Audric stood before the Sun Throne with his hands clasped behind his back, facing his tutor, Maister ci’Blaylock. Behind the brittle, chalk-dusted stick of the maister, the audience gazed at Audric with smiling encouragement: a few chevarittai bedecked with their Blood Medals, the ca’-and-cu’, the usual courtiers, Sigourney ca’Ludovici, and a few other members of the Council of Ca’… all those who wished Audric to notice that they had attended the young Kraljiki’s quarterly examination. At fourteen, Audric was all too aware of the flattering attention that came to him because of his lineage and his title.

They weren’t there for the examination; they were there to be seen. By him. Only by him.

He enjoyed that thought.

“Year 471,” ci’Blaylock intoned, looking up from the scroll-laden lectern at which he stood. “The line of the Kralji.”

An easy one, that. No challenge at all. “Kraljica Marguerite ca’Ludovici,” Audric answered quickly and firmly. He coughed then-he coughed often-and added: “Also known as the Genera a’Pace.”

And also my great-matarh… Marguerite’s uneasily realistic portrait, painted by the late master artisan Edouard ci’Recroix-who had also created the large canvas of a peasant family that adorned this very Hall of the Sun Throne-hung in Audric’s bedroom. Marguerite watched him every night as he slept, and gave him the same strange, weary half-smile every morning when he woke. He’d wished many times that he’d had the chance to actually know her-he’d certainly heard enough tales regarding her. He sometimes wondered if all the tales were true: in the memories of the people of Nessantico, Kraljica Marguerite had presided over a Golden Age, an age of sunlight compared to the storm-wrapped politics of the present.

The court applauded politely at his answer, smiling. Most of their pleasure was undoubtedly due to the fact that they were finally nearing the end of the examination, as Maister ci’Blaylock slowly climbed the ladder of history.