Sixteen Years of Rain

This would be the first weekend since the boy had enrolled. Was he making friends? Was his body holding up? Was he eating properly? The questions gnawed at him without end.

The boy had spent his entire life within the castle walls. Whether he could endure life in a dormitory troubled the Duke dozens of times a day.

And yet he could not keep the child tucked inside his coat forever. If he meant to properly protect his one remaining son, the boy had to change. He could not bear to lose family ever again.

His wife and Bail had both left him—but Bayul could not. If he lost the boy too, the Duke doubted he could go on living in this world at all.

"Jasper!"

Duke Randert tossed the last of the jerky. Jasper, who had just swallowed the final piece whole, launched himself skyward like a flying tiger once more.

"I look forward to the day your boy comes to join us here."

Watching the fellow strut proudly back to his spot, the Duke turned his head to gaze out the window.

Pit-a-pat. Pit-a-pat.

The relentless rain still drummed against the glass.

When would this cursed rain ever stop? Falling without a single day's respite, it had broken Hamilton apart piece by piece. Landslides, houses swept away, collapsed bridges beyond counting. The only consolation was that the casualties had been few.

"Yvette……"

Yet what crossed the Duke's face as he stared out was not anger. It was longing.

She had loved the rain more than anyone.

On a day just like this one, with rain pouring from the sky, he had met her for the very first time in a village where she'd stopped to take shelter.

A woman of unspoiled purity and quiet grace.

Even in the middle of a war, he had proposed to her on the spot—fallen at first sight—and he had even given her the name Yvette with his own lips.

And then, sixteen years.

Sixteen years had passed since he sent her away.

The Duke remembered it all still. Their first meeting. His love for her. And their…… parting.

If only he could see her once more, smiling brightly at his bedside, there was nothing he would not do.

But he knew better than anyone that such a thing was impossible.

Knock, knock.

"My lord, it is Cunning."

How much time had passed? The boy's treatment seemed to be finished, for Head Butler Cunning had come to call. Curious as he was about the result, the Duke did not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠turn his eyes from the window until the old man crossed the room to stand beside him.

"Father Juan has just completed the treatment. The child is safe."

So please, put your mind at ease—

Butler Cunning swallowed the rest of the sentence.

"…Has he woken?"

The Duke's voice was slow, unhurried—no different from usual—but Cunning detected the tension buried beneath it.

"Yes, my lord. Whether by the grace of Amalun or something else, he has passed the critical point. We have sent men into the village to search for his grandmother."

"Good work. The grandmother does not seem to be in good health either, so look after her as well."

"I was about to raise the matter myself—Father Juan has agreed to stay at the castle for several days. He says that while the boy is out of danger, someone must keep watch over him for the time being. Though the temple has plenty of its own patients, I confess I wonder whether we have any right to keep a man like Father Juan here."

"If the temple needs him, they will send word. For now, saving the child comes first. Focus on that."

"Yes, my lord. I will send word to the temple separately."

"I must ask you to see this through until the boy recovers. The man is busy enough as it is, and piling more work on him makes me feel needlessly guilty."

"Please, do not say such things. This is my duty, as it has always been."

"I am grateful to you. Always."

The Duke said it with his whole heart, and Cunning bowed his head. In that bow was a lifetime of genuine, unfeigned reverence for his lord.

"How goes the restoration of the plaza?"

With the matter of the child settled, the wounded city began to trouble the Duke's temper anew. It had been barely a few months since they held a rain prayer to end a drought—and now the city was writhing under too much water.

"The debris has been cleared entirely. As for the shattered statues, I have ordered the stonemasons deployed to complete repairs by day's end."

"With rain coming down like this, do you think that possible?"

"Ominous rumors are spreading through the streets, my lord. This is a place of heavy foot traffic, so I judged the restoration of its appearance to be urgent."

"A fair judgment. But if the rain keeps falling as it is now, what good will repairs do? I only worry the whole effort will come to nothing."

"I will see it concluded to a reasonable degree, so please do not trouble yourself over it."

"I truly cannot tell when this rain means to stop. Is the world falling into ruin, or has the Lord above grown angry with us……"

"It will get better soon, my lord. Everyone is holding on admirably. So take heart."

What good was being a hero of the realm? Before nature, he was nothing more than a single human being. Amid the chaos of the floods, all he could do was evacuate his people to safety. He had never once felt himself to be such a weak, powerless creature. If only he could stop the rain, he would gladly sell his soul to a demon. That was how desperate the Duke was.

"By the way, my lord—word has come from Carrington."

Hoping to lift the heavy mood, Butler Cunning changed the subject.

"Ah yes. How is he faring?"

At the sudden thought of his son, the Duke's expression brightened, if only for a moment.

"Aside from the young master arriving at the Academy a day later than planned, everything appears to have proceeded smoothly. Here is a letter from Sir Ian, just arrived."

He held out the still-warm envelope. The Duke tore it open in eager haste.

The letter bore Ian's character plainly upon it. A man of few words, but with depths of loyalty that had earned him the deep ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trust of his comrades. The prose was stiff and formal, yet threaded through it was a sincere devotion to both the Duke and Bayul.

The Duke went on staring at the letter in silence, so Butler Cunning added, "Before the young master departed for Carrington, I heard Lord Liam instruct Sir Ian to arrange separate lodging for him. By now he is likely out of the dormitory and resting comfortably in his own quarters."

"…Is that so?"

"Rita went along as well, so that should help him settle. The girl may be a little scatterbrained, but you know how devoted she is when it comes to the young master. Her cooking is quite accomplished too, so you need not fret over his meals on her account. Trust her."

Rita's skill in the kitchen was a fact the Duke knew well. Her mother Ariel, who had been the children's wet-nurse, had likewise possessed a rare talent for cooking. A kitchen maid by trade, she had become wet-nurse to the Bail twins simply because she was the only nursing mother residing in the castle at the time.

Thanks to her, the Duke had never once needed to go searching for a wet-nurse that bitter winter. Rita, Bail, and Bayul. Ariel had single-handedly raised three infants—a remarkably stout-hearted woman.

Inwardly, the Duke had leaned on her a great deal. When word of her illness first reached him, he had spared no effort to save her. But pressed by the endless affairs of state, he had not been at her side when she passed. For that, he had felt guilty ever since.

"Forgive me, my lord, but……"

Butler Cunning spoke carefully, intruding on the Duke's reverie. "Regarding Sir Ian. Are you truly certain one man is enough?"

"Enough for what, exactly?"

Only then did the Duke lift his head, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠setting the letter down.

"The young master's safety, my lord."

"His safety?"

"Yes. It is not Hamilton, after all, and it weighs on me. Carrington may be a well-ordered city, but there are ill-intentioned sorts to be found everywhere. I fear he might become entangled in some ugly affair……"

"So what you are saying is that Bayul needs more guards. Is that it?"

"Yes, my lord. It is."

Who could guarantee that nothing would happen? The young master was the Duke's only son and sole heir. It was only right that he have guards befitting that station—or so Butler Cunning believed.

"If that is your worry, then put it to rest. Ian alone is more than sufficient."

"…My lord?"

"He may look young, but the man is thirty. And his skill is extraordinary. Do you know what Ian's nickname is?"

I do not, my lord.

When Butler Cunning shook his head blankly, Duke Randert spoke as if summoning an old ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠memory.

"The Red Ghost of the Battlefield."

"Do you mean to tell me it is that Red Ghost of the Battlefield—the one I have heard tales of?"

"Most likely, yes."

At the Duke's matter-of-fact tone, Butler Cunning nearly cried out. He had never so much as suspected. A genius of the blade who, drenched head to toe in blood, had slaughtered some fifty enemy soldiers alone. The sight had been so chilling that the epithet Red Ghost had been given to him afterward.

What was more staggering still was that the man had been only nineteen at the time. A young knight who had appeared like a comet and set the world astir—and that man had been Ian all along. It was simply unbelievable.

"He despises drawing attention to himself, so only a handful within the knightly order know the truth. Keep it to yourself as well."

"Yes…… my lord."

"You seem rather shocked."

Shocked was an understatement. He was still reeling. He had assumed any knight serving under his lord would be a capable man, but never in his dreams had he imagined one bearing such a legendary name.

"In truth, with Ian's abilities he could command an entire knightly order. But he does not want it. There are men of great talent who simply hate being burdened with responsibility. Well? Feeling a little more at ease now?"

Far more than a little. His lordship had, of course, arranged everything himself—and Cunning had stepped into the matter knowing none of it. The Duke was sparing with his words, but when it came to his love for the young master, none could stand against him.

The young master truly ought to understand how deeply his father cares for him……

Watching from the sidelines as the rift between father and son slowly deepened, Cunning's heart ached anew every time. Whenever he saw the two of them struggling, each holding what he truly wished to say locked tight within his chest, he could not help but despise his own powerlessness to intervene.

"Brother, it is I."

It was then that the visitor arrived. At the familiar voice from beyond the door, Duke Randert's brow creased.

"You sent word ahead this time?"

"It was a request you made some days ago, brother……"

"Enough. Go and sit."

It was the dead of night, with torrents of rain hammering down. He understood the man's worry for his nephew, but in weather like this a carriage could overturn all too easily. Were there an accident, he would never have the face to look his sister-in-law in the eye again.

"Come in and sit down."

Fixing his younger brother with a stern look as the man shook the rain from his clothes and stepped inside, the Duke rose from his seat.