Chapter 78

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There was an oak forest on the outskirts of Nibelungen, and within it stood the imperial palace.

The gardens had been shaped with little more than careful trimming, preserving as much of the forest as possible. Their beauty felt natural rather than artificial. This was said to reflect the tastes of Bellator I, the fifth Emperor, who had built the palace.

Ricard was staying at the far end of the palace as a sort of resident guest. The corridors were lined with great tapestries proclaiming the glory of the imperial household's history.

Lavish quantities of gold, silver, red, and purple thread made them splendid indeed. Here, at least, the heroes of old remained gallant, living on in all their pride.

Among them was Chaldebert, his sword raised high. Before him lay heaps of barbarian corpses, thickly stitched with red thread.

"What became of that ragged red cloak of yours?"

Someone spoke beside Ricard as he stood in the middle of the corridor admiring the tapestries. There was a faint sneer in the words.

He turned to find a young swordsman in light clothing, a long sidesword at his waist. His damp-looking black hair hung affectedly to one side. Long lashes and sharply defined features gave him a striking face, and a ruby earring glittered in one ear.

"Who are you?"

Ricard asked because he genuinely did not know. The young swordsman gave a little scoff.

"Liberio di Bonatelli. Back home, they call me Stone-Skipping Liberio. You would do well to remember it, Red Cloak. Though what a shabby nickname that is. Red cloth isn't nearly so rare where we come from as it is among you paupers."

Judging by his name, he seemed to be from a distant southern country. Or perhaps the Republic. In any case, he appeared to have come for the tournament, like Ricard.

But Ricard had no idea what he was supposed to do about it. He understood that the man was sneering at him; it simply did not make him particularly angry.

Northerners tended to speak plainly. When they wanted trouble, they swore outright or challenged you to a fight. Ricard truly could not understand what this man wanted from him.

"Ah, yes... I see."

"The Nine Swords of the Empire is merely a name bandied about by ignorant peasants who know nothing. If you happen to take pride in it, I would have you know it means nothing."

"Well, I'll decide that for myself."

At Ricard's unruffled reply, Liberio scoffed again.

"Be humble. Unless you wish to hasten your death."

With that, Liberio strode past him. A hint of tension seemed to hang between them as they briefly brushed past each other, but Ricard neither froze nor grew wary. He remained perfectly calm. Soon, Liberio opened a door and vanished into the next corridor.

The palace housed renowned swordsmen who were exempt from the preliminary rounds. Liberio was one of them.

Ricard had no interest in how the other swordsmen spent their time, but he inevitably picked up bits of information.

The swordsmen staying at the palace fell broadly into two groups. First were those who attended banquets every day, cultivated connections with the imperial princes, and formed factions among themselves.

The Empress had eight children in all. Her eldest son had died young, leaving the current Emperor's nine-year-old grandson as Crown Prince.

Her second child and eldest daughter had married into a distant country. Her third child and second son had become a count, a direct vassal of the Emperor, and was absent from the palace. Though second in the line of succession, he had shut himself away in his castle and severed contact with the world.

That left the fourth child through the youngest living at the palace: three princes and two princesses. The eldest of those princes was fifteen, having only just reached adulthood, and the youngest child was six.

All the other imperial princes and princesses had been born bastards and later entered into the family register. Though they were children of the same Emperor, the gulf between them and the Empress's children was as vast as that between heaven and earth.

From what Ricard heard, the fourth child—the third son—spent considerable time socializing with the swordsmen. Whether that came from ambition or an outgoing nature was unclear.

Thus, they were largely divided between the Crown Prince's faction and the third son's faction. Amusingly, the other lords of the Empire had long been split between those very same camps. The palace now seemed like a miniature version of that divide.

However, Empress Dowager Barsilia, the current Emperor's mother, led the Crown Prince's faction and dominated affairs of state. On the surface, at least, his faction held the advantage.

The remaining swordsmen staying at the palace cared nothing for factions and simply kept to themselves. Ricard was one of these.

Liberio belonged to the third son's faction and was fairly close to the Third Prince. Perhaps that had emboldened him to take an unprovoked jab at Ricard on his way past.

Ricard decided that standing around in the corridor was what had brought him into contact with someone. He stopped admiring the tapestries, fetched his sword from his room, and went outside.

After crossing a modest courtyard and stepping through the main gate, he felt as though the fresh forest air were washing his lungs clean.

Many of the oaks were hundreds of years old. Some had grown into such strange shapes that they seemed magnificent works of art in their own right. They looked as though they had split in two long ago, each half then growing separately.

Moss grew on the trees, its slight dampness brimming with life.

Walking through the forest, he felt he could easily lose his way. Rangers' posts stood here and there, but the rangers did not keep him under any particular watch. Their chief duties were to drive away wild beasts and tend this forest garden. In other words, they were gardeners as well as rangers.

Since Ricard did not enjoy banquets, he had little to do except walk. Sometimes, when boredom struck, he made a brief trip into the city. Catching a fight made for good entertainment. Mostly, though, he passed the time strolling.

At any rate, the place did not seem nearly as dangerous as the imperial knight's warning on the first day had suggested. Perhaps because he had no dealings with the princes, he had been able to live here quite peacefully.

So far.

"You there, swordsman."

Someone called from above Ricard's head. He looked up to find a child seated on a thick branch of an old oak, looking down at him. The boy seemed about ten—the very age at which Ricard had left home.

His clothes, however, made him look unmistakably like one of the imperial princes. The imperial household's sacred oak emblem was embroidered in gold thread on his purple tunic.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"What is your name?"

"Riki."

"Is that so? Hmm. I haven't heard of you."

"Forgive me, but I don't know your name either, Your Highness."

"What? Hahaha! Fair enough. I am Bellator. I share the name of my grandfather who built this palace."

He seemed to be roughly the current Emperor's fifth or sixth child.

"I see. Bellator I must have understood true beauty, judging by how he preserved as much of the original forest as possible rather than cutting down these old trees."

"I think so too. You're the first person I've met who agrees with me."

The little boy smiled faintly, imitating an adult's manner of speech.

He climbed slowly down the tree. His exceedingly expensive clothes became scratched and soiled with dirt and debris, but Bellator paid that no mind.

Once he was on the ground, the top of his head came up to Ricard's neck. Ricard was now in the high 170s in centimeters.

Come to think of it, he and Marie were half-siblings. Perhaps that explained why, like her, he had bright blond hair and snow-white skin. He was also the current Crown Prince's uncle.

"I am armed. This hardly seems appropriate."

Ricard spoke because he held a sword in one hand. A prince meeting a stranger like this without anyone else present was, quite simply, unsafe.

"Then do you intend to hurt me?"

"No."

"Then that settles it. You can be my guard."

Ricard's eyes widened a little in surprise. Was the boy bold, or did he simply have no sense of fear? Not that many could rival Ricard himself on that score.

Had life at the palace left him oblivious to danger? To Ricard, who had lived in places as harsh as the wilderness, the boy seemed rather ignorant of the world.

Bellator strolled slowly through the forest with his hands clasped behind his back. Still somewhat bewildered, Ricard followed for the moment.

"Where are you going?"

"To see the witch. I've been curious myself, but until now I didn't feel it was my place to join in. Now that I have a guard, surely I can go."

"A witch?"

"Yes, Martellia. My half-sister."

Ricard frowned slightly.

"Why is Marie a witch?"

"Marie?"

"Marie and I attended the same academy. We're close friends."

"Really? I didn't know that. I had heard she was attending an academy. But my elder brother and His Highness the Crown Prince both call her a witch, so I said it without thinking. Forgive my careless words."

The unexpectedly prompt apology quickly soothed Ricard's rising anger.

"No, please don't trouble yourself. But Marie is here?"

"You didn't know? She's been staying at Irmin Castle for two weeks. As the victor's prize, she must be kept especially safe, mustn't she?"

Two weeks ago would have been about a week before Ricard arrived at the palace. They had come at almost the same time.

But the word "prize" grated on him.

"A prize? That is going too far, Your Highness."

"Hmm? Why?"

Bellator's reaction seemed entirely free of malice.

"Marie isn't a bird in a cage, much less an object. She's a person too. How can you decide her fate without considering her wishes at all?"

"I suppose one could see it that way. It never occurred to me. How interesting."

Bellator had grown up seeing the imperial household treat people as tools. Ricard's words had just introduced him to an ordinary, sensible perspective for the first time.

"Then are you saying that all humans have free will?"

"Of course. When God created humans, He didn't create nobles and commoners separately, did He? Nobles and commoners are divided because each has a role. Nobles must fulfill their duty as protectors, while commoners must pursue their livelihoods and protect their families. By joining forces, they can repel even a mighty enemy. Just as the first Emperor defeated the Salaman people and crushed the orcs."

"Hmm... Is that so? Perhaps you're right. Thank you for speaking honestly, Riki. Other people either flatter me or take no interest in me. But you speak from the heart."

"My father simply taught me that a man should value honesty as much as his life."

"How enviable. I've never heard anything of the sort from His Majesty my father."

Though better off than the bastards, even a son of the Empress received no more attention from his father.

"..."

Ricard had nothing to say to that. Life as a prince seemed harder than he had imagined. He felt sorry for the boy, too. Outwardly, at least, he was still only a child.

Besides, Bellator was the Fifth Prince. He had three elder brothers, and the Crown Prince was his nephew. Thus, although he currently stood fifth in line to the throne, he was effectively powerless.

It seemed that even in the imperial household, sons with no real part in the succession were neglected and sometimes led miserable lives. Imperial dignity merely required dressing them up like pretty dolls.

Yet Bellator did not seem particularly concerned with power. Nor did he appear ambitious. He was, perhaps, the sort of child who played quite happily alone even when no one paid him any attention.

With his hands still clasped behind his back, he kept walking toward some destination. Eventually the ground began to rise, and a defensive tower came into view atop a low hill.

It was a broad cylinder with a pointed, conical roof. It looked rather meager for a castle, but in the distant past, labor had been scarce, and most castles had been about this size.

Over time, they were rebuilt elsewhere or gradually enlarged with additions. Irmin Castle, however, seemed to have been abandoned long ago.

Vines sprawled across its walls. Built for defense, it had small windows, and looked more like a prison than anything else. Marie was in there.

Around twenty people had gathered near the tower. The young Crown Prince and an imperial prince were plainly the leaders. The others were attendants or swordsmen gathered for the tournament.

"Hey! Witch! Show your face!"

The Crown Prince shouted, calling his own aunt a witch. He threw a stone toward a window, but it fell far short.

The Third Prince sneered.

"My turn now, Your Highness."

The Crown Prince huffed indignantly, but said nothing, perhaps because the Third Prince was older.

The Third Prince chose a suitable stone and hurled it at the window. He more or less reached the right height, but his aim was off. The stone merely struck the wall and fell.

Apparently, they were betting on who could catch Marie's attention and make her look out the window.

"My turn!"

As soon as the Third Prince missed, the Crown Prince eagerly stepped forward again. But one of the men wearing swords at their waists spoke.

"Your Highness, might I try a throw? I am your servant. If I succeed, it will be no different from your succeeding yourself."

"Hmm? Well..."

The Crown Prince looked from the stone in his hand to the window high above. Even he could see it was too high for him.

"All right. Go ahead."

"Now see here. This is a contest between His Highness the Crown Prince and the imperial prince. Do not presume to interfere."

A swordsman on the Third Prince's side stepped forward with a frown. Now even the adults were joining the children's quarrel.

"His Highness has just given me permission. Are you questioning his wishes?"

"... Tch."

Even if only in name, the Crown Prince was the future Emperor. The swordsman on the Third Prince's side backed down, and the Third Prince consoled him.

"I am all right. I worry that you might suffer on my account."

"Your Highness..."

Being older, the Third Prince seemed better at handling people than the Crown Prince. But his insincerity was plain to see. It was like watching a clumsy performance. Perhaps he ought to take acting lessons from a vampire.

In any event, the Crown Prince's swordsman took the stone from him and hurled it toward the castle window. Propelled by mana, it flew like lightning straight through the opening, struck the ceiling, and ricocheted with a sharp crack.

"Oh!"

The Crown Prince was visibly delighted. To swordsmen capable of using mana, the feat itself was nothing, but his reaction made them jealous. They could do that too. They could smash the whole thing to pieces.

Yet Marie did not look out. This time, someone on the Third Prince's side stepped forward with a dagger. It was Stone-Skipping Liberio.

"I'll act as champion as well."

Throwing stones was bad enough, but it could still be dismissed as a cruel prank. A blade was another matter. If it hit the ceiling and ricocheted badly, as the stone just had, it could injure her.

No one seemed to care how Marie felt. They did not care whether she was hurt, either. All they cared about was pleasing the Crown Prince and the imperial prince.

Smiling confidently, Liberio leaned back slightly and took aim at Irmin Castle's window. Then he, too, activated Mana Drive and flung his dagger.

But a stone flew in from somewhere and knocked the dagger aside in midair.

CLANG!

The onlookers started. Every swordsman turned toward the direction from which the stone had come. There stood Ricard.

His eyes blazing with anger, he spoke.

"Stop."

They stared at him, some bewildered, others affronted.

Regardless of their looks, Ricard strode forward and planted himself in front of the castle. It was as though one small human meant to defend a great castle.

"Stop this fucking idiocy."

He spoke again. It was an unmistakable warning.

"Who are you?"

The young Crown Prince merely blinked, while the Third Prince asked with a frown.

A question from an imperial prince. Depending on his answer, Ricard could be in serious trouble.

People might call the princes the offspring of a fucking bastard behind their backs, but no one was mad enough to speak recklessly to their faces.

How should he answer? Should he drop cravenly to his knees and implore them to stop? Or should he beg forgiveness even now?

Neither. Furious, Ricard drew his sword and shouted. He was as gallant and proud as the heroes of old in the tapestries.

"I am Ricard of House Kaldebern of Stormhertz! By my right as a noble, I challenge anyone who threatens this castle to a duel!"

Apart from telling his closest friends, this was the first time Ricard had publicly revealed his true name and origins.

The force of his shout startled the Third Prince into snapping his mouth shut.

And that cry carried even beyond the window high above—as loud as thunder.