Chapter 33

After enjoying his flight until late into the night, Turan returned to House Dirmin’s palace. Having arrived as a guest, it was only polite to stay quietly and accept their hospitality for a few days.

Was it because he had taken a troublesome item off their hands? Upon returning, he found that his lodgings had been changed to a larger, more lavish room. Beside his bed, they had even arranged somewhat smaller cushions into something like a nest, presumably a bedroom for the black eagle.

“If you need anything, please call for us at any time, Master.”

Dismissing the servants with a casual wave, Turan looked at the black eagle, already settled into its bed.

“Happy?”

The bird nodded with a soft cheep. Turan chuckled, then stretched out on his bed and went to sleep.

After a comfortable night, earnest literacy lessons between man and beast began the next day. Their classroom was a small clearing in front of the building where they were staying.

“All right, try copying this.”

When Turan wrote letters in the dirt with a twig, the black eagle scratched out copies with its talons. He pointed out a few mistakes.

“This stroke goes downward, and you need to flick the end of this one upward.”

The black eagle could hardly be called a brilliant student, but only by human standards. Among animals, it could easily pass for a genius. Watching it tilt its head and write the letters over and over brought back old memories.

‘Was this what it felt like for Mother when she taught me?’

His mother had used this same method to teach him his letters as a child. Their little village could not produce parchment from sheepskin, and there was nothing else suitable to write on.

[“You remembered well, Turan. My son really is clever!”]

He almost thought he could hear his mother’s voice, though he had believed he could no longer remember it. As he dwelled on those memories in an oddly sentimental mood, he sensed someone approaching.

“Teaching it to write, are you?”

“Yes.”

The House Head’s daughter—had she said her name was Irid? The woman whose name he could barely remember was looking at him with a hint of jealousy. Perhaps she disliked seeing an animal that had ignored her obey someone else. All the more so when that someone was a fallen noble she looked down on.

“Do you happen to know what the black eagle likes?”

“I know it eats animals.”

“This one is especially fond of fish. Horse mackerel from the waters here are its favorite.”

Turan glanced at the black eagle, which nodded. She went on to list the everyday things he needed to know to raise it, from its preferred diet to how much sleep it needed to stay healthy. She certainly seemed knowledgeable about animals, perhaps thanks to her Tamer bloodline.

“That’s impressive. You’ve been a great help.”

At his straightforward thanks, the House Head’s daughter flinched, then shook her head.

“I already have a fiancé.”

What was this woman suddenly talking about? Turan paused, then chuckled as he realized she had taken his compliment as a sign of romantic interest. In any case, perhaps he should be glad she had a fiancé. It seemed he would be spared the awkward situation he had experienced at House Valtas.

“I understand.”

He had made his understanding clear, yet for some reason she seemed slightly more displeased than before.

“Well, never mind that... Do you have plans for lunch?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Then would you care to join us? The other guests are all curious about you, Mr. Brahms. Of course, if you don’t want to, that’s that.”

“The other guests want to see me?”

“Yes. Everyone who’s visited the enclosures has coveted that bird at one time or another. Naturally, they’re curious just how remarkable a person must be to have become its owner.”

Naturally, Turan was not the only traveling noble in the world. In a remote region where nobles were hard to find, perhaps things were different, but any sizable city was bound to have a few staying there on pilgrimages or wandering journeys.

Several such visitors had come and gone during his stay at House Berg, but he had not gotten along particularly well with them. They had resented some wanderer of unknown origins being close to Asiz, the House Head’s cherished second son. Those memories briefly made him consider refusing, but he soon changed his mind.

“I’d be glad to. Shall we go now?”

He needed to gather every scrap of information he could about House Zahar. With that in mind, there was no reason to throw away a chance to speak with other nobles.

* * *

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Turan Brahms.”

“Brahms? That’s not a surname I’ve heard around here.”

“I heard he came from Karmine territory.”

“Then isn’t that fairly close to Arabion?”

No sooner had the last speaker finished than everyone shot a sharp look in that direction. Irid, the House Head’s daughter, spoke coldly.

“Let’s not drag our guest into any association with those sparrow bastards.”

“My apologies.”

As the atmosphere turned icy in an instant, the speaker bowed in apology. Turan had not thought the remark particularly out of bounds, but evidently hatred of Arabion ran just as deep on this side.

As they exchanged greetings, Turan familiarized himself with the three nobles staying at House Dirmin: a relatively young man and woman, and a middle-aged man. The first two were a married couple from a nearby house called Gashub, combining their pilgrimage with a honeymoon. The husband was the house’s heir, while the wife came from a collateral branch of Zahar. The remaining man was a fallen noble, just like Turan’s assumed identity.

“Dolf Meren, Mr. Brahms. Of the Strongman bloodline.”

Like Guardians, Strongmen specialized in close combat. But where Guardians excelled at defense, Strongmen specialized in exerting physical force.

“A pleasure.”

As they shook hands, Turan felt the man tighten his grip and quickly activated his guardian magic tool at full strength. Just as expected, a tremendous grip bore down on his hand.

“As sturdy as one would expect of the guardian bloodline. Your grip is rather weak in comparison, though.”

Satisfied that his own strength was superior, Dolf boasted with a smug smile. Rather than get angry at this bullying, Turan brushed it off with an untroubled smile.

“I’ve hardly trained it.”

“Heh, true enough. Few of us have inherited proper methods of physical training. Still, looking at you, I’d say you haven’t done nothing.”

“I’ve put in some effort on my own.”

“You trained yourself to that extent? I really do envy weak people! No matter how big a boulder I lift, I barely feel a thing.”

True to his words, Dolf had a good underlying frame, but his physique was far from rigorously trained. In fact, this was one of the reasons most close-combat bloodlines had declined.

The accelerated four-week training Turan had once completed was only possible because all three essentials had been present: an experienced teacher, a training magic tool, and a student full of persistence and passion. Remove even one, and the training period would balloon to months or even years. Most lacked the patience to put their bodies through such hardship for so long. Their naturally powerful bodies also made the training itself far more painful than it was for knights or ordinary people.

“Look, we know you’re strong, so that’s enough. Where did you leave the black eagle? I came to see it.”

At the Gashub wife’s openly dismissive tone, a vein bulged in the boastful Dolf’s face. Still, he gritted his teeth as though swallowing his anger and backed down. After all, how could a mere fallen noble dare talk back to a noble from a great house? Turan pretended not to notice and answered.

“I told it to fly around nearby. It must have felt cooped up after practicing its writing all morning. Shall I call it?”

“Please do.”

At least the husband was somewhat more polite in his request. Turan raised his hand toward the sky and thought, ‘Come here.’

His thought traveled along their soul bond, and before long the black eagle came flying from the distance.

“Wow, it’s true...”

The eagle landed on Turan’s arm and eyed the surrounding nobles warily. When the Gashub wife reached out as if to touch it, it snapped its beak in refusal. She scowled and muttered.

“Fucking birdbrained bastard! What’s so lacking about me that it pulls this shit? I could raise it far better than some fallen noble like that.”

Her arrogance was boundless; she did not even care that the person she was insulting stood right before her. Turan had met several nobles from great houses, but never one this conceited. It was almost novel. Not that it made her any more likable.

The black eagle glared too, seemingly offended by the insult, but did not attack, perhaps recognizing the disparity in their strength. Through their bond, Turan could feel it urging him to take revenge on its behalf.

“D-don’t say that, Silla. It’s rude.”

“Rude? What did I say that wasn’t true?”

The husband at least had some common sense, but whether because of his disposition or the gulf between their houses, he seemed entirely unable to rein in his wife. Even Irid, House Dirmin’s heir and the host of this gathering, could only frown at such bullying without saying a word to stop it. That alone gave Turan some idea of House Zahar’s standing in the Enril Desert.

Despite the ruined atmosphere, the meal that followed was excellent. From spicy roast chicken seasoned with imported eastern spices to flatbread and herb-coated lamb ribs, steamed fish, and lobster, the courses seemed to embody the culture of Komad, nestled between sea and desert.

After the meal, they chatted over tea, with Dolf introducing the first topic.

“Things have been quite turbulent in the west lately.”

“The west? You mean the Gray Zone?”

“Farther west than that. The Dark Elves are causing trouble, and Arabion—I mean, the sparrows—have apparently assembled a large subjugation force.”

From the sound of it, Dolf had been living near the area where the Dark Elves had risen up, and had heard the news while recently traveling to the Enril Desert. Turan sat quietly and listened, hoping for some fresh information.

“Did you hear who’s commanding it?”

“A young lady who’s their heir, apparently.”

“Oh, that skeleton they say is all skin and bones? What was her name? Masa?”

“I heard it was Meredith.”

“If I heard correctly, I believe it’s Maysa.”

Hearing other people discuss his friend—and speak ill of her, at that—felt exceedingly strange. The four nobles other than Turan showered her with abuse, calling her a hideous creature of nothing but skin and bones and saying that whoever married her would have to keep his eyes tightly shut on their wedding night.

“Couldn’t we take this opportunity to assassinate the bitch?”

“Assassinate her? We Zahars don’t stoop to such despicable acts. Though a few nobles might happen to have gone on a pilgrimage in that direction.”

“Of course, of course. Ah, if only that bitch would die. Imagine the looks on those sparrow bastards’ faces...”

The Gashub wife glanced at Turan and Rolf with a sneer, as though making no attempt to hide her lie. Then the conversation took an unexpected turn—toward precisely the subject Turan wanted.

“Still, it must be convenient for them, having settled on an heir so early. I’ve lost count of how many years we’ve been waiting for one of the three to be chosen.”

Judging by the Gashub wife’s lament, Zahar, unlike Arabion, had no designated heir. Since she spoke freely even before fallen nobles, it hardly seemed a secret. Even so, this sort of talk was difficult to hear outside gatherings of important people. Commoners and knights could hardly dare discuss nobles’ affairs so casually.

“May I ask the names of those three?”

At Turan’s question, the Gashub wife briefly looked incredulous, but then answered readily enough. She seemed intent on putting him in his place with a display of her knowledge.

“Lord Rahman, the House Head’s younger cousin; Lady Alma, the child of the House Head’s cousin; and Lord Perga, the House Head’s grandson. All powerful nobles who distinguished themselves in the last war.”

Her respectful references to all three suggested that, for all her swagger, her standing within House Zahar was not particularly high. Then again, that would explain why she had married into another house rather than bringing a husband into her own.

In any case, Turan was a little disappointed that none of the three was named Talis. Just then, Irid muttered in a lamenting tone.

“I wish Lord Talis would simply make a firm decision.”

At the name that had suddenly emerged, Turan’s eyes widened for an instant before he desperately tried to calm himself. He feared that the Gashub wife, with her Zahar bloodline, would detect the distinctive scent of someone who was flustered. Having fought to steady himself, he slipped in a question.

“And who is Lord Talis?”

Fortunately, his efforts to control his emotions seemed to have worked, for no one found the question odd.

“The House Head’s younger full brother, and currently Zahar’s second-in-command. You could say he’s the one who actually runs the house.”

The man Turan supposedly resembled was a far more important figure than he had imagined.