The Baron's Gift (6)
Roy's face registered pure shock at what he was hearing.
The baron could read it plain as day and continued his explanation with careful patience.
"As you well know, Jerry has been a troublemaker since he was small. I thought the Knight Academy might finally straighten him out, but apparently he's become infatuated with some count's son and decided to become his retainer. The letter said that after next year's coming-of-age ceremony, he won't be forming his own party—he'll be joining that count's son's instead."
Jerry? What kind of lunatic would want that reprobate as a subordinate?
"I see. But Brother Eric is..."
"Eric is not the sort of material this territory can be entrusted to—not after this latest affair, and not after everything he's shown over the past year. In a way, this mess has handed me the same kind of pretext Billy once did. Of course he isn't nearly the problem Billy was, but still..."
For a moment the baron's expression turned heavy with sorrow. Then he shook his head sharply and fixed his gaze on Roy.
The look in his eyes was warm enough to melt the eternal snows of the northern continent.
"The only reason I can make this decision at all is because I have you."
"But I'm still..."
"Yes. You're still young. And as that maid said this time, the child Cecil bears will grow just as quickly as you did. Perhaps it will be that child, not you, who inherits the family. That child..."
The baron hesitated mid-sentence.
Roy finished the thought for him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"That child will carry half the margrave's blood, and with it an extraordinary gift for mana."
"Exactly. But whether that gift will ever match yours—in magic or the sword—is another matter entirely. You already proved as much when you faced Lord Benjamin's son James in that magical duel."
"......?"
"Give your father a justification."
"A justification?"
"Yes. Not the kind that would remove you from succession the way Billy or Eric were removed. Give me a reason I can choose you as heir over a child who carries the margrave's blood."
Roy was thoroughly confused.
He had never wanted to inherit the family in the first place, and the request itself was maddeningly vague.
"How could I possibly compete with a child of margrave blood..."
"Spare me the false modesty. Anyone with eyes could see you won that duel against James. Your natural aptitude is lacking? Then your father will help you."
Dragon's Breath!
"You don't mean... the method for making Dragon's Breath...?"
The baron's mouth split into a grin so wide it looked ready to tear.
He held every card.
"This is the kind of deal you love."
"Pardon?"
"If you give me what I want, I'll give you what you want. You've used that line on me often enough—don't try to wriggle out of it now."
"......"
The proposal left Roy defeated.
Of all the things the baron could have asked, he had chosen the one most difficult for the boy.
"Your magic is so exceptional no one can raise a finger against it. But your swordsmanship... I could barely stand to watch."
Several fine carriages rattled in a line along the mountain road.
Inside the lead coach sat none other than Benjamin Biswald.
A full day had already passed since they left Baron Greenhilt's estate. Between his third wife, his son, a retinue of servants, and the bulk purchase of enchanted weapons from the newly opened Coke's Armory, the convoy had swollen to a considerable size.
Two more days of travel still remained. After so long crammed into the narrow cabin, every joint in Benjamin's body ached.
"Damn it all. This is going to kill me."
"Patience, dear. At least the hardship bought us most of what we came for."
"Hmph. You think this pittance is enough to stand against my brothers? Don't be absurd. We still need to swallow House Greenhilt whole. If Father can just hold on a few more years..."
"Then why not bring a renowned priest from the capital this time?"
"Would it even help? The most celebrated priests can mend wounds, but illness seems beyond them."
"True enough—but Father's influence still carries weight. We need every scrap of favor we can earn."
"Hell. If word reaches Father that James lost to that little brat, there'll be another explosion."
Whether they were twenty or forty, the margrave's children still trembled at the mere mention of their father's name.
Benjamin's thoughts twisted themselves into knots: should he hope his father's condition improved, or worsened? Either path held its own advantages.
"Driver! What do you think you're doing? The ride's far too rough!"
"My apologies, my lord! I'm being as careful as I can, but the road is littered with stones..."
"Damn it!"
Even after achieving most of his goals, Benjamin could not stop cursing.
Then, as the carriages began to climb a gentle rise—
Crunch—
"......?"
Crunch—
"...!?"
The sound of wood twisting and splintering came several times more, and then the inevitable happened.
Not only the wheels but the very axles that held the carriages together shattered completely.
And not just one. All seven carriages collapsed at the same instant.
Those inside were flung about as the coaches tumbled down the slope, slamming into walls and floorboards. Had the hill been any steeper, someone would have been badly hurt.
"Damn it... Hey! What are you all doing?!"
No matter how loudly he shouted, only groans answered from outside.
Benjamin finally clawed his way free and stared at the tangled wreckage of his convoy, speechless.
How was such a thing even possible? The sheer absurdity of it nearly drew a hollow laugh from him.
"Is everyone all right?"
"Yes..."
By some miracle no one was seriously injured. Small mercies.
"You—mount a horse at once and find us replacement carriages. Quickly!"
The driver looked miserable as he answered.
"Forgive me, my lord, but the nearest village large enough to hire carriages is still a long ride away."
"And? Get moving!"
The driver scrambled onto a horse and vanished down the road.
Benjamin, unable to contain his fury any longer, kicked a helpless stone across the dirt.
The reason every carriage had fallen apart at once was, of course, Roy.
The ability to enchant weapons and strengthen them was, by the same principle, the ability to weaken them. And once a mage reached Roy's level, he could even set the exact moment of failure with magic.
This sort of thing has to stay undetectable.
The only regret Roy felt was that he could neither confirm whether the spells he had laid on the carriages triggered properly nor witness Benjamin's expression with his own eyes.
Roy lay on his bed, turning the conversation he had held with the baron in the cellar over and over in his mind.
He cared nothing for the succession itself, yet the other things the baron offered were absolutely essential to him.
Damn it all.
The baron had proposed a bargain: the long-coveted Dragon's Breath and free leave to come and go as he pleased—in exchange for the very thing Roy disliked most and cared about least.
It's my birthday. Couldn't he just give me a gift?
That "thing" was simple enough: train his swordsmanship as diligently as his magic. And not merely go through the motions—he had to produce results visible enough to satisfy the baron before either prize would be his.
"If you can show me swordsmanship superior to Jerry's or Eric's, I will gladly teach you everything I know about Dragon's Breath. What do you say?"
"I'm a mage, Father."
"No. You have simply concentrated on magic alone. Look at that seven-year-old body of yours—there is nothing lacking for martial training. You are my son and Anna's. We are both second to none with a blade, and our ancestors before us. That blood runs in you. I believe you have the talent."
"But..."
"Or give up this instant. Your father will simply take a third wife and sire another child fit to inherit. I had such hopes for you—what a disappointment!"
Is that really something a father should say to his son?
Lying on the bed, Roy sighed again and again.
He had been forced to accept for the sake of the rewards he so desperately wanted, yet the road ahead looked pitch-black.
Worrying over that future, he finally drifted into sleep.
And time flowed by in a blink.
Fully four years of it.
A few months past his birthday, Roy had turned eleven.
He had shot up in height, and his frame had grown solid and sturdy—the fruit of never once neglecting the sword.
And today, at last, the forty-fourth sparring match against the baron was about to begin.
It was early January, the new year barely under way. In the chill air of the training yard, father and son faced each other at the center, wooden swords in hand.
"This time will be different."
"You've been quiet for a while. First time since Anna left for the Knight Academy, isn't it? Don't tell me you were simply waiting for your old man to grow feeble."
"If you keep that casual attitude, Father, your son is going to leave a rather large bruise on your pride."
"Haha! Come at me, then—as hard as you like!"
Roy kicked off the ground and charged the baron, who stood there looking thoroughly unimpressed, swinging his wooden blade in a clean arc.
As always, the baron simply took one step back and let the attack whistle harmlessly past.
"If you keep charging the same way every time, even a half-wit goblin would know how to dodge."
"Hah!"
But Roy was no longer the same boy.
He paid the baron's words no mind at all, pouring everything into landing a single decisive blow.
In the four years that had passed, the boy had become a proper swordsman.