Chapter 38, “The Crown Princess”, will introduce us to Sophia, the queen’s daughter. The transition to that chapter from the one previous, however, will be somewhat abrupt, for reasons which I will briefly outline here.

The first reason is that, while setting the stage for the dramatic events to come is certainly necessary, I’m aware of the risk that the calm before the storm will overshadow the actual storm; there is a fine line between building suspense and removing all tension by dragging out a story. To ensure the latter does not happen, I’ve decided to excise two chapters from the narrative.

While my original plan for chapter 38 was to depict the liturgy in the royal chapel, providing insight into the religious practice of the nobility and the Kosmæan rite in general, it has one glaring problem: namely, that the Kosmæan religion does not yet exist.

Put simply, there are no Kosmæan hymns, no scriptural passages, no original, fantastical terms. Rose referenced a “Salutation to Fengar” earlier in the story, but I haven’t actually written it out. Fleshing out the Kosmæan religion remains on my to-do list, and so the royal liturgy will be skipped for now.

This may be for the best, as it means I can have my usual fun with a dizzying array of terms, but later, not at the expense of the story’s pace or the reader’s patience. To auriphyrigiate camisia, white linen proecinctoria, and zambellotto baldachins, therefore, we bid farewell until the book’s eventual revision.

These chapters, less suitable for the weekly format, will therefore be written in full once the rest of the book is complete. Until then, some of you may be interested in having a glimpse at my rough material for the original chapter 39; my comments are in italics.

The ambassador related the curious belief of the colony’s dusken inhabitants, that any lifelike image must be prayed over no sooner than its completion, for fear that the gods will not resent the act as usurpatory of their prerogative as divine creators, and as punishment snatch the hapless soul of a recently deceased mortal to join it to the inanimate image. Much mirth did this anecdote occasion during the sitting…

(The ambassador, clearly smitten by Tulle, the queen’s young painteress, then proceeds to lavish her with praise. Much annoyed by his flattery, Zephyrin then offers the baseblood painter a more fitting tribute.)

“‘Tis not in wastes where tribe chiefs reign,

That marble moves, canvas doth stir.

Their strange priests have taken pains,

To ban art, th’ Goddess’s empire.

They dreamt up a dour deity

Jealous of creativity,

Who must needs ensoul images,

Sparing beauty time’s ravages.

Great gods! Do you at th’ folly sneer?

Yet you’ll concede, if close you peer,

Art has broken nature’s constraints,

That in genius too the fire seethes

Of inspiration; when Tulle paints,

She more than you a soul bequeaths.”

The artist’s brush stopped as she stared at Zephyrin, unsure how to acknowledge this lofty tribute; the Grand Almoner declared that he had not heard a fresher poem in months; and one composed on the spot, never; the marshal slowly opened one eye; finally, the queen seemed scarcely content with expostulating that Zephyrin was the most precious boy she had ever laid eyes on (after her son, she belatedly added), and that now she simply couldn’t imagine him anywhere other than at her side.

(While Zephyrin belatedly realizes that he has worked against his own interests yet again, the marshal regards him silently because the poem, though not yet written in this time, strongly resembles a future composition of his own that Zephyrin read in his first life and parroted unwittingly. He finds it very curious that this young visitor has perfectly mimicked his poetic style, but is unable to make further headway into this mystery.)

(After the conclusion of the portrait sitting, the queen then settles into a chair for a card game; Zephyrin, of course, is roped into this amusement. After rejecting trictrac and billiards, she opts for a Gaulyrian card game of my own invention known as “Dyrita.”)

The cards featured a young woman in classical garb, the eponymous Dyrita. On the ‘Wife’ cards Dyrita was depicted as a smiling young woman, blissfully occupied with various domestic tasks. On the ‘Nun’ cards, the scenes were replicated in a convent, this time showing Dyrita wearing a religious habit, a luminous expression transfiguring her brow, her hands more often than not folded in prayer.

The last set, the ‘Old Maid’ cards, featured a hunch-backed Dyrita in old age, in a gloomy, cobweb-strewn shack, her beauty dessicated and her only companion a particularly grim-countenanced cat. Evidently, the creator of the game had decided that if young women were going to be obstinate and persevere in frittering away their time playing cards, the experience would be pedagogic.

The queen ran an apprehensive Zephyrin through the rules…

(Here an explanation of the rules would follow, which at the present moment are only partially complete. The game would then begin uneventfully, with Zephyrin gradually growing dissatisfied as its simplistic structure and repetitive nature becomes apparent. A lady-in-waiting would be the game’s subdued but necessary third participant, while Adelaide-Estelle would engage Zephyrin in conversation.)

“Zephyrin, are you not fond of Dyrita?”

“No, because it’s a woman’s game,” Zephyrin remarked, drawing another card.

The queen’s glanced at him above her hand. “Pray tell, what is it that informs your opinion?”

“I lean on that famous word from the Countess dy Ségurine; to wit, that: ‘… games involving cards are essentially pleasing to women because they are unpredictable and leave much to mystery, for which reason they are singularly in accord with their nature. Women find themselves admirably well in the undecided vagaries of cards, as men do in chess, which exposes the board fully to analysis.‘”

Zephyrin paused to lay a card down on the baize. “‘Indeed, I call any game masculine which provides perfect information and encourages a spirited contest between intelligent beings, and feminine which favorizes happenstance and the facile, emotional thrills generated by indeterminacy of outcome at the expense of skill.’ So saith that knowledgeable lady, your compatriot in sex, if not in idea.”

“And yet,” the queen replied, setting down a card herself, “it seems to me that the good countess has failed to account for one variable in her theory, for what game is there in which unpredictability is more inherent, yet for which men are more avid, than that of war?”

Zephyrin paused for a moment, appreciating the ease with which this fatal blow had been administered. “You are most gracious in continuing this game with me, Madame,” he said ruefully, “for your riposte hit truly enough to justify an immediate declaration of victory on your part.” Whereat he inclined his head, conceding his defeat in their jeu d’esprit.

The queen returned the gesture with mock solemnity. “You are most kind, good sir. I accept your resignation, and as payment for my victory…”—here she pretended to think—“… I demand that we see this hand through to its conclusion,” she said at last, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

(The game resumes; Zephyrin realizes he shouldn’t underestimate the queen. But is it too late?)

The lady-in-waiting carefully turned over the decisive card. “Old Maid,” she said. “Win… by ten.”

Zephyrin’s jaw dropped. “How—” he exclaimed, as a secret smile rose to the queen’s lips.

“Perhaps Dyrita isn’t as random as you think!” And with that, Her Royal Majesty Adelaide-Estelle forewent all pretense of royal decorum, breaking into a peal of whole-heartedly girlish laughter.

Charmed and exasperated in equal measure, Zephyrin stared at the queen, then looked down unseeingly at the cards on the table. How had she managed to predict…

His eyes widened. Could it be…?

Of course! If one memorized the cards that had already been discarded, it was possible to deduce which remained in the pile…! And yet, to accomplish a feat like that, a prodigious memory was required…

Zephyrin returned his gaze to the queen, now tapping her slippered foot in time to a little tune she was humming under her breath.

(After trouncing Zephyrin in the card game, the queen then informs Zephyrin that her daughter Sophia is feeling much better and will be very glad to meet him that evening. With a feeling of inevitability, Zephyrin allows himself to be led to the princess’s antechamber by a servant; it is here that the next release will begin.)

Finally, to conclude this bonus section we have three 18th century French texts in verse, which I translated and then slightly adapted for this story.

A patriotic song, extract #1:

Arise, and with a thunder crash,

Let’s purge th’soil of the commonweal,

‘Neath the sovereign people’s heel,

Be the traitors reduced to ash.

Arise, and with a thunder crash,

Let’s purge th’soil of the commonweal.

To save the common good,

Banished be all mercy! Blood! Blood!

‘Tis their steel that causes to reel

Th’foundations of the commonweal:

To save the common good,

Banished be all mercy! Blood! Blood!

Let’s strike! A corpse th’last trait’rous foe,

Guided by just, holy decrees,

‘Neath new skies we’ll our rights enjoy,

And ne’er ‘gain fealty t’master owe.

Let’s strike! A corpse th’last trait’rous foe,

We’ll ne’er ‘gain fealty t’master owe.

Note: “with a thunder crash” is a very rough adaption of lançant la foudre—literally, “throwing lightning”,—think of Zeus wielding a bolt of lightning.

A patriotic song, extract #2:

On these blades, ‘fore our forebears’ tombs,

‘Fore dear sibling, infant and wife,

Politicians, and those whose wombs

Gave us birth, we vow slayings rife:

The whole land into darkness thrown,

Cast down the godless crown and throne.

Thus Gaulyrians’ll gift the world,

Peace, wi’ liberty’s banner unfurled.

The Manifesto of Fulgurin, Deist

Into naught doth the madness dissipate,

Gaulyrie’s kings once did regurgitate.

With it may all the vices of the world

Down oblivion’s rank abyss be hurled.

Wielding th’ dagger of fanaticism,

Preparing th’ poisons of atheism,

No sooner doth destiny kings coronate,

Than they conspire mankind assassinate.

For, if they, with their rank superstition,

Can no more invoke th’ participation

Of th’ Divinity, nor again disfigure

Him, still before long they’ll ensure

That He’s banished from the earth in due time,

And reign alone save hand in hand with crime.

Men, fear no more their sacrilegious plot!

They can no more wrest th’ world from Him Who wrought

It, than from their breasts they can extirpate

Th’ vain remorse that their souls doth inundate.

Ye downtrodden masses, lift up your heads!

Contemplate the heavens free of past dreads,

Fatherland’s heroes, your gen’rosity

Fulsome, was no ephemeral folly.

Tho’ slay you may th’ henchmen of oppression,

‘Tis not in their pow’r to destroy your sun.

Howe’er low you be, you can yet conceive

Unaided, high thoughts of th’ Divinity

And your fleeting lives with His Being blend,

Whose Being is Life, and is without end—

Nature extends her wise empire once more,

The Great Monad is one, is whole, endures.

To our virtue let us entrust our cause!

Infallible guarantee of just laws,

Let us crush kings’ unholy alliance

More by strength of character than violence;

Gaulyrians, fighting kings, you’re divine

And thereby offer Him a worthy shrine.

Great Being, Creation’s tabernacle,

Truly, th’ stupefied slave in his shackles,

The cruel blueblood, offers crude injury,

Whose pray’rs amount to naught but perjury;

Great One, liberty’s braves themselves entrust

To Thee, Who hast no need for pray’rs unjust,

Thou knowest the creatures Thy Hand hast formed,

Of heart’s yearnings Thou need’st not be informed,

Thou see’st how their hatred of tyranny

Burning against false faith’s hypocrisy

Stokes the flame of justice to greater heights.

These are our pray’rs, our inviolable rites:

For sacred humanity our blood flows,

That the incense and the worship we chose.