A Face Worth Remembering
Arendt pushed a glass of juice toward the old priestess, who still looked as though she hadn't quite digested what she'd just heard, and added, "As I said before, it's nothing but speculation. Feel free to treat it as the nonsense of a brash little whelp who doesn't know how to bow his head to the gods."
Whatever deity they served, most temples were founded upon a single proposition: that the god benevolently watches over every existence in the world.
The gods are beings who care for the intelligences living upon this land, and the priests are those who strive to repay that grace.
But the words Arendt had just uttered amounted to a denial of that ideal from the very root.
One could just as easily interpret it this way: the god had merely lent his power to the priests in order to accomplish his own aims, and the priests had gone and mistaken it for love and mercy on their own.
Yet having spewed out such an enormous statement, the apprentice knight looked utterly unbothered.
"Even if my hypothesis happens to be true, well — I wouldn't say that alone makes it wrong."
Whatever the god's intent had been in granting that power, it was undeniably useful to people. Countless lives had been saved by the divine power of God Luce.
But from a priest's standpoint, nodding along to that would be impossible.
"May I ask on what basis you say this?"
"It's practically proven that the memory-manipulation artifact only works on those with faith."
But the heart is not a thing that can be seen with the eyes, so the standard for judging whether one possessed it or not was bound to be hopelessly subjective.
"Even if I suddenly started reciting prayers right here, that wouldn't conjure a faith where none existed. And even if I declared I'd attend the temple diligently from now on, Priestess Lumiel, you wouldn't believe me."
"I suppose that's true."
She would simply assume he was plotting something again.
"Divine power is a force that cannot be received without faith, isn't it? So suppose that the black divine power on their side has abilities related to memory and the mind, and that those with faith qualify to receive divine power by virtue of holding strong belief—"
"—then one could bypass the entire process of training and forcibly inject divine power into ordinary believers. Is that what you're trying to say?"
When Priestess Lumiel finished, Arendt nodded.
"Yes."
Of course, divine power couldn't be obtained through faith alone. Like mana, it required an aptitude, and only through relentless training could one properly carry it within the body.
But it was an unmistakable fact that faith was the first gate.
"To sum up: the evil cult's divine power has the ability to interfere with the mind, and the artifact is a tool that not only erases memories but amplifies divine power and injects it into others."
"..."
Faced with a pair of golden eyes demanding an answer, Priestess Lumiel slowly let out a long, deep sigh.
"Theoretically — yes. Theoretically, it makes sense. As far as that artifact goes, anyway. But I cannot agree when it comes to the will of the gods. That is something only Luce himself could know, and for a mere human to presume to fathom it would be sheer insolence."
It was a courteous warning and advice in one — a signal that no more should be said on the matter. Arendt, who had no intention of pushing further anyway, obediently shut his mouth.
She's right — bringing this up in front of a priest is the kind of topic that would earn me a slap on the spot.
In this empire, where Luce was followed blindly, it was a subject even more disrespectful and delicate than insulting the imperial family.
That was precisely why he had chosen Priestess Lumiel as his discussion partner.
Because she was the most flexible of all the priests.
Let's grant that the Breath of Mnemosyne is what they claim.
What bothered him was the fact that the cultists had called their other artifacts holy relics as well.
Arendt idly fingered the back of his gloved hand.
Could it be...?
No — this wasn't the stage for thinking that far ahead. There were more than enough riddles stacked up already.
While Arendt sat lost in thought, Priestess Lumiel too calmed herself and picked up her utensils once more — only to find that her food had long since gone cold.
Noticing this, Arendt raised a discreet hand toward Lawrence.
"Sir, please change this priestess's dish. Put it on my tab."
"I'm quite all right, Sir Arendt."
"Cold food at your age isn't good for you."
The old priestess tried to demur, but Arendt was firm.
In the end, Lumiel could only give a wry smile and nod.
"Thank you for your consideration. And... I will let this matter pass unspoken, Sir Arendt. You came to see me because it was weighing on you, didn't you?"
"Thank you."
This once, there was a measure of genuine feeling in the words.
Perhaps she sensed it, for Priestess Lumiel smiled softly.
"One meal hardly settles the account, though, does it?"
"I'll treat you again next time. Guildmaster Neumann recommended a fine place to me, you see."
"Then let us hope the topic of conversation won't be enough to make me burst."
Clatter.
Priestess Lumiel finished the freshly served dish cleanly, set down her utensils, took a sip of the warm tea brought out for dessert, and let her gaze come to rest on the young knight before her.
"Will you permit an old woman a bit of nagging?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"You once told me that if things ever turned truly dangerous, you would be the very first to run. Do you remember saying that?"
Arendt, who had been about to brush the question off dryly, blinked instead.
It was what he'd rattled off the first time he'd ever met Priestess Lumiel, long ago.
"I hope you will make good on those words."
"You don't even need to tell me — that was the plan."
"Then I'm glad."
She didn't seem to believe him in the least, but the priestess offered a wry smile and simply changed the subject.
"Take things a little slower, won't you? Push perfectionism too far and it soon becomes obsession. You seem intent on fitting every conceivable scenario into your head, Sir Arendt, and it worries me a little."
"Knowing is a great deal better than not knowing."
Arendt waved a hand with studied indifference.
"Besides, nothing satisfies me unless everything goes exactly the way I want it to. I've got a rotten temper, as you well know, Priestess."
"...You truly are impossible, Sir Arendt."
Priestess Lumiel shook her head, back and forth, in surrender.
For a moment, the sight was rather like a spirited young son and his aged mother, fretting hopelessly over him.
By the time Arendt returned to the imperial palace in the evening, Arthur was there to greet him, wearing a grave expression.
The atmosphere of the knights' quarters had sunk into a similarly heavy solemnity, and Arendt asked, puzzled, "What is it? Something happen?"
"Haah... well, you see."
Arthur scratched the back of his head irritably.
"The ghoul's corpse vanished."
"It vanished? Did someone steal it or something?"
"Ugh, damn it, that's not it!"
When Arendt asked, genuinely confused by the statement, Arthur patiently walked him through what had happened only a few hours earlier.
Crow's corpse had been slated to move straight from the disposal site to Count Stadler's laboratory.
After various procedures were completed and the attendant small delays had run their course, the corpse was loaded onto a carriage — and that was when the incident occurred.
"...A terrible stench?"
"Right. Apparently the smell suddenly started rising inside the carriage mid-journey."
The moment the party halted their travels to inspect the corpse's condition, it exploded.
"They say it blew the cargo compartment clean off. Fortunately, someone sensed something off and put distance between themselves and the carriage immediately — a moment later and they'd have been badly hurt."
A trap laid in advance, to keep the results of their research from ever falling into imperial hands.
Arendt frowned.
"How shallow."
"It might even have been an attempt on Count Stadler's life. If they'd arrived a little sooner, His Excellency could have taken the hit in their place."
Arthur clicked his tongue.
"So what does the Count say?"
"Mourning, apparently — the lost chance to examine a new-type ghoul firsthand. He's sending his assistants to the blast site. If any fragments survived, they're to gather whatever they can."
"..."
Judging by how utterly absent from his mind was the fact that he'd nearly died himself, that man was certainly not sane either.
Arendt scratched his fringe in irritation.
"Can't be helped, I suppose. But seriously — you're moping over just that much? Everything's gone already?"
It was a shame that no further avenues remained to dig into, but he could at least be thankful the thing hadn't detonated in the middle of a city street or a residential quarter during transport.
Arthur asked, dumbfounded.
"Just that much, you say?"
"Just that much. Nobody got hurt, and one dead body disappeared — that's the whole of it. Honestly, what exactly did you seniors lose out on? I did all the backbreaking work anyway. If anyone gets to complain, it's me."
"..."
Under the barrage of gratuitously sour remarks, Arthur's expression curdled by degrees.
The real tragedy was that he couldn't very well answer, I'm the one who helped steal it.
Whether Arthur did or not, Arendt swiveled on his heel and walked off without even a parting word.
Arthur, glaring at the back of his head, added with malicious glee:
"Oh, that reminds me — they say Prince Arks has entered the palace."
"So what? Not my concern."
Only the same frigid response as always came back.
"If you're so free, why don't we head to the training grounds together?"
"You insufferable little brat."
Grumbling all the while, Arthur didn't refuse.
Arks felt as though he were sitting on a bed of nails.
Still dazed by the summons that had dropped out of nowhere, he had entered the palace only to be shown into a small drawing room that was rarely used.
Up to that point there had been no problem at all — what truly unsettled him was the burning gaze of the servants waiting quietly in the corner of the room.
The young servants who had escorted Arks this far continued to fire off fierce glares throughout the entire process of serving tea and pastries.
Their names were... Siton and Enoch, was it?
For mere servants to glare at a noble like this, there had to be some reason for it...
But demanding the reason outright would be awkward for his dignity as an aristocrat, so Arks stoically pretended not to notice.
How long he endured the uncomfortable wait, he couldn't say — but then the drawing room door opened, and Henry walked in.
Spotting Arks, who had arrived first, Henry's eyes went round.
"Huh. You were here too?"
"Henry."
Arks was equally surprised, but relief reached him first. At the very least, this stifling atmosphere might ease a little.
Henry regarded his friend with bewilderment — the man was showing an unprecedented warmth at seeing him — until he, too, noticed Siton and Enoch standing in the corner, and a wry smile crossed his face.
"Ahaha, so that's what this is."
"...I don't believe I've actually done anything wrong."
As Siton set a steaming cup of tea before Henry and withdrew, Arks lowered his voice to a murmur.
"How have you done nothing wrong? Where would you find a man who's committed more sins than you?"
"What did I ever do?"
"Those two are servants who keep company with Sir Arendt. Word has it they owe him a great debt."
"..."
At that single remark, Arks's answers ran dry.
Even in this very moment, Enoch and Siton were glaring at Arks as if they meant to devour him whole.
Henry grinned, teasing.
"You ought to put up with at least this much, no?"
"...Haah."
Arks chose the simple path of keeping his mouth shut.
The Crown Prince who had summoned the two of them appeared only after a little more of that uncomfortable time had drifted by.
The instant the heir to the empire set one foot in the drawing room, both young men shot up from their seats.
"Henry Lu Lancelot of the Ducal House of Lancelot greets His Highness the Crown Prince."
"Arks von Eckhart of the County of Eckhart greets His Highness the Crown Prince."
"Thank you for coming, even with a summons this sudden. Sit comfortably. I'm not fond of stiff atmospheres myself."
Only after the Crown Prince took the seat of honor did the two young lords finally sit as well.
"My apologies, but I'm rather pressed for time. Shall we skip the pleasantries and small talk and get straight to the matter at hand?"
"Yes. Of course, Your Highness."
Henry answered readily; Arks, too, merely gazed quietly at the Crown Prince, taut with a certain tension — as though to say, issue your command at any moment.
Yes — THIS is how it should be.
Not slouching with a hand on one hip and sneering in front of the Crown Prince, the way a certain someone did.
It was a stark contrast with one particular individual.
Shaking off the stray thought with a brief shake of his head, Cantares began in earnest.
"You two — could I ask for your help with something of mine?"