The Iron-Blooded Empress (7)
At eighteen, having come of age, Apiel had blossomed into an even more beautiful and formidable flower.
Her beauty rivaled that of the imperial princess who was already whispered to be the most exquisite woman in the empire. Her martial prowess stood undiminished even beside the Northern Grand Duke, whose renown as the empire’s greatest Sword Saint was absolute.
Apiel Bayern was a perfect young woman in every respect save her temperament. Given a few more years, she would have advanced still further—whether in appearance or in raw power.
Yet the empire never recognized her superiority. To protect her mother, Apiel herself could not afford to draw attention. The more exceptional she became, the more the nobility would begin to wonder what sort of people her parents must be.
The Viscount of Bayorn’s decision to raise her as the family’s secret weapon had been meant to strengthen Bayorn’s tactical edge, but in the end it was also a means of shielding his consort. He reduced every possible risk and variable while turning a daughter of generational talent into the family’s shield. It was the meticulous obsession of a man blinded by love.
Thus Apiel obeyed her father’s command as head of the house and tempered herself by ranging freely across the battlefields. In time she founded a mercenary company with Bayorn’s warriors at its core—the Queen’s Sword.
While amassing enormous profits beyond the empire’s borders, she also achieved rare and remarkable feats. Because she operated in foreign lands, and because only high races such as dragons or eldritch beings could wield magic without it, there was no way to identify the woman whose entire body was sealed inside plate armor, even when she cut down superhuman foes bare-handed.
And so Apiel came to be praised as a war hero of towering renown among the mercenaries and the kingdoms she had aided—under the name of the Iron-Blooded Empress.
She was only eighteen, yet her standing within House Bayorn was immense. Even the Huscarls, Bayorn’s elite warrior corps, acknowledged and respected her. The barbarians who had fought beside her in the company would have thrown their lives away for the young lady without a second thought.
In some ways she commanded greater trust from the warriors than her elder brother, the heir. Those who gave Kael their blind loyalty were mostly the household servants centered on the Viscountess rather than the fighting men.
Yet whether warriors or simple retainers, the vassals were bound together around the gracious Viscountess. It meant that brother and sister had both inherited power by sharing in their mother’s grace.
“Glory to the Sword of Bayorn!”
When the white-haired girl passed through the castle’s main gate, hundreds of vassals and warriors dropped to their knees. She had returned from yet another war bearing great spoils of gold and treasure.
Among the barbarians of Bayorn, strength earned respect regardless of sex. Add to that achievements that enriched the territory, and the fact that she carried the blood of the lord of Bayorn himself—awe and reverence from the household were inevitable.
The title Iron-Blooded Empress might seem excessive for the mere daughter of a viscount. Yet considering her monstrous power that surpassed entire small kingdoms, it was no exaggeration. When a single individual could reign as a legion unto herself, who would dare deny it?
“…Mother?”
Had the little tomboy finally become an adult upon coming of age? Or had the blood-soaked wars altered her nature? The daughter who had always clung to her mother with endless affection now carried a faintly cynical air.
“The Viscountess is resting inside the mansion.”
“What do you mean?”
Apiel tilted her head, a flicker of puzzlement crossing her face. Her mother had always forgotten all dignity and come sprinting out to greet her whenever she returned from an expedition.
Watching that unchanging figure rush out to meet her had been one of a daughter’s quiet joys.
Yet the woman who lived only for her children was resting indoors on a day as important as this…
“Is she very unwell?”
“It isn’t that, but…”
At the retainer’s drawn-out trailing off, Apiel simply nodded. Even the loyal servants were carefully avoiding the subject; she already understood why her mother had not come out to greet her.
Father is tormenting Mother again, even in broad daylight.
It was an obvious, long-familiar truth, yet Apiel’s expression slowly hardened. Seeking the reason was pointless. It would only be madness.
“Hyah!”
She drove her heels hard into the stirrups. She had already reached the castle; there was nothing she needed to hurry for. Even so she spurred toward the Bayorn mansion with sudden urgency, as if she herself did not understand why.
As she drew near the great three-story mansion, the familiar fragrance of tangerine trees filled her nostrils. She remembered the woman’s smile as she cradled a single fruit in both hands, delighted like a child.
When the young lady entered the castle proper, loyal servants hurried out to meet her. The retainers looked faintly flustered, as though they had not expected the little mistress to arrive so quickly.
“Welcome home, Young Lady.”
“…Yes.”
Arriving early changed nothing she could do. She handed her armor and cloak to the servants and asked the chief butler, Alred, once more.
“Mother?”
The old butler hesitated a moment, then answered as casually as he could, softening the truth as much as possible.
“She is in the garden, but it would be better if you visited her later. You seem to have worked up quite a sweat—would you care to bathe first? I shall have it prepared at once.”
The garden he mentioned had not always been there. It was a gift from her father, the Viscount of Bayorn, an attempt to win back even a fraction of his consort’s heart.
Had he wanted to do secret things even in a place like that? The garden had been built as an indoor conservatory screened by opaque glass.
She wanted to see her mother at once, yet she could not bring herself to interrupt their time together. Apiel told Alred she understood and climbed the stairs, intending to wait for her mother in a private chamber.
Why isn’t she coming?
Two hours passed after her bath, then three. A considerable stretch of time had gone by, yet she had not caught so much as a glimpse of the crimson-haired woman.
No matter how preoccupied she might be, she would know it was the day her daughter returned. She would never prolong their relations this long…
Puzzlement became curiosity; curiosity became worry. In the end those feelings settled into a dangerous inquisitiveness.
Unlike her brother, Apiel had never once spied on her parents’ intimacy. She had always felt that if she ever faced it, something irreversible would happen—not a reasoned conclusion so much as an instinctive sense of a path leading to ruin.
She could not imagine her mother—neat, pure of character, still so girlish in appearance—pinned beneath someone and letting out lewd moans.
Unlike her mother, who never even touched herself, Apiel was an ordinary young woman with a measure of sexual curiosity. It was only natural that, as time passed, questions about her mother’s private life would begin to stir. Of course, it was not a thought any normal child would entertain.
This is abnormal…
As she always did, Apiel berated herself, driving the thought down. She must not do this.
Why… why won’t she come back?
Yet the longer her mother stayed away, the less she could master the curiosity. Perhaps a quiet resentment had bloomed because her mother had neglected her.
In the end, by the time Apiel realized she had left the private chamber, she was already standing before the garden.
The girl who had hesitated again and again at a distance from the entrance…
I’ve never smelled anything like this before…
Lured by the faint scent seeping through the crack of the garden door, she closed the distance toward the indoor conservatory without quite meaning to.
Apiel knew perfectly well how foolish the act was.
But the years she had spent restraining that curiosity already stretched long. Considering her fiery temper and short patience, even this much restraint had been an effort.
Her blue eyes, seeking an unknown she had never experienced, held fear—yet a faint expectation seemed to rise within them as well. Even so, she did not step into the garden rashly.
She maximized her senses and mana, combining stealth and infiltration at once. Then she slowly pushed open the glass door and entered. Her father, the Viscount of Bayorn, possessed keen senses; caution was necessary.
The garden was as wide as the Viscount’s heart for his consort. Yet finding her parents was not difficult for Apiel once she was inside.
“Ahhhn… haaah… aaah!”
Intense moans were coming from the direction of the central flower beds.
Outside the garden only silence had reigned, but the moment she stepped indoors, a woman’s lewd cries rang without pause through the conservatory.
“Aueung!”
Apiel stiffened for an instant, then moved her feet again—toward the place where those obscene cries flowed.
The girl doubted her own ears, wondering if she had misheard. Her mother always wore thick dresses that covered every inch of her body. Her notions of chastity were rigid. Surely such a woman would never scream like a common harlot?
“Hwaaa… ah!”
But when she listened again, it was no hallucination. As time passed she could hear more clearly, and she became certain of the source of the sound.
The origin of those moans half-mingled with sobs, and of the sticky, wet resonance of flesh roughly smacking against flesh…
“Aeut—Viscount, it hurts!”
…was the crimson-haired woman pinned beneath a man, locked in intercourse.