Guest or Enemy

A deathly silence settled over the room. Every gaze drew toward a single point.

How did they get that...?

Ayres's pupils shook. His thoughts tangled over one another in a snarl. Hulan and Ohens... have those traitors turned on me? Or just one of them?

He flicked a glance toward Adol, who was lingering near the office door. Surely not Sir Adol? No... what am I even thinking.

Ayres reeled, his mind in chaos — and through it all, the Viscount of Ahental never took his eyes off his eldest son. The Viscount had caught that glance toward Adol, and the way it vanished. Messi had seen it too. While everyone else stared at the Red Scroll, those two had been watching Ayres's face.

"That thing has nothing to do with me. Wouldn't it make more sense to question Sir Messi — the one who produced it?"

True to form, Ayres denied everything outright.

"Elder Brother went to the trouble of looking after me, and now you try to pin this on Sir Messi? Sir Messi came with me from the Forest of Resentment."

"Don't be fooled, little brother! He's sowing discord in our house so he can take everything for himself!"

"And why would a prince of another race do that?"

At Ereb's single remark, Ayres's words died in his throat. I know perfectly well that bastard isn't any prince of another race! He wanted to find the Village Chief who had fled — the very proof of it — and tear the man apart.

Then a vassal who had been sitting quietly spoke up. He had kept to the middle ground, though he leaned toward Ayres's faction.

"...Sir Messi is a man who wields divine power. He commands the Holy Fire. We have all witnessed that radiance with our own eyes, have we not?"

Heads nodded around the room.

"Holy Fire, as I understand it, is a blessing of the gods. A man like that could hardly be entangled with black magic, could he?"

As if he had been waiting for exactly that, Messi kindled a flame in his palm.

At the sight of a god-given miracle once more, some of the more devout vassals bowed their heads and murmured prayers. Messi spoke.

"That is correct. To wield the Holy Fire is to swear before the gods that one will drive out all that is unclean. It cannot coexist with black magic. This belongs to the First Young Master."

Messi's Holy Fire did not particularly work that way — but they had no means of knowing it.

"That's a lie!"

"It is not a lie. I obtained it from Sir Adol, the First Young Master's most trusted man."

It actually belonged to the dead Laud... but what does it matter where it came from. Messi, it seemed, was getting rather good at lying.

Adol, caught in the sudden crossfire, went white. Every eye in the room swung toward him.

"No — I—"

Ayres's mind spun still faster. He got it from Adol? Hearing the source only made it worse. He shut his mouth. Denying that it was Adol's would look strange coming from him — and he could hardly declare it had nothing to do with him either. Adol knew far too much. And had he not, in fact, entrusted Adol with the connection to the Red Cross?

His judgment failed him. His thoughts knotted like a snarled skein of thread.

Then the Viscount of Ahental spoke.

"Silence, all of you."

The office fell quiet once more.

"For now, we have a more urgent fire to put out. Alan Aster will be arriving in the city shortly, so we must first arrange a place to receive him. Ereb — go ahead of us now. Pitch a pavilion outside the city, and have the entire Ahental Knights standing by behind it. Except Sir Baccilus. Tell him I have a separate task for him, and that he is to come to me."

"...Yes, Father."

Unable to see the matter through to the end, Ereb made no effort to hide his disappointment. He caught Messi's eye as he glanced back, then left the room. The look seemed to say he was counting on him to see this through.

"And..."

The Viscount turned his gaze on Ayres.

"From this moment, I am placing the First Young Master, Ayres, and Cavalry Captain Adol under confinement. The term shall last until every suspicion has been thoroughly investigated and resolved."

"F-Father?"

"This is unjust, my lord!"

Ayres and Adol cried out together.

"Knight Ramang — bind those two. One to the underground dungeon, the other to the torture chamber. No one is to meet with either of them without my express permission. Ramang will see to it personally. Anyone who defies this order... I will consider an accomplice in this affair, and treat them accordingly."

The calm with which he spoke only made the words heavier. The vassals bowed their heads.

"Every place, organization, and person connected to them will be searched without exception. Baron Hugo will... no. I will take charge of this myself."

There was no telling who might be in league with his eldest son. For once, this was a matter he had to handle personally.

As the situation turned, the vassals who had followed Ayres exchanged uneasy glances. They had gathered because an envoy from Crombell was coming — and now, suddenly, the First Young Master they supported was in crisis.

But the calculations came quickly enough. There's no need to help the First Young Master if it means defying the lord.Best to keep our heads down for now. The methods by which they had survived and prospered all these years were not about to change.

The easy, faintly mocking smile that was his trademark was nowhere to be found. Alan Aster was badly thrown.

A Sword Master? In Ahental?

To find a Sword Master in House Ahental you'd have to go back generations... and a new Master just happens to appear in this one?

Things had gotten difficult. He had not thought this would be complicated. Even the great Viscount of Ahental — if a Sword Master dangles his life before his eyes, what choice does he have? That had been his assessment. The fact that his elder brother, who knew exactly how he handled things, had personally named him for this task meant Count Crombell had thought the same. He had intended to wrap it up easily.

"I am Baccilus von Hawire. It has been some time."

"Ah— yes. Sir Baccilus. I can hardly say how long it's been."

A man he would not even have looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the eye in the old days was now offering a handshake, on the strength of having become a Master himself. But even as they shook hands, he could feel the other's energy — the way Baccilus made no effort to conceal it, openly displaying that refined mana.

Damn it. I was the same when I first became a Sword Master.

There was no getting around it. House Ahental had truly produced a Sword Master.

Whether or not he knew the turmoil in Alan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Aster's heart, the Viscount of Ahental asked with a thoroughly leisurely smile,

"So. You've come to take the heir back?"

"I have. It seems my nephew has committed a grave discourtesy... I am deeply sorry."

Damn it. Alan Aster cursed inwardly. This situation had not been in the plan. When power stood equal against power, House Crombell was at a severe disadvantage in terms of justification — they were the ones in the wrong, and they were the weaker party.

"A grave discourtesy indeed. He set a fire of enormous scale in the city. Has there been no movement from the Huang Merchant Group?"

"The Count is personally coordinating with the Huang Merchant Group."

"He sends his younger brother to House Ahental, yet attends to the Huang Merchant Group himself? That seems rather backwards."

Alan Aster said nothing. It ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was true, and he could not summon even a word in answer. If they had known Ahental had a Sword Master, his brother would never have sent him. A show of force would have been meaningless. The Viscount knew it, and was asking deliberately. So you were planning to pressure us with force, were you?

"I was under the impression House Crombell had a long history and generations of distinguished martial service... and yet they stoop to something like this."

Frox clicked his tongue, as if disappointed. Alan Aster's look toward him was not friendly.

"And who might you be?"

"Ah — I forgot to introduce the other two while you were busy with the Sword Masters' greetings. This is my dear friend, the Great Magician Frox. You've heard the name, I trust."

Alan Aster's breath caught. In any hypothetical war with House Ahental, this was the man who had been named as the greatest obstacle. A Sword Master and a Great Magician... He spat a string of curses inwardly. Isn't this the exact opposite of the situation we were aiming for?

A newly minted Sword Master he could have handled. But with a Great Magician in support, that was a different story entirely. Alan Aster found it absurd that he, a Sword Master, was now in a position where he himself had to feel threatened. He found himself asking after the next person almost involuntarily.

"Then... the one beside him?"

"Ah. Sir Messi — a benefactor of our house, known as the Saint of the Foreign Race. A man of extraordinary healing."

"...Why is a healer here?"

Messi introduced himself briefly and offered a plausible reason for his presence.

"The Viscount of Ahental personally asked that I look after the envoy of House Crombell, who has come from so far away."

"I have no injuries."

"So it would appear. But your color is poor, and you're breaking into a cold sweat. You seem rather tense..."

"...I am fine."

To admit otherwise would be to admit that this meeting made him uncomfortable. Whether or not the Viscount understood that, he threw his head back and laughed.

"Haha! So even the great Sir Alan Aster knows what it is to be nervous. I was the same when I first took the affairs of the house into my own hands! Nothing to be embarrassed about — Sir Messi's skill is truly exceptional."

The Viscount of Ahental treated him with such easy familiarity that Alan Aster could not help feeling as if he were being handled by his own elder brother — a sensation he knew all too well.

"I'll perform a healing. Even if you aren't wounded, it will help settle your mind and body."

Alan Aster started to refuse on impulse — then a golden halo flashed from Messi's body, and he shut his mouth. ...A healer who uses Holy Fire?

Messi's golden heal touched Alan Aster, and in an instant the anxiety, the tension, the restlessness all vanished. His heart grew quiet. But only for a moment. The weight of the reality before him came crashing back, and it shook him to his core.

What in the world has happened to House Ahental? A Sword Master, a Great Magician, and a healer who wields Holy Fire?

Messi left him to his tangled thoughts and returned to his place. Watching him go, the Viscount remembered what Messi had said before they came.

I didn't understand why Sir Messi said that at the time... but I think I do now.

It had gone exactly as Messi had staged it.

After the heal, with his thoughts in order, Alan Aster found himself admiring the clean precision of House Ahental's response. So two escorts are enough to overwhelm me. No need for a third, is that it.

They had brought a Sword Master and a Great Magician to receive a Sword Master. That alone was more than enough to dispel the public concern that House Ahental had no answer to Crombell's Sword Master. And they had used the remaining place to bring a healer who wielded Holy Fire — and had even taken the trouble to look after Alan Aster himself. It was, in every particular, the courtesy a noble house owed a kin-envoy.

And that was a truly remarkable heal. When was the last time my head was this clear?

It was possible only because the healing carried Messi's unique divine power. It did more than drive out all that was unclean — it brought the body to the finest condition it was capable of reaching. The toxins that had accumulated, quietly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and without his noticing, through years of dissolute living vanished, and Alan Aster felt the change run through him like a tide. That change reached his mind as well. Even Messi had not anticipated that.

Power, justification — House Ahental hasn't lost on a single front.

With matters standing as they did, even a dissolute Sword Master like Alan Aster found himself moved. The Viscount of Ahental is no ordinary man... In a situation overwhelmingly in his favor, he doesn't put on a single air, and still receives a rival house's envoy with full courtesy. A truly noble response...

He found himself taking a liking to the Viscount of Ahental, and felt ashamed of having mocked the house. It was something that, under ordinary circumstances, would never have happened — the Viscount's dignified bearing and Messi's heal, working as one. Unintentionally, the key to the negotiations had passed into the Viscount of Ahental's hands.

"Sir Alan Aster. Feeling better? There's no need to be so tense. We didn't come here to fight. As you yourself said at the outset — we need only discuss compensation for this affair, and the future between our houses. Isn't that so?"

"...That is truly well said, Viscount Ahental."

"If House Crombell has brought a proposal, I would like to hear it first."

"If it would not be a discourtesy, may I call in one of my staff?"

"By all means."

As Alan Aster's manner grew respectful, the Viscount's own manner softened to match. Unexpectedly, a warm wind had begun to blow through the Crombell-Ahental negotiation.

In a solitary cell in the underground dungeon of the Ahental Inner Castle, Ayres could not bring himself to believe the situation he was in.

How did it come to this?

The coldness in his father's eyes as they had looked at him would not leave him. In all his life, he had never once been raised at in a loud voice by that man.

"Goddamn otherkin bastard."

Rage boiled up. He resented Messi. To think the man would strike at exactly that moment, as if he had been waiting for it. But resentment did not change reality. Ayres clawed at his own hair in despair.

This is bad. Father will search my office. And everything connected to Sir Adol besides...

His office held not only the traces of falsified ledgers and the slush funds he had siphoned off, but detailed records of who had paid him under the table. That much was fine. His father was not the type to do more than scold him for lining his pockets a little. The problem was Adol.

What do I do about Sir Adol's office? That's where he would have been storing the Red Scrolls...

"Is anyone there? Answer me if you are!"

He shouted at the iron grate in the door. No one responded. The Viscount of Ahental's prohibition on contact had seen to that. He drove his boot into the iron door, again and again, spending his fury.

It was not that he could not open it. If he used mana, he could smash the door and walk free without the slightest difficulty. But the moment he escaped, he would be confirming every suspicion with his own hands. Trapped between two impossible choices, the suffocation only grew worse.

"Heh-heh-heh."

Ayres froze.

"Who's there?"

"Heh-heh-heh!"

This time the laughter came from the adjacent cell. Ayres's head snapped around. What is that?

"What kind of madman—"

"A madman, you say... You wound me."

Now the answer rose from the floor. Even Ayres felt a chill at the unnatural phenomenon.

It was a sight he had never seen in his life. Ayres pressed his back to the iron door and trembled.

"What in the hell is this... Show yourself!"

Tense, he strained his hearing, waiting for an answer from the floor — and then someone whispered from behind him.

"Who do you suppose I am?"

Ayres startled so violently he fell onto the cell's bed. Through the iron grate in the door, a pair of enormous bloodshot eyes was watching him.

The voice grated like steel being filed. Even Ayres could not hide his fear.

"A-a devil, then?"

Fuh-huh-huh-huh!

The voice answered him.

"If a devil is one who grants your wish when you need help most... then I suppose I am a devil."

And what that devil showed him, through the gap in the iron grate, was this: