Here's John

"Why do the clouds wear hats?" little Prince George asked peering out of the window at the curiously shaped masses of vapor. Seated cross-legged on the plus-carpeted floor of Norfolk House he was an island in a sea of toys, a litter which seemed to have leaped from the cases of a museum on to the floor.

"Because that's how the angels like to dress up," his sister chorused, the frolicsome nine-year-old Augusta, whose cheeks were pink as a result of a whole day of merrymaking. She clasped her porcelain doll, a princess, as if sharing confidences with it.

George had a mind as keen as any of the swords in his father's armory and listened intently to her innocence. "But why hats?

"To keep their heads warm," Augusta replied gravely in that way that only a child can about such an outlandish thing. "It's cold up there."

George couldn't refrain from a chuckle at such sweet innocence from her. "And what do they wear in summer, then?"

Augusta scrunched her nose up in deep thought. "I suppose they take them off. Just like we do."

"But they never get sunburned?" George insisted, playing on this light mood which always seemed to take the sting out of his life between dimensions.

Again, Augusta burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling with childlike magic. "They wear invisible sunscreen!"

Their mirth still echoed down the hallways of the great mansion when an old, sour-looking house servant appeared. "Your Highnesses, your tutor awaits," she reminded them in soft tones, firm but calling them back to their royal duties.

Sighing, George stood, brushing the dust from his knees. As he did so, he felt an odd tingling in his fingertips, as though those tips of a compass which suddenly read true north. The room about him seemed to shift and he could see it all, for a short, disorientating moment, as lines and nodes, an endless web that sprawled out to infinity. It was a map, yet not of the Earth, but of times, of choices of fates. Then, the Force of Mapping descended upon him-quite different from anything he had ever imagined.

"Your Highness?" Augusta's voice called softly, an echo in this by-now-silent room.

George blinked and the world snapped back into focus; the Mapping Force retreated, its intricate tapestry now no more than a ghostly afterimage. He took a deep, juddering breath. "It's nothing," he said, forcing a weak smile onto his face. "Just an odd fancy."

The lackey led them to their tutor, Mr. Ayscough, a figure whom George had come to like in the time they had spent together. Now, as they drew near, George's head was reeling with that thing that he could do: make sense of the mapping forces, some sort of hidden language, translating the fabric of existence; with it, he was able to see threads of destiny entwine, choices shape lives, and the way diverse ways are cast upon the path leading both to success and ruin. He felt a curious mixture of excitement and dread.

Mr. Ayscough welcomed them with a beaming countenance, his spectacles teetering on the tip of his nose. "Your Highness, I daresay your day has been taken up with enlightenment?" A spark of brilliance flashed in his eyes to denote that his curiosity didn't stop with their studies. George hoped he had remarked nothing of the alteration within him.

The old tutor, Mr. Waldegrave, had been exacting regarding tradition and convention. This was in sharp juxtaposition with the open-endedness and soft encouragement which Mr Ayscough made use of. His rigidity had shrunk whatever desire George ever had to learn and understand the world outside the castle walls. Finally, when George approached their father, the Prince of Wales, for a complete replacement for Mr. Waldegrave with Mr. Ayscough, he was quite apprehensive. The pragmatist ruler that the Prince was, he accepted without question. George had soothed his conscience when Mr. Waldegrave had been let go but soon knew a friend in Britain was far better than an enemy. The Prince had given Mr. Waldegrave a good pension and a title for the service to him for so many years, making the would have been opponent a very grateful friend.

As Mr. Ayscough launched into their first lesson, George found himself eager for the learning. Before them, he had laid out on the table a miniature battlefield with toy soldiers and blocks of wood, detailing the War of the Spanish Succession that had just broken out. "Now, Your Highness," said Mr. Ayscough in his deep rumble, "let us go over, if you please, the strategies of our forefathers and consider what we might glean from them in this present political climate."

But George's mind was elsewhere. Almost as if the humming noise in his head was the Mapping Force whispering to him about futures that might well be, about every possible eventuality of every possible choice. He raised a soldier, the weight of history cooling in his palm. "Mr. Ayscough," he said, "what if one were able to view the outcomes of decisions prior to making them?

His brow furrowed; then a slow smile oozed across his face. "A budding philosopher," he told him with bright, shining eyes. "But we cannot predict the future, Your Highness. We can only make educated guesses according to the information we have.

"But what if we had more than guesses?" George insisted, not having shaken the feeling there must be more to comprehend. He set the soldier back onto the table, the metallic clinking on the wood resounding in the silence.

Mr. Ayscough leaned forward, his interest sparked. "You speak as if you possess some… insight, Your Highness."

George swallowed hard, realizing all at once that he did not want to let his secret out. "Just a thought," he said coolly. "How would such insight be forthcoming?

Sir Ayscough took up a pensive attitude, stroking his chin to show how deeply he weighed his words. "Insight, Your Highness, is to be gotten from acquaintance with the patterns of the past and applying those unto the present. 'Tis an art studied, garnered from experience, and coupled with a touch of intuition." Then, hunching closer: "But I must ask, what moves you to ask such a question?

It sent George's heart leaping into his throat. He knew he had to tread very carefully indeed. "I just find the concept interesting, that's all." He shrugged coolly.

Mr. Ayscough leaned forward, then, after a moment of silence, returned to the miniature battlefield. "Of course, Your Royal Highness-it sounds an exhilarating prospect," he said, tone dripping with question and doubt. "Yet, a king-to-be must weigh fog against discretion and determination."

The lesson went on, but George's mind continued to wander. He studied the toy soldiers and the lie of the land before him, his mind teeming with strategems and scenarios. The more Mr. Ayscough droned on about the Battle of Blenheim, the more George's fingertips tingled. The Mapping Force surged forth, unrolling a great tapestry of potentials. Before his mind's eye he saw the struggle go on, the ring of steel against steel, the cries of death, the ebb and flow of fortune, the tides of fate at every turn taken. Meanwhile, as Mr. Ayscough paused for George's reply, the young prince answered with incredible exactness, touch'd the strategic errors and such points whereby the balance might have swayed.

"Your Highness," stammered Mr. Ayscough in amazement, "how did you know all that about this fight?"

"It's just something I read," said George diffidently, coloring. Enough for him to have had the strategic movements and the result of the battle laid vividly before his eyes by the Mapping Force to repeat them as if he had been there himself.

Mr. Ayscough looked upon him with a mixture of surprise and admiration: "Your Royal Highness, your knowledge in matters of military affairs is far beyond what is to be expected from such a young prince; you appear to be naturally endowed with strategic talent."

"Thank you, Mr. Ayscough," George said calmly, though his heart went in many directions. He needed to keep his line minimum so that he wouldn't let on anything. What the Mapping Force showed him, no history book had ever been able to. "I find it quite… enlightening," he appended, confident his use of words wasn't giving away what he really was.

Mr. Ayscough's eyes were intent as he asked, "Indeed, Your Highness. Your grasp of the subject is remarkable. With such intellect and this… foresight, you could make a great military leader."

A cold shiver ran up George's backbone. War-to send men to certain death-had been odious to contemplate; then the Mapping Force conjured up the battles, banishing the horror and confusion. This was chess played on the scale of life and death. "Thank you, Mr. Ayscough," he said in a measured tone, "but I would rather not think of it in those terms."

Mr. Ayscough looked around for his small pupil: "You are wiser than your age promises, Your Highness-for in the pursuit of knowledge not to let the thirst for power follow is a rare quality indeed in a future monarch."

The following morning George was standing in the large, echoing room of the armory of the castle; the smell of metal and leather hung heavy in the air. Ayscough had prevailed on his grandfather to let him start a new kind of training: calisthenics. It was a concept unfamiliar to the men of the 18th century, but George had read it once in one of the dusty tomes that had accompanied him from his former life. He was set upon proving himself fit to lead his people-not only in wit but also in prowess.

Grimly determined, he threw himself onto the cold stone floor, his hands flat against the ground. Gasping, his arms trembling with exertion, he started pushing in. With each push-up, he was declaring his resolve to rewrite the annals of history. The surrounding primitive weapons appeared to whisper in chorus with every wrench of muscle that he did. He almost heard the echoes of battles seen, steel clashing, and valor yelling. His sister fell back, all but in a trance with wonder, clutching her doll.

"What are you doing, George?" she said in a voice like a small thread in the big tapestry of the room.

"Exercising," he growled, his body already slick with sweat. The Mapping Force had taught him the worth of strength in his own body as a leader; he'd seen what happened to those who led from a throne of soft pillows and empty promises.

Augusta's eyes would go wide with wonder at her brother driving himself toward near exhaustion. "But why?

George shook a deep, shaking breath into his lungs. "To be prepared," he said, his voice high and strained. "If we are to rule our land, we must be hardy of mind and body alike."

Augusta inclined her head; the porcelain doll swayed with the motion of her hand. "I don't have to do it, though," she said, her tones mixed between confusion and relief. "Because I am never going to be a king.

George tensed, shaking under the strain in his arms. "No, you're not," he whispered. "But you're still a princess, and one day you will marry a prince and perhaps he will want your council." He himself rose in a wobbly push-up. "Anyway, it is good for anyone to be strong.

Augusta watched him thoughtfully. "I want to be strong," she announced solemnly, dropping her doll and edging closer to her brother.

"You are strong, Augusta," George said, inflation easing his chest with pride as the sweat on his brow trickled off. "But remember, strength is many things. Sometimes a soft heart and a quick mind are the most important arms and legs."

Augusta nodded gravely; then her face lit with a rake of mischief. "But I want to be like you, George! Strong and fast!"

George burst out laughing, momentarily forgetful of his weariness. "Alright," he said, rising and offering her his hand. "We shall begin with the most basic steps.

With that, they launched into a series of stretches and exercises George had picked up in the 21st century. Giggles by Augusta echoed through the armory, trying to imitate him-her willowy body picking up the strange regimen with ease. One of those moments of happiness in a world that often seemed cold and unresponsive, it in its turn filled George's chest with warmth.

Finally, George was escorted from the hangar, his limbs aching and spirits soaring, to the hot bath awaiting him from a servant, in which he lay with the lukewarm water enveloping him in a cocoonlike feeling-soothing aching limbs and washing tension out of his mind. He closed his eyes, and the tautness of the Mapping Force slackened to the crackle of the fire on the hearth, to the gentle babble of the water lapping against the porcelain tub.

The more he soaked, the more his mind fell to Augusta, taken to another bath, small, unornate, but warm, with scented oils. He knew that their lives were to travel in separate ways, as bound by invisible chains of rank and duty, but in the stillness now, as in all stillness, he felt himself joined to her above and beyond their positions.

George entered the grand dining hall in his fresh linen shirt and breeches to find the heavy oak table set with brilliant silver and fine china; the soft dance of the candles off the slight breeze wafting in through the opened window framed the room. The savory smell of meat roasting on the fire, hot, fresh-baked bread, made his stomach growl in anticipation.

"Ah, George," boomed his father, the hearty Frederick, Prince of Wales, as he strode in. "You're just in time." Infection caught as the prince burst out laughing, and George likewise couldn't refrain from mirroring a smile back. Their mother-the dignified, warm-hearted Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha-Altenburg-nodded softly, looking up from her needlework.

It was a feast fit for kings: the table buckled under roast beef steaming from serving trays borne in by servants, mingling odors and the saffron and cinnamon of exotic spices together with newly baked bread, wafting across the room. George sat between his siblings, Augusta on the right, who had stopped bubbling over with curiosity about his new strength, and Edward on the left, his little brother, whose eyes shone for the meal.

Frederick, Prince of Wales, sat at the head of the table and, with his plate already piled high, took a big mouthful of his beef, chewing thoughtfully before responding. "So, George," he said, wiping a crumb from his waistcoat, "word has it that you have started some sort of physical training."

George finally looked up from his plate, his eyes locking into his father's. "Yes, Father, I believe that a king has to be as strong in body as he is in mind. It was something I learned from my studies."

Frederick's face had turned grave. "Your studies have been quite… extensive," he said in a voice full of gravitas. "But let us not forget, George, that we are no ordinary soldiers. Our proper station is on the throne, not in the foxhole."

George sipped at his water, hands firm around the goblet as his mind was already scampering away. "I understand, Father," he said, "but true strength comes from an understanding of all angles of our world. A king not in contact with the physicality of war is a king who sends his men to die without understanding their struggle."

The room was silent; the clinking of silverware against fine china ceased abruptly. His mother's eyes searched for his face, a mix of pride and trepidation mirrored in their depths. Augusta leaned forward, her eyes aglow with curiosity.

"Your Highness, war and its dangers are not for the Royal family," stammered one of the standing courtiers. "To bear the arms is the duty of the common people, not those born to the throne."

Frederick's eyes drilled into George, fired by a storm of pride and chafing. "You talk of a world I do not know," he said in that low, even tone. "We are here to guide with wisdom, not with the strength of arms.

"I agree, Father," George said clearly and confidently. "Yet wisdom is not only knowing what to do, but equally important it is to know what not to do. And that one gets from experience."

Frederick waited a moment, his face digesting his son's words with as little expression as ever. After a while, he nodded, his sigh heavy with the weight of centuries. "Very well," he growled.

"You may continue your… exercises. But do not overexert yourself. You are a prince, George, and your health is crucial to the kingdom."

The rest of dinner passed quietly enough; with strained silences stretched between them, there seemed the after-taste of George's words hanging in the air. As the last morsel had been taken and the plates clean, George retired to the library-his belly full, his mind still starved. Mr. Ayscough already sat there, his glasses balanced well toward the tip of his nose, peering into a thick volume.

He glanced up at George's entrance, smiling warmly but with the edges tinged by sadness.

"Your Highness," he said, rising to his feet and inclining his head. "I must speak with you."

A pang shot through George's heart. "What is it, Mr. Ayscough?

The tutor's eyes scanned the face of his pupil before his eyes settled on those of his master. "Your Highness," he said seriously, "it has come to my attention that your grasp of the material is… beyond what I can offer." He paused, his voice heavy with words yet unspoken. "You have surpassed my tutelage. Your mind is a river that has burst its banks.

It was then that George felt the strangest feeling-pride and fear both. "What do you mean?" he asked low, his voice almost a whisper in the cavernous library.

"Your Highness," Ayscough said, never once breaking his stare with George's, "you have a gift that I am unable to equal. The way you understand and conceptualize-it is unmatched, really. The books that I have been teaching you from, have nothing more to say to you." With a soft thump, he closed the book that had been in his hands. "Your mind has outgrown these pages. You must seek knowledge from another quarter."

George nodded gravely. "I understand, Mr. Ayscough," he returned grave, respectful, still, and showing a trace of disappointment in the corner of his mouth. "Thank you for your advice."

With that, the tutor stepped aside, and a secret door, hidden behind a bookshelf, creaked open as he did-a spiraling case of stairs leading deep within the bowels of the castle. "Your Highness," he said with a nod, "I believe you are ready for your next tutor."

Down the shadowy stairs, his footsteps echoed off of the cold stone walls as George followed Mr. Ayscough down; mixed with excitement and trepidation. They came to a chamber quite different from any other in the castle: a chamber of knowledge lined with books and instruments which spoke of the world beyond the confines of 18th century Britain.

"Your Highness, permit me to introduce you to John Stuart," Ayscough said, revealing behind him a piercingly blue-eyed man with an assured smile.

Not quite unlike any tutor he had previously known, John Stuart's eyes gleamed with curiosity, as if in some sort of odd marriage between the finery of the time and what George could only imagine was that of some sort of scholar from whence he came. "Welcome, young prince," he said, the rich timbre of his voice seeming to vibrate in concord with the air around them. "Your thirst for knowledge is a beacon in these dusty halls."

It was a room that had taken George's breath away: a treasure house of wisdom, scrolls, and tomes telling stories of great civilizations, scientific discoveries, and philosophies yet to take root in this age. Stirring within him, the Mapping Force met this unexplored avenue of thoughts up ahead with, "Thank you for taking me on, Mr. Stuart," he said in an earnest tone.

John Stuart smiled more widely. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Highness," he said, gesturing to a place at a table cluttered with instruments and paper. "But before we embark on my lecture, there is something I must speak with you about." His eyes were keen, his tone grave. "What you ask to learn is not without its risks. It holds the power of shaping the course of empires-for good or ill.

The Mapping Force stirred inside him, its whispers like a soft reminder of his mission. He nodded gravely. "I understand, Mr. Stuart."

John studied him, his eyes digging deeper into the darkness of the room. "Your journey will be rife with hardships," he warned, "but with your gift and my tutelage, together we may work out the intricacies of the world."

George nodded, his mind racing with the endless possibilities stretching before him-the Mapping Force had shown him the big piece of canvas which was his mind, but he knew he needed a mentor to work the power. And John Stuart, with his enigmatic knowledge and mysterious origins, was just the candidate.

The prince now turned to Ayscough, young eyes ablaze with a fierce determination that belied his years. "You will be rewarded, Mr. Ayscough," he said, clear and strong. "Either by my father or grandfather, or by me, when I am king. For it is through your tutelage that I shall rule with wisdom and foresight."

Ayscough was misty-eyed, bowing his head solemnly. "Your Highness," he said with much emotion in his voice, "the best reward a tutor could ask for is to see his wards do well. I ask for nothing more but that."

John Stuart cleared his throat, his eyes darting from George to Ayscough. "Impeccable resolve," he said, his eyes glinting with something not quite describable. "But let us not dwell too much on what may come. Rather, let us dwell upon now and the knowledge to which we are about to embark."