Holy Land? Pilgrimage? (2)

"So this here's the treasury, is it now?"

"Yes."

"Well, I never. You'd bring an outsider into a place like this?"

"……."

Melineos, the Magic Empress whose name echoed across the continent. And yet the small girl standing before her seemed to regard that title, and every scrap of authority it begat, as though it were nothing worth noticing at all.

"It could well be a problem on a national scale… but you are my teacher, aren't you? Besides, I'm the one asking a favor here. Who am I to quibble over a thing like that?"

"Is that so? Then let's have ourselves a grand old time, then. Fine treat for the eyes, this'll be."

"…Um, Master?"

"What?"

"…Why on earth are you speaking like some backwater provincial, on purpose?"

"Got a complaint?"

So her playful streak has kicked in.

Among the spirit-kind, it was said, one's outward appearance was determined by the maturity of the mind. Not for all of them, perhaps — but at the very least, the girl before her seemed a living proof of that adage.

"They say your Emperor's so busy he can hardly catch his breath, and yet here you are, dawdling away. You not busy, then?"

"This is also part of my duties."

"My, my. Look how flexible you've gotten."

Flicking her fingers as though dusting them off, head swaying all the while, the elven girl — Geornia — strolled along without a care in the world.

The Imperial Palace was divided into distinct domains, and to walk every last one of them was to wander a maze like no other. But unlike in years past, the number of the imperial family had dwindled to a fraction of what it was, and nearly half the palace now stood all but empty — a vast, masterless expanse.

One day, each of those halls would find a master of its own. But that, Melineos suspected, would come only after Elhermina inherited the throne.

"Now then, let's see…"

The treasury was tiered by value and rarity. Within it lay treasures beyond counting whose worth had never been proven at all. And its domains were divided each from each: there were chambers stuffed to the rafters with things that were, to a knight, nothing more than old bric-a-brac — and then there were halls that could make a man's eyes roll back in his head.

But this place was different. Here were gathered the unidentified relics — objects whose value and rarity had never been demonstrated, left piled up on the off chance that they might matter someday.

"Well, ain't this a fancy-dan place."

"Spoils of war that aren't quite spoils of war, you could say."

"There's even a national treasure from some long-fallen kingdom lyin' about, I see."

"……."

"Well, what you folk do with it's none of my affair, though."

With a soft snort of laughter, Geornia ambled among the scattered gold and silver and jeweled hoards as if she were a tourist on holiday, idly picking over even the most ordinary-seeming items out of sheer curiosity. And close at her heels, like an attendant, followed Melineos.

That the two of them had come alone, with no retinue whatsoever, could only mean one thing: this matter was grave enough — and required enough discretion — to be dug into in secret.

"Searchin' this place for traces of that Cariel boy would take an age and a half."

"…For me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠yes, it would. But you're different, Master."

"You can spoon luxury into their mouths all day long, but you can't make 'em lift a finger to work. Tsk tsk tsk tsk!"

On the surface it looked as though she were sulking, clucking her tongue in mock exasperation. But Melineos, who knew exactly what lay beneath that lazy façade, could only find the act inconvenient in every possible way.

"Well then — let's begin, shall we."

Tension seeped into that slack, indolent expression. Her green eyes, until now half-lidded and easeful, sharpened all at once.

She chanted in a language no one could know. A deep blue light traced fine, glimmering lines, weaving through the air on every side. Those who could not see spirits sometimes caught glimpses of things like this, or so the eyewitness accounts went — but this was something else entirely, different in kind, not merely in degree.

The fusion of spirits and the arcane arts.

There was magic fusion, and there was Magic Fusion. And among those who bore the title of the three great masters of the Magic Fusion School —

Geornia dey Adelweiss.

Hers was an art that went beyond merely commanding spirits: it conveyed concrete instructions to them, delivering demands and directives of a precision and scope never before achieved, all laid out in perfect order. It was she and her kind who had elevated the old spirit-craft — once governed by nothing but vague empathy and affinity, handled strictly according to nature, aptitude, and gift — into a true discipline of scholarship.

"Now watch close, y'hear."

Geornia beckoned, and as Melineos drew near, the elf pressed her tiny index finger to the younger woman's brow.

Every color in the world drained away, and what remained was nothing but a strange realm composed of pale blue luminescence. And there —

Melineos and Geornia saw him. Cariel, wandering this place in a daze, carrying on a conversation with someone they could not see, until at last he arrived here.

"Now who in the world is he talkin' to, I wonder?"

"…I have no idea."

"When he was with us he conversed with the spirits just fine… but the energies and the ecology of this place are poor. It shouldn't come easy to him at all, y'know."

"D-did he, now?"

"What, that boy Cariel never mentioned it?"

"……."

Their conversation died, and both women fixed their attention on the scene unfolding before them once more. There, Cariel — who had belatedly realized why he had come this far at all, and had been on the verge of drawing back his feet — suddenly stopped in his tracks. It was as though something had seized hold of him. And then his eyes went wide, wide open, as if he had glimpsed something.

…….

"Looks like he's seen a ghost, eh?"

Or perhaps —

"Something akin to one? Something similar? What do you make of it?"

"I can't say for certain. Nothing is clear yet."

"Then just summon Cariel and ask him to his face. Simple as that. No need to make it complicated."

"That… is…"

"The betrothal ceremony is tomorrow, no? And from what I saw on my way here… doesn't look like he means to make a grand affair of it at all. A modest ceremony, is it?"

"……."

Geornia, who had been browsing the treasury a while longer, asked quite abruptly.

"If there's anything you're hiding, confess it now. The moment I start diggin'… this stops bein' something you can paper over lightly, understand?"

"Y-you already know everything, don't you?"

"Nope. Not at all. Don't know a thing."

The mischief still lilted in her voice; the playfulness still lived in her manner. But in the pair of eyes that happened to meet Melineos's just then —

a vivid, unmistakable wrath had settled.

"Take the chance when it's given to you, girl."

So saying, Geornia strode out of the treasury just as she pleased.

"Awkward to speak of it here, anyway. So let's fill our bellies while we're at it. Two birds, one stone."

Or else —

"…Or shall I shove my face in front of your Emperor this very instant and pry it out of him myself, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hmm?"

"You're all right, aren't you?"

"Ah… hm? Wh-what? What do you mean?"

At Patina's question, Rueld blinked himself back from a daze.

"You haven't glanced at a single page of those documents, my lord."

"Ah… I see. So I haven't."

His hands simply would not settle to the work. Such a thing almost never happened to him — but this time, without question, it was different. He wondered whether he ought to be sitting like this at all. He wondered what, exactly, he was doing all this for. Whether some part of him had begun to doubt. Or whether…

Whatever the cause, his mind of late had been more disordered, more unfocused, than it had been in years.

"Still — that Cariel came to his senses at last, even this late. How fortunate that is."

"Ah… yes. Yes, of course."

She doesn't know.

No — almost none of them ever will.

"……."

The day Cariel was presumed to have departed. Conversely, for Rueld, that very day had been a day of blessing unlike any other.

But —

"I have returned from seeing them off."

"…Her Highness?"

"Speak freely, please. Among the likes of us, there's no need for such formality."

"……."

He had come back home, and everything felt hollow. Ermina had been moved to recuperate not at their residence but at the Great Church, so that returning here would not force him to feel the absence of Cariel quite so directly.

And by an ill stroke of coincidence, it was there that Imperial Princess Elhermina had come calling.

"I see. Then — Cariel. How was he?"

"He has grown dependable to a degree I hadn't expected, all over again."

"……."

"But he will not forgive you, my lord. Nor Lady Ermina. Nor the Empire itself."

"That…"

"Even so, it will not descend into a tragedy born of vengeance. Some small venting of his anger, however, we will simply have to accept."

"……."

He felt as though he were drifting back and forth between dream and reality. That sensation of ascending to heaven only to plummet, all at once, into hell — no amount of time would ever make it familiar.

Hardship he had long since grown used to. Fatigue and pain alike, he had believed himself long inured to. Yet this one thing was proving harder to bear than anything he had imagined.

"Are you well?"

"…Forgive me. For such a disgraceful showing."

"There is one thing I would ask of you."

"If it's something I can answer, then ask me anything at all."

Elhermina appeared to gather her thoughts for a moment. Or rather — her eyes seemed to be asking whether this was truly something she ought to draw out into the open.

"When you deal with Cariel — have you ever sensed a certain subtle wrongness?"

"…In what respect?"

"Her Majesty has summoned Lady Geornia, so once she arrives, we will know. But I ask on the chance that she does not."

"Then lay out your doubts for me more precisely, if you would."

"I have watched Cariel for a very long time. And in that time, I have come to know intimately every manner of affair that stirs around him."

And yet, there is something strange.

"Those who deal with Cariel all share one tendency, more often than not: the way they treat him shifts toward the extreme."

"What? What on earth does that mean?"

"For example…"

The princess spread her hands and, with something like self-mockery, gestured to herself and to Rueld in turn.

"Sir Rueld and I display a similar tendency in how we treat him."

"In what way?"

"Blind faith. And in this, His Majesty and Her Majesty are no different."

"Blind faith? You mean trust, surely?"

"The difference is vast."

There, Elhermina's lips moved briefly, hesitating.

"And those who react to him with hostility divide, upon close examination, into distinct patterns of behavior and attitude."

Thorough, categorical disregard.

Contempt, and open ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠derision.

At times, hatred deepening into loathing itself.

"And some among them carried it further still — beyond merely harboring such feelings, all the way into action."

The foremost example being her own younger brother, Alesius. And a handful of others besides.

"Under ordinary circumstances, I would have dissuaded him long before it ever came to that — or intervened in some form or another. The me of ordinary days, I mean."

"…And yet. Only after he had already gone — only when I sat down and combed back through my own conduct — did I finally sense it. That wrongness. My behavior had diverged, markedly, from anything I would ordinarily have done."

"……."

"As if something had been drawn over my eyes."

And that —

"— Lady Ermina, I suspect, was no exception."

"Ermina?"

"It remains conjecture at this stage. But please, keep it in mind. Some malicious artifice — in a form none of us could ever have perceived — may well have been at work all along."

"……."

Rueld thought. Or rather —

if that was truly how it had been, then perhaps his own conduct would become, if only slightly, more comprehensible. And then he would be able to pour out his heart and soul, every last ounce of sincerity he possessed, into —

…the loathing and fury he felt toward the malicious existence ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that had wrought it.

"And if your conjecture turns out to be nothing more than idle suspicion?"

"If so… then I will simply have to admit it, and live with it — that I am not merely wanting in virtue, nor merely deficient, but base through and through."

Perhaps that —

"— would be the better outcome. But if there truly are those who can press such malice upon us so far beneath our ability to even conceive of it…"

then is Cariel not in very real danger, even at this moment?

"……."

Dusk was settling in. Rueld, without quite realizing he was doing it, drew from his inner pocket a folded sheet of letter paper. It had been crumpled so badly that its contents were all but illegible unless one smoothed it out — and he spread it upon the desk, rubbing it gently between his palms until it lay open and flat.

"……."

There was no postscript. And no letter written in this world ever ended so forlornly — without so much as a parting word.

But of course it had to.

There was not so much as an inch of blank paper remaining.

It did not feel unfinished, perhaps, because at the very least the final period had been set down, complete and unbroken. But there was no more space beyond it.

He had wanted to see more. He had wanted to hear more.

How did it ever come to this?

He had not yet given this letter to Ermina.

No — he never would.

"Sorry… for being born."

What kind of words are those?

How could you say such a thing… to me…

He wished all of it were a dream. No — something had simply gone wrong. He was in the middle of a nightmare, that was all. Or perhaps the Demon King was still tending to him, and he had fallen prey to some mind-bending sorcery, some bewitchment, some curse, unable to come to his senses. It had happened before, more than once.

Ermina herself had very nearly never opened her eyes again because of it. And in those days, too, she had wept inside the illusion, clutching her child, refusing to let go.

…Though in the end, she had accepted reality.

Sorrow is a road we know far too well.

There had been far too much of it — far too much ever to count, one by one, on ten fingers.

And why, despite all of it, had he been able to endure?

Because everyone was there.

And yet, within all of that —

…to make his own son write, in his own hand, the words I am sorry for being born.

How? In what words? By what possible means am I supposed to accept this?

"……."

Is this what sorrow is supposed to feel like?

They said that when grief grew too great, even tears would not come, and no thought would form at all. Rueld had lived through that experience countless times before.

But this time — this time, it truly felt as though it were not his bones but his very soul that was being severed.

"…And yet."

I must not stop.

To give up here and collapse would be nothing more than flight. He had to seek him out, and ask. He had to stand against him.

And if his resentment had reached its very extreme — if even killing him would never resolve it —

…he could not die for him, but he would have to persuade him somehow, come to some accord somehow.

No. That was wrong.

This was not a question of negotiation, or of persuasion.

An apology… he had to apologize. He had to say that he was sorry.

Yes. That is everything.

But —

Where on earth did you go?

The destination was unknown. Even the Empire's far-reaching search network turned up nothing.

How is that even possible?

"Pull yourself together."

If he crumbled, Ermina would crumble with him. Beyond that, the whole people of the Empire would waver — and even the Emperor, his comrade closer than a brother, would be left precarious. Were they not the very ones who, until only recently, had still been forced to mind the eyes of the nobility? Those men carried out their filthy, shameless schemes without so much as a flicker of hesitation — while he, he could not do the same.

No — to be precise, it was Rueld himself who could not.

The countless restraints that had bound his entire body entwined him now like chains, mesh by iron mesh. It had been he, of course, who had resolved to bear them all.

…But just now, he did not want to think of anything at all.

Only for a moment. Only for the briefest of moments.

Please — grant me a small measure of time, enough to accept all of this and endure it.

Father.

Heaven above.

Our Lord.