The Estranged Brother
Having thoroughly shaken down the Crown Prince yet again, Arendt only gave a satisfied nod—like a cat that had just polished off a full bowl—once he finally heard the words "Fine, fine, I got it!"
"That's more like it."
"Haa…… you're truly an insufferable creature."
Sweeping his hair back as he spoke, Cantares wore an expression of complete exhaustion, achieved in the span of mere minutes.
Priestess Lumiel offered an awkward smile.
"Well then…… I understand as well. I'll look into what you've asked of me, so come to the temple tomorrow."
"Yes, thank you."
"Think nothing of it. You've helped me plenty in the past."
True to her years, the priestess recovered her composure quickly, but a trace of unease still lingered on Cantares's face.
"So the point is, you want to visit the Border Mountain Range as soon as possible. Because there's a good chance that fellow Blake will show up there."
"That's right."
"And how exactly do you know that? Surely I'm allowed to at least ask where the information came from."
"Your Highness."
At that, Arendt turned to face him with an openly crooked look.
"If I were in a position to tell you, would I be going about it this way? It'd be far more convenient to just report to the Commander and wash my hands of the whole thing."
"Ahem! Kuak! Kgh!"
At Arendt's outrageously shameless remark, Laios, who had been quietly listening, finally coughed dryly.
Zereon quietly approached him and offered a warm cup of tea along with the stomach medicine he had thoughtfully brought along.
Whether they did or not, Arendt simply faced the Crown Prince with a face plated in iron, wearing his signature slippery, expressionless look.
Cantares dry-washed his face and heaved one deep sigh after another.
"Fine. I'm the fool here."
"Isn't it about time you learned, Your Highness?"
Whether people avoided him out of fear or out of disgust—Arendt didn't particularly care which.
Making himself into a 'filthy wretch' no one wanted to touch had been one of his most reliably effective tools since the moment he first fell into this world, right up to the present day.
Only after even Cantares had accepted a dose of stomach medicine did the conversation finally settle down.
And naturally, no one pried into his sources anymore.
"The dispatch team will need to be strong enough to handle that man. But sending combat personnel of that caliber to the border without a clear reason is bound to create diplomatic problems."
It was a region that shared a border with a neighboring country, after all.
"And we can't exactly state our real purpose either, which means we'll need to manufacture a plausible excuse."
"Precisely."
That was why Arendt had gone to the trouble of asking the Crown Prince in the first place.
He had initially considered smuggling himself in among Neumann's trade caravans, but if armed conflict broke out, it could cause trouble with the neighboring country across the border.
And if word got out that a knight belonging to the Callion imperial family was mixed in among them, the uproar would only double.
"The simplest option would be to handpick people and send an inspection team to the border zone. We can't hide the true purpose completely, so we'll need someone reasonably flexible."
Cantares, deep in thought, crossed his arms and tilted his gaze toward the ceiling, letting his words trail off.
"Honestly, it would be easiest if I went myself, but there's far too much to sort out right now for me to leave my post……"
"In that case, Your Highness."
Laios, having downed his stomach medicine in one gulp, spoke up.
"There is one person who comes to mind."
"Who?"
"Lord Henry Lu Lancelot of the Ministry of Justice."
Lancelot?
At the name, Arendt turned his head. Cantares, reading the question written across his face, supplied the answer.
"He's the second son of Duke Lancelot. That lord would indeed be a fine choice. He comes from an influential house, yet he doesn't stick his neck into politics all that much."
"Your Highness, now that I think of it, I believe a territory near the border belongs to the lord's mother's family."
When Zereon, who had been quietly listening, chimed in, Cantares gave a light nod.
"Then we'll reach out to him. I'll see to that matter myself, so consider it settled. I'll let you know once it's arranged."
"Yes, thanks."
With a distinctly ungrateful tone, Arendt dipped his head in a shallow bow.
Somebody punch that brat, please.
Cantares's fist clenched once, then slowly unclenched.
The most infuriating part, in truth, was that even if he went at the brat in earnest, he couldn't so much as ruffle his collar.
Henry Lu Lancelot.
Trudging along the broad avenue, Arendt turned the name over in his mind again and again.
The fact that nothing came to him meant the man had never been so much as mentioned in The Blue Knight of the Sacred Sword either.
Judging by how Laios had produced the name the instant the topic of a suitable candidate came up, and how Cantares had accepted it without a single objection, the man seemed to command a fair amount of respect.
Then there shouldn't be any problem.
He trusted those two's judgment.
Deciding to put it out of his mind, he shifted his attention to the materials he had just received from Priestess Lumiel.
The stack of papers cradled in his arms was fairly heavy.
One was a book of doctrine that every priest in the empire was said to study when first setting foot on the path of faith; the other was a status report on the temples scattered across the empire.
The doctrinal text was filled from cover to cover with the heroic tales of Khan, the first Emperor, stories of priests who had been elevated to sainthood, and the rules governing the entire Church of Light.
"……How dreadfully tedious."
Did the phrase "live virtuously" really need to be dressed up in this many layers of circumlocution?
He was letting his eyes skim roughly over the text when, all at once, a single sentence snagged his attention.
This world was brought into harmonious order through the providence of great beings.
Harmony. Balance.
It was something Priestess Lumiel had once singled out as important as well.
Even small sects with few followers were duly respected, and the gods they served were likewise acknowledged as great beings.
But the fact that Luce wielded a disproportionately strong influence was a reality no one could deny.
It was hardly strange, of course, for the strong to set the rules, stand above everyone's heads, and subdue the world. Apply the law of the jungle and you could even call it a kind of harmony, but……
"Tch. Was social harmony ever possible in the first place?"
Whether in this world or the one he'd originally lived in, any society where creatures capable of thought and speech gathered in large numbers was bound to descend into a mess.
A peaceful world was nothing but an illusion—a thing that had never existed at all.
Because society was no stage play that rolled along exactly as its script demanded.
Not comparable to the little accidents that crop up on an actual stage, that's for sure.
They said a single hero had driven out the evil god and achieved peace—but look at things now, with the ghosts of the past creeping back out to overturn the world.
Thud—he shut the book and looked ahead. Better to go over the rest slowly back in his quarters later.
The moment he moved to open the comparatively thinner report next, Arendt felt a gaze fixed on him.
He lifted his head reflexively, and his eyes met those of a man staring straight at him.
The face was expressionless yet visibly flustered, and not at all unfamiliar.
Dark reddish-brown hair, a height that could stand comparison with Laios's, and fair, pale skin.
A brief rummage through his memory, and the name surfaced clearly.
Arks von Eckhart.
"Tch."
Without another word, Arendt pivoted and walked briskly away. The attitude of a man who had seen what should have gone entirely unseen.
He clearly hadn't expected Arendt to come out with that, for Arks hurried forward and blocked his path.
"Wait a moment."
But this was exactly why Arendt wasn't a knight. He slipped past with a fluid movement and pulled ahead, and Arks, growing desperate, shot out a hand and seized his younger brother's shoulder.
"Did you not hear me say wait?"
"……!"
He had no choice but to wrench around, his face twisting.
No sooner had Arks let out a breath of relief at his brother finally turning his gaze toward him than he had to endure a second wave of panic.
"Why are you grabbing me, my lord?"
"You……"
"I believe it was the Count who severed our ties first, was it not?"
Scrunching his brow, Arendt spat the words out with obvious irritation.
"You were certainly present at the time. I see no further need for words between us."
The voice that addressed him with a stiff, formal honorific—devoid of any word like father or brother—was exceptionally cold.
"And do let go. That's an injured spot, you know."
"Eh? Ah—right. Sorry."
Snapping back to his senses, Arks released him, and Arendt brushed off the spot where his hand had landed with a few brisk pats.
"If you have no business with me, I'll be going. I'm busy."
Apparently not even curious as to why his own elder brother—who belonged at the Count's estate—was here, Arendt simply picked up his pace and walked right past him.
Unable to muster the courage to grab him a second time, Arks could only stare helplessly after his brother's retreating back.
Then, someone called out to him from behind.
"What are you doing standing there? Arks."
"Eh?"
He turned around to find a familiar face. Only then did Arks's expression ease a little.
"Henry."
Henry Lu Lancelot.
He was, for all intents and purposes, the only person Arks could call a friend.
"I was wondering who you were glaring at—turns out it's Sir Arendt."
The young man called Henry, too, recognized Arendt's receding figure.
Arks asked, his feelings a tangle.
"You know him?"
"We're not personally acquainted. But he's currently the second most famous man in the palace after Sir Laios. I've only laid eyes on him from a distance a few times."
He was forever darting in and out of the imperial palace, and his looks were the eye-catching sort, so drawing gazes was simply inevitable.
"Besides, Father takes quite an interest in him, so I've heard this story and that. His exploits are rather impressive, no? I hear this time he infiltrated enemy lines himself to extract information and led the vanguard of the subjugation operation."
"……I see."
Arks's expression stiffened once more, if only for an instant.
Glancing sideways at his friend's face, Henry gave a faint smile.
"Things have completely fallen apart between you two, haven't they?"
"They were never warm to begin with."
Having answered with that tangle in his chest, Arks checked the far side of the avenue again. Arendt's back was already long gone.
"It's only natural he pushes us away. When he truly needed help, it was the family that cast him out."
"Oh? So you are self-aware, then."
"……"
When a cold glance came flying back at the remark tossed out like a joke, Henry awkwardly averted his eyes.
"Honestly, things don't look bad for him now. Sir Arendt has carved out a position for himself in the palace in his own way…… though the methods are a touch loud, admittedly. And it's not as if noble sons who break away from their houses in that manner don't exist."
"Are you doing that on purpose right now?"
"You caught me?"
Hehe, Henry laughed—but the smile on his face didn't look quite as gentle as his first impression had suggested.
He was, without question, deliberately grinding at the sore spot.
Letting out a short sigh, Arks turned his gaze once more toward the far end of the street.
"……I know full well that doing this now is a shameless thing."
"Then why not simply leave it be? I heard from Father that even His Highness the Crown Prince sometimes finds him more than he can handle—says he's got a wicked temper."
As Henry spoke, smiling pleasantly, the face of Duke Lancelot drifted up in Arks's memory. That word, wicked-tempered, probably hadn't carried a purely negative meaning when the Duke used it—not merely the dictionary definition.
"You can't help caring—he's your blood, after all—but since the Count himself declared the ties severed, it looks odd for you to step forward. And above all, I doubt Sir Arendt would take it kindly."
"I know."
When Arendt had been thrown into that cold prison, not a single soul had reached out a warm hand to him.
"He must have felt betrayed."
It had been that way long before. The Count had only ever pushed Arendt aside, and Arks, for his part, had never found the courage to reach out to the brother everyone shunned.
Only after everything had come to this did he vaguely begin to understand.
A conversation they'd once shared rose vividly to mind.
"Do you even have a self of your own, Brother? You've done nothing but speak on Father's behalf since the moment we sat down."
Not one of the barbs Arendt had fired had missed its mark.
He knew perfectly well it was shameless. But if it could still be set right, even now—
"……Even so, I'd like to have one proper conversation with him."
The only thing to be felt in that quietly murmured profile was sincerity, pure and simple.
Henry stared at his friend for a long moment, then followed his lead and shifted his gaze toward the place where Arendt had vanished.
"Well, all right. I hope it works out for you."
Not dreaming for a moment that the day he might grant that wish himself was close at hand.