The Dream (1)
The Outlands.
A land that had conquered the laws of nature through magic. A land that worshipped outer gods — and thus, the homeland of magicians.
Every citizen of the Outlands is a magician.
Very little about the Outlands' true face was known to the world, but this much, at least, was the truth.
Could it really be paradise? Harad let out a hollow laugh at the thought. A 5th-Circle magician lurked within his twenty-year-old self, and yet even he had never once set foot in the Outlands. All he could do was wonder whether it might be paradise.
Nor was it his wondering alone. Every magician hiding across the continent made the same guess — and to some of them, it was hope. Not a few were caught each year trying to defect to the Outlands. Brokers existed to serve them, and so did groups that ran entire asylum packages.
The tunnel before him was one such road of exile, and the whole of it resembled an ant warren. Quite a number of these tunnels honeycombed the ground beneath Serzilla. Grand Duke Aratus knew nothing of them; Elaine would learn of them only later.
The memory was still vivid — of her laughing hollowly back then, thinking, so the keeper of my regular tavern was a broker all along.
"Not every tunnel was a problem." That was what Elaine had said, back then.
It had been sympathy. Good magicians did exist on the continent — of that there was no doubt — and Elaine had pitied them. So long as Serzilla came to no harm, she had turned a blind eye to their defections.
"I should have known there were tunnels tied to the Outlands." She had said that, too.
Tunnels like that had indeed existed. Some the Outlands had dug itself; others it had found. Through them it had attacked — or simply burrowed in and crushed the life out of what stood above. It had schemed to topple Serzilla.
The tunnel before his eyes belonged to the brokers — but a year from now, an Outland magician would find it. That magician, crossing over alone, would plunge Serzilla into chaos.
"Whether it's paradise or not, I doubt those two have any idea. Brokers in name, after all."
"Curious, are you?"
"There isn't a soul on the continent who isn't curious about the Outlands. The Order excepted."
The Order dreamed only of exterminating magicians; it felt no curiosity toward the Outlands.
"Northerners as well, no?"
"...That depends on the person. Even Serzilla took you in, didn't it?"
"Fair point."
Harad gave a slow nod. "Still, they wouldn't know. They aren't magicians."
"The keeper of Flowerbed's Flesh was a magician, though."
"A magician who never defected to the Outlands."
Paradise had lain right before his eyes, and the keeper had never once used that tunnel.
"One of two things, I'd say. Mad for money, or afraid of the Boundary. Could be both."
"So this tunnel leads to the Boundary, not the Outlands?"
"If it reached the Outlands, would Serzilla be sitting this quiet?"
He spoke as though guessing. It was fact. In his past life, Harad had been forced through this very tunnel — not on Serzilla's orders, but by the knights acting on their own initiative. He had held out alone at the Boundary, eyes strained open against the cold, until they pulled him out a fortnight later.
"What a waste of an Origin."
When the rescue came at the fortnight's end, that was what Grand Duke Aratus had said, clicking his tongue. He levied no punishment on the knights who had used Harad as they pleased. The rescue was a grace — but the Harad of that time couldn't see that far. Only later did he come to understand the Grand Duke: if you want to punish the knights, grow strong and do it yourself.
So, a few years on, he had done exactly that. He beat them to within an inch of their lives — and the knights had grinned and loved it. Even now, the memory felt absurd.
"What should I do?"
Ellen's voice cut in. The brokers had begun to move.
"Looks like they're calling it a day."
Apparently there would be no customers seeking asylum today.
"If we stay like this, they'll spot us."
"Tell me — are you good at fighting?"
"...Intelligence Bureau agents fight as well as any knight."
Which was true. But Elaine's strength left mere knights far behind.
"Ever killed a man?"
"No. But I know how."
Ellen answered without a flicker of hesitation. It was the very face of the Elaine Harad remembered.
"Then you take them."
"By myself?"
"My body is still weak. An aura-wielding warrior is more than it can handle." Harad gestured at himself.
It wasn't altogether shabby. Right up until he'd learned to dread the Sun, it had been a body that trained. And the Sun was force-feeding it vitality even now. Still, in Ellen's eyes he would look a wreck. Her standards were simply that high.
"I heard magicians move as well as any warrior."
"Outland magicians, perhaps."
A magician was a warrior too, after all; the truly great ones wielded combat skill to rival any knight.
"Not continent-born ones. Most of them are pathetic — their magic and their bodies alike."
That wasn't said of every continent-born magician. Standing out meant suicide; they were too busy staying hidden to grow.
"You're a fine magician, though. So why is your body so pathetic?"
"My parents told me not to."
"..."
"When I strain myself or get worked up, fire pops out. Ah — here they come. You can go and kill them now."
Ellen rose without a word. Her body drew out long and taut like pulled taffy — aura-driven reinforcement, and the intensity of it was downright murderous.
She's furious. She had every right to be. To her, the brokers' comings and goings were worms crawling through the flesh of the Serzilla she loved.
Clang—!
Steel met steel and sparks flew. It was over in a blink. The strength she'd been born with snapped the blade.
Not a Sword Master yet. For want of effort.
Not for want of effort — the hour simply hadn't come. That was what the Elaine of his past life would have said, had she heard him. True enough; Sword Master was not a realm that effort alone could reach. But that didn't mean Elaine hadn't been lazy — before becoming Grand Duke, Elaine had been lazy to a pathological degree.
And even so, she'd been 4th-Circle-class. Absurd. A 5th-Circle magician is measured against a Sword Master. Elaine had climbed to that realm's very threshold at a mere twenty.
"Wha—...!"
One of them went down under a fist to the face — the one whose sword had snapped the instant the fight began. He seized up, convulsing, teeth raining down around him.
"What the hell is this bitch?"
The other spoke after putting distance between them. He had real skill, this one — unlike his companion, he'd slipped past Elaine's fist by a hair.
"Will it take long?"
"It'll be over soon."
"Take your time, then."
"I'd rather not."
The blade-wind that had been howling stopped dead — shouldered aside by a squall that rose without warning. Ellen's sword, swung before the eye could follow, opened the broker's throat, and the wind at its heels sent the head flying to the mouth of the tunnel.
Simpler, back then. She had indulged them until now, content to graze — so this swing came at full force. Looking closely, the head was caved in; the wind kicked up by her blade had done that.
...Consistently without finesse, at least. Harad realized anew just how formidable the strength Elaine had been born with truly was.
"Impressive."
"My seniors... even if they aren't beyond me, any Intelligence Bureau agent can manage this much."
As if. Harad swallowed a laugh. Ellen, for her part, was no more capable of stringing together outright lies.
A relationship of mutual deception, then. It was a thoroughly entertaining arrangement — more so because he saw through every inch of it. Though how long it would last, he couldn't say.
"What will you do with this tunnel?"
Harad looked at her. One day she would settle matters like this as the Grand Duke's daughter in her own right, yet here she was, asking for his counsel.
Back then, she'd been nothing but a gawky mantis. Feeling reality shift ahead of schedule was stirring something greedy in him. Perhaps this life would let them stand side by side a little sooner.
This time too — make me fall for you.
Not that the Elaine of his past life had ever said such a thing. Certainly not.
Might as well have you fall for me too, while we're at it.
...Absolutely not.
"If you want it covered up, you'd have to hunt down every magician with an earth-aligned Origin. Use your head."
"You're suggesting we kidnap them?"
"My. You're a fiery one."
It was his roundabout way of saying there was nothing to be done.
"The most sensible option would be calling in the Order. Divine power works on anything."
Vagueness was simply another name for magic. But to Harad's mind, the word suited divine power better. Unlike magicians, shackled to their Origins, divine power was near-omnipotent.
"...Couldn't we use this to lure out the magicians hiding in Serzilla?"
It wasn't a foolish notion — if this were Serzilla's only tunnel.
"You think this is the only one?"
"...I beg your pardon?"
"Five. Six, counting the keeper. If this were the only tunnel, would that have been all?"
Ellen shook her head. If so, more people should have been guarding it.
"The North is the second most magician-rich land in the world."
The first, of course, being the Outlands — where every last citizen was said to be a magician.
"There will be more tunnels. Whether their masters are individuals, a group, one more group, or many groups — that I couldn't tell you."
Some masters were individuals; some were groups. Some tunnels touched the Outlands; others didn't. Even Harad, regressed as he was, hadn't known them all.
"Your task is to awaken Serzilla's vigilance. And it must be done quietly."
Ellen's brow creased. Harad feared a leak — or a mole within.
"Doubt everything. As I said before. Too difficult? Then give up, and go on living as if you know nothing."
"...That's easy."
"Then we're in luck."
Harad broke into an easy smile. "Sorry to do this to you, but I'll be reporting this tunnel to His Grace the Grand Duke myself. A man needs merit, you see."
Ellen tilted her head, nonplussed. "But why do you need to prove your usefulness? You could just live out your days as a hostage."
"I intend to become a retainer of Serzilla."
A magician?
At the thought, Ellen's brow drew tight. "I don't like the sound of that."
A different reaction than last time. The Elaine of that time had disliked Harad rather less — five years from now, that is. At twenty-five, Elaine had been more mature and more yielding than the girl before him; she had wanted Harad to become a true magician in his own right. Ellen at twenty was far more rigid. Where magicians were concerned, her default seemed to be disgust, first and last.
"The opinion of someone at the bottom of the ladder doesn't concern me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Anyone listening would take you for the Grand Duke's daughter herself."
"..."
"I'll say it once more: no reporting. That duty is mine."
The smallest annex in Serzilla stood in isolation. Save for a servant's three daily visits bearing his meals, Harad was alone there — and even those meals were less served to him than thrown at him. The servant never came until the Inner Castle's meal hours had ended, so the soup arrived cold — frozen stiff on the walk over, in fact — and the bread had hardened past stone.
None of which troubled Harad in the slightest. One touch of his hand, and the soup steamed afresh; the bread turned soft enough to tear apart. Not that the kitchen sent it with such convenience in mind.
In any case — solitude bred boredom. Not loneliness, but thought. In Harad's case, he sketched out the North's future. And the Grand Duke's daughter, Elaine. The latter figure loomed far larger than the former.
Harad didn't much love the North. Guarding it had never been a task one man could shoulder alone. On a continent that spurns magicians, how great could a magician possibly become, no matter how great he grew? A hostage — and at very best, a retainer.
To change the future, he needed Elaine in the end. And if he could have his way, an Elaine who remembered her past life.
Did she dream?
A day had passed since the tunnel's discovery; evening had only just fallen. But Elaine had not come.
Was she truly someone else after all? As if. Harad laughed hollowly. To his eyes, Ellen was one and the same as the Elaine he had known before his regression — down to her truest self.
She must have dreamed. If, after all that, she still hadn't, the only stimulus left to him was a beating. No — hitting her would only hurt his own fist. He would have to burn her, then.
As if that were the kind of stimulus involved. The Elaine of the past life might have managed it — but the regression had not been her power. An outside agent. The power of an artifact steeped in magic. Magic was a vague thing, but its vagueness was usually refined, and Elaine, ignorant as she was, could hardly have a connoisseur's eye for such objects. So the artifact's effects would follow the will of the magician who had made it.
She had dreamed.
So Harad settled the matter once more: what the dream held, he couldn't say, but Elaine had dreamed of her past life. What mattered was whether she took an interest in it.
And then — the door burst open.
"I say, Harad!"
It was Elaine — graceful, lovely Elaine. Not Ellen. Elaine.
"Harad!"
And Elaine called once more — called for Harad, not for the cripple.
So she did dream.