“Keep running! Don’t stop!!”

Zephyrin didn’t dare raise his eyes until the blur of smooth masonry beneath his pounding feet gave way to crude cobblestones as he, the young officer, the drummer boy aiding him in his flight, and all the fleeing guardsmen gained the opposite riverbank. Only once he was clear of the disaster did he turn back to see the cause of the murmurs of awe all around him, murmurs which rose steadily to become a consternated clamor.

Lutesse’s Great Bridge fell apart before the onlookers’ disbelieving eyes. First it crumpled in the center, like a cushion yielding to a tremendous fist; then the supports followed, white masonry bulging out as if pried apart by an invisible chisel, spandrels disintegrating, blocks as wide as a man is tall plummeting down, cracking the Seicwan where it was still icebound, before vanishing as the river’s churning black depths greedily sucked in the free-falling wreckage.

Four centuries old, the thread linking the Isle to Lutesse’s mainland had snapped. The elation that had animated the soldiers in their initial successes had utterly dissipated, their exuberance revealed to be of no more substantial and enduring quality than a fading dream in the harsh glare of day. Cries of dismay were briefly drowned out, only to swell again as the marvel of engineering underwent its final collapse.

Zephyrin’s ears were full of the alarmed exclamations of the soldiers—but, in a strange paradox, the sound wasn’t as overpowering as he might have hoped. Turning to face the stranded remnant once more, how many were the pale and affrighted faces that presented themselves to his vision? A mere two hundred of the original three thousand-strong unit? And of the most important visage, the one for which he scanned the crowd with bated breath, there seemed to be no trace—

“Where are Her Majesty and the Cygnon?!” called out Madame d’Aurellis in a strong voice, her voice cutting through the agitation. Unlike the queen, whose dress had been terribly soiled in the battle, her sister-in-law had somehow managed to preserve more of a courtly appearance, rendering her presence all the more incongruous as she stood in the midst of the soldiery.

“The last I saw them they were being pulled back to the palace!” a guardsman answered her at last, his face grimly set. The royal’s eyes widened and she spun around, at a loss for words as she stared out across the now nearly unobstructed view of the river, over the bridge’s half-crumbled supports. Zephyrin saw her throat work noiselessly as she reasoned out just as easily as him what had occurred: bombarded by the foe’s artillery, stumbling through a hail of bullets, flaming chaos had tugged their force in opposite directions; some among them had sought the safety of the Isle and retraced their steps, while others pushed forward and gained the opposite shore.

Those belonging to the latter group were a distinct minority. But more than their numerical inferiority, Zephyrin’s thoughts revolved around the origins of their predicament. To whom had the queen given the asterite, and why? The Grand Prefect had implicated as few persons as possible in their plan, fearing a leak—had that been a mistake? If they had warned the queen ahead of time—

This is no time for hypotheticals. I need to come up with a new plan...!

“I suggest we worry about Her Majesty only after extricating ourselves from our own predicament,” wheezed a familiar voice, diverting Zephyrin from his considerations. Straightening his large frame from a doubled over position as he caught his breath, the veteran swung an exacting gaze to and fro. “Well? Is there a single man here who’ll do more than gawk like a yokel at his first country dance? Secure those cannons!”

“Marshal dy Cassade!” exclaimed Madame d’Aurellis, while the marshal’s subordinates hastened to reappropriate the abandoned artillery still aimed at the collapsed bridge. The marshal cocked an eyebrow, paying no heed to the trickle of blood running down his temple. “My dear lady, surely you didn’t think me inclined to swim in this weather? Decrepit fossil though I may be, a daily constitutional more than suffices for fitness.”

Madame d’Aurellis smiled with genuine gladness as she matched his tone. “What with all the running we’ve been doing, I suspect we’ve gotten enough exercise to last us a month.”

“Undoubtedly,” the marshal agreed. “Still, I’ll not go so far as to thank the rebels for the encouragement provided.” While the soldiers wheeled and reoriented the cannons abandoned by the riverbank, their commander surveyed the recent battlefield with an air of dissatisfaction. “Speaking of our rascally foemen, I’m rather curious as to why our flirtation with disaster wasn’t acknowledged by a volley of lead. What sent the ruffians up and packing?”

“That’s right! Where are the rebels?” wondered Madame d’Aurellis, visibly chagrined by her belated realization. The street was desolate; the windows from which they might have expected potshots from sharpshooters, vacated; and not much further beyond, the Dragon Cathedral stood soberly, its formerly elegant and now heavily disfigured parvis deserted. Zephyrin tried to keep a low profile all the same, even while recognizing that they appeared to be in no imminent danger.

“I heard men yelling just as we crossed the bridge,” said a soldier, frowning. “They seemed terrified out of their wits. Something about magic rising from the earth…” A fellow guardsman beside him started. “Magic? Is that what those lights were? Earlier I saw pillars—blinding pillars of light, shining bright like the sun at high noon through the smoke…”

“If someone’s flinging spells from the sewers, introduce him to me and I’ll be the first to shake his hand,” said the Marshal dryly. “However, I regret to announce that I may have been overly optimistic. That little scare hasn’t deterred them for long. Look!” Heads turned to follow the direction indicated by the marshal’s raised cane-sword. “Gentlemen, ready yourselves for action!”

A dozen men, two, three—before long streams of humanity poured from each avenue, headed by vociferous officers, their uniforms as threadbare as the militia they sought to funnel back into the fray. It was clear to Zephyrin that whatever mysterious phenomenon had combined with his barrier to overawe the volunteer army of peasants and tradesmen had merely damaged but not broken their morale.

“They’re a persistent lot, I’ll give them that,” said the marshal breezily, but the knitting of his eyebrows gave away his apprehension. Then, a servant-woman’s voice rent the expectant air. “Tanji, no! It’s dangerous! Come back!!”

Still leaning heavily on the drummer boy’s shoulder, Zephyrin lifted his head at the cry to see a small figure covering ground in a flash, legs working furiously as he sprinted headlong—of all things—toward the rebel advance.

It was his first good look at the queen’s adopted son: though several shades darker than the mixblood Rozarius, their fine traits were similar enough that they could be confused for brothers. A traditional Primævan silver ponytail streamed behind him as he ran, while in one hand he held aloft and frantically waved a white handkerchief. Zephyrin didn’t notice the contents of the other until the child turned around mid-run; he only perceived the pistol as it was shot wildly from the hip.

After the crack of gunfire came a stupefied hush. No one on the royalist side uttered so much as a warning, so little inclined were they—Zephyrin no more than the others—to draw the conclusion suggested by this baffling development. The queen’s adopted son had taken off running to rejoin the enemy… and fired on their position?

Still trying to make sense of the scene that had just unfolded, Zephyrin allowed himself to believe in the ensuing stillness that the nonsensical shot had sailed harmlessly wide. The gentle exhalation he heard close to his ear—a warm sigh of relief, soft as a lightly stirring breeze—only served to confirm that impression. Until he nearly crashed to the ground as the drummer boy supporting him abruptly slumped over, a dark blotch in his fir green uniform expanding rapidly.

It was as if all those present came to their senses at once; there were shouts of indignation; a soldier brought his rifle to bear, took aim at the fleeing figure; only Madame d’Aurellis’s pleadings kept him from downing the retreating figure like a hunted hare.

As Tanji rejoined the opposing formation, baseborn troops parted, then closed around the Primævan child, who disappeared in the throng amid lusty acclamations and enthusiastic pats on the back. Inspired by the boy’s feat, a number of the volunteers took aim at the embattled royalist position and fired; the bullets ricocheted off a magical barrier raised in all haste, drawing upon the royalist forces yells of outrage. Again magic had been used against the commons: the bond between lowborn and high was definitively ruptured.

Zephyrin sought to master his breathing as he supported himself on all fours, unaware of when he had fallen to his knees in the first place. Fifteen centimeters to the right, and I would have been hit instead. He glanced to the side, watched dazedly as one man hurriedly worked to undo the strap around the fallen youth’s shoulder and remove his drum, while another reached underneath his uniform to try and staunch the flow of blood.

Through it all the fallen drummer stared up at the stormcloud-laden sky, his features slack, lips moving almost imperceptibly. “I left behind a friend in Rituíla... my village. Before enlisting… I should have… tell…” What message the soldier barely out of boyhood had wished conveyed was lost on his last breath. His vision became glassy-eyed, so that only a faintly surprised expression remained on his pallid features. The guardsman treating paused, then ceased his efforts, hanging his head somberly.

Zephyrin didn’t have time to properly measure the adolescent’s death. The army bearing down on their isolated position would gladly inflict countless others still if he didn’t act, and fast. He tried to block out the din as he ran through every eventuality, every means at their disposal, however slender, but some of the words filtered through.

“Mort à l’élyséenne! Tuez-la! Tuez-la!”

“Princess, please get back!” a soldier pleaded. “The mob has mistaken you for the queen!”

Madame d’Aurellis’s eyes lit up. “Have they? Well, don’t let’s relieve them of a happy misunderstanding.”

The guardsman looked aghast; two unmounted cavalrymen by her side sported reluctantly admirative grins beneath their mustaches. “Well said, Madame!” cried one. “A joy ‘tis, to acquit oneself in battle for so worthy a cause and mistress!”

“Save the pretty sentiments for later! Form a perimeter around her!” the marshal barked. “And if any of you are halfway competent in the ancient arts, now’s the time to flaunt the boasts of your respective houses!”

“But monsieur, don’t we risk excommunication…?” muttered a grizzled guardsman older than most of his comrades, a troubled look shadowing his brow. Madame d’Aurellis interjected quickly before the apprehension could spread. “Never mind canon law!” she said authoritatively. “I will intercede on your behalf before His Holiness, if need be! Don’t hold back! We must buy time until Her Majesty and the Cygnon find an alternative means of crossing the river!” Then, striding over and addressing Zephyrin in a low voice: “Have you recovered your strength yet?”

It pained Zephyrin to have to answer honestly. “Not yet, Madame. And I don’t know how long it will take before I can try to repel our attackers, or try to ferry Her Majesty across the river.”

“But you will recover ere sundown, yes?” she pressed.

Zephyrin breathed in deeply, ascertaining the state of his core. He had never drawn upon his power to its very limits, but… “I believe so. If Madame can buy just fifteen minutes, or even ten, I should be able to summon my power.”

The queen’s sister-in-law regarded him steadily. “Very well. Monsieur,” she said, turning to Marshal dy Cassade, “I give over command to you. Our fates, and very likely those of your sovereign liege’s wife and heir, repose in your capable hands.”

The marshal’s lips drew back in a wolfish grin as the remnant of the Guard saw itself progressively encircled. “Thank you for your trust, Madame. Well then. Let’s begin, shall we?”