Chapter 128: The Old Woman from the North
“Support me.”
The viscount's pupils were covered by a hazy film. It seemed he had indeed lost most of his sight. His gaze didn't quite focus, as if even while looking at Isaac, he was staring at something else. That made it all the harder to read his intentions. It felt less like he was addressing the Isaac before him and more like he was probing the boy's inner thoughts.
“I'm not sure what you mean.”
“Exactly what I said.”
“Are you telling me to abandon my family and leech off Botmer?”
“Half right, half wrong. I'm telling you to leech off me to protect your family. Baron Binvelt, you're far too clever for your age. If you were my son, I'd have named you heir without a second thought.”
“You're too kind.”
“A man like you must know this already. Goethe's defeat is inevitable. Not just in raw military strength or resources, but in diplomacy and alliances—they can't beat me.”
“Well, I agree with that much.”
Isaac nodded agreeably. He twirled the silver goblet, inhaling the wine's aroma. Notes of lingonberry and elderberry lingered richly. Fruits common in the forests of Goethe territory.
“You've sabotaged my plans so far to protect your house, haven't you? Right down to your play at being a wastrel.”
“Can't deny that.”
“You may not know this, but war in the north is unavoidable. War is destructive. But its fruits are oh so sweet. Follow me, and I'll not only ensure Goethe survives—I'll hand it to you personally.”
Isaac watched the viscount's face closely. There was no sly grin, no veiled threat. The man simply lifted his silver goblet to his lips and savored sips of wine.
“Did you acquire Ripe, Mark, and Hausen the same way?”
“No, no. They're different. They weren't talents worth me seeking out, and they came to me first, bowing their heads. They felt they had no future under Goethe.”
“Goethe has some loyal vassals, then.”
“Don't blame them in your anger. True loyalty goes to those worthy of it. Like a beautiful woman drawing suitors from every man.”
“You're no beautiful woman, Viscount.”
“True enough.”
The viscount chuckled. “But I can offer more than any beauty could. Is there something else you desire?”
“What's the point of a hollowed-out house? Ensure Goethe can survive going forward.”
“Name it.”
“Guarantee autonomy. Goethe must be an autonomous noble territory equal to Botmer. We'll cooperate if requested in wartime, but no direct control of our forces.”
“Handle it as you see fit.”
“Tax autonomy and trade jurisdiction too.”
“I'm the richest in the north. You think I'd tax the likes of Goethe?”
“Judicial and religious rights as well. Trials, disputes, and punishments in Goethe territory fall under my jurisdiction. Same for appointing bishops and recommending priests.”
“So be it. Anything else?”
“Support resources for technology and agriculture development. And lift the magic ban on Goethe.”
“I should have been born a beautiful woman after all.”
“Can you? Or can't you?”
“I can, but it'll take time.”
“That's enough.”
“Accept those terms, and you'll support me?”
“Ah, one more thing.”
“What now?”
The viscount sighed.
“Promise not to touch the Goethe family or their retainers.”
“Even if they take the field?”
“Yes. No one gets hurt.”
“Hm. That's a tall order.”
The viscount took another sip of wine. “More sentimental than I thought?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Very well. With concessions like these, you'll accept my offer now?”
“You already know my answer, Viscount.”
A brief silence fell.
The viscount smiled suddenly. “I've racked my brain over how to kill you. You're worth the effort.”
“Same here.”
“We reach the same conclusion, then.”
“Yes.”
Isaac nodded at the viscount's words. From the start, he hadn't been a target for recruitment. The point was to gauge whether he was a threat worth caring about. They weren't negotiating—they were sizing each other up, planning their next moves.
“Clergy and holy knights this troublesome? A first for me. Thank them for coming with you, Baron. Otherwise, you'd already be in two pieces under my knights' blades.”
“Who knows? Maybe they just saved your life.”
“Talking like you had a way to kill me.”
“Wouldn't be impossible.”
“Amusing.”
The viscount's smile had long faded. “Time to go. Sounds like trouble outside.”
“Trouble?”
“Your holy knights and my men must be sparring.”
“Good ears.”
“Thanks for the warm seat and hospitality.”
“Thanks for making time. This is the last we'll share a drink. Safe travels.”
With the viscount's farewell, Isaac stepped down from the Botmer carriage. The temperature plunged from the warmth inside. The wind had died, but snow still fell steadily.
“Next!”
A knight in dimegtrium armor bellowed challengingly.
Red hair?
His scarlet locks stood out vividly once he removed his helmet. His voice was a man's, but boyish features lingered on his face. Around Carlson's age, or younger.
“No one else? For 'tools of the Lord,' that's all you've got? Just murderers who enjoy butchering the weak?”
The holy knights glared as if ready to kill the redhead on the spot, but none stepped forward rashly. Three were already injured, standing awkwardly, clutching wrists or sides.
“One sword, yet wielded by another? If so, at least not your god's. Right, Grand Inquisitor?”
“……”
“Or is the Grand Inquisitor just another with the Lord's name on his lips and nothing more?”
“Don't take your personal vendetta out on the innocent.”
“That fire burned out long ago. Know what hatred leaves behind? Only malice.”
The red-haired knight glanced at Isaac, then sheathed his sword. He sneered and turned away.
“Fun's over! Move out! Back to the Pope's Domain!”
Another Botmer knight shouted.
“What happened?”
“Nothing much. Talks over?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
The Botmer viscount's carriage procession pulled aside on the road.
“Mind sharing what you discussed?”
Back in their carriage, Isaac and Raphael recounted the encounter with Botmer.
“The viscount tried to recruit me.”
“Recruit you?”
“Said he'd spare Goethe if I supported him.”
“And your answer?”
“Turned him down.”
“I see.”
Raphael nodded as if he'd expected it.
“Who was that redhead? Seemed he knew you, Grand Inquisitor.”
“Son of New Faith heretics branded as cultists and executed.”
“Pardon?”
“The New Faith has some recognition now, but there were times when reading scripture translated into the common tongue alone got you dragged to the Inquisition for torture and burning.”
“Then…”
“Back then, I was a holy knight throwing myself into the faith with utter conviction. Hunting hidden New Faith followers, forcing their recantation. Everbin's parents were among them.”
“He must harbor deep resentment toward the Papal Court.”
“Word is, lately some holy knights have gone missing or turned up dead in the frontiers. Probably knights like Everbin.”
Raphael's expression was grimmer than usual.
Everbin… I've heard that name before.
Isaac rubbed his brow. From his past life as Yonas, or some document. He knew it, but it wouldn't come.
Not directly tied to Goethe, or it'd surface faster.
“Heard something similar in Goethe. Twelve holy knights butchered in Bernsi.”
“……”
“Bishop Levonius, overseeing that diocese, committed such atrocities the Inquisition covered it up.”
“I see.”
“You wouldn't know, Baron. It was hushed up tight.”
“Yeah, first I've heard.”
Isaac scratched his head. Levonius—the corrupt bishop of Bernsi. In his bid to boost the Old Faith, he'd manufactured horrific cultists. The first cleric to burn under Isaac's purple flame.
“Anyway. Everbin, backed by the viscount, picks fights with holy knights at every chance. He even seeks out renowned ones for 'discussions' and humiliations, then demands they excommunicate him.”
“Excommunicate?”
“You know the name?”
“Everbin Poierhar?”
Isaac was startled by the full name.
“If we're invoking titles, yes. Why?”
“…Nothing. Just sounded familiar.”
Everbin Poierhar. The continent's sixth Sword Master. The man who'd crushed Carlson's revenge, shattering his heart and barring the path to Sword Master.
It was a winter afternoon, the sun hanging low. Three carriages rolled in a line toward the Binvelt encampment on the frozen road. Frost clung raggedly to the wheels, and the horses wheezed with exhaustion from the long journey.
“Papal carriages!”
The camp entrance buzzed. Carlson led armed soldiers to greet them. The driver reined in, and the trailing carriages halted one by one.
Holy knights began unloading sealed chests from the wagons.
“Took longer than expected.”
Carlson dipped his head as Isaac descended. No expression crossed his face—like greeting someone he'd seen yesterday.
“Some business came up.”
“What's that?”
Carlson eyed the sealed chests.
“Plundered a bit from the Papal Court.”
“Pardon?”
“Direct recompense for the baron's merits. Ownership transfers fully to Binvelt.”
Raphael, stepping down behind, spoke matter-of-factly.
Carlson broke the wax seal and opened a chest. It brimmed with silver and gold reliquaries, gilded holy items, imperial coins.
“…This?”
“Yes.”
Raphael nodded as if obvious.
“Must've cost something.”
“The baron earned it.”
“……”
Carlson glanced at Isaac.
“Don't ask. Good for us anyway. Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Minus the two thousand Botmer brought?”
“Yeah. They just left, right?”
“Fuming, thanks to someone.”
“Nothing else?”
“There is.”
“What?”
“Bessimer got his ass handed to him by an old woman from the north.”
“…Huh?”
Isaac doubted his ears.
“Who beat who?”
“No warrior or knight in Binvelt could take her, in my opinion.”
“Even you?”
“Probably.”
Carlson nodded, looking uneasy.
“Who the hell is she?”
“No idea. Said you'd know, young master. She's been using the command tent like her own house for days.”
“I'll check it out. Clean up here.”
Isaac headed for the command tent.