The Devil's Dwelling (2)
That day, Beltran was in high spirits. He had unleashed the pinnacle of frost magic—Glacier—before all of Count Goethe's vassals, earning even the Dean of the Royal Academy's recognition. It was a triumph he'd forged on his own, without the advantages his elder brother had enjoyed.
"Welcome back, young master."
No sooner had he returned to Buechtner Manor than the steward Valdek greeted him warmly.
"Valdek, where's Father?"
"In the drawing room, sir. His Lordship was overjoyed to hear the news."
"The news has already reached here?"
Beltran blinked in surprise. The tournament had ended mere hours ago, and he'd come straight home. How had word spread so fast?
But the question faded quickly. All he wanted was praise. That's my boy. I knew you could do it. I'm so proud. That's what he craved to hear.
Yet when he pushed open the drawing room door, the sight that greeted him shattered every expectation.
"Father?"
Baron Buechtner sat slumped, head bowed deep. The metallic tang of blood—like licking rusted iron—assailed his nostrils. Crimson streaks trailed across the floor.
"Father!"
He lunged forward, but a heavy hand clamped his shoulder.
"I'm sorry we couldn't inform you sooner."
Beltran whirled to find Valdek standing there, his eyes utterly changed from moments before.
"I heard you received a letter of recommendation from the Dean at the tournament. An impressive feat. But our house's path has shifted."
"Wh-why are you like this, Valdek? You're scaring me."
"I'm regretful to say it myself. If only His Lordship had been wiser... if I didn't have family to provide for... none of this would have been necessary."
Beltran staggered back.
"Now you must choose."
"What...?"
"Inherit the barony. Swear loyalty to Viscount Boatmer. Do that, and nothing more will happen."
"Are you insane? Father—Father—"
"Refuse if you wish. For old times' sake, we won't kill you. But you'll bear the sin of patricide and flee for life."
Beltran had no real choice. A forged will was ready, backed by Bishop Alquin's endorsement over Boatmer's diocese. Without Count Goethe's approval, it would still make him the de facto head.
The alternative? Life as a fugitive son who murdered his father. Or death.
Boatmer had already calculated it all. Buechtner's eldest was recognized as heir, on good terms with Goethe, and immune to bribes or threats. Beltran, forever overshadowed, underfunded, and loosely tied to Goethe, was perfect as a puppet.
Baron Buechtner's funeral was swift. Cause of death: sudden collapse. No autopsy. The rite was led by a priest dispatched from Boatmer.
Beltran's brother in the capital learned of it only after everything was done. Enraged, he rallied the family's loyalists and sought Count Goethe's aid. No word had reached Beltran since.
"Don't worry too much, my lord. They're a handful at best. Count Goethe can barely hold his forts as it is."
Valdek, still steward, spoke soothingly.
"More importantly... why did the viscount summon me?"
"He has a task for you."
"A task?"
"No need for concern. Viscount Boatmer always pays what's due."
In Boatmer Manor's grand reception hall, Beltran's breath caught at the sight.
"Wh-why are you...?"
Goethe had five vassals. Three were present: the heads of Ripe, Hausen, and Mark.
"That wastrel used some scheme?"
"Word is he has a druid! Controlled the beasts, they say!"
"Enough nonsense. The count must've intervened."
"Impossible. If so, the viscount would've struck back by now."
They buzzed about the war in Binvelt, unease plain on their faces.
"Now do you see the wisdom of your choice?"
Valdek said with a chuckle.
"A witch! A witch!"
Gaspar's quill paused as he recorded Bishop Alquin's testimony on parchment.
"It's certain. That girl is a witch!"
"Ahem."
Raphael cleared his throat.
"Enemy?"
"Hold a moment."
Scribe Gaspar dipped his feather quill in ink.
"Bishop Alquin. Your words here will be recorded and sent to the Papal Court. Choose them carefully. The innocent could bleed otherwise."
Raphael warned firmly.
He had battled countless heretics, spilling blood in the name of faith. The Church honored him with a special inquisitor's post rivaling an archbishop's authority. A holy path. A glorious one.
But with age, doubts crept in, eroding his certainty and piety. Had there been no innocents among the fallen? No misjudgments? Ghosts of the past haunted him often.
"Let's summarize."
Raphael scanned the parchment.
"The chevalier guard killed Boatmer's second son, Rutger. Then he mutated grotesquely and tried to kill you. Correct?"
"Y-yes."
"Binvelt's soldiers blocked him, losing several. The chevalier's rampage ended by the girl attending Baron Binvelt. Correct?"
"She's a heretic. An evil sorceress. The flames were purple!"
The bishop's voice quivered.
"Have you, Inquisitor, ever seen violet flames?"
"I've heard high-circle mages can produce such colors."
"No, that's the devil's fire. 'The purple tower crumbles!' As scripture foretells. Purple symbolizes corruption and decay!"
"..."
Raphael sighed. Bishop Alquin wasn't right in the head. Dark circles under sleepless eyes, bloodshot gaze—he looked more madman than cleric.
"Y-yes, perhaps I exaggerated. But aren't all mages heretics? If you can't condemn her, take me away. Please, rescue me from this den of evil."
The bishop pleaded desperately. His logic twisted oddly.
Raphael's mission concerned the Binvelt-Boatmer clash. Had Rutger violated duel code by ordering an advance? Was his death Baron Binvelt's doing, or the guard's? Those were the crux.
The bishop conceded those points readily, fixating elsewhere. What horror had he witnessed?
Blue flames were holy fire in old doctrine. Sacred blaze, kindled only by bishops after decades of training. Other colors? Church lore was silent—left to unbelievers dabbling in suspect magic.
Yet Raphael had seen it. Cardinal Vincenzio wielding purple flame. It burned fiercely, devouring all without malice or sanctity. Pure, overwhelming heat.
Magic, divine power—names are mere labels, Raphael. This flame made me doubt God, and in that doubt, I found Him. That's why I show you. Blind faith turns stones to gods. But doubt... doubt reveals the divine.
He hadn't grasped it then. Even now, not fully. But watching the bishop, it felt tantalizingly close.
Still, curiosity burned hotter.
A girl kindled flames fit for His Eminence the Cardinal?
"Let's rest. I'll verify your claims by finding the girl. Gaspar, step out and clear your head."
Raphael and Gaspar paced outside the tent. Kingdom folk, tribesmen, beasts, and now sleet-gray snow. Nothing certain in the ashen landscape. Only the cold was sure.
"Your thoughts?"
Raphael asked, breath fogging.
"The bishop's conviction suggests truth."
"Violet flames. Do you truly think them evil?"
"I'm a scribe. I record, not judge. Judgment is His."
"His."
Gaspar's reply lacked bite. Raphael eyed the leaden sky. Even if He existed, He spoke through His Holiness the Pope.
He cut the thought short. He could guess Vincenzio's intent with the flame, but the doubt it sparked was too vast to bear. Easier to brand all heretics foes and purge evil.
"The girl aids the baron, yes?"
"Yes."
"I'll seek her. You..."
"Soothe the bishop."
"Do that."
Raphael strode off. Scribe Gaspar fingered the poison vial in his sleeve. Now or never.
"Could I get some hot tea? The bishop needs calming."
He asked the guarding soldier mildly.
"Bishop."
Gaspar entered with two cups scented of wildflowers. One laced with foxglove extract. Undetectable now.
"Chilly weather. Warm tea will steady you."
Alquin drank unsuspectingly. A sip. Two.
Gaspar watched, eyes narrowed. The poison was slow—heart slowing to stillness.
"Sleepy."
The bishop murmured calmly.
"A nap before the inquisitor returns might help."
Gaspar rose. Alquin's eyes glazed. Time to erase evidence.
He snatched the parchment. The testimony bound for the Papal Court. Leaving it risked trouble post-mortem.
The inquisitor's disposal is Boatmer's affair.
Gaspar held it to the candle. Flames licked parchment, curling it black. Ashes scattered. Words vanished.
Then—
"Stop, Gaspar."
Inquisitor Raphael flung open the tent flap. Behind him stood Baron Binvelt, his boyish face etched with chilling coldness.
"...Just as you said, my lord."
Bishop Alquin, poison creeping through him, spoke in resignation.