The prince kept his word. Though Zephyrin and his comrades were unsuccessful in their attempt at slipping into the chapel unnoticed and received a stern admonition from the Grand Prefect, the rod of justice that hung ominously over their heads never fell, and with the exception of Roger, who was strictly confined to his dorm or the infirmary outside of class for having so quickly resorted to physical violence, he and his peers were permitted to participate in the usual Thursday recreation and outing.

Accordingly, it was under a cloudless mid-November sky that Zephyrin found himself marching out of the lyceum with his peers, breathing in the—if not rurally crisp, then at least significantly less musty—air, as they marched out the lyceum’s ornate front gates and into the heart of Lutesse.

Zephyrin ordinarily relished the opportunity to walk the capital’s streets and familiarize himself more and more with her character, but he found his attention somewhat divided this early afternoon—even his very mood at ends with the dazzlingly bright sunlight and propitious weather.

A reason for this variance readily presented itself. There was no denying the general atmosphere was a little less lively this time than last; Roger had the singular habit among all the boys of declaiming his poetic compositions as they walked, and his absence made the procession a more sober affair; Zephyrin, however, perceived well enough that his subdued state of mind had more than one source. First, he would have to be blind not to notice the increased frequency of certain stealthy and speculative glances from the boys around him; this he had expected in the aftermath of his duel with the king’s nephew, but it still rankled on him that he should be so conspicuous an object of attention.

Second, and more disquietingly, he could not help but acknowledge a growing sense that his knowledge of pre-Imperial Gaulyria was not as satisfactory as originally estimated. Setting aside for the moment Narcissin’s incongruent attitude, which he was no closer to solving, Corentin’s combat abilities and command over his mana vastly outstripped what he had projected for this era, and though Zephyrin could identify the deficiencies of energy retention easily enough, he couldn’t help but wonder if there were other individuals whose skill and power eclipsed his expectations. Then there was the case of Nèreus, and his possession of a key to a section of the academy which should have been off-limits to students...

“Now now, no dawdling! Pick up the pace, young sirs!” called out the master in charge of the outing good-naturedly, as they came in sight of a hectic thoroughfare, teeming with heavy-set carriages, nimble fiacres, and downright reckless cabriolets, all jockeying for position in a mad, seemingly interminable race. Here the crude sidewalk along the street’s edge was no longer adequate to accommodate the number of pedestrians, and so both the boys and their adult supervisor practically spilled out into the road itself, having to take care at all moments not to get run over by the heavy traffic or ruin a fine, polished black boot by stepping inadvertently in the manure-mingled slush running down the streets, the dark residue of recent heavy rains.

The master leading their company was Master Verénus, the youngest of the instructors and a great favorite among the boys for his easy-going manner and pleasantly transmitted erudition. A representative of the new generation of instructors, his approach clearly differed from that of his older, more staid counterparts. Striding at the head of the boys, with his youthful countenance, powdered wig, and long, sleek master’s robe, the instructor drew the attention of more than one passerby as he led them through the frenetic streets of the city.

Their destination was the Dragon Cathedral, and by extension, the body of the illustrious Saint Ùwuinaëlle, whose relics it contained. It would be Zephyrin’s first time seeing a religious edifice in the capital up close; previous sorties had centered around fortifications and military landmarks, with particular emphasis laid on Lutesse’s military academies, where a fair number of the students were expected to enlist and receive officer commissions upon turning sixteen. The other visits had been to culturally significant sites like the archaeological excavations of Cerandor, on which modern-day Lutesse stood.

The previous king, Zephyrin knew, had hoped that artifacts of unimaginable power would be recovered from the depths of that ancient city, allowing Gaulyria to attain military superiority over her neighbors. The men of the Age of Light had left precious few heirlooms to their benighted posterity, and none had been discovered as of yet, but the lack of reward for the labors expended had done little to slow the enthusiasm of the baseblood diggers, keen for any pretext to exchange menial labor for bread.

They were looking in the wrong place, Zephyrin thought. Treasures the city would find soon enough, when his father would ascend the throne and scoop Lutesse herself from the mire in which the hapless monarchy and decadent nobility had consigned her, polishing her and setting her as the crown jewel in his imperial diadem—

“—Watch out!”

Instinctively heeding a fellow student’s panicked warning, Zephyrin lightly leaped aside as a carriage swerved dangerously close to the risibly limited space reserved for pedestrians. He watched it hurtle past with a faintly incredulous look, and was not at all surprised several minutes later when the flow of traffic ground to a halt on account of an accident a few dozen meters further down the street. Master Verénus called them to a halt, while a few green-uniformed guardsmen spurred their mounts to a canter and rode ahead to ascertain the extent of the obstruction.

With nothing to do but wait, Zephyrin gazed about himself, and would have certainly taken in the distinctive sights of the city, were it not for a curious voice that broke into his thoughts.

“Look, Nanna, look! Look at alle the wee boys in a file!”

Zephyrin turned his head in the direction of the voice, which rose over the noise of restless hooves and the muttered imprecations of drivers as a rare stillness was imposed upon the ordinarily chaotic thoroughfare. He saw a stationary horse-drawn carriage, and from the lofty perch of a padded seat, two little girls peering down at passersby. The first had a full face, somewhat in danger of crossing the threshold from pleasing roundness to indulgent plumpness; the other was self-possessedly aquiline, mirroring its owner’s straight posture.

Both girls were snugly wrapped in fine otter-skin pelisses, their hirsute accouterment complemented by fur-lined caps in the Rimphaean style. Together they formed a charming picture, suggestive of upper class prosperity. Also seated in the carriage with them was an older woman, a governess perhaps only in her forties but prematurely aged, with dramatic streaks of gray in her hair and a tiredness in her features that accentuated the lines of her face.

“Pleäse don’t lean so, mistress,” said the hapless servant, in an unsuccessful bid to rein in the avid curiosity of her youngest charge. The language spoken, practically untouched by continental influences, confirmed Zephyrin’s thought that despite their northern dress, the two flaxen-haired girls were Seaxlanders—not an uncommon sight in the capital, in this era, prior to the commencement of the emperor’s conquests.

The younger girl’s eyes roamed curiously over the spectacle presented by Zephyrin and his lined up comrades. Studying the blue of their uniforms and the glinting golden buttons showing through their black capes, she remarked, “How goose-flesh’d they must be, in this cwoud weäther!” Then, in a tone of rising excitement: “O zister, look in the middle! Zee that one! He’s zun-feäre, he iz!”

“Don’t halt thy finger on folk, Meryssa; it isn’t poleete,” replied her sister superciliously, though her piercing blue eyes also willingly took in the sight of the little troop. Her gaze coolly appraised Théander, blushing to the tip of his ears, moved on to a red-cheeked Narcissin and lingered on him for a moment, before finally settling on Zephyrin as she tracked the trajectory of her sister’s outstretched index.

“You zee, Lóana? How golde-bryght his cryne iz, and moon-soft his rode!”

“… He is unlike to the others,” the girl allowed, studying Zephyrin with a slight frown—though what it was about his appearance that perturbed her, he couldn’t say. She regarded him a moment longer, then abruptly turned to her duenna. “Nan, why is his garb so homelike compeered to the oudhers?” she asked, her pale brow clouded over. “Are they notte alle athel-born?”

Zephyrin couldn’t make out the governess’s reply, which in any case he would have had trouble understanding, his paltry knowledge of Seaxish having severely atrophied from disuse. He supposed she answered to the effect that the capital’s academies attracted students from a variety of backgrounds. It was certainly true that he wasn’t as well fitted for the weather as the higher ranking of his comrades; even the comparatively less well off Narcissin had the advantage of his warm provincial cloak. Abbé Beauvran’s string-pulling hadn’t quite extended to procuring a noble’s winter wardrobe, not that Zephyrin had had any expectations of such favors.

The Seaxlander girl, however, seemed much less accepting of his condition. Biting her lip in thought, she was evidently struggling with some sort of decision; at last, with an apprehensive eye on the congregated but gradually lightening mass of vehicles ahead, she loosened the crimson scarf around her neck, then released it to the chilly breeze.

“Mistress!” exclaimed her dismayed governess, while the girl’s younger sister let out a little cry of excitement, as delighted by her sister’s impetuous gesture as amused by her governess’s aghast expression.

For his part, Zephyrin watched bemusedly as the vivid red scarf undulated on the breeze like a magic carpet out of a fairy tale, before reaching out to grasp it. As he uncurled his fingers to examine the fabric, Zephyrin observed a stream of cerise-hued mana particles rise like champagne bubbles, before dissolving in the air.

A girl, yet trained in the arts?

Raising his eyes from the scarf to its donoress, he saw a brief smile rise to play her lips, quickly suppressed. The girl turned away abruptly, but not before he'd seen in her eyes a self-satisfied twinkle, which spoke of an internal triumph over self in the acquisition of virtue. She then resettled in her seat and attempted to cultivate an air of magnanimous aloofness, which crumbled as soon as Foudris called out through cupped hands, “Heähcyning dy Valensis thanks thee, feäre lady!”

The girl’s eyes flew open in startlement at the sudden exclamation in her native tongue, and her younger sister regarded the brown haired, diminutive boy interestedly, but no further words could be exchanged as the foreigner’s carriage lurched forward, traffic choosing that moment to unblock itself. As the torrent flowed once more, the younger of the pair waved excitedly behind her to Zephyrin and his classmates, to the evident displeasure of her governess, and it was not long before they were out of sight.

Zephyrin glanced at Foudris, wondering where the boy had picked up his Seaxish, and what his motive was for showing off his knowledge of the language to the girl, but Foudris merely winked and tapped his temple with one finger. He then understood, and expected Foudris to taunt him and try to redeem himself after his humiliation in the scriptorium; subsequent taunts, however, came from other quarters.

“Look at dy Valensis. He got a gift from his blushing bride.”

“You never told us your parents had already arranged your marriage, Zephyrin! Well, don’t mind us! Put it on! Put it on!”

With the jests of several boys in his ears, Zephyrin glanced down at the blood-hued scarf he still held. He hesitated not because of his schoolmates’ jibes, but because of the scarf’s resemblance with the emblem of equality that would be worn by the foulard-rouge rebels, and triumphantly attached to the neck of every royal and blueblood who would await execution. Though he wouldn’t be wearing it to replicate their bloody allusion, there was something vaguely distasteful about putting it on all the same. Zephyrin looked about himself, then asked, “Dy Adhrosta, do you want this?”

Unexpectedly finding himself thus called upon, Théander somehow managed to attain a deeper shade of crimson than when under the foreigner’s gaze. Finally he stammered, “I-I’m all right…”

“Tenéval?”

Nèreus demurred with all the grace of a born courtier. As the taunts around him multiplied, Zephyrin gave up and tied the garment around his neck, predictably causing the others to lose interest by his nonchalance. Not long after, as the onrush of vehicles evened out once more and seemed less likely to result in loss of limb or life, Master Verénus signaled for them to pursue their itinerary, which the party did in relative peace.

At some point they took a turn and walked with the towering edifices of the city looming overhead, casting the street into a deep gloom; then, at last, the view opened up brilliantly to the Great Bridge spanning the Seicwan River, which ran through and split the capital into eastern and western Lutesse. Master Verénus had them halt a moment to admire its majestic, alabastrine arch, then conveyed Zephyrin and his comrades across its pristine span to the eastern bank, the cathedral growing ever larger as they approached.