OVER BLACK.

A child sings. His sobs render the words indistinguishable, but the melody is THE WELL IS A MIRROR, a Barizheise sickbed hymn.

Dark sky gives way to a sickle moon. The BREEZE BLOWS gauzy curtains across the field of view.

Candles sit on the windowsill, wicks barren.

The silhouette of an eight-year-old MICHE'MAIA (coltish and concerningly skinny) kneels before the bed of CHENELO ZHASAN (young, beautiful, and dying).

He bears the plaits of a child, a far cry from the Emperor he will one day become. It is fitting that for as long as he remains Miche'maia, his face must be unknown to us, for grief consumes his very being; renders him an inkblot on an unmarked page.

The words to THE WELL IS A MIRROR grow more recognisable.

Chenelo stirs.

Illness has stolen much from her, but her eyes flick from her son's face to her own limp hand. He takes it.

Chenelo smiles, letting her head fall back to the pillows. Miche'maia takes up the hymn again.

After several bars, Chenelo has not blinked. She is no longer breathing. Miche'maia falters, a SOB interrupting the words.

He clutches at his mother with both hands and tries to continue the hymn, but grief wracks his little body. Quietly, the pianoforte picks up the melody, unadorned.

Gloved hands emerge from offscreen to drape a funerary veil over the still face of Chenelo Zhasan. The white lace is stark against the sickbed's mottled greys. Nominally, it declares the dead soul is under the emperor's protection. And it is less expensive than black.

The sympathy of the ISVAROË MAID (half-Barizheise, late teens) has turned to frustration through the long night.

Miche'maia is curled up with his mother's corpse beneath her funeral veil in a tangle of stiff limbs.

The maid heaves a sigh, then comes to the bedside, her figure blocking Miche'maia from view. The musical accompaniment adds voices, a sense of urgency. The funeral veil flutters. A struggle ensues.

XX NOTE THE ULIMEIRE MUST NOT LOOK LIKE AN ULIMEIRE, BUT 'AS' AN ULIMEIRE. PLEASE DIRECT ALL QUESTIONS TO MER OLVARA, FROM WHOM THESE WORDS WERE BORN. THANKEE -CAMB XX

The funeral of Chenelo Zhasan is a sterile affair.

Black-clad mourners loom around every corner. Their stark figures stretch up to the sky.

The Zhasan's body lays veiled upon a dais. Miche'maia's silhouette stands before her, hands now behind his back. He drowns in his mourning clothes, several sizes too large.

As THE WELL IS A MIRROR begins a slow transformation from mournful to foreboding, Miche'maia is ushered along. The next mourner takes his place to recite their blessings.

VARENECHIBEL IV (fifties, unmitigatedly Imperial) looks on from across the room in all his finely-draped white-on-white brocade. A black armband is his only mourning wear.

Looming before Miche'maia is a set of elaborately worked double doors in metal and glass, a masterwork of elven craftsmanship. They open weightlessly and in perfect silence. Miche'maia is ushered inside, towards——

——his father, who peers down at Miche'maia from the throne of the Ethuveraz. He glitters in the light of several ornate oil lamps, his visage sharp as diamonds and the Ethuverazhid Mura heavy on his brow.

An attendant shoves the shrinking boy forward.

XX NOTE IN THIS SCENE AND PREVIOUS WE HAVE FOLLOWED CLOSE AT MICHE'MAIA'S BACK WITH A TROLLEY SHOT, BUT AT THE SHOVE, THE KAMERA SHOULD REMAIN STILL, MICHE'MAIA STUMBLING FORWARD TO APPROACH HIS IMPERIAL FATHER ALONE -CAMB XX

The musical accompaniment comes to a sudden stop. Varenechibel leans forward, face distorting as he comes closer to the lens. He coolly inspects his youngest son for a long and terrible moment.

Miche'maia fidgets under his gaze, head lowered.

Clouds obscure the moon above the Court, a smear of faint light in the sky. Miche'maia's silhouette stands eerily still. Two faceless attendants stand on either side of him.

Musical accompaniment returns, the same foreboding interpretation of the Barizheise hymn for the dying. The adults shove Miche'maia towards the looming airship.

He ascends the steep staircase alone. Disappears inside.

The airship rises into the night.

Miche'maia sits on a bench backing up against the cage-like divider between the airship's cargo hold and humble passenger compartment, empty space at either side.

Viewed from behind through the cage, we watch as he hugs himself tightly, rocking back and forth.

If the CABIN ATTENDANT (twenties, with a servant's crop) feels any sympathy for the sobbing child, it matters not. She averts her gaze.

The sun breaches the horizon. Airship meets mooring mast.

Closer now. A severe-looking man stands at the mooring mast. He remains perfectly still as Miche'maia is ushered towards him by his guardians.

He is SETHERIS NELAR (forties, sour, as well kempt as a drunkard could be). He frowns down at Miche'maia.

Miche'maia sits at the window, watching the airship return to the clouds. The morning light pours in around him, leaving him still in silhouette. He remains at screen left.

Deeper in the lodge, Setheris stands before the great mantlepiece. The gloom of Edonomee threatens to swallow him whole. He keeps his hands behind his back as he approaches us, step by step, until——

KAMERA FLASH.

In the afterimage, SUPERIMPOSE: "THE BRIDGE BUILDER".

BEGIN TITLES.

Years pass by in seconds. The sky shifts in endless dawns and dusks.

XX NOTE REFERRING TO THE SUGGESTION MADE BY ASST. EDITOR LOREZHEN: IF AN IMAGE OF THE LODGE'S EXTERIOR WERE CAPTURED ONCE EVERY THREE DAYS, ONE COULD EASILY STITCH THEM TOGETHER TO SIMULATE THE CHANGING OF SEASONS. AT TWENTY-FOUR IMAGES EACH SECOND, A YEAR WOULD PASS WITHIN FIVE SECONDS. THEREFORE, ONE WOULD NEED A TOTAL OF TWENTY TO TWENTY-FIVE SECONDS FOR A CHILD IN HIS EIGHTH YEAR TO REACH HIS TWELFTH. -AIVO XX

KAMERA FLASHES light the windows from within.

Autumn clouds the sky. A small, dark figure on the steps can only be Miche'maia. The front door opens. Tall, pale Setheris GRABS his ward by the arm and drags him inside.

More KAMERA FLASHES. The world calms for a moment——only for a COURIER to approach the door.

PAUSE TITLES.

Setheris sits by the fireplace, letters in hand. There is an open bottle of metheglin, near-empty, and a crystal glass on the side table.

He glances up at the COURIER (twenty, pale and pretty).

One missive bears a seal that gives Setheris pause. We push closer in until the seal is all that we can see; it belongs to the Lord Chancellor, Uleris Chavar. He breaks the seal.

He reads under his breath:

His ears are flat, his lips thin. His hands almost seem to shake.

Seen from the back with hair in a child's plaits, Miche'maia peers in on Setheris from the door to his room, unnoticed. Four years on, he wears the same mourning blacks from Chenelo Zhasan's funeral, now only a little baggy.

He grabs for the courier's wrist, tugging the stiff-backed young man closer. His gaze alights on the doorway.

Miche'maia stumbles backwards in a fright. Over his shoulder, we see Setheris's sharp-eyed glare.

Miche'maia flees up the dilapidated staircase.

Lights are visible from Miche'maia's room and the sitting room. As the night goes on, Miche'maia's room goes dark. Eventually, the lights in the main room follow Setheris to his own room. The front door opens, the slim figure of the courier slipping out.

It is nearly dawn when Setheris finally snuffs his lamps.

RESUME TITLES.

Time quickens. Another six years in a matter of seconds, with nothing brighter than the gaslight in the windows. Winter looms over Edonomee. A servant salts the steps. An airship creeps into frame as we END TITLES.

Charts and diagrams litter the floor. Many are hand-copied and heavily annotated, others are original work. Multiple monographs of Hera of Urvekh' lay about in various states of openness, scraps of paper marking the illustrations.

A dark hand selects one of the volumes, trading the paper bookmark for a small, triangular block of wood. The hand tightens a woodworker's clamp, holding the book open to a complex diagram.

Our would-be dachensol's wrinkled sleeve is rolled up to the forearm, revealing a meadow of bruises, scrapes, and cuts. There is also the tail of a large, angry scar.

Our view widens. MAIA DRAZHAR (eighteen and bony as ever) sits cross-legged at the center of his paper nest. He works by window-light, a singular, slanted square of visibility in the otherwise suffocating darkness.

He holds a wooden gear in his hand. In the other, a dull and rusty file, which he uses to shape the gear's teeth.

Once satisfied with his progress, he holds the file in his mouth so that he might fit the wooden gear into a larger mechanism. Though incomplete, his device is a near-perfect replica of the diagram in the book.

With a finger, he pushes the gear in one full rotation. Its sisters turn in kind, and he smiles.

The light from the window has moved, and Maia with it. He flips through a monograph which is more mathematical formulas than words. His finger tracks down the page.

INSERT - 'The lunar display is again driven from b2. The train b2-c1+c2-d1+d2-e2 results in e2 turning with the period of the sidereal month (i.e. position of the Moon relative to the Zodiac). The subsequent gears in the train introduce no further multiplication or division, but introduce a quasi-sinusoidal variation in the Moon's motion at the period of the anomalistic month.'

He scribbles some notes on scrap paper, gripping his pencil in a fist like a child.

INSERT -

He circles his result.

Again, Maia has moved with the light. He hunches over his work, carefully engraving the face of his device——an astronomical calculator——to match the book's illustration.

Offscreen, the STAIRS CREAK furiously.

Maia closes his eyes and breathes, slow and careful. Perhaps Setheris will storm right past his room.

No such luck. His door opens with a SLAM against the wall. Maia flinches.

Setheris storms into the room. His hair is coming out of its pins. Dramatic circles line his eyes.

Maia drops his engraving tool, scrambling to his feet. Setheris grabs him and lifts him by the collar before he is even off the floor.

He releases Maia, who looks down at himself, at his trousers and shirtsleeves and suspenders. They are the same mourning clothes from his childhood, patched several times over. The mismatched lengths of each garment betrays his change in height, yet fit perfectly at the hips and waist.

Setheris tears a jacket from the broken wardrobe and throws it at Maia, hanger and all.

He tramples Maia's papers as he crosses to the bed, which he searches under in a panic. Maia can only stammer.

A heavy accent marks each syllable. Despite ten years in the north with an elven guardian, he speaks as one who has spent his whole life in Barizhan——but not the Barizhan of reality. It is the Barizhan of wonder-tales from whence he hails, and his voice reflects that in its breathy, halting quality.

Setheris pulls a pair of shoes out from under the bed. He throws them at Maia, who is still putting on his jacket.

He stands and dusts himself. His hands are shaking.

With a sharp turn, he faces Maia, who flinches once more. This is the only power Setheris Nelar still has in relegation, and he basks in it.

The flank of a crooked finger under Maia's chin punctuates the order, forcing him to raise his head. Maia opens his mouth to reply, but cannot find the words in time.

Defeated, Maia closes his mouth. He nods.

This satisfies Setheris. He pushes Maia out the door. Maia gives the room one last look; his papers have been stepped on and his device remains incomplete.

An EDONOMEE SERVANT opens the door. Enter Imperial courier CSEVET AISAVA (twenty-five, charming in a homely sort of way) with a bow. Despite his somber expression, his face is a bright spot against the dark sky of Edonomee.

The servant steps back to allow him in. Aisava's first steps into Edonomee are hesitant. He looks up the length of the walls, at the numerous animal heads that have been stuffed and mounted.

A Pelanraneise Cormorant stares back at him with wide, glassy eyes.

The servant stands before the door to the center room, his face as haunted and severe as the decor.

Aisava offers him a nod. He follows.

The door to the center room swings open. The servant enters, followed by Aisava.

Very little change has graced the room since Miche'maia's arrival. Perhaps there are a greater number of cobwebs.

Maia and Setheris are already here. Maia would be taller than his guardian, were he permitted to stand. Instead, he sits with his hands clasped in his lap. Setheris stands behind him, a hand placed decidedly on the chairback. They are framed by the great, antlered firescreen of Edonomee.

Aisaiva's eyes go wide. Setheris coughs.

Maia looks up at Setheris. He was told not to speak.

Suspicion prickles Setheris's otherwise practiced countenance. He gestures for Maia to answer.

To the separate horrors of both Maia and Setheris, Aisava falls to his knees. He is the first to prostrate himself before Maia Drazhar, but he will not be the last.

Revelation dawns on Setheris Nelar.

When Aisava does not stand, Maia looks to Setheris. Finding no reaction, he takes a gamble and kneels beside Aisava.

Aisava cannot bring himself to touch an emperor, even an unwitting one.

Maia, accustomed to certain treatment by the household at Edonomee, presumes another source for his reluctance. He shows Aisava his palms, then the backs of his hands.

At last, Aisava accepts the proffered hand. The smile Maia gives him is weak, but genuine.

Once all are standing, Aisava takes the letter from his leather bag. He looks to Maia.

Maia looks to Setheris again. It has never been his place to read letters. His smile weakens further.

Aisava's voice slowly shifts into that of another.

IDRA DRAZHAR (fourteen, the very image of an imperial Prince) looks on as his grandfather, VARENECHIBEL IV, approaches the airship WISDOM OF CHOHARO, followed by his NOHECHAREI, Idra's father NEMOLIS, uncles NAZHIRA and CIRIS, and the remainder of their retinue.

Idra calls out to his departing relatives, waving his farewell. His father turns, smiles, and waves back.

The royal wedding. Newlyweds PRINCE ORCHENIS and ULEVIÄN CLUNETHARAN (neé TETHIMIN) approach Varenechibel. Both are veiled in shimmering sharadansho, wrists and ears dripping princely cats-eye and polished elesth beads. They bow. With the nod of his head, the whole of Varenechibel's retinue bows back.

XX NOTE WE WILL OF COURSE FIND NO SYMPATHY FROM THE AMAL-ATHAMEISE PRODUCTION BOARD SHOULD WE REQUEST TO FILM IN THE AMAL'THEILEIAN. WORSE, WE MAY ENCOUNTER THE AUTOGLORIOUS DILETTANTES WHO CALL THEMSELVES KINEMEISEI, AND THEY ALWAYS HAVE ADVICE. AFTER A CONVERSATION WITH MER OLVARA'S SECRETARY, WE BELIEVE THAT THE SET OF THE ULIMEIRE——OR RATHER, THE SET OF THE ROOM THAT IS 'AS' AN ULIMEIRE——MAY BE FIT FOR REUSE. AIVO, WHAT THINKST TYOU? —CAMB XX

Archival footage from the aftermath of the HEART OF THE MERVANENS DISASTER: twisted metal, a field aflame.

A finely dressed man who can only be ULERIS CHAVAR prostrates himself before Idra.

Idra clasps his hand to his mouth, collapsing to sit on the chaise behind him. He is a puppet with its strings cut, and indeed, a puppet is what Chavar desires him to be.

A wider angle reveals the news of his father's death comes in the sitting area of Idra's bedroom. Though the hand at his mouth bears a platinum signet ring, it is still undoubtedly the bedroom of a child.

The desk is stacked high with textbooks, a history essay half written. The bookshelves hold brightly-bound adventure novels with alliterative names. There is a bokh set untouched on the table between two armchairs, whilst a board-game with dice and colorful game pieces sits unfinished on the floor, ringed by three pillows.

Idra collects himself, blinking back tears. He squares his shoulders and speaks to Chavar.

We cannot hear the words, but their body language makes clear their conversation has quickly become an argument.

Chavar is domineering and condescending; Idra grows increasingly upset and frustrated, showing the raw emotion he is too well-bred to express in a letter.

Chavar obeys.

Finally alone, Idra is wracked with sobs, hiding his face in his hands.

His chest heaves. His hands shift: still covering his mouth and nose, but we may now see his eyes, screwed tightly shut.

Another shaky breath. His clasped hands fall to his lap, elbows braced on his knees.

He forces himself up, and takes a seat at his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. He flicks the switch on the gas-heated wax warmer, then begins to write.

The letter, now written, is folded carefully in thirds and placed in an envelope.

Idra pours a bit of the melted wax on the seam of the envelope, uncertain how much he needs for the seal. Slips the ring off his finger to press it into the hot wax.

His signet is a sleek cat depicted in profile, gracefully mid-stretch.

Idra sits atop a velvet stool, swathed in mourning blacks. Hands come from offscreen to comb, twist, and pin his hair into place. His grey eyes stare off into the distance.

With the last amber-headed pins in his delicate white hair, the EDOCHARIS (elven, late teens) bows to Idra, seen behind him in the mirror.

Idra twists to face the edocharis, reaching for his arm. Desperation is writ plain on Idra's fine-boned face.

Their brief conversation we watch from Idra's back, symbolically emphasizing his youth. The sealed letter passes from Idra to the edocharis, who bows once more.

The same shot at Idra's back, now alone at his luncheon. He picks at his food. Rack focus to a massive portrait of Varenechibel IV surrounded by his three elven sons in the background. A guard in Drazhadeise livery stands before it, watching the young prince like a hawk.

XX NOTE AIVO YOU GENIUS. YOU WILL HAVE OUR JOB FROM US SHORTLY WE FEAR. MANY THANKS FOR RESCUING THE MONTAGE FROM A RATHER SORRY STATE —CAMB XX

Silence consumes Edonomee.

Setheris stands with his knuckles pressed to his mouth. Aisava can do little more than hold the letter.

Maia glances between the two of them. His face is a portrait of fear, of uncertainty. At last, he speaks:

Aisava nods, spurring him to continue——and earning a groan from Setheris.

Maia ducks his head, effectively silenced.

Maia's whole body is strung as tightly as by a violineisa. His instinct to flee clashes against the presence of a guest.

No response, not even a flinch. It's like shouting at a statue. Maia's eyes are fixed to the floor, eerie silver unblinking.

Aisava winces.

He descends into a FIT OF LAUGHTER. It doubles him over, forces his long-jailed body to shake.

XX NOTE THE FOLLOWING DIALOGUE WAS ORIGINALLY WRITTEN IN BARIZHIN RATHER THAN MERELY NOTED AS SUCH. OUR THANKS TO OUR MOST VENERABLE PRODUCER OSMER KHENAR FOR REMINDING US THAT THERE ARE THOSE WHO STILL VALUE THEIR ELVEN HERITAGE ABOVE MUTUAL CLARITY —CAMB XX

If Setheris hears this, he is too overcome with his ill-placed mirth to react.

Aisava, meanwhile, recovers from his own increasing horror long enough to return the earlier gamble with his own:

Though his command of the language is far from expert, it is enough. Maia's eyes widen. He makes a warding gesture.

Aisava nods.

By this time, Setheris has regained himself enough to shake his head. Whatever composure he had before, it is gone from him; that is to say, he is drunk. He has been drunk.

A grimace from Aisava.

He puts a hand to Aisava's back.

It is not a question. He pushes Aisava towards the stairs.

Setheris stops cold. He turns. Slowly.

He stalks forward. Nose to nose, still Maia holds his ground. This only further enrages Setheris. He now stands directly between Maia and Aisava.

For all that he shakes, Maia Drazhar does not budge.

Setheris stares. His eyes threaten to bulge forth from his skull. On instinct, he raises a hand——

Maia's eyes shut tight.

But Setheris does not strike. He cannot, not yet. Instead, he flicks his wrist in a flourish that resembles, but is not, a bow.

With that, he straightens himself, and marches from the room. He very nearly pushes Aisava over on his way up. The stairs CREAK with each step.

Once Setheris is gone, Maia exhales. He appears on the verge of collapse. Still, he manages to put on a polite, if awkward, smile.

He knows the words——they are simply too cruel to say aloud.

Carefully, Maia nods.

The bow he performs here is genuine. Partway through, he looks up at Maia and offers him a smile.

The Emperor's receiving room is smaller, warmer than the rest of the court——but no less stately.

Idra, attended by a GUARDSMAN, has perched himself at the secretary's desk. His posture is impeccable. He keeps his hands firmly in his lap, the closest he is permitted to fidgeting.

Sound of the door to the receiving room as it OPENS. Idra's gaze flies to up to see:

The edocharis leads Maia, wide-eyed and painfully thin, into the room. Csevet follows close behind, then Setheris.

Idra leaps forward. Gone is the prince of mere moments ago; now he is but a grieving boy who has just laid eyes on one of the few family members still alive.

His arms wrap around Maia's slight frame. Maia, who has faced naught but the lash since the death of his mother, stands stiff. He pats Idra's shoulder.

Setheris grimaces.

He stops short, tears visibly forming at the edges of his eyes. He stares up at Maia, at that same apologetic smile shown to Aisava earlier.

It is Aisava, thankfully, who steps forward.

Maia falls silent, and Aisava clenches his jaw. Cold, quiet fury builds behind the mask of his professionalism.

The prince returns. He has pinned Setheris beneath the authority of his gaze and taken his measure thoroughly.

For ten years, Setheris has held absolute power at Edonomee. Whatever he once knew of elegant compliance was lost long ago. He recognises this and, in an act of self-preservation, bows his head.

Setheris stalks off towards the entryway of the receiving room. He is hunched over, his ears lower than he perhaps realises. A thought strikes him.

Setheris turns.

Neither Idra nor Aisava possess a timely response.

He leaves.

Like chastised schoolboys, Idra and Maia share an anxious look and straighten. They are out of time.

The door OPENS.

Chavar is a consummate politician, smooth as an eel. If he holds any concern of whether the excuse he’s about to deliver is plausible enough to stand between him and the sunblade, nothing in his face betrays it.

Maia acknowledges this with a raise of his brows, but keeps his mouth closed and countenance neutral.

Chavar looks between Idra and Maia, taking their measure. He turns to Maia and finally bends a knee.

He knows what he is doing; there is no question of it.

Chavar does not have a response to this.

He speaks increasingly quickly, anxiously. He expects to be cut off, and is thrown by the fact he hasn't been already.

Chavar, so cool and unbothered mere minutes ago as he excused an act of what seemed to be willful treason, splutters. A guilty man's defensiveness, or a loyal servant of the Elflands's horror at an unthinkable proposition?

Being understood, even just this once, animates Maia.

Maia nods. He looks to Aisava.

Maia and Idra trade uneasy glances. But if Chavar had any part in the killing of one emperor, a secret, unscheduled audience is not the place for the uncrowned successor and boy-prince to accuse him.

Maia inhales. Taking his cue from the imperial mien Idra shrugged on so easily with Setheris:

The question is largely rhetorical. He looks under the fine elesth table for a hidden switch——a stark reminder that Idra, though he may have been raised at court, is still out of his element, and still very young.

Idra nods assent.

Chavar is speaking again, but his WORDS BLEND TOGETHER. Our focus moves with Aisava as he exits the room. He closes the door behind him.

Steady view on the closed door; when it opens again, a SERVANT GIRL (thirteen, cropped hair) enters carrying an intricately cloisonné enameled teapot on a silver tray. Maia, Idra, Chavar, and Aisava now all sit around the table with assorted papers and empty teacups and plates at their settings.

Silently, the servant girl refills teacups and gathers finished plates.

On the sidelines, Idra holds his cup of tea in both hands. His father died this morning.

A KNOCK at the door. A DRAZHADEISE SERVANT opens it just widely enough to peek inside.

XX NOTE MANY THANKS TO MER OLVARA, WHO HAS ONCE AGAIN OUTDONE HIMSELF W THE NOTE 'THE ROOM MUST READ AS CSETHIRO ZHASAN, BUT NOT AS ZHASAN, AND ONLY SOMEWHAT AS CSETHIRO.' WE HAVE CHANGED THE BELOW TEXT TO THE BEST OF OUR ABILITY (AND PATIENCE)—CAMB XX

The world within the damask-papered walls of the apartments is lively at dinner-time. Though not lacking in elegance, the dining room possesses a good, clean warmth that we have yet to see on our screen. The table is bountiful with bread, cheese, and oil, and the family is full of bright, cheerful faces.

At the head of the table sits CEREDEL (late fifties, trembles when excited), who puffs with pride as he looks upon his five daughters. To his immediate left is CEREDARAN (thirty, visibly pregnant). She lays back in her chair, a cold, wet cloth pressed to her temples.

Moving clockwise, we see the YOUNGEST SISTER steal a crusty piece of bread from the plate of her sister, the ROSIEST SISTER, earning her a smack on the wrist.

Next is the ELDEST SISTER (nearly thirty, also visibly pregnant), who chastises the Rosiest. Her own husband, the BROTHER-IN-LAW sits across from her, bland and stiff. Then there is the second-born LOUDEST SISTER, who elbows her Brother-in-law to no reaction.

Finally, to her father's left is CSETHIRO ONE-DAY-ZHASAN (twenties, severe). Amidst the din, she sits with a copy of RIPOSTE: PHILOLOGICAL IMPLICATIONS OF THE PARRY IN EDREVENIVAR'S COURT in one hand and a fork in the other.

The Loudest Sister swirls her orchor around in its cup.

The Eldest Sister shoots the Loudest a warning glance. She's right, but perhaps it should not be remarked upon.

He SLAMS his fist on the table for emphasis. The plates CLATTER. His wife winces at the sound.

Csethiro's book SMACKS shut. She casts a glare towards Ceredaran, who in turn glares at Ceredel.

Slowly, the table falls into a stilted sort of silence. The Rosiest and the Youngest stare down into their plates, as if they themselves have been chastised. The brother-in-law opens his mouth——and thinks better of it as soon as he sees his wife. At last, Csethiro reopens her book.

She continues to make a great show of reading her book. Audible rustle of paper when she TURNS THE PAGE.

CSORU (twenty, dollish and doe-eyed) stands before Maia, her hands placed in his. She is in deepest mourning, like all the rest of the courtiers. Maia, draped head to toe in imperial white, is the only spot of brightness in the room.

A single, delicate tear rolls down her cheek. Still, her hands remain in place.

The Ceredada watch the coronation from below. For a moment, all of Csethiro's sisters look to her. Her ears flick once in annoyance.

Back on Maia. A diaphanous white veil, pinned in place with tashin sticks, partially obscures his face—indeed, an elf would completely disappear in the sea of white—but his near black skin allows us a glimpse of a toothy smile and the crinkling of his eyes.

XX NOTE WE RECOGNISE OSMER KHENAR'S CONCERNS REGARDING THE DIGNITY OF THE IMPERIAL PERSON, BUT FOR WHAT IT IS WORTH THE ARCHDUCHESS CHENO WAS KIND ENOUGH TO LOOK OVER THE SCRIPT AT A DINNER PARTY RECENTLY AND FOUND THE DASH OF DRY HUMOUR, INJECTED——WE REMIND——AT THE INSPIRATION OF HIS SERENITY'S OWN CORRESPONDENCE WITH CSETHIRO ZHASAN, HEARTENINGLY FAMILIAR —CAMB XX

Again, to the Ceredada:

Close on Csethiro as she snorts.

She watches Csoru step down from the dais, oath given. The Archduchess NEMRIAN (nearly forty, delicate) approaches next. Her own oath is inaudible.

Close on Maia now. If he is nervous, his face does not show it——his face shows nothing at all.

Beneath the innumerable kerosene lamps strung across the high, trellised ceiling of the Untheileian, Maia's face is painted in soft, scattered light. It clarifies the gentleness of his features; casts exquisite shadows upon his skin.

Csethiro startles. Her sister grins.

Up on the dais, Idra presents his sisters INO and MIREӒN (six and eight years of age respectively) to Maia to give their own oaths, their small figures silhouetted and draped in full black veils.

Maia's expression softens. He leans down just enough to let Mireän put her hands in his.

The Loudest Sister smirks.

Chavar approaches his emperor and kneels before him, disdain undisguised. He lifts his hands to put them in Maia's, as he must.

We see Maia's face, unreadable.

Then Idra's, mouth twisting in discomfort.

Then Csethiro, watching the dais with a rapt expression.

Then Csoru, whispering to the KINSMAN beside her.

When we return to Maia, disembodied hands are lowering the Ethuverazhid Mura onto his head. The bells of the Untheilemeire strike midnight.

A great CRY erupts from the crowd.

Maia takes his seat on the throne of Ethuveraz. The crowd falls upon the floor in unison.

Music, now: a CHAMBER ENSEMBLE playing an energetic WALTZ. Their emperor crowned, the ceremony has become a party.

Dancing, CONVERSATIONAL BUZZ. Servants in Untheileneise livery proffer finger foods to celebrating courtiers.

As Idra ushers his young sisters away from their uncle, Csoru approaches the throne with a plate in each hand, one with an assortment of appetizers, the other stacked high with tiny, saffron-garnished rasgulla and nothing else.

The assortment, she offers to Maia.

He holds the plate a bit awkwardly, and does not eat.

Csoru's kinsman, seen briefly at the ceremony, remains at her side. THARA CELEHAR (thirty, as delicate and doll-like as his cousin) wears his hair in a prelate's single, sober braid. The devices of Ulis run along the neck and shoulders of his black frock coat in sharp, simple embroidery.

He prostrates himself.

Maia nearly drops his plate. A nohecharis takes it from him, allowing him to lean forward.

Thara recovers easily from any confusion.

Open alarm on Thara's face and ears. Maia raises a conciliatory hand.

Csoru looks awkwardly between the emperor and her kinsman, unable to follow most of the conversation but mollified, at least, by the fact Thara's hackles have smoothed back down.

At the word 'Othala', Csoru must conceal her snicker in a bite of rasgulla. She recovers herself with grace.

He bows.

Csethiro watches the conversation from a ways away. The sight of Csoru exhausts her enough on its own, let alone when she has so blatantly shifted her charisma into top gear.

Ceredel, on the other hand, notices Csoru at the Emperor's side and brightens. He passes his little plate off to the Eldest and hurries over to Csethiro.

He pulls Csethiro forward——she plants her feet.

Ceredel leans in close and says, low and quiet:

He has called upon his strongest soldier. Both are well aware he intends to clobber her into agreement, but Csethiro cannot bring herself to deny him outright.

With pursed lips, Csethiro allows herself to be pulled.

Back with Maia and the Zhasanai, Thara points out the rough locations of where the great clock's inner workings stretch out across the entire room. An engrossed Maia watches on.

Ceredel approaches from off screen, with Csethiro several steps behind. He clears his throat. All eyes turn to him. Once certain that he has the group's attention, he prostrates himself.

Thara clears his throat.

XX NOTE FROM THIS POINT THARA SHALL ECHO EACH SPEAKER IN BARIZHIN, EXCEPT WHERE SPECIFIC DIALOGUE IS GIVEN —CAMB XX

Maia looks to Thara and Csoru. Has this man not already approached? Nonetheless, he nods.

Ceredel returns to his feet.

Maia stares down at the Marquess. He has recovered the stony impassivity of an emperor.

This shift between demeanors does little for Ceredel's nerves. He flounders.

Csethiro approaches, stiff and regal as any general. Her arrival elicits an elegantly arched brow from Csoru, but no remarks are made.

She, too, prostrates herself.

Maia betrays himself with a flick of the eyes. For the duration of a breath, his gaze searches for any place to land but upon her.

Csoru's features scrunch into something that could be construed as sympathy. It could be pity just as easily. Noblewoman that she is, Csethiro keeps her face towards the floor until Maia signals for her to stand. She does so with as much dignity as she can manage.

Ceredel's hands shake. He forces himself to smile.

She does not wait for permission before grabbing Csoru's upper arm and tugging her aside, though not so far away their hushed conversation cannot be partially overheard and vice versa.

This leaves Maia and Thara to converse with Ceredel. We overhear:

Csethiro's gaze dips to Csoru's signet ring.

In unison, they glance at Ceredel.

Csoru scoffs. She pops a rasgulla into her mouth and covers it with the back of her hand.

She swallows.

A brief return to the gentlemen. Ceredel in the middle of a RAMBLE about riding, or opera, or some other diversion Maia——raised in destitute relegation——can only nod at in polite confusion.

Ceredel keeps glancing anxiously Csethiro's way.

He inclines his head towards the ladies.

Thara shakes his head.

Maia has yet to falter an inch. Ceredel, a lifelong courtier, fumbles all the more brilliantly in comparison.

As she says this, we look more closely upon the nohecharei, upon Thara and Aisava. The ring they form around him may be small, but already it is tightly wound.

Csethiro gladly would, under better circumstances. With a reluctant grimace, she follows Csoru back towards more pressing matters.

Back on the dais, Maia eats a raw quail's egg out of the half-shell as Ceredel carries on his one-sided conversation. He has barely touched the finger foods on his plate.

He nods and hums at appropriate moments, but absentmindedly. His eyes keep returning to Csethiro.

Csoru glitters her way back onscreen and sinks into an elaborate bow. Csethiro, on the other hand, returns to her father stiff and scowling.

With that, he bows. He looks to Csethiro, making the expectation for her to do the same as clear as he can.

Csethiro's posture remains rod-straight. She stares her father down, but he can only stand there, folded over, face blank. She returns her attention to Maia.

Maia searches his attendants for an answer. He finds just as much as Csethiro. He clears his throat.

Csethiro turns. There is a march in her step as she departs.

Her father bows one last time before running after her.

Maia watches Csethiro and Ceredel reunite with their family. The Marquess's face has turned a rather impressive shade of scarlet. He practically falls into his wife's arms.

The Eldest Sister takes it upon herself to scold Csethiro. Ceredaran, despite being occupied with her husband, attempts to do the same.

Maia regards the Ceredada in unreadable silence.

The other Ceredinnoi now surround Csethiro, full of questions and exclamations and, most of all, opinions. Despite it all, Csethiro maintains her exceptional composure.

Csethiro catches Maia staring. They both turn away, quick as a child who has touched a hot stove.

Maia and his train ascend the great spiral stairs in clockwise fashion. Though he keeps his chin high and shoulders level, he makes for a demure bride on this first night in what is now truly Edrehasivar's bed.

XX WE ARE AFRAID WE DO NOT CARE WHETHER THE ALCETHMERET STAIRWELL TURNS CLOCKWISE OR COUNTER-CLOCKWISE. WE DO NOT IMAGINE WE WILL BE PERMITTED TO FILM WITHIN THE ACTUAL STAIRWELL, AND EVEN IF THE COMPANY WERE GRANTED SUCH A MIRACLE, WE HAVE DECIDED THAT THE EMPEROR GOES CLOCKWARDS ALWAYS. UPWARDS, DOWNWARDS, SIDEWAYS——MAKE IT WORK —CAMB XX

From a slight advantage, some ten or fifteen degrees above:

The three EDOCHAREI surround Maia. First they remove the jewels from his neck, his ears, his fingers. They then set to work on his braids, carefully removing all the little ornaments as they work.

Slow push in on Maia. He struggles to stay upright, let alone awake. His lids grow heavy. His eyes focus on something out in the distance, something beyond the audience's view.

Reverse. The great canopied bed——the site of his conception, of his father's conception, of his father's father's conception——looms before him. The nearby oil lamps cannot light it in full.

Once more, Maia is rendered a vague silhouette. With his hair half-braided and his face unknowable, it could just as easily be Miche'maia we sit with.

Shadows pool across Maia’s back. A hand creeps into view. Rack focus to Maia as his Edocharis undoes the topmost fastenings at the back of his neck.

KAMERA FLASH.

INSERT - Edonomee exterior.

SHUTTER.

Present Maia's face overlays the inserted image. His eyes widen.

KAMERA FLASH.

Extreme close on Maia's eyes. The silver of his irises drown out the image below.

INSERT - A figure sits beneath the hood of a late Varedeise wet-plate studio kamera. The figure's arm lifts the flash as a great victorious torch. Silver bleeds in from the edges in root-like formations that stretch hungrily towards Maia's irises until——

KAMERA FLASH.

Maia INHALES. He chokes on air alone.

The fit forces Maia to double over. Slow zoom out as both edocharei and nohecharei flock to him.