Tell Me (10)

“A mage, you say.”

Gunter glanced at the figure lying there as he listened to the recovered soldier. Based on the man’s testimony, the diagnosis had been “overload and collapse from magical overuse,” and the patient had been sleeping soundly for more than half a day now.

Considering how violently he had vomited blood when he fell, the peaceful sight was almost absurdly tranquil.

Well, given that the mage who had come out to examine him had screamed, “How is he even alive?! His insides are completely twisted into a mess!” the state of his body could hardly be called peaceful—but still.

Compared to most mages who, under the same diagnosis, would be screaming or thrashing their limbs, this looked for all the world like a quiet afternoon nap.

“Pretty sturdy for a mage.”

“…I don’t believe a traveler is required to be scrawny, my lord.”

“No, that isn’t what I meant…”

Setting that aside, Gunter found himself turning over the man’s identity. A mage who spent his days cooped up researching and a frame this grand simply did not go together.

“What I meant was that even for a traveler, his body looks excessively developed.”

“If I may offer a personal opinion, my lord—if he took mercenary work, wouldn’t that explain it? A wandering mage would still have his share of fights; he would have used his body often enough.”

“Hmm…”

Whether it was something he had heard while being rescued, or simply the closeness born of shared hardship, the soldier was defending the mage with a desperation that ignored the gulf of rank between them. Even allowing for the fact that Gunter ordinarily treated his men without airs and rarely leaned on his station, it was unusual.

“You two got rather close, then?”

“…My apologies, Young Lord.”

“Ah—no, no. Don’t bow. I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot; it just slipped out without thinking. If a comrade I’d crossed a demon-infested forest with were under suspicion, I’d speak up for him too.”

Besides, nothing the man said was actually wrong. Gunter had no desire to scold him. He was simply curious why the soldier had taken such a liking to the mage—and whether the lingering doubt of “Is that really the case?” still held any weight.

“…I’d like a look at his hands.”

“My lord?”

“Never mind.”

If he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could strip off the upper garments—something that had not been necessary during the examination; feeling the pulse at the wrist had been enough—or simply check the calluses on the palms, he would have something firmer to go on.

But the former felt far too perverse, and peeling the gloves off a sleeping man to inspect his hands was equally improper. For the sake of his own dignity, Gunter forced the curiosity down as hard as he could.

A twitch. At last the man stirred.

“He’s awake. You may go rest for now.”

“…Yes, my lord.”

Once the mage had woken, there was no further need to question the soldier. Gunter sent him off to recover and waited for the mage to come fully to his senses.

“Mm.”

A low voice gave a soft hum; wheat-colored lashes fluttered. When they lifted a fraction, the pupils visible between the whites could not be clearly distinguished—the sunlight spilling through the window washed the color away.

“Ah.”

Even that glimpse was immediately hidden again. The man covered his eyes with one hand, let out a vague “Ah?”, and began groping about with the other as though searching for something.

“Your glasses are on the right-hand nightstand.”

“……!”

His mother had worn glasses; Gunter understood, at least a little, the panic of waking and reaching for them at once. He kindly pointed out their location.

The man rolled toward the right-hand stand without delay.

“Thank you… I thought I’d lost them.”

Having found the spectacles at last, he offered a faint smile of greeting. The eyes that settled behind the lenses were green.

Earlier they looked paler than that. A thin unease brushed Gunter and was discarded just as quickly. A suspicion too slight even to form into words could not compare with the nostalgia stirred by those green eyes and that wheat-colored hair.

“The resemblance is enough to drive a man mad.”

“Pardon?”

“But it isn’t him.”

If it had truly been Atya, he would never have made such a vacant sound. He would have smirked and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠said something like, “Impossible. There can’t be two faces this handsome in the world.”

“…Right. No chance he’d come back now.”

Even so—even knowing the outcome beforehand—Gunter felt a small depression settle over him. It was the same psychology that had let him pin a scrap of hope on the man even while knowing full well that Atya’s hair did not curl, was a shade darker, that he never wore glasses, and that he could not cast so much as a spark of magic.

“You there.”

He simply missed the Amber siblings, who had been as close as blood brothers and sisters to him.

“Ah—yes.”

“Do you have anything to prove your identity?”

“…No.”

“As expected.”

Still, he could not let the emotion drown the work that needed doing.

A man who mixed personal feelings into public duty could never become a proper lord—yet there was a world of difference ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠between doing something and doing nothing at all.

Gunter deliberately turned his back on the melancholy and shoved himself into the business at hand.

“In that case, you have no right to enter this city. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be the end of it.”

The young man, still pale from whatever lingered in his system, listened carefully.

“However, you have the merit of having aided a soldier of Munmunt, and there is testimony that you are a mage. In light of the present emergency, I intend to grant you temporary permission to remain within the city.”

There was something oddly young about the man—despite the fact that he was larger than Gunter himself—and the Young Lord found his tone softening without meaning to. It had been entirely unconscious.

“But this is only temporary permission, not a grant of freedom. You are a mage, and Munmunt is currently under wartime conditions; the procedure is only natural. I trust you have no complaint.”

Looking again… he resembles Pasha more than Atya.

The thought rose of its own accord—absurd and out of place even to Gunter himself.

“Therefore you are offered two choices. The first is to remain in the guardhouse prison until the wartime state ends. The second is to be employed by this city as a mage.”

It made a certain sense: Atya had inherited Lord Amber’s golden-brown hair outright, while the younger brother Pasha’s hair had been a quiet gray. Even his eyes had been the same gray as his hair; there was nothing there to set against these green ones.

“Of course, confinement in the guardhouse will not mean the treatment of a criminal. Meals will be provided at every sitting, and the bed will be the same as those used by the soldiers. A measure of freedom may also be allowed at the guards’ discretion. The essential point is simply that you move under watch.”

The features themselves were similar, of course. Atya and Pasha had been brothers, and this young man looked enough like Atya that the resemblance was only natural.

“If, on the other hand, you accept employment…”

Yet for some reason it was Pasha who kept rising to mind. At first only Atya had come to him; once the younger brother appeared, he dominated completely.

“In that case…”

Suppose little Pasha—the boy who had once set his round cheeks in a fierce line, determined to become like his father—had grown into a man. Change only the hair and the eyes. Or suppose this young man had possessed the ash-gray hair of that brief connection once brushed past in Hudelen.

Perhaps he would have looked exactly like this.

“I will see to it that you are made as comfortable as possible.”

The vague fancy simply would not leave him.

Thinking of the boy who had been as good as a younger brother, Gunter bit the inside of his cheek.

Damn it. After Atya, now I want to see Pasha and Lina as well. And the second sister, Aelya. And Lady Amber, who always waited for us at home. And Lord Amber, who opened the door whenever we came—every last one of them.

“…You’ll see to my comfort?”

The longing had grown so thick that the words ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had slipped out wrong. Gunter felt a jolt of alarm at the young man’s murmur.

“With demons besieging the city, more fighters can only be a good thing. And anyone capable of punching through that encirclement with a single soldier is no ordinary talent. What convenience wouldn’t I extend to a mage of that caliber? In the end it benefits us both.”

“That… is true.”

Somehow he had managed to dress it up. Gunter watched the young man’s thoughtful face and waited for the choice.

Either way, he doesn’t strike me as someone who will harm Munmunt. The thought came paired with the certainty that if the old man ever caught him thinking it, he would roar, “I told you never to make snap judgments!”

“I… would prefer the latter, if I may.”

“‘If I may’?”

The young man spoke at last. The gentle impression was now shaded with mild embarrassment and difficulty as he smiled.

“Whether from the aftereffects of overusing magic, I simply cannot control my mana at all…”

“Ah.”

That was understandable. Gunter knew that physical overload from magical overuse could linger a long while. He had also been told that this particular young man had barely escaped death.

So he nodded.

“I can take that into account. I never expected you to become combat-ready as a mage right away in the first place.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. Why would I entrust work to a mage who belongs to no Mage Tower and carries no certification? There must be at least a minimum verification process.”

“…Ah.”

“Even if I were inclined to trust you, I would still need to grasp what magic you can actually use before deciding where to place you. If you are willing to be employed, I will have a mage from the Tower brought in. Even if you cannot cast, the depth of your knowledge can still be tested.”

Some mages specialized in offensive magic, others in defensive; the variations were endless. Verification was essential for that reason alone. Pointing it out only made the young man’s face grow a shade paler.

Perhaps because he was a wandering mage, he seemed to know nothing of this side of things.

In that light, the cold reception he had received so far must have felt bewildering. But it truly could not be helped. The things a demon-worshipping mage could do once inside a city were horrific in number.

Gunter was not doing this because he enjoyed it; he was doing it because only this level of caution could prevent disaster.

“I’ll give you until evening to think it over.”

Still, the man looked rather young, and he had the air of someone who had never been through anything like this. Softening the pressure a little seemed wiser. Driving him into a corner was unlikely to produce a positive answer anyway.

“You outside—come in.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Mage, this is the soldier who will watch you. Should any report of suspicious movement reach me from your guard, you may well be executed on the spot. I hope you will cooperate so that no such thing becomes necessary.”

“…Ah—yes.”

“…I don’t imagine you could leave the room in your present condition, but I will say it nonetheless. Do not leave this chamber, and do not act in any way that looks suspicious. Keep to that, and you will be treated reasonably well.”

“Yes.”

Gunter rolled his eyes at the mage who looked far too mild for his size.

He really does seem harmless. For a moment the old man’s imaginary scolding—“I told you never to judge a man by his face alone!”—echoed inside his mind.

Well, however sharp that old fox might be, he could not hear thoughts. In the end it made no difference.

Sloth—or Duke—murmured the words from atop her donkey. Beside her, the one who heard them sat rigidly upright in the palanquin borne by a chimera.

That palanquin looks awfully comfortable. Duke felt a flicker of envy, then gave it up. Obtaining a palanquin itself would be easy enough, but creating a chimera that would haul it without eating or sleeping was an extremely bothersome and complicated task.

Far less trouble, then, simply to keep riding the subordinate she already had. If necessary she could always hitch a cart to it.

With that thought Duke sprawled completely across the donkey’s back. Splash. Each time the donkey’s hooves struck the earth, something that had been layered over the ground sprayed in every direction.

That something was blood. Vast quantities of blood, enough to form rivers and pool into seas of red.

Crunch. The donkey took another step and crushed something underfoot—the bones and flesh of the lesser things that had failed, up to this moment, to carry out the order to conquer.

Did she pity them? Not particularly.

Duke herself had used low-ranking demons as consumables.

As long as she herself was not the sacrifice, Duke did not especially care. Upon the corpses of millions she let her already languid eyes droop still further.

So she asked again. With what, exactly, would the price be paid?

Duke quietly put force into her head against the koan-like answer, then understood.

There was nothing here that could serve as a sacrifice. Not unless they offered themselves.

Yes—if they would not offer themselves, no other option remained.

But why?

At those words Sloth—Belphegor—shuddered. They were not wrong. Now that one Great Demon had betrayed them and two more had simply vanished, the advantage had tipped hard toward the other world.

The power of the Two Gods that constrained them had grown stronger, strong enough now to deliver revelations directly even to their agents.

But even so—was this truly necessary? Would it not be better simply to give up, to stop even now and return to their own world…?

Yet Satan would never abandon this world. And therefore Pride would never abandon it either.

Belphegor felt like weeping.