The Encounter
In the end, the confession he'd written over three days proved utterly useless. Raphael did not blame Isaac for Cardinal Vincenzio's death. Instead, Isaac had to recount in detail before the cardinals everything he'd witnessed in the great cathedral fire. Of course, it had nothing to do with the truth. It was framed as Vincenzio performing a miracle, burning away the remnants of corruption in the sanctuary to atone for his remaining sins.
"There was no need to go this far."
"You would have done the same in my place."
"Is this because you're sorry?"
Even after ascending to the position of Grand Inquisitor, Raphael insisted on escorting Isaac all the way to Binvelt.
"I want the baron to live. No one would dare harm a guest of the Grand Inquisitor."
"So it is because you're sorry."
"……."
Raphael fell silent. After taking his seat as Grand Inquisitor, he had burned every piece of evidence that could tarnish Vincenzio's name. Especially the letters and bribes exchanged with countless nobles, royals, and imperial kin. The political implications they carried, the enormous treasures stockpiled in the mansion for war preparations. If any of it came to light, Vincenzio could never be elevated to sainthood.
The connection between Boatmer and Vincenzio was no different. Viscount Boatmer had demanded that all crimes pinned on his house be shifted to the chevaliers in exchange for covering up Vincenzio's misdeeds. The killing of his son Rutger, the attempted assassination of Bishop Alquin, the attempt on Inquisitor Raphael's life—all were to be pinned as arbitrary orders given in advance by the chevaliers. In return, he admitted his own failing in controlling his subordinates and offered to atone by purchasing indulgences. At an absurdly exorbitant price, no less.
Raphael had accepted Viscount Boatmer's proposal. And he confessed it all to Isaac—the war with Boatmer was inevitable, and the viscount's legitimacy could not be revoked.
"No need to trouble yourself over it. I've gained from this too, after all."
Two more carriages followed behind the one carrying Isaac. Inside them was a portion of the treasures Vincenzio had amassed over the years—enough to build a cathedral fitting for Binvelt and then some.
"If anything, I wonder why you're doing this much for me. You know how the great cathedral fire started, don't you?"
"……The moment the purple flame ignited, I saw it. He raised his hand to stop me, and he smiled. I couldn't hear his voice, but it felt like he was saying, 'It's fine. It's enough. It's fine.'
"……?"
"The baron might think it was his own flame, but it was his flame. Perhaps one he'd waited for a long time. After all, no one longed for peace more than he did. The baron merely lit the spark."
Isaac couldn't fully grasp Raphael's words, but he didn't press further. What was done was done, irreversible.
The snow fell heavily. Cold wind seeped through the carriage window cracks.
"We've left the Pope's Domain."
As soon as the Pope's Domain ended, the straight road twisted into winding paths. Low fir trees lined both sides, bowed under white frost. Snow blanketed everything, but the overcast sky turned it a murky grayish white, hard to distinguish. Fearing a slip on the frozen road, the coachman urged the horses slowly—barely faster than walking.
Inside the carriage, it was just Raphael and Isaac. Occasionally, Raphael would speak, and Isaac would respond or ask in kind. Every topic circled back to Vincenzio. What kind of man he had been. Raphael recited it to Isaac like a lament, just as he had felt it. Perhaps only these two in the world could speak and hear the unvarnished truth of the man who had become a saint.
To Raphael, Vincenzio must have been his entire world, Isaac thought.
Isaac toyed with the Light of Atonement. He'd harbored faint hopes while forging his seventh circulation path—that the clash between the fallen saint's world and his own might open new mana channels. Perhaps even kindle faith where none existed.
But mages were those who most acutely realized their own insignificance as mere creatures. Thus, they yearned most desperately for something absolute, yet denied it first and foremost.
A mage does not believe in God. More precisely, they calculate even the existence of God. What mana is, how mind and world connect, how prayer alters mana waves—they explore and hypothesize it all. What religion calls miracles, mages call structures of yet-unrevealed principles. They dismiss them as miracles only out of ignorance.
In that sense, mages were arrogant. And at the same time, the most fragile of humans.
Isaac could not escape that mage's shackles either. He sensed the fallen saint's faith and will lingering in the Light of Atonement's mana, but to him, it was merely one man's obsession—nothing holy, nothing divine.
"That time, he washed my feet. My filthy, wounded feet……."
"What does it feel like to believe in God?"
Isaac asked Raphael, who was in the midst of recounting Vincenzio.
"A strange question."
"I'm curious."
"If I had to put it into words, certainty. Certainty that He knows me and is always by my side."
"Hmm."
It was a realm Isaac could scarcely comprehend. It sounded like grasping at clouds.
"You won't understand until you feel it yourself."
Raphael opened his mouth to elaborate, but their discussion on faith ended there.
"Someone's blocking the road," the coachman said.
Peering out the window, Isaac saw a line of carriages clogging the path. At the front was a black carriage trimmed in gold plating. Four muscled warhorses snorted steam, flanked by two knights in full plate armor draped in black cloaks. Their armor was black, but it gleamed green under the faint sunlight. Dimegtrium plate. They bore a flag embroidered with a golden swan.
Boatmer's carriage.
"You followed well," Raphael muttered.
"Stay here, Baron. I'll handle this."
Raphael stepped out. Holy knights from the trailing carriages followed him. Isaac dismounted too, observing from afar.
A tall man emerged from Boatmer's carriage. Silver-gray hair near white whipped in the snowstorm. High nose, square jaw, ice-blue eyes. He didn't look healthy, but arrogance seeped from his very face. Even unseen before, Isaac knew him at a glance.
Viscount Boatmer. A royal crest adorned the collar of his thick overcoat fastened with golden buttons, and a silver cane gleamed in his silk-gloved hand. Black-armored knights flanked him, facing off against Raphael and his holy knights.
Isaac pondered briefly. Killing the viscount here would be ideal. But rash action was impossible. First, deal with his escort knights; then, silence witnesses to his magic. No guarantee he could dispatch dimegtrium-clad knights in one go.
Can't gauge the knights' skill.
Normally, an aura user gave off detectable mana, like a mage. But the dimegtrium armor obscured it.
If each matched a chevalier, Isaac alone couldn't manage. Even if he succeeded, what of the holy knights who witnessed his magic? Claiming it as holy power? Low odds, messy aftermath.
As Isaac weighed his options, the viscount spoke.
"We've only corresponded by letter until now—delighted to meet at last, Inquisitor."
His voice was low and dry, like an old sword scraping its sheath.
"Heading to the Papal Court?"
Raphael inclined his head slightly but did not bow.
"More or less. To confess my sins and seek forgiveness, and to witness the traces of the purple flame miracle. A pilgrimage of sorts."
"Yet why block the road? Why not go your way?"
"Ah, the wheel broke on the snow. Just finished hasty repairs."
"No repairmen in sight."
"We just wrapped up. But where might the inquisitor be headed? The Inquisition can't be so idle as to leave the Papal Court."
The viscount's words carried layers of meaning—including the cleanup of Vincenzio's affairs.
"……Part of a routine pilgrimage. To uproot heresy, one needs not just doctrine but understanding of the field."
"The field? Surely not the barbarian-infested northern frontier? Say, Binvelt."
"……."
Raphael's eyes narrowed. The viscount had known and waited here. His gaze shifted past Raphael to Isaac.
"After Cardinal Vincenzio's passing, by the Church's will, I have taken the role of Grand Inquisitor."
Raphael's words carried a warning: Do not touch a guest traveling with the Grand Inquisitor.
"Is that so? The Lord has elevated you to the path of justice. Congratulations. Forgive my lack of leisure, however. By chance, someone I've long wished to see stands here."
Ignoring Raphael's warning, the viscount's eyes fixed on Isaac.
"I recognize you at once. Baron of Binvelt?"
"Greetings are belated, Viscount. Isaac von Binvelt Goethe."
"Baron, stay—"
"It's fine. Seems the viscount wasn't waiting for wheel repairs anyway."
Raphael tried to stop him, but Isaac stepped forward to face Viscount Boatmer.
"Sir Rutger's death is regrettable."
"Thank you for your concern."
Even mentioning his son's death, the viscount merely smiled indulgently.
"As they say, even bad ties are ties. How about a drink on this foul day? My carriage is spacious—I've been bored."
"Baron."
"Wait in the carriage a moment. I'll be right back."
Leaving the worried Raphael, Isaac followed the viscount into his carriage.
Inside was quiet and warm. Bear fur carpeted the floor; navy velvet lined the walls.
"Sit. The cold sinks to the bone on days like this."
"Northern frontier folk barely notice this chill."
"Hah, true enough."
The viscount sat first, laying his silver cane across his knees. He produced a glass bottle and two small silver cups from a box. He filled them with deep ruby liquid.
Wine.
"Berry wine pairs perfectly with unpleasant weather."
"Cheers."
Isaac accepted the cup.
"I heard you said something at the tourney while cutting down my squire. Something about showing a syphilitic old bat—flitting between republic and empire like a bat—what bitter tastes await?"
"Didn't expect that to reach your ears, Viscount."
"No worries. I rather liked the gall."
"Speaking of which, you're more decrepit than I imagined."
Isaac's words dripped mockery, but the viscount merely lifted a corner of his mouth.
"Syphilis is true enough. Suffered long. Truth be told, I can barely see now. Sometimes hear my dead wife's voice. One thing's certain: time's short for me. But it's granted boons too. Can't see, so I see more; can't hear as others, so I hear deeper."
"Sounds mad, if I may say."
"Was once mad with lust, yes. I say this not from malice toward crushing Goethe. My position demands it. You'd understand."
"No idea what you mean."
"Hah."
The viscount chuckled faintly.
"Now I see why Dietrich Marquis fell for your tricks out of nowhere, why my tourney plot fizzled, why Rutger was doomed to lose, why old Dean Reihi fixated on a punk like you, why the First Prince took interest. Even the eldest led two thousand troops and returned empty-handed. Absurd."
"……."
Isaac was mildly surprised. He hadn't expected the viscount to grasp so much.
"Had to wonder what punk ruins my every plan."
"……."
"No need to tense up. I came myself with a fine proposal."
The viscount's wine-loosened tongue rolled smoothly.