Guardian Evaluation (4)
He picked up the wooden sword.
Asking a priest to spar against a Holy Knight was pure absurdity. If a cleric who had devoted his entire life to prayer crossed blades with a Holy Knight who had spent that same lifetime honing his swordsmanship, the result was obvious.
“Cardinal, is this really all right?”
The worried Holy Knight eyed Lowen, who stood opposite him with a wooden practice sword in hand. Those broad shoulders. That towering frame that seemed to look down on everything around it. Slap a suit of armor on the man right now and there wouldn’t be the slightest sense of incongruity.
Even so, the man in front of him was a priest. A bishop who had spent a considerable number of years studying theology, no less. Well-built priests weren’t exactly rare; you could find them easily enough without this particular man.
“It’s fine.”
Cleo’s voice was firm. The opponent might be a bishop, but she knew Lowen had once served as the Second Saintess’s escort knight. She didn’t know the precise extent of his skill, yet anyone who had held that post would at least possess real ability.
“Are you not going to do it?”
Lowen, who had been lightly rolling his wrists, glanced at Cleo. The Holy Knight looked at her as well. Cleo nodded.
“Standard sparring rules. Single bout.”
Drop your sword and you lose. Land the first clean hit anywhere but the head and you win. Simple rules, yet the tension of a match always shifted with the skill of the fighters involved. It could end in a single hollow blow—or explode into a fierce exchange of offense and defense.
“No objections?”
Lowen inclined his head.
“None.”
The Holy Knight, still reading the room, was full of bewilderment. Never mind the Cardinal forcing the issue—what confidence did that bishop possess? Confidence was fine, but reckless confidence was better left behind.
“I look forward to a good match.”
Lowen offered a light greeting to the knight facing him.
“Likewise.”
The Holy Knight raised his wooden sword. It made no sense, but what choice did he have? When a superior ordered it, you obeyed—and the opponent looked confident enough.
“Begin!”
At the referee’s shout the Holy Knight exploded forward. Priest or not, he had no intention of throwing the match. For a knight, recording a defeat in a sword bout was pure disgrace. Some evaluation might hang over the bishop… but what did that have to do with a Holy Knight?
His target was the bishop’s wrist. Force the weapon from his hand and claim victory. The Holy Knight swung his wooden sword in a sharp vertical arc, carving a swift path through the air. The bishop stood stock-still, as if he couldn’t even react. Every Holy Knight watching became certain of the bishop’s defeat.
—Clang!
A dull crack of wood on wood rang out, and one wooden sword went spinning into the sky.
—Thud.
The blade that had whirled high overhead dropped straight to the ground.
Silence. A silence so complete even the wind seemed to stop. As if time itself had frozen, not a single breath could be heard.
What just happened?
Except for the handful who had actually seen the movement, every onlooker shared the same thought.
“Bishop Lowen won!”
Ariel puffed out her chest with the proud certainty of a parent boasting about her child. At her voice, time began to move again.
“Th-the winner is the Bishop.”
The referee raised his hand toward Lowen.
“Uh……”
The Holy Knight stared blankly down at his empty hand. The wooden sword he had gripped so tightly had left his fingers and now lay far away. He had definitely still been holding it when he closed to point-blank range—yet it had simply flown free.
The skill was staggering. How fast had the counter been, from that distance?
“As you said, the evaluation is finished.”
As if nothing of note had occurred, Lowen looked at Cleo with perfect calm. Cleo herself wore a face of open surprise. She had expected at least a few exchanges; she had never imagined it would end so hollowly.
It wasn’t that the Holy Knights of Evdomos Great Cathedral were weak. The men present belonged to the First Knight Order, charged with protecting the Saintess—the elite among all Evdomos Holy Knights.
“Wait a moment.”
A middle-aged man caught Lowen just as he set down the wooden sword and started toward Cleo. It was Aiden, Knight Commander of the Evdomos First Holy Knight Order. A commander of that rank stood equal to a bishop or higher within the clergy.
“You—were you perhaps a Holy Knight at Tetartos Great Cathedral?”
“Pardon?”
Tetartos Great Cathedral: the seat of the Fourth Saintess.
“No.”
Lowen shook his head.
“The swordsmanship you just displayed. Cutting an opponent down at close range with a long blade, and doing it that quickly—that is the signature style of the Tetartos Holy Knights. Are you certain it isn’t?”
Lowen shook his head again. He had no idea what sword arts the Tetartos knights favored. He had learned his craft in the Imperial Knight Order, mixing every style that would let him subdue an opponent under any conditions. Close combat had been a particular focus, true, but—
Come to think of it, the commander once said he spent a short time as a sword instructor at Tetartos Great Cathedral.
A faceless commander he had never met, a figure known only through dispatches and the vice-commander’s reports. Rumors said that man had specialized in close-range techniques as well.
“It isn’t.”
No was no. Aiden nodded as if accepting the answer, then made a proposal.
“Have you any interest in becoming a Holy Knight officially?”
His eyes shone with the light of a man who had just discovered rare talent. Curiosity about the origin of the technique had been real enough, yet this was the true purpose. Swordsmanship that sharp was wasted on a priest. As a Holy Knight he could aim for vice-commander—perhaps even the commander’s seat itself.
It was vanishingly rare for a Knight Commander to extend such an invitation in person. Normally one had to survive a brutal examination; of a hundred applicants, perhaps one might pass. Who would refuse a free pass past that gate?
“I must decline.”
Lowen’s answer was absolute.
“Why?”
“Because I have no intention of becoming a Holy Knight.”
With that, Lowen turned away. The watching knights stared in disbelief. To refuse a post that brought both honor and wealth—unthinkable.
“Do you now acknowledge me as the Saintess’s guardian?”
Lowen stopped before Cleo. Still reeling from the hollow shock of the bout, she blinked several times.
“Yes… I acknowledge it.”
Is it even right for me to dare acknowledge this? The thought stiffened her neck as she nodded. Setting divine power aside, Lowen was superior in every other respect—domestic, devoted, and now proven brave. Could a more perfect guardian even exist?
The carriage bound for Windfield met its second evening. A thoroughly dejected Cleo stood a short distance from the campsite, taking the air. At this hour she ought to have been chatting at Ariel’s side, yet she was in no mood for conversation.
Self-loathing had swallowed her whole. The disgust of having picked a fight with someone simply because she could not master her own emotions was almost unbearable. The guardian evaluation itself had been planned from the start, but the final sparring match had been pure spite. The moment Lowen scored a perfect mark on every test, she had forced the issue. And he had accepted even that forced demand, then won the bout as if to make a point.
Cleo clawed at her hair.
“Hwaaah! Worst—absolute worst!”
The one who truly needed re-examination, she realized, was Cleo herself.
A presence approached behind her mid-wail. At the soft crunch of grass she turned and found Lowen holding two mugs.
“So this is where you were.”
He walked to the rock where she sat and settled beside her.
“Here.”
He held out one of the mugs. A gentle sweetness of honey brushed her nose.
“……”
Cleo stared at the cup in silence.
“Wondering if I poisoned it?”
“No, it’s not that…”
“Ordinary honey tea. Drink without worry.”
She accepted the mug and dipped her head.
“Thank you.”
She breathed in the scent, then took a careful sip. A pleasant sweetness washed across her tongue, rinsing away some of the gloom.
“I… formally apologize. I’m sorry for forcing the issue.”
Cleo bowed her head. All of it had begun over nothing more than a hairstyle. Both of them had been stubborn, yet the one who had picked the fight was her.
“So you knew it was forced.”
“Ugh!”
Lowen gave a quiet snort of laughter.
“It’s fine.”
The goal had been achieved either way. Judging by Cleo’s present state, he had thoroughly crushed her pride.
“As long as you’ve acknowledged me as the Saintess’s guardian, that’s enough.”
He would have liked to tease her with I’m better than you, yet future help might still be needed; connections were worth maintaining. In roughly ten months Ariel would return to the Great Cathedral, and if Cleo remained this despondent until then it would be a problem. At that point Cleo would once again have to serve as Ariel’s guardian.
“By the way—what exactly are you?”
An all-rounder. A walking cheat. Excellent cook, peerless swordsman, and somehow still a priest. Was the priesthood merely a hobby?
Lowen answered without hesitation.
“I am Lowen, guardian of Ariel Violet.”
A guardian, therefore good at everything. Understanding the intent, Cleo managed a bitter smile.
“Still, you don’t know more about the Saintess than her Cardinal.”
Lowen offered a measured bit of flattery.
“I care for the Saintess from experience, not because I truly know her well.”
He rose from the rock and stood before Cleo.
“What is it?”
“There is a great deal I still don’t know about the Saintess.”
He bowed with formal courtesy.
“Therefore I ask that Your Eminence teach me about her.”
“Hah—what could I possibly teach you?”
“I have known the Saintess for a mere two months. You, Cardinal, have watched over her for ten long years. So please instruct me carefully, one detail at a time—what she was like while living at the Great Cathedral, what the Saintess under your care was like. I ask this of you.”
He added one more line.
“I believe there will be no end of things to learn from a senior who knows the Saintess better than anyone.”
A few well-placed compliments later, confidence returned to the face that had been smiling so bitterly.
“That’s right. No one knows the Saintess better than I do.”
Though I don’t know her lewd side.
“Exactly.”
A few more agreements and Cleo’s spirits lifted.
“Very well. As a special favor, I’ll tell my junior all about the Saintess!”
She began from the day she first met Ariel.
The stars faded. The moon drifted. Crimson clouds rose along the eastern horizon.
“When she underwent her coming-of-age ceremony I truly thought an angel had descended from heaven! She wore a pure-white dress—so much more splendid than a nun’s habit, and so beautiful! Ah, when you visit the Great Cathedral later I’ll show you the photograph I took that day. I’m certain you’ll think the same thing. ‘Ah! This is an angel! An angel has come down from the sky!’”
Dawn broke.
“Ah… yes. I look forward to it.”
His ears felt ready to bleed. He had asked to be taught about Ariel, yet he had never imagined he would listen to stories about her straight through the night.
“Since you’re better than I am, I’m sure you’ll take excellent care of the Saintess.”
“Thank you.”
Lowen managed an awkward smile.
“But.”
The face that had been blooming with cheerful tales of Ariel suddenly hardened into deadly seriousness.
“If you ever lay a hand on the Saintess’s body for lewd reasons, I will not let it pass.”
An edge of steel ran through her voice. Lowen felt as though that edge had sliced straight down his spine.
“Ha—hahaha… How could I dare touch the Saintess’s noble person?”
Cleo fixed him with a chilling stare.
“Good. Hold fast to that resolve.”
“Yes.”
“If you ever lay a hand on her body—”
She raised her thumb and drew it slowly across her throat.
“—it will be the death penalty.”
Lowen offered a faint smile.
“I will keep it firmly in mind.”
It had been a very long time since he last felt killing intent sharp enough to make his spine crawl. The malice was colder and more visceral than even the Flame Knight he had cut down in Rest Town.