Zephen watched the albatross bank sharply right, her enormous wingspan now visible to him, her white feathers glowing against the blue water.

His feet dangled over the seawall, barefoot because he remembered to take his shoes off this time. Most children his age didn’t have shoes and it seemed quite practical, but Mogu insisted. A prince should shod his feet to protect them. Soft, clean skin was the example, his valet had told him. His people expected his perfection.

He looked at his toes and wriggled them. It felt good to be barefoot. His smooth olive-toned skin was dark against the pristine white of his fine silk pants, rolled up to keep from the water. His eyes lost focus over the constant movement of the waves just barely touching his soles, tips flashing in the sunlight like jewels. Warm and salty, he could smell it always in the breeze.

“Zephen!”

The young prince turned sharply to see his valet approaching in a hurried march, impatience on his face. Mogu was always impatient, it seemed to Zephen; it exhausted him sometimes.

He waited until the man was close and stopped, his robes rustling as he gathered them to crouch.

“Your brother, where is he?” he demanded but quieter between them. It would not do for a servant to be seen or heard badgering a royal. Even in the private section of the gardens and sea palisade, there were plenty of workers and courtiers around to keep up appearances.

Zephen shrugged as he faced his caretaker. “I do not know, Mogu. Coltair left me here this morning. I have not seen him since.”

Mogu frowned. He looked like he wanted to rail at the boy but clamped his mouth shut and waved his hand at him. “Dress and return to your apartments. Your mother wants to see you.”

Intrigued but wary, Zephen nodded. He pulled on his exquisite, embroidered silk slippers and ran toward the covered galleries on the other side of the garden.

Once inside, the cool air bathed Zephen’s skin. A marvel of the marble walls, the sun’s radiating heat didn’t penetrate the inside and wide-opened galleries allowed copious amounts of fresh air to circulate the interior of the building. It was always cool in the shade of the white palace.

The complex seemed to stretch away from Zephen once he made it inside. A massive central atrium hosted twin staircases that fed the apartments in one direction and the working central government in the other. Between and ahead stood the enormous hall entrance and wide-open main gate so that Zephen could see the harbour and azure blue ocean a few miles below. The five-story palace sat at the highest point of the island, carved from a single marble vein, itself as near one carving. It could be seen for miles in any direction, especially if the massive braziers at the top of the throne temple were lit. It was rare, only on Ancestors’ Day had he ever seen them, but it was always magical: the warm glow of the enormous bonfires bathing the white walls of the palace against the velvet, purple blue of the night sky, making them glow a golden, inviting yellow.

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“Quickly now, Your Majesty.” Mogu ushered Zephen toward the apartment stairs.

Entering his mother’s apartments, Zephen slowed. Never alone, his mother had several maids and attendants, in addition to a small army of servants. It was all rather ridiculous to him; she spent her days dressing and undressing, it seemed.

Lovely and decorous, Ewa, Empress of Rogun, sat on a throne divan, lavishly dressed in ocean-blue silks that trailed over the edge of the furniture. Her hair was tied elaborately in braids, studded with pure gold balls and barrettes of dazzling designs. On her brow hung an astonishing blue sapphire, tied by gold thread to her crown that rose from her thickly woven hair, nestled like a wreath.

A maid waved an enormous, feathered fan over top of her, even though the white linen drapes behind billowed constantly in the refreshing breeze coming off the sea through her balcony windows.

Zephen eyed the room. Of all her entourage, most were kind, but there was one or two that he wished his mother would discard.

“Zephen,” Ewa called out to him.

He came to stand before her, bowed at the waist and waited.

His mother’s heavily painted eyes tracked him from head to foot. “You are filthy,” she said dismissively.

Still bent with his eyes cast down, he shut them and his lips tightened to stem any reply. He was not filthy, but he had been wearing the same white pants and smock since breakfast.

She sighed loudly. “And your brother? Where is he?” she went on.

“I have not seen him, Precious Mother.”  A very long silent moment passed between them.

“Look at me,” she said finally.

Zephen straightened but braced himself for his mother’s displeasure.

“He is your older brother. You should be watching him, Zephen. He is your protector and your sovereign, even now. To ‘lose’ your brother is an unacceptable act of indiscipline. An act of carelessness and indifference,” she scolded him.

Zephen nodded and cast his eyes to the lush rug on the floor.

“Do you want your brother not to care about you when he becomes emperor? To cast you aside and forget about you?”

“No, Loving Mother,” Zephen replied sullenly.

“Then try again,” she barked. “Where is your brother?”

Zephen fidgeted. The only place he knew Coltair went sometimes was the royal crypt, deep under the palace itself. His brother had sworn him to secrecy as it was forbidden to go there without the express permission of their father, Emperor Cirrus.

Thinking quickly, he lowered his head in respect. “I believe he researches our ancestry, Beautiful Mother,” he told her.

Ewa, not expecting his answer, blinked at him.

“He wishes not to be disturbed, so he sends me away. He is wise and wishes to know all he can so he can one day be as strong as Fearless Father,” he added and bowed deeply again.

“Where?” Ewa asked him sharply.

Zephen wanted to cry. “He sends me away so I cannot know, Exquisite Mother.”

Ewa threw her hands up in frustration and barked at a servant to hand her a morsel of pineapple. Zephen remained bent again but knew that the size of the piece of fruit she ate was cut perfectly to fit her mouth every time. His esteemed mother never opened her lips wider than a nibble to eat her food.

“Find him, then,” she said after she’d slowly chewed her succulent fruit. “It is your duty to aid him. I don’t care what he says. You will advise him one day; you should know our beginnings. Ask him to give you your own studies. You’re nearly a man now, Zephen. You should not be wasting your time daydreaming in the gardens.”

“Yes, Gracious Mother,” he replied and, with lifting his face to her again, backed away from her until he was no longer on her rug. When his feet met the cool marble floor, polished to near glass, he turned quickly and walked out of the suite without another glance.