The Word Called Truth

Having acquired Incineration, and thanks to all the diligent wandering I'd done through the palace, I had managed to assemble one more word: Freezing.

Two-character words were simple enough to combine that, at this pace, I could see myself picking up a few more without any real strain.

Of course, I could also have held my letters in reserve instead of fusing them, saving up for other words. But the power of the Dragon Tongue could only be granted to a single word once per day — and for me, quantity versus quality, or quality versus quantity, was a choice I couldn't afford to make in favor of either one.

Besides, you don't swing a butcher's cleaver to kill a chicken. Collecting as many simply-assembled words as possible was clearly the more efficient path. The number of words at my disposal functioned, in its own way, like a reserve of mana.

"Oh — it's Her Highness the Princess, my lord."

Walking the corridor with Mary, I glanced down through a window and saw my elder sister — the Princess Aria — receiving a lecture on magic from one of the court mages.

In this world, the talent to wield mana was granted at birth, a gift one was born with. It could never be acquired later in life, which was why my sister Aria had drawn so much quiet pity the moment she came into the world.

And understandably so. If she had been born a man, she would have walked the straight road to the Emperor's seat without a single obstacle in her way.

According to what I'd heard through Mary, she wasn't receiving anything like proper love from her mother, the Empress. What she got from her, time and again, was nothing but wailing lamentations over why she had to be born a woman.

No matter how much she surpassed me, so long as she was a woman she could never be Emperor. Even if I turned into a worthless wreck or dropped dead, she would simply be made to accept some distant cousin of imperial blood as her husband, hand him the throne, and spend the rest of her life as a broodmare whose only duty was bearing heirs.

"Let's go."

Sympathy was one thing; it went only that far. What I felt for her was the cheap pity one throws at a beggar on the street. We were half-siblings at best, and she had never cared for me much anyway.

"Come in, dear."

When Mary and I gave a light knock and entered my mother's quarters, she greeted me with that gentle, beneficent smile of hers. I could never quite explain why just looking at that smile made some corner of my chest go so warm.

"You seem in awfully good spirits today."

"Do I?"

Smiling softly around those words, she pointed at the corners of her own mouth — and then gathered me up into her arms.

"The Empress is with child."

"…"

At my mother's words, my body went slowly rigid.

"But if it's a son, Rohen, then you'll never have to sit on the throne at all."

So that was it. The reason my mother was so radiant today — it was because it seemed I wouldn't have to wear the heavy crown of Emperor after all.

I was the first prince, yes, but only by birth from a concubine. Should the Empress, the legitimate wife, bear a son, that child would claim first place in the line of succession as a matter of course, even as second prince.

"Then what happens to me, when my sibling becomes Emperor?"

"You'll be granted a parcel of the imperial demesne and given a title, won't you?"

I was imperial family — and, at the same time, a concubine's child. A duchy or a marquisate was probably beyond reach. A county, then, I supposed. Though of course, that would only come after Father passed away or handed over the throne.

"Do you not wish for me to take the throne, Mother?"

"I want Rohen to walk whatever road he wishes to walk, without being bound by anything around him."

Her hand stroked slowly through my hair, and it felt simply, indulgently good. Though she had become the Emperor's concubine despite being a commoner, she showed not the faintest glimmer of ambition.

If she had used me, she could easily have cast down the Empress and seized considerable power for herself.

'So this is what Father fell in love with.'

A heart pure and white, without even the smallest trace of malice.

"Do you want to become Emperor, Rohen?"

At my mother's question, I shook my head.

"If I can be with you, Mother, I don't care what form that takes."

They say a son tends to love a woman who resembles his mother. Thinking on it, I couldn't bring myself to argue.

"Rohen… you never bring up your father, do you. He may seem cold to you, but I want you to understand that it's all for your sake. I'm not the only one who loves you — he loves you very much as well."

I nodded along to my mother's words. My body might have been a six-year-old's, but my mind was not.

My father's coldness toward me was, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in all likelihood, a shield — a way of keeping my mother out of the Empress's jealous sight. His habit of sharing his bed frequently with the Empress while visiting my mother's quarters only now and then was surely for the same reason. Once the Empress bore a son, my mother would no longer be the target of her jealousy at all.

No talent for mana. Unable to speak so much as a word. A commoner mother, with no family name or backing to speak of. A concubine's son, fated to fall to second in the line of succession. Taken as it stood, the odds of me ever becoming Emperor converged neatly on zero — but then, the reason I had ever clung to the throne in the first place had been my mother's safety, nothing more.

A small thread of wistfulness remained, perhaps. But I felt no regret.

"What is it? Do you have something on your face?"

At my silent stare, my mother asked, puzzled.

"I love you. A great deal. Truly, a great deal."

Even at this sudden confession of feeling, my mother didn't so much as falter — she simply smiled and pressed her lips to my cheek.

"And I love you more than I can say."

Well — so what if I never became Emperor? However you looked at it, I had still been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. So long as I could preserve this family exactly as it was, I felt that was enough.

Yes. I truly, honestly believed that it was enough.

"Rohen!"

Bang! The door flew open and I bolted through it. Mary's voice, urging me to stop, never reached me — and behind me she trailed along, white-faced, but I had no attention to spare for her.

My destination was my father's residence: the Emperor's own dwelling, the Main Palace.

"I wish to see my father. Announce me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠inside."

When I showed my writing to the knight standing guard before the residence, he gave me a brief look of pity, then went inside. Before long he emerged again, bowed to me, and gave his permission to enter. I strode straight in — and there was my father's face, terribly gaunt, as if he had hardly slept at all.

"…Welcome, Rohen."

"Do you truly believe my mother would do such a thing?"

"Rohen. The world cannot prove a man's convictions without objective evidence."

Before even a flicker of sympathy could rise in his voice, it was already so flat, so utterly level, that I bit down hard on my lip. My gaze dropped to the paper, and the letters I scrawled across it slashed and scattered wildly, as if they alone were carrying my feelings for me.

"You are the Emperor! The situation itself is absurd from the very start!"

Peppyment. A poisonous herb, yes — but in this world it was used as medicine. Depending on the dose, it could induce total or localized paralysis, an entirely legitimate medical application. And in vanishingly small amounts, it was sometimes used by brothel women and others who found themselves with an unwanted pregnancy, to end it.

That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was precisely why, in this world, a pregnant woman was given every accommodation and spared every hardship her body could avoid — because any wound that required surgery under mandatory peppyment anesthesia meant a miscarriage, an unavoidable tragedy.

"You know as well as I do that my mother has no greed for power."

If anything, she had been glad at the possibility of the Empress bearing a son. Then why on earth would she induce the Empress's miscarriage? At least as far as I could see, the only explanation was that someone had seized on the fact that a child implanted in an already-damaged womb would likely be lost anyway. And understandably so — the entire situation was theatrical to the point of absurdity.

I wrote all of it down, every last surge of feeling, and showed it to my father. After a short silence, he spoke to me.

"Rohen… do you understand what it is you're saying?"

I did. How could I not?

Whether the Empress bore a son or a daughter was a coin flip. The odds of her carrying any child safely to term were slim in the first place. In a single phrase: rather than gamble everything on that sliver of chance, the Empress had chosen the certain path — induced her own miscarriage and draped the crime over my mother's shoulders.

Strip my mother of her rank as imperial consort, see her executed — and every particle of that infamy would fall on me, the prince left alive. Then they would move to strip my claim to the throne as well.

The Empress, Cestia Paul Bertian, had used her own child as a tool. No — perhaps the entire power base of Duke Alteir's house was my enemy. Perhaps even the noble factions friendly to the crown had joined in. From their standpoint, after all, it was nothing more than one commonborn woman dying. Not every noble in this world was that way, but they certainly carried an elitism excessive enough to allow it.

"Rohen… however far she may have strayed, surely even she would never use her own child as a tool."

"Then are you telling me my mother is the sort of woman who, blinded by power, would destroy the Empress's child?"

Not once in my life — not even now — had I resented my own voicelessness more bitterly. Clutching at my throat, I glared up at my father as I wrote on.

"If you couldn't bear the weight of it, why did you take my mother as your consort at all!"

At my words, my father dragged a hand down his haggard face and bowed his head.

"I told Euphemia to leave the palace — when she was carrying you, so that she wouldn't be caught up in some needless affair. But it was she who said she wished to remain at my side. Of course, I had it in my power to silence that wish and cast her out of the palace entirely."

"But you didn't."

"No. That was my greed. When I spoke with her, I was nothing more than an ordinary man. I could set aside every worry, every fear. I wanted her beside me — a place of rest where I could step away from being Emperor."

"Locked inside the cage you built, my mother is going to die. Shouldn't you be made to answer for that?"

The paper I was writing on crumpled and warped under the force of my grip.

"There is no evidence. Not even a witness exists. Do you imagine I want to stand by and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watch Euphemia die…"

"…"

"And yet an Emperor cannot move as his feelings pull him. Every action he takes must rest on principle, on grounds. A man like that, Rohen."

…Sorry for being your son, then.

My fingertips gave a thin tremble. It was the first time I had ever seen my father on the verge of tears. But there was nothing in me beyond that surprise — and so I simply turned my back on him, coldly, and walked out.

There was nothing more to be won from this conversation. What I needed was evidence. But no way of finding it came to mind. There was no one in this world who could act as my hands and feet.

And so it struck me, anew: I had not a single ally in this palace.

In this bleak, withered world — so this was how my mother had endured all along.

'…What good is love, in the end.'

I could not understand my father, and I could not understand my mother either. That was how I left my father's residence behind and made my way back to my own room.

If evidence does not exist — then you simply make them spit it out.

My mother's execution was set for three days from now. If, in that time, I could complete the word truth — then perhaps I could save her.

The consonants I needed were J, N, S, and L. And the vowel I needed was just one: a single additional I.

Gathering only specific letters for three straight days would be no small feat. I might well hit walls along the way. But I couldn't afford to sit still, either.

And so I turned to Mary, who was hovering anxiously at my side, and wrote:

"Mary, I need a dagger."

"A… a dagger, my lord?"

"Yes."

"What… what do you intend to use it for?"

"Bring it."

"Rohen!"

"Bring it."

Unable to withstand my gaze, cold and sunk low as a frozen lake, Mary finally turned and stepped out of the room.

And once Mary returned with that dagger in hand — that would be the moment the farce of the suicidal prince began.