“Will you take one lump or two?”

Zephyrin’s eyes strayed to the polished rattan cane leaning easily against a solid hardwood desk; but no, the expectant expression on the Grand Prefect’s face, as well as the quaint saucer and cup he held in his hand, indicated clearly that proposition was of a more pleasant nature. With a composure that did not reflect his interior bemusement, Zephyrin answered, “I’d like it black, please.”

The Grand Prefect nodded understandingly, but plopped a lump of sugar in the coffee all the same. Was he hard of hearing? Zephyrin accepted the coffee and returned the priest’s smile somewhat awkwardly, settling himself as best he could in his rigid chair. Third-highest-ranking member of the faculty though the priest might be, he evidently did not consider his position a sufficient pretext to procure richer furnishings. Zephyrin’s consolation, if it could be called that, was that the Grand Prefect applied this standard of austerity to himself. Seated in a chair of similarly unpretentious craftsmanship, he smiled as Zephyrin took his first sip.

“Is it to your satisfaction?” he inquired.

“Yes, Father Prefect. It’s excellent.” Zephyrin replied with genuine appreciation. How long had it been since his last cup of coffee? Almost a decade, certainly. He had only received water in the months leading up to his death, and coffee was as much an unknown to the villagers of Estrelti as their humble broths to the nobility of Lutesse. As Zephyrin savored his drink, the prefect poured himself a cup. “It’s cultivated on the Anatalahi Plateau—do you know where that is?”

“Yes, Father. It’s situated in our second colony, Nevala.”

“Right you are, young sir. I must ask you, however, to spare a prayer for the souls of about four dozen slaves,” the prefect murmured with a regretful expression, stirring his coffee with a spoon. “There was a terrible incident earlier this year—a young drake appearing out of nowhere and rampaging on the plantation; the baseblood mercenaries hired for defense caught off guard… well, the southern continent was referred to as ‘terra indomita’ for well over half a millennium for good reason. It is not quite so dangerous now as it was in my long-eclipsed days of youth, but the ‘elder race’ is not as enfeebled as is commonly supposed.”

This revelation took Zephyrin by surprise. “You’re familiar with the southern colonies, Father?”

The elderly priest laughed lightly. “Familiar? See the degree of intimacy we shared, and the souvenirs I brought back with me!” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a corrugated arm that bore the imprints of sizable claws and fangs. Zephyrin winced interiorly as he saw that in addition to being deeply gouged, the skin from wrist to elbow was hairless and discolored, disfigured by a terrible blast of heat.

“A juvenile,” the priest said, aware of what it was that sustained Zephyrin’s attention. “Had it been a century older and the fire any hotter, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation today.”

Pulling his eyes away from the sobering sight with some difficulty, Zephyrin met the prefect’s gaze and asked, “You were a missionary, Father?”

“Yes—and before that, a captain in the royal army. I saw the continent from both sides, one could say. I knew what it was to try to keep a venturesome missionary’s head on his shoulders during an expedition, and to be that missionary myself.” He chuckled again. “I certainly ended up getting my comeuppance…!”

Zephyrin found himself listening interestedly as the prefect recounted anecdotes from his heyday as a soldier in Ilatàveí, principally near Vahèlmar, the colony’s capital city. Most of his stories centered around his time among the Atonogi, one of the country’s myriad tribes. “You’ll never find a nobler people, nor one handsomer. It’s marvelous how quickly they take to the sacred truths, once one weens them off their dragon worship. They can spend hours prostrate in their huts before a little home altar. What a picture they make! What eyes they have! A regal purple, flecked with gold or gray; and their hair, a burnished silver falling down their cocoa brown backs…”

“Yes, the tubers they eat—they absorb the residual mana coursing through the earth of Primæva since the Severing,” Zephyrin rejoined knowingly, only to regret his looseness of tongue as the Grand Prefect looked at him oddly. “That… is an intriguing theory,” he said slowly. “How did you come to hear of it?”

“I… I read it in a book somewhere,” Zephyrin said truthfully, albeit without elaborating further. Even if he remembered the title of the book in question, he was not sure if it had yet been written in this time period. The prefect regarded him curiously for a moment more, then to Zephyrin’s relief resumed recounting his adventures in the jungles and his near escapes from the continent’s hostile beasts and natives. Saucer in hand, he listened as the former soldier spoke, enjoying both the drink and stories. The coffee, the deeds of derring-do, the rune-engraved sword prominently hanging on the wood-paneled wall—all was calculated to capture a boy’s interest. If this was a ploy to set him at ease… well, it was well on its way to working, he had to admit.

As he spent more time with the priest, Zephyrin found himself gradually able to unite his physical traits into a distinct mental image, one that would stick in his mind once he was out of the man’s presence. Though plain, his was a well-balanced face, tending somewhat more toward oblongness than rectangularity, paralleling its owner’s tall, trim figure. He was diminished by age, but one could easily imagine the striking figure he would have presented in his prime. Despite his military career, however, his light-hazel eyes were soft, and his gaze reminiscent of his mild speaking voice and general demeanor, while the elasticity of his features and promptitude to smile suggested a boyish streak that the passage of time had done little to efface. Father Athand, as the Grand Prefect had belatedly introduced himself with an apologetic look, gave Zephyrin an impression differing significantly from that of his old pastor.

Then, just as he was thinking this, the prefect brought up Abbé Beauvran of his own accord.

“Now, I have your presa in carico certificate right here,” Father Athand commented, sliding it forward on his desk one-handedly. “And the chancellor’s letter was very thorough; very thorough indeed. And yet…” He ceased scanning the letter, raising his eyes to appraise Zephyrin once more. “And yet, there is nothing here that explains why your gift rivals that of the scions of Gaulyria’s great houses. Would you care to shed any light on this matter, young sir?”

Here it is.

Setting his saucer down on the edge of the priest’s desk, Zephyrin smoothly replied, “I discovered my powers at a very young age, Father. I forbore from informing my parents out of prudence, but honed my abilities all the same. Very early on I resolved to join the army, where I hope to serve my country…” Zephyrin gave the prefect a reasonably detailed explanation, one which unavoidably contained certain lacunae, yet had a passable chance of satisfying the prefect all the same. What a stroke of luck it was that this instructor was an ex-soldier! That would work in his favor, surely.

The Grand Prefect tapped his cup with a finger meditatively as Zephyrin finished. “A strong gift arising in a common bloodline is not an entirely unknown occurrence; on the other hand, I have never heard of a case as… dramatic as yours. Nonetheless, it is for the Goddess to distribute Her gifts as She pleases…” The prefect lapsed into silence, thinking. At length he inquired, “And yet, you’d rather not study in the advanced classes?”

Zephyrin hesitated, then decided to push his luck. “If at all possible, Father Prefect. As a commoner by blood, I lack even a single inherited spell, and the training for nobles is of limited use to me. As you know, though I bear the name of Valensis, I have no tangible connection to the family and my presence in high society would be resented as soon as my origins became public knowledge.” Zephyrin had no illusions that even his time at the lyceum risked becoming uncomfortable, once it came out that his status as a petty noble rested upon a—quite literally—paper thin foundation.

Father Athand leaned forward in his chair, interlacing his fingers as perplexity traced faint furrows in his brow. A young boy who didn’t want to practice the arts? Who had ever heard of such a thing? Before long he asked mildly, “What is it do you think is taught in this school’s advanced magic classes?

Zephyrin impetuously answered, ‘absolute nonsense’… in spirit, conscious of the displeasure this bit of insolence would invite, as well as the proximity of the prefect’s disciplinary rod. Instead, to preserve his skin, he merely said, “Magic of the so-called aesthetical school: weaving mana in the form of petals, with the purpose of replicating the one-hundred fifty-three most popular and symbolic flowers—the better to mold a magical bouquet for one’s lady, of course—; illuminating an evening sky with an artificial sun; creating magical chandeliers and candelabra to cast variegated lights across a ballroom floor, while modulating the colors with each change of musical scale as the dance progresses…”

Zephyrin stopped as the prefect raised a wrinkled hand, wearing a reluctantly amused expression on his face. “You’ve got the long and short of it, young sir. Yes, it’s true our instruction is superficial,” he admitted wryly. “Our patrons wouldn’t have it any other way. A blueblood climbs at the court by his artistry, not his industry on the battlefield. Most fighting nowadays is done by basebloods… after all, war is such a messy business, and in our pious age it seems shocking to even suggest profaning the ‘noble arts’ by applying them too rigorously in battle.”

He sighed a little, lamenting the softness of the age, then continued, “I understand your reticence. But, dy Valensis… hasn’t it ever occurred to you…”

Zephyrin leaned forward slightly in anticipation. Had he omitted something in his thought process?

“… that the Great Lady might like to see you dance?” he suggested.

There was a silence.

Zephyrin met his teacher’s eyes dubiously, suspecting a jest. For his part, the Grand Prefect regarded him amiably, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Finally, shifting in his seat, Zephyrin carefully replied, “It seems to me that if the Goddess were so inclined, she could contrive to have me do so without passing through the intermediary of my schooling.”

The prefect chuckled at this. “A stubborn one, aren’t you? Too polite to give me a straight ‘no’ for an answer, but you’ll cling to your guns all the same. Now I see what your old pastor meant.” The priest added this last bit after a pause, causing Zephyrin to wonder what exactly Abbé Beauvran had written in his regard. As he was hesitating whether or not to renew his appeal, the Grand Prefect held out a closed hand, his palm facing upward. It glowed, and before long he unfurled his fingers, revealing an exquisitely crafted rose, the petals every hue of the rainbow. After letting Zephyrin admire his handiwork, he remarked simply, “Thirty years.”

“Thirty… what do you mean, Father?”

“Thirty years of assiduous practice. That’s how long it took me to master this particular specimen. And even then…”

The magical flower’s petals began to tremble, then shuddered, as if subjected to a wintry chill, before vanishing altogether, its stem and petals breaking apart into tiny, evanescent pinpoints of light. Father Athand studied his empty palm for a few moments more, before raising his limpid eyes to the silently watching Zephyrin. His weathered features subtly arranged into a gentle smile.

“Take the classes, dy Valensis. There’ll be time enough to apply the favor bestowed to other purposes.”

Hand in pocket, Zephyrin strode down through the hallway. The meeting with the Grand Prefect had eaten up well over half of his free hour, but he didn’t particularly mind, as kicking a pig-leather ball around a paved courtyard with his fellow students held limited appeal to him, particularly in light of his father’s personality. A quick perusal of the Emperor of Orbe’s correspondence sufficed to reveal a mind steeped in the classics, and Zephyrin had a strong inkling that his father had been a voracious bookworm since early childhood. The library therefore presented itself as the most obvious location to investigate, though he supposed it was also possible his father would be reading on his own somewhere else on the school grounds.

As Zephyrin considered his next destination, he suddenly became conscious of a commotion at the end of the corridor. Several boys were gathered in a circle, with one standing some ways off as a lookout, ready to avert to others to the sudden appearance of a patrolling prefect.

What’s going on over there?

Zephyrin accelerated his pace, briskly crossing over to the ring of students. As he approached, the taunting voices made it clear that its members were amusing themselves at the expense of a less fortunate boy.

Ah.

That’s right. Nobles though all the students were, some hailed from less prestigious houses than others. If his house was impoverished, a blueblood could find himself on uncomfortably close footing with an upper class baseblood merchant. In Zephyrin’s experience, bluebloods from prominent houses reserved the greater part of their enmity for their fellow nobles; plebeians were of a different order, and it was an unspoken but commonly accepted view there was as little sense venting one’s ire on a baseblood as on a senseless piece of furniture.

In any case, regardless of the particular reason chosen, the fact remained that the group had gathered around a morose-looking boy with tousled black hair. Looming over him, one of his peers mocked, “What an accent he has! Garsil, did you make out a word of what he said?”

“Not I, Arsilius. And you’d best be careful; his consonants are so jagged they cut!”

“Like the winds of his province, I’ll wager! Tell us, friend, is it true what they say, that where you’re from all the men are wood-cutters, and none have never seen a book in their lives?”

“Come now! The northern wilds fell under crown rule thirty years ago—surely they’ve had time to crack open a tome since then!”

The object of the group’s mockery scowled, but made no response. Zephyrin couldn’t make him out well; he was a little undersized for his age, and the other young nobles encircling him obscured his view. While fully conscious that antagonizing his superiors by title before the school year officially began was far from ideal, Zephyrin had no intention of strolling by, whistling a tune as the degradation of the Gaulyrian nobility continued apace before his eyes.

Time to put an end to this farce.

But then, just as Zephyrin prepared himself to intervene…

“Well now, well now! What’s all this about? If it’s an Alérian tongue ye want, Rojèr Dy Lé Prah will be mor’n happy ta oblige!”

Multiple heads swiveled at the strange exclamation, thrown out as if in challenge. Their eyes met with the bespectacled, unnaturally enlarged gaze of a near-sighted boy their own age, his face lean, his hair earthy-toned—and that was all Zephyrin had time to make note of, before the young interloper spontaneously began to declaim:

“Mine accent! Mine accent! It’s a pity?

A handicap? Nay, it’s sheer luxury!

What would ye say, ye fine folk from down south,

T’know yer the ones wi’ summat in the mouth,

That up north, from Garonde ta Rhonte we say,

‘Those folk talk in a funny sort o’ way!’

And that, depending on one’s point o’ view,

Ta not have an accent’s ta have one too!

Nuff’s enough! I’ll blaspheme, and feign no more!

If ya ain’t got no accent, yer dirt-poor!

Luggin’ ‘round yer good ol’ accent tried and true

Is like havin’ yer terroir on yer shoe!

Flappin’ yer gums when far and wide ye roam,

‘s just like draggin’ ‘long with ya home sweet home!

When, heavy-hearted, weary road ye take,

An accent’s a whole country ye can’t shake!

Mine accent! It’s an invisible case

I carry as I go from place ta place!

For th’ unhappy souls in a strange land,

One’s own tongue alwey takes th’ upper hand!

For goodness’ sake! With an accent ta chat,

Is ta speak o’ home whilst folk chew the fat!

Nay, you’ll ne’er catch me blush o’er accent true!

I want it proud, a mount comin’ int’ view!

And e’er strivin’ an even keel ta keep,

Ta wear it on my sleeve, ne’er losin’ sleep!

Mine accent? On bent knee ta it attend,

With it I bring th’ northlands where’er I wend,

And make its voice roll whene’er I blather,

Like stormy swells that’re all in a lather!

Bend an ear! With a word I cool a room:

Southward now rolls the Northlands’ brume!

Mine accent bears the pristine mountain clime,

The fresh scents of pine and wild mountain thyme;

It hints at the silvery foliage

O’ those dear whitebeams stooped with age,

And in skies icy blue, sun’s golden rays

Playin’ ‘long snowy steeples and chalets!

Mine accent, alpine accentor and alphorn,

Lends ta all my tales a catchy refrain;

And when ye hear it swing thro’ songs well-worn,

All my heel-kickin’ words dance th’ Grandéchain!”

The amateur minstrel struck a pose as he finished, staring at his flabbergasted comrades triumphantly as he grinned from ear to ear.

Zephyrin opened his mouth, then closed it. The ringleader of the little band stared slack-jawed for several moments, before his incredulity gradually relaxed into contempt. “That’s about what I’d expect from a water-veined jongleur,” he said coolly. “Birds of a feather flock together, as they say. Come, let’s leave the peasants to their devices!” he ordered his comrades, then stalked off with them in tow. The morose boy left as well, pushing his way past Zephyrin with downcast eyes and not a word of thanks for his rescuer. Zephyrin narrowed his eyes, but made no comment. He gave the departing victim a last look, then turned to face the remaining boy.

Seemingly well pleased with his bombastic entrance, the impromptu versifier stuck out his hand, still wearing the same broad smile. “The name’s Rojèr! Rojèr dy lé Prah! Ah, but ya can call me Roger; I reckon ye’ll find that easier ta wrap yer tongue around.”

Zephyrin bemusedly took the boy’s outstretched hand, giving it a shake. “Zephyrin... dy Valensis,” he added after a pause.

Roger returned the motion enthusiastically. “Glad ta meetcha, dy Valensis! Ya were ready ta back me up, weren’t ya? Thank ya kindly!” Zephyrin noted that his accent wasn’t nearly as strong now as it had been during his recitation; evidently he had played it up for effect. “That was an interesting poem. Who wrote it?” he politely inquired.

Roger’s grin somehow broadened further. “Thanks. I wrote it myself!”

Zephyrin raised an eyebrow. The boy couldn’t be older than ten; he had written that himself? Not to mention, had also recited it from memory… most likely, this was a prodigy—a real one, unlike himself—whose abilities had allowed him to gain admittance despite his status as a minor noble, if his rural accent was anything to go by.

“Where are ya from, dy Valensis?” continued Roger, either not noticing or indifferent to Zephyrin's appraising gaze.

“Baras. Please, call me Zephyrin.”

“Really? Yer sure?” The other boy was a little taken aback by this rapid dispensing of formality, but his smile returned soon enough. “Well, alright then! Don’t mind if I do. Wait, ya say you’re from Baras? I wouldn’ta guessed, from the way ya talk.”

Zephyrin blanched. “What… makes you say that?” he said at length, forcing out the words. Roger weighed his response. “Well,” he began carefully, “it’s only now and then… but some of yer words sound a mite different. Ya don’t sound like folk from down south, but ya don’ have the clipped pronunciation people have in Lutesse, neither. Your accent reminds me of… of Elysia, somehow,” he finished with a thoughtful expression.

“How do you know what Elysians sound like?” Zephyrin asked, trying and failing to keep a trace of bitterness out of his tone.

“Oh, there’re all manner of folk who cross over th’ border,” Roger answered diffidently. “Folk from Elysia, Fleuria—sometime, even a merchant from Solen, ‘cross the Étrotian Strait…”

Zephyrin didn’t respond. He felt sick to his stomach. Reborn in Gaulyria, with Gaulyrian parents, and yet he was still dogged by that accursed, accent-tinged Gaulyrian his Elysian tutors had imposed upon him. Would he ever be able to pass as a native? Was it already too late?

Noticing his troubled expression and undoubtedly sensing that this was a bit of a sore spot for Zephyrin, the other boy hastened to add, “It really doesn’t stand out, though. Compared to me and my rube dialect, ya sound like a noble!”

“That’s different,” Zephyrin said shortly. “Patois or not, it belongs to the same country. My accent, however, is that of the…” He stopped himself short from saying, ‘the enemy’.

Roger looked quizzically at Zephyrin as he stood silently, his fist clenched at his side. Then he smiled. “Looks like ya need to learn my poem! It’ll pick ye up whene’vr yer down!”

“I think I’ll pass,” Zephyrin said dryly. He paused for a moment; and then, as a suspicion formed in his mind and began to crystallize, asked with some urgency, “Wait. You say you lived near ‘the border’. Which part of the north are you from?”

“Aléria,” responded Roger cheerfully. Zephyrin suddenly found his interest in the petty noble rising exponentially.

“Aléria!” he echoed. That’s right; the boy had said that before launching into his dramatic recital… Zephyrin wanted to kick himself. “Did you come alone? Or were you accompanied by others from your province? Tell me!” He took a step toward Roger.

“N-Nay,” Roger stammered, surprised by the intensity of Zephyrin’s gaze. “I ain’t the only one. I came with the boy ya just saw, the one bein’ picked on.

Zephyrin’s eyes widened. “The boy from…!”

No. It couldn’t be. It couldn't possibly...

Roger nodded. “Yep.”

“Do… Do you know his name…?”

“‘Course! That was Narcissin,” Roger said easily. “Narcissin dy Aléri-Kyerno.”