the king evaluated the immobile forms strewn in the room’s threshold. The heaviness of disquiet hung about him, and Zephyrin perceived well enough that he was being ascertained as a potential threat. “It appears,” the king began at last, “that yours is a face known to several of this present company, my wife included; yet I have no memory of it, and must own that I find alarming this exchange of a daughter for a stranger. Who are you, and where is Princess Sophia?”

“Your daughter is safe, Sire. My name is Zephyrin Calon. Your Majesty’s former guest, and beholden to His generosity.”

Rudolf XIII face underwent no change. “It is a strange way of repaying it, to indiscriminately flout the laws of earth and heaven and scatter my subjects before my eyes, however nefarious their intentions.”

As if roused from their stupor by their monarch’s words and remembering themselves, the few guardsmen in the room raised and trained their muskets on Zephyrin. Rudolf XIII waved a hand for them to stand down, but stared hard at him all the same. “For centuries rogue magi have been hanged, as is befitting for men no better than rabid dogs. Tell me, why should you not merit a similar end?”

“As Your Majesty does, I live to serve the Goddess. Any apparent disobedience in His service is borne of our mutual indentureship, which perhaps explains if it does not excuse. If it will console Your Majesty,” continued Zephyrin, turning as he did so to afford the monarch a better view of the corridor beyond the entrance, “may He know that I moderated the power of my attack to spare the lives of His would-be assassins.” Indeed, faint groans could now be heard as several of the battered commoners regained consciousness.

Something in the king’s posture seemed to relax a fraction, but his face remained unyielding. “And the rest? What say you in your defense?”

“There works for you a man of confidence. Unseen in the shadows, know he yet strives for his lord liege and his family’s lives.”

“A likely tale. Ought we lend it credence?” broke in one of the king’s ministers, seeking out his liege with incredulous eyes.

Zephyrin kept his features carefully schooled, his tone inoffensive. “You need not. I leave my deeds to convince.” He was considering his next words when a commotion arose behind the guardsmen—the Crown Prince, struggling out of his mother’s arms to weave through the forest of legs and stand in front of Zephyrin, his mouth already half-open to hurl words curiously halfway between command and inquiry. “Is it true?”

“Monsieur, please stand back—”

“Are you back?” demanded the Cygnon, throwing off the gauntleted hand that alighted on his shoulder. Tears welled up in his eyes, and brushing them aside angrily he exclaimed again. “Are you back? Truly?”

Zephyrin bowed his head, appreciating for the first time the consequences of his abrupt departure from Douàzile after handing over the asterite to the queen. “Yes, Your Royal Highness. If you and your father will have me.”

“I… I ought to have you whipped for breaking your promise!” said the Cygnon through his tears. “I never even got a chance to show you half of what I wanted… I didn’t even get to give you your bouquet. But! I suppose I’ll forgive you.” He drew himself up, breathing raggedly. “Since you’re back. But you’d better not betray me again! Papa, tell Zephyrin to stay, so that he can make up for what he did!” sniffled the crown prince, finally allowing himself to be led back to his mother.

Once the boy was back in Adelaide-Estelle’s lap, Zephyrin dared to glance up. Seeing the king frowning slightly but apparently not on the verge of giving a hostile order, Zephyrin allowed some urgency to creep into his voice. “Your Majesty,”—a lifting of the eyes from the floor to the king’s closed off expression, a look of entreaty—“I’m afraid there’s no time to further inquiry into my identity and allies. Your Majesty’s assailants didn’t slip through the battlelines—they received help from inside. The palace has been infiltrated by—”

He started mid-speech as the queen cried aloud. “My foster daughters! Jermena! Jenovefa! In my bedchambers—”

“—naught stirs, save the dust kicked up by their flight—disguised, both. By now they’re well out of sight,” said an even feminine voice.

The queen let a silence hang as she studied her sister-in-law after her interjection, more surprised than reproachful. “Sister, you…”

“Knew? I and a trusted few,” replied Madame d’Aurellis. “We were introduced to our young friend’s plot—”

“And why, pray, were your lord and mistress not?” interrupted the queen, a shadow of worry coming over her face. Madame d’Aurellis hesitated only for a moment. “To pull off the life-saving artifice…”

“It was needed to make some sacrifice,” broke in Madame Ehzvina empathetically as she pulled away from Zephyrin, ribbons in hand, unapologetic before the most eminent personages of the realm. “To baffle the traitors in our midst.”

Roger gaped at the girl with short-cropped hair seated two paces from him, as she crossed her arms. “Yer… a girl!” he spouted, weakly. “T-This whole time, I was runnin’ my yap to…” Roger gawked, then babbled another inarticulate sentence before being interrupted.

“You are a very odd child,” said the girl, flashing him an irate look. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re trying to say. Speak clearly, or don’t speak at all!”

Roger blinked rapidly. “Oh, um, I’m awfully sorry…” And then, just as he was wracking his brain to try and decipher the unexpected situation in which he found himself, the repetitive sound of footsteps methodically ascending the stone steps to the scriptorium reached his ears. He and the girl turned in unison—only to feel his heart rise up in his throat—at the sight of a disembodied silvery head emerging from the darkness of the stairwell.

“I hope you’ve been getting along well with the Little Madame, dy lé Prah,” said a dignified voice, the illusion of its owner’s bodilessness collapsing as his worn, faded cassock differentiated itself from the black depths of the reconverted monastic building.

“L-Little Madame?! She’s the—” Whatever progress made by Roger in recovering his senses was undone as his mouth fell open and he swiveled toward the girl, who ignored him pointedly. Wrinkles vanished and a transitory twinkle passed through the Grand Prefect’s eyes before his features regained their usual equanimity, a composure undergirded by an iron will.

The lyceum’s master of discipline cut through his agitation cleanly. “Dy lé Prah, listen to me carefully.”

The boy’s jaw slammed shut; he gulped, then got to his feet haltingly under the Grand Prefect’s gaze, the princess following suit a moment later.

“An oath will soon be presented to the city’s clergy, stipulating the renunciation of privileges, as well as a formal abjuration of the Goddess’s temporal authority over mankind, exercised through the mediation of the Holy Father. Cardinal-bishop Tenéval has already signed it, and all indications are that the National Congress is on the verge of concluding an accord with the agent-generals of the First Estate, one whose provisions will endeavor to facilitate the establishment of a National Gaulyrian Church.”

Father Athand paused. “Our lyceum’s Father Director has also signed it.” He somberly regarded the young Alérian who paled at his words. “As the Congress would have dominion over this schismatic entity, its adherents would incur a latae sententiae excommunication, to be later confirmed by the Holy Father. However, this oath will only be presented to the ordained faculty, and as a child it’s highly unlikely that you would ever be questioned. The apostasy of your superiors would keep you safe."

The young noble’s brow crinkled as he listened. The Grand Prefect came to the crux of the matter. “What I am asking you, dy lé Prah, is if you are ready to leave this refuge in order to abet Her Royal Highness’s escape. Do you understand the implications of this request?”

Roger swallowed but did not blink, as if this was what he had expected all along. His eyes flicked from the priest to the princess’s impassive face and back again, and in the breath after that he answered. “Aye, I understand what yer sayin’, Father. Yer askin’ if I’d rather lay low, all nice and cozylike, or give the hornet’s nest a good wallop.” He straightened himself up. “Knight’s Charter, statutes one and two! Of course I’ll—”

“You’ll be part of our cover story. And bait for our pursuers, if the need arises.”

Roger set his jaw in a determined line as he met the priest’s keen gaze. “Just tell me what I need to do, Father,” Roger said, a little more subdued but no less resolved.

“As I thought,” the Grand Prefect said softly. He closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled and faced the silent princess to address her directly. “Your Royal Highness, you will be Riowen, dy lé Prah’s elder brother. I will give my name as Marcellus Maréchal; the two of you are my relatives—nephews—entrusted to me for your apprenticeships. I am a retired mason returning to his native Fleuria. Do not speak even if spoken to; you are a mute. If necessary, dy lé Prah will do so on your behalf. In as thick an accent as possible,” he added, looking now at the boy again. “This isn’t your rhetoric class. The less highborn we sound, the better.”

Roger nodded. “Aye, Father. Err, I mean, Uncle!”

A ghost of a smile flickered on the Grand Prefect’s lips. “Very good. Now come with me.”

“There are men too lofty to be dismissed,” murmured the king’s confessor, and his words set the nobles to regarding each other uneasily. One lord looked back and forth at the faces suddenly dark with suspicion, before expostulating, “This is ridiculous! Grateful indeed am I for the rescue; to plant a seed of suspicion, however, spoils the good—”

“Effect just wrought?” The elderly cleric’s woodwind voice whistled more insistently. “Unless viewed as it should, as sown by concernment and wisdom both.”

“Reverend Father, you too were apprised of this plan,” realized the king aloud.

A pained expression pulled at the abbé’s wizened features. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

This is going badly. Nontheless, Zephyrin held his tongue as he watched the back and forth, knowing there was no possibility of the king accepting his claims at face value, and that only Rudolf’s family and confidants could sway him into consenting to armed resistance against his people, followed by a desperate flight abroad. Zephyrin knew the king would have to be reasoned with before undertaking the momentous first step.

But he hadn’t calculated on Rudolf XIII’s blindness to the hand extended by providence.

A man more prone to the roiling of his blood would have been roused by the scattering of the assassins by a mysterious ally, would have allowed himself to be swept up by the moment’s effervescence and spirited to safety; one more superstitious and inebriated with the notion of his own glory, been quick to attribute Zephyrin’s intervention to fate and a heavensent subject’s inspired loyalty; but in his fatal insensibility to grandeur, Rudolf XIII’s first instinct was to measure, weigh, and ponder.

Even as volleys of cannon punctuated the discussion and the battle raged over control of the Great Bridge, and his men were being steadily beaten back to the first guardhouse, desperately in need of a rallying presence, the king continued to muse, seeing but never once considering that the gleaming moment might serve as the cornerstone of a new edifice in a grand and glorious history, were he but to take hold of it. The tension of his rescue was slipping away; the king’s morose countenance was seconding the overcast sky’s sickly lighting, bringing all those present back to earth after a transitory ebullience.

Zephyrin heard his blood pound in his ears, fomented by the sight of the king’s taciturn deliberations. His agitation was in no way assuaged by the sight of a witless maid approaching the queen to encourage her to lie down. “Here, on this divan…”

“What’s this now!” exclaimed Adelaide-Estelle, responding better than Zephyrin would have dared hope as she brusquely brushed off the young woman’s guiding hand, drawing the attention of the king and his council in the process. “Rest? The palace under siege, and you’d have me sit at my ease?” Reflective as ever of her volatile and passionate character, the queen’s eyes shifted from sharpness to tender beseechment as they fastened upon her lugubrious husband.

“My Liege,” she began, softly urgent, “Well do I understand your misgivings: yet have we not known one who pulls the strings behind the scenes? Recourse to secrecy has been excused for causes less worthy. I know this boy, and you your brother’s wife,”—as the king turned away broodingly, Adelaide-Estelle hitched up her voice—“believe, and lose your doubts before your life. Determined to lay their lives on the line, let your soldiers serve you and the divine.”

The king studied his wife wordlessly, then let fall from his fingers a parted velvet curtain as he lumbered from the window overlooking the courtyard to his desk. “Captain.” The officer stood at attention at the king’s voice. “Monsieur!”

“Tell my men to stand down. I’ll sooner relinquish an earthly crown than renounce one of immortality.” No one dared interrupt, but Rudolf XIII read plainly the consternation on the sea of faces surrounding him. “Countess d’Aurellis, take my family. I place all my trust in your subterfuge. Simply tell me…”

“Seaxland. A safe refuge,” the lady choked through her emotions, tears welling up in her eyes. The king nodded, opening a drawer to withdraw an envelop. “Go now. In the hopes of peace I remain.” The king held up his hand to forestall his subjects’ cries. “Pray that if I die, it be not in vain.”