Raphael's Calculated Victory (2)
Ordinarily, the thunderbird hunt was the imperial family's first major event of spring, with the two ducal houses taking turns serving as attendants to the imperial family each year.
Raphael had quietly claimed that privilege in the name of the Orleans heir and proposed a wager to Marquis Hwiant.
Since their limbs had grown stiff over the winter, why not settle the matter with archery? The victor would serve as attendant to the Emperor and Crown Prince.
Because the two ducal houses traditionally alternated the role, the Hwiant side had no reason to refuse; even waiting a hundred years would not guarantee them the position.
Excited, Marquis Hwiant brushed his own sons aside and stepped forward himself, challenging the young knight Raphael to a contest.
He took the bait so easily.
Raphael deliberately feigned hesitation.
“You seem far too worked up, my lord. Your face is flushed crimson—perhaps you require a moment’s rest?”
“It is precisely because I wish to compete fairly, man to man. I fulfilled my duties as a knight in my youth as well! Come, there will be no backing out. Let us begin at once.”
“Then I have no choice….”
The clearing at the entrance to the imperial hunting grounds served as their arena. They would each shoot ten arrows at a target; the winner would claim the attendant’s role for this year’s thunderbird hunt.
To ensure no disputes, three witnesses attended: a member of Count Esolt’s household, the imperial hunting grounds manager, and a retired captain of the Blue Rose Knights.
Hah. To wager an established privilege on a contest—has he caught a spring fever? Well, the Orleans duchy is finished. With an heir who loves gambling so much…
Marquis Hwiant smiled inwardly.
It doesn’t matter. Whether I win or lose, I lose nothing. Of course I must accept!
If he won, he would secure the attendant’s role and spread rumors of Raphael’s poor archery. If he lost? What of it? Losing to the active Orleans heir would not damage his reputation. The marquis had made a thoroughly practical choice.
Sending out his vigorous young sons risked loss, but his own defeat carried no real cost.
Very well…! Ah, the excitement is making my head spin again. Ten arrows… ten arrows… It will be over quickly.
Marquis Hwiant had never earned particular renown as a knight. He had been skilled at ceremonial duties and reasonably proficient with a bow, but knights rarely served as archers, so he had never had the chance to distinguish himself. He had retired early without regret.
That foolish heir could not possibly know the true extent of my archery skill. Certainly not.
At that moment, Raphael glanced to the side and spoke.
“Bring it here.”
“Yes, my lord!”
Before the bow and arrows even arrived, he had a table set and ordered a steaming teapot and cups brought over.
Raphael poured a little of the contents, drank, and grimaced.
“Ugh, the heat makes the flavor even stronger than before.”
“What is that?”
The marquis asked, suddenly tense. The color suggested it was no potion, yet it might contain something to sharpen concentration.
“Tch, tch. It would be a shame to compete without a proper stake. Therefore, the loser shall drink the entire contents of this teapot.”
Raphael coughed several times after drinking, as though the taste truly was unpleasant.
Poison? No. He did not merely pretend to drink—he truly swallowed it. Still, he might have coated the cup with something.
Marquis Hwiant’s mind raced.
But if that prim young heir drank first, the taste cannot be as bad as he claims. Very well. I can endure that much.
“Hm. Very well. However, I prefer to drink from a familiar cup, so I shall prepare my own.”
“Do as you please.”
No poison, then?
Watching Raphael readily accept the separate cup, the marquis began to harbor an ominous suspicion that the water in the pot might taste truly dreadful.
That suspicion soon became reality.
Thwip—
The final arrow left Raphael’s bowstring. The outcome was obvious.
“Kuh….”
Marquis Hwiant lowered his bow and regarded his slightly protruding belly.
His spirit remained that of a vigorous young man in his twenties, yet somehow he had grown old…. No! He was not old. He had simply not held a bow in too long; missing the target was only natural. With effort, his skill would return at once.
Since the day was already late, he resolved to begin training tomorrow.
Clenching his fist, the marquis acknowledged his defeat with a rather gloomy tone.
“My skill seems to have dulled lately due to headaches. Orleans heir, victory is yours.”
“What are you saying, Marquis Hwiant? I am honored you granted me the opportunity to compete.”
Raphael, who had struck the center perfectly with his first three shots before deliberately lowering his score, approached and offered his hand.
The Orleans duchy.
Every member, from highest to lowest, was rotten, yet the Orleans heir truly lived up to his noble reputation.
Still, once he became duke, he would become exactly like his father. It would be better if this one were the exception, but bloodlines did not work that way.
They were all the same in the end.
Despite the bitter loss, the marquis clasped Raphael’s hand with aristocratic grace.
“Thank you.”
“Now for the penalty… Ahem. It is time to enjoy this fine herbal tea that calms the mind.”
“Herbal tea…?”
There were so many pleasant names—flower tea, premium tea, coffee, golden tea, honey tea, hot chocolate. Yet this was called herbal tea?
Did he mean he had deliberately gathered bitter weeds from the roadside and steeped them? No wonder he had complained about the taste earlier….
Typical Orleans behavior! They had brought something that was not quite poison to mock him!
Raphael poured the now-cooled tea(?) into a cup, drank again, and murmured softly.
“At least it is cooler than before. The astringency remains, though…. Ugh.”
“…The condition was that the loser drink it all. Hoo.”
“My lord Marquis!”
A knight accompanying Marquis Hwiant rushed forward to stop him, but the marquis accepted the cup from the servant’s tray.
A man must look dignified even in defeat.
Accepting loss cleanly was also a man’s duty!
“A gentleman keeps his word. Gulp…. Urgh! Bleh! Kuh!”
As the marquis forced down the lukewarm liquid despite its terrible taste, Raphael’s gentle eyes wavered.
“As expected of the renowned Marquis Hwiant. In that case, I shall drink a cup as well to reduce your burden…. Urp! Ugh! Kuh… Uurk, no, I must not spit it out—I must finish it…!”
“Urgh! Uurk!”
The bizarre extra contest—drinking what tasted like morning sickness tea or steeped weeds—lasted a little over an hour.
Marquis Hwiant, his face even paler than when he had arrived at the hunting grounds, set down the final cup and muttered.
“Haa…. This is harder than archery…. I have not tasted such bitterness in the last ten years….”
“You… you have my respect. If you are willing, shall we compete again under the same conditions the year after next?”
Marquis Hwiant, still furious from having drunk the vile tea, shouted indignantly.
“Very well! Of course we must! I shall come personally, so see that you keep your word, Sir Raphael! Even if the heavens fall and the earth splits, our contest shall resume!”
“Haa…. Very well.”
Raphael replied while clutching his chest, his stomach churning from the pot of portian-infused water he had forced down.
Thus, through Raphael’s not-quite sacrifice, Marquis Hwiant regained his health.
Though the headaches he had quietly endured for some time vanished as if washed away, the marquis did not immediately notice the change.
Having lost to the Orleans duchy and been forced to drink an entire pot of foul herbal tea, his righteous anger burned hot.
He immediately ordered a calendar made for the year after next and hung it on the wall.
“728 days…? Not long at all. I shall have regained my former skill by then! The glory of serving at the thunderbird hunt belongs to our house! And that tasteless herbal tea shall be the Orleans heir’s burden!”
Before the ink on the calendar had even dried, he flipped the pages, counting the days with renewed fury.
“Someone! By tomorrow, clear the land behind the mansion and set up targets. Rain or snow, I shall reclaim my archery skill!”
A few days later, when Marquis Hwiant finally realized the headaches that had plagued him had disappeared—
Meanwhile, at the Klein ducal residence, Dot tilted her head in confusion.
“Strange. It should have been around this time…. Wasn’t the marquis supposed to keep muttering about his headaches before collapsing on the way home? Goodness…. Why do things keep going wrong?”
She pouted, tapping the calendar with her fingernail, then flopped onto her bed.
If the marquis simply smelled the medicinal pouch he always carried—recommended by the physician—and I named the herb, everything would be settled. Yet the situation refuses to unfold as planned.
Dot had rehearsed exactly what she would say when the moment came, and now her body itched with impatience. All preparations were complete, yet the patient refused to fall ill. How could that be?
Why haven’t I heard that he collapsed? Morgan is still holed up in the Magic Tower and hasn’t appeared, so she clearly has no memories either.
Since nothing had happened regarding the marquis, her suspicions toward that side had largely subsided.
Just then—
“Tiana, are you asleep?”
“No, I’m not!”
The Klein Duchess had come to visit the young lady’s bedroom.
Dot straightened her shoulders, smiled, and greeted her.
The duchess’s eyes softened at the sight of the young lady’s room, now brighter with the arrival of spring. At last, new mahogany furniture had been brought in, filling her with quiet satisfaction.
“Mother.”
“Yes. How have you been lately? If you are well, shall we begin scheduling your next engagements?”
“Of course. Please arrange them as you see fit, Mother.”
The duchess, pleased by her daughter’s obedient demeanor, stroked her hair. Even the fact that the girl disliked the pink color so favored by other young ladies seemed refined to her.
Because she is my daughter, she is special.
“Nonsense. You must choose what you want. Recently, Count Quasar’s household sent an invitation for a tea party with perfume sampling, and Viscount Duran is hosting a reading circle. The Hwiant marquisate has been oddly quiet lately, while the Orleans side has only a simple tea gathering scheduled.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Lastly, the Dahlia Hotel Salon has sent invitations to a spring flower bookmark gathering attended by various circles. Which would you like to prioritize?”
“Mm…. Yes.”
Dot pretended to think, but she had already decided the moment she heard the list.
Is the Hwiant marquis unable to host anything because he is ill? Then the signs are correct after all. Even if he is sick, he will still drag himself to the imperial palace, so I must find a way to join him quickly. In the meantime, I should narrow down the suitable gatherings.
In truth, there were only two places worth attending among the invitations.