Chapter 128

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Rather than retrace the route he had traveled with Roy’s family, Ricard chose a road that would let him give his horse free rein, even if it meant a detour, and headed toward Nibelungen. The Order of Flame had branches throughout the Empire, and one of them was there.

Following the river upstream along a road beside the hills, he encountered a knight riding slowly in the opposite direction. The man had shaved his chin but grown a bushy mustache, and about ten soldiers followed him.

Once they were close enough, the knight raised an open hand beside his face. Ricard did the same. It was a signal that they meant no harm. Having established that neither was hostile, they approached one another slowly. The other man greeted him first.

“I am Winterlocken, the manorial knight of Kohen. And you?”

“Ricard of Stormhertz.”

“Stormhertz? Ah, House Kaldebern?”

Nobles generally studied heraldry and memorized the noble houses, so hearing a place name gave them a rough idea of which family someone belonged to. Of course, that only applied to those who had studied diligently. Many could not even read and knew little of such things. That was why nobles held banquets whenever they gathered: to familiarize themselves with one another’s faces.

The man called Winterlocken assessed Ricard’s handsome features, healthy hair, neat attire, the sword at his waist, and his horse, judging whether he was truly a noble. There were exceptions, but commoners generally had crooked teeth, suffered from malnutrition, and wore shabby clothes. Above all, they could not afford to ride horses, so a person’s status was usually evident at a glance.

“That is correct.”

“From the look of you, I take it you are not answering a summons?”

“I have business in Nibelungen. Where are you bound, Sir Kohen?”

“I received a summons last autumn. I finished the harvest and stockpiled provisions, and now I am setting out. But I doubt going to Nibelungen is a wise idea in times like these.”

“Why is that?”

“I hear Prince Bellator has been purging the nobility since making himself Crown Prince. You might go there only to find yourself caught in the bloodshed.”

Bellator had originally been the Fifth Prince, with four older brothers. The eldest had been Crown Prince, but after his untimely death, his young son had succeeded to the title. The Second Prince had been kept in check from an early age and made a count far from Nibelungen, while the Fourth Prince had died at a commoner’s hands during the Church of Judgment affair.

Amid all this, Bellator had personally killed his nephew, the Crown Prince, framed the Third Prince and disposed of him, then seized control of Nibelungen. Now he and the Second Prince were poised to fight over the imperial throne. Such was the current state of the imperial household.

Ricard had no way of knowing that secret history. He had passed out from poison during the swordsmanship tournament and been carried away on Marie’s back.

“Rumor has it Prince Bellator bumped off the Crown Prince himself. Then he pinned it on his own brother, the Third Prince. Stay near that sly fox, and you will get caught in the fallout.”

People sometimes believed unfounded rumors, and sometimes those unfounded rumors were precisely right. This one had spread because of Bellator’s actions over the past four years. He was extraordinarily skilled at purging nobles.

Even a king or emperor could not simply kill nobles at will. But if he built a sufficient case, arrested them without warning, and held them to account, it was far from impossible. Building that case was the difficult part, and Bellator was good at it. Very subtle, too.

Ricard, however, merely laughed off Winterlocken’s words.

“Ha ha ha. I shall pretend I never heard that.”

“Hmm. I spoke out of turn. But that is how I truly feel. Still, if you insist on going, I will not stop you.”

“Then, in any case, do you support the Second Prince?”

“No. We Fredern people have decided to look after our own survival.”

“Ah...”

The name Fredern was a remnant of the old tribal days. Adelons, Berings, the Nibelung clan—all were names for people who had lived in particular regions before the Empire was founded. Much of that tribal culture had vanished under the present feudal society, but it remained deeply ingrained in people’s minds. That was why even fellow citizens of the Empire regarded one another almost as strangers.

The great tribal chieftains of those days were the dukes, margraves, and kings of today. Of course, Adelorn had been a kingdom long before that.

At any rate, the Fredern people—in other words, the Duke of Frederia and the lords under him—apparently intended to fend for themselves now that civil war was looming. Put simply, they did not care who became emperor. Anyone who harmed them was their enemy.

“I wish you fortune in battle. Ah, creatures such as goblins have been sighted recently. Since you are gathering troops, it might be wise to clear them out before they become a problem.”

“I have seen them myself. It is a concern. May fortune favor you in battle as well.”

After that brief exchange about the state of the world, Ricard and Winterlocken parted ways. Ricard rode past him and picked up speed again. Even the wind did little to refresh him. The unease that had been bubbling beneath the earth seemed to be breaking through the surface like lava.

He still had a long way to go.

After two full days of riding, Ricard reached Nibelungen. Stars glittered in the night sky, a fitting backdrop to the great, gateless city. Every city grew quiet at night, but Nibelungen’s silence seemed unusually heavy. Hardly any voices reached him from the taverns or other buildings. Everyone seemed somehow cowed.

It was hardly surprising. Blood had flowed in the wake of the Church of Judgment affair, and the purges had continued ever since.

Ricard naturally made his way down the road in silence as well. Only his horse’s lonely hoofbeats echoed along it. Eventually, he reached the temple building that housed the Order of Flame’s branch. A lone soldier guarded the main entrance. As Ricard approached, the man looked up at him.

“I wish to see the branch head.”

“... What branch head?”

“The Order of Flame’s.”

“Well, I reckon he died under torture.”

The soldier delivered the shocking news as though it were nothing. Dumbfounded, Ricard asked what had happened.

“Why was he tortured?”

“He worshipped demons. Of course he deserved to be tortured.”

“What are you saying? That the Order of Flame are followers of demons?”

“That’s what they say. If they weren’t, they’d keep insisting they were innocent no matter how badly they were tortured, wouldn’t they? But several have already admitted it. Said they followed demons.”

Torture a confession out of someone, then use that confession as proof of guilt? What kind of bullshit was that? Yet this was, in fact, the standard method of trying heretics. Ricard had many questions, but there was no point taking them up with the soldier before him.

“So they are all dead now?”

“No, there’s just one left. Edmund. He won’t confess, even now. Stubborn bastard, that one. He must be enduring it with demonic power.”

Edmund was the man who had come to collect Ricard’s older brother Bilter when he joined the order. Nobles sometimes shared names, so it could have been someone else, but this was no time to worry about that. Ricard had come hoping to obtain the Order of Flame’s help. For now, he put everything else aside.

“Is he here? Could I see him briefly? We knew each other.”

“What? No, you can’t. You’ll be in danger yourself if you get mixed up in this, sir.”

“I am asking you a favor.”

Ricard dismounted, took out a gold coin, and offered it to him. The soldier’s eyes widened, and he was about to refuse outright, but it was far too much money for that. As the coin glittered in the light of a nearby torch, he quietly slipped it away inside his clothes.

“Tie your horse up somewhere far away.”

Ricard went some distance, rounded a corner, and tied up his horse. When he returned to the temple, the soldier quietly opened the door and escorted him down to the dungeon. The soldier whispered to the jailer, but the sound carried through the echoing chamber, making every word audible.

“I said gold, you fucking bitch.”

“... You should’ve said so sooner.”

“I said it from the start, you moron.”

The soldier and jailer bickered briefly, but it seemed they reached an agreement. The jailer led Ricard onward, bowing and scraping excessively. Money was the only master these men served.

“This way, my lord.”

Ricard followed him for a short distance. The damp dungeon reeked of blood and filth. Rats scurried brazenly through the corners, squeaking. The jailer stopped before a cell, but it was too dark to see much inside. Ricard took a torch from a nearby bracket and looked. A figure in an appalling state emerged in the dim light.

“Open the door.”

The jailer hesitated briefly, then did as asked. After all, the prisoner could not have escaped even if he tried. The barred door creaked open, and Ricard stepped inside. The prisoner lay collapsed in misery, his head bowed low beneath lank, wet hair.

The stages of his torture were painfully clear. First his fingernails had been pulled out, then his fingers severed joint by joint. The tendons at his heels, behind his knees, and in the crooks of his elbows had been ruined with a branding iron.

Yet Ricard could still detect faint breaths. It was astonishing that he remained alive in this condition. Was it the power of a demon, or of a god?

“I am Ricard of Stormhertz. Eight years ago, my brother Bilter joined the Order of Flame. The knight who came for him was Edmund. I remember talking back to him a little because I thought him disrespectful toward my father. I did not like him, but I could tell he was a true knight. Are you that Edmund?”

Silence followed. Could he not hear? Or could he hear, but no longer understand?

Then, at some point, Edmund began to murmur. Ricard leaned his ear close. In the faintest of voices, the man spoke desperately.

“... I am... innocent...”

Ricard gently drew back again.

“I am neither a jailer nor a torturer. I am Ricard, Abelich’s son and Bilter’s younger brother. I will remember your words. Is there anything you wish to say to someone, or any final words you want to leave?”

After a few shallow breaths, Edmund slowly raised his head. Where his eyes should have been were only black holes, with dried blood caked beneath them. Ricard looked calmly upon his dreadful face without the slightest grimace and without averting his gaze.

“The reliquary... to headquarters...”

With those words, his head drooped again. Ricard thought he might have died, but no. How cruelly he clung to life. Why was he still alive?

Ricard wanted to end his suffering, but could not bring himself to do it. He did not know what to do.

He rose, left the cell, and asked the jailer,

“Where is the order’s reliquary?”

“Reliquary? Well, I think they took all the confiscated property away. Ah, but if you’re interested, would you care to have a look?”

The jailer grinned, exposing filthy teeth. Ricard did not even want to speak to him, so he merely nodded.

The jailer led him to a place where they had stashed valuables stolen from the order. It was not just one or two items, but a sizable haul. They had been unable to take conspicuous things such as silver candlesticks or goblets. Most of it consisted of ornaments pried loose from here and there. Of course, no one could keep it all for himself. The soldiers and those in the know would sell it as stolen goods and divide the proceeds.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, Ricard spotted a small chest roughly decorated with the precious materials commonly known as the Seven Treasures. It was made of wood covered in gold leaf and adorned with gold, silver, glass, crystal, pearl, agate, and coral. Judging by its keyhole, it could not be opened without a key unless someone broke it.

The jailer and his associates apparently intended to sell it intact. Ricard simply picked up the reliquary and walked away with it.

“Wh-what? Hey!”

The jailer hurried to stop him. As Ricard turned, the tip of a dagger appeared beneath the man’s chin. The coldness in Ricard’s eyes was sharper than the blade.

“It is stolen property anyway, so I shall steal it too. Do you object?”

“... I may be a lowly fellow, but I do have a little wisdom, you know. What treasure in this world is worth more than life itself? Please, take it.”

To Ricard’s surprise, the jailer spoke smoothly, without trembling. Apparently, this was far from the first time he had been robbed. Ricard withdrew his dagger and left without looking back.

Leaving the temple, he untied his horse and headed toward the palace. He took a room at an inn nearby. Sleep, however, was out of the question. He lit a candle and spent the night watching the reliquary, its sheen dulled by the hands that had handled it.

As soon as dawn broke the next day, he went to the palace. He intended to ask Bellator himself what had happened. Naturally, the guards stopped him when he approached with a sword at his waist. Ricard spoke calmly.

“I am Ricard, champion of the Imperial Swordsmanship Tournament. I have come to see Prince Bellator.”

“Not Prince. His Highness the Crown Prince. Mind your words. You could be punished for that.”

The guard delivered his warning with an icy glare. Ricard merely returned it with an equally cold look. A moment of tension passed. Still, without further comment, the guard sent someone to announce Ricard’s arrival. Shortly afterward, a man emerged from within.

“Sir Ricard, please come inside.”

Ricard followed him. Having visited the imperial palace before, he knew the surroundings well. The forest had been preserved as faithfully as possible, merely trimmed into neatness. But his guide was not taking him toward the palace. Instead, they walked into the woods, and sure enough, they arrived at the defensive tower where Marie had once been imprisoned.

Bellator sat on a nearby boulder, eating dishes a cook brought to him freshly prepared. Everything had been gathered from the forest: wild raspberries, truffles, hunted venison, freshwater crayfish, and the like.

Four years had passed, and Bellator was now fifteen, already an adult and every inch a young man. Perhaps it was because he and Marie were half-siblings, but he too had snow-white skin, bright blond hair, and, above all, luminous eyes like blue jewels. Seeing Ricard, he smiled, washed the sauce from his hands, and dried them on a handkerchief. Ricard greeted him first.

“It has been a long time, Your Highness.”

“Indeed it has, my teacher.”

During the brief time Ricard had taught the Crown Prince, he had taught Bellator alongside him. It hardly warranted calling them teacher and pupil, but Bellator apparently considered him his teacher all the same.

“A place full of memories, isn’t it?”

Bellator looked back at the tower as he spoke.

Ricard remembered the former Crown Prince and the Third Prince tormenting Marie when she had been confined here. He had boldly stepped forward to stop them, while Bellator watched from a distance.

“Indeed.”

“People feel a kinship when they share memories. Do you feel that too, teacher?”

“A little.”

“I see... That is a relief. I had other important people to meet, but I dismissed them all to see you. You are one of the few people I like.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. But I have come to ask about the Order of Flame. Who accused them? Are you certain they truly committed a crime?”

Still smiling, Bellator regarded him for a moment before answering.

“No. They are innocent. There is no accuser, either.”

Ricard was speechless, unable to understand.

“They need to die, and they need to be disgraced, so I have disgraced them. That is all. Does that answer your question?”

“But why?”

“A creditor who makes an easy target cannot expect a long life. War requires a great deal of money, and it is best to clear away one’s debts beforehand.”

The more Ricard heard, the harder it was to accept.

“The Order of Flame funds itself through banking. Bellator I granted them that right when he charged them with guarding the border. Now I intend to take it for myself. That right. And while I am at it, I will wipe out the money the imperial household has borrowed from them.”

He said it all so calmly, so casually, so openly that Ricard truly did not know what to say. Fabricate crimes, pin them on innocent people, torture them horrifically, strip them even of their honor, and kill them—simply because it was necessary?

“This will breed resentment. The Order of Flame is the Empire’s strongest assault force.”

“And what will they do about it? However skilled a servant may be, a servant is still a servant. They cannot spare the strength to campaign this far from home. Besides, they refused my summons. In times like these, there is no middle ground. Anyone who will not take my side is an enemy.”

Apparently, he had asked the Order of Flame to join the war and been refused. Still, he did not seem to have decided to dispose of them merely out of spite. There were several reasons, with money foremost among them. Politically speaking, it was a masterful maneuver. But Ricard was no politician, and it made his stomach twist.

“Do you think I am a sly, scheming fox too, teacher?”

Bellator was still smiling. Apparently, he knew exactly what people called him.

“One man is still alive. A knight named Edmund. What will happen to him?”

“Had he confessed earlier, he would have had a clean beheading. But he denied everything to the end, so he will be burned at the stake. A report came in saying he would die soon, so it will be done today. I do not intend to bother watching.”

“Let me ask you one thing. Do you feel nothing? Regret, perhaps, or guilt?”

“When a moment of mortal danger comes, a self you never knew emerges. What matters then is not to hesitate. Those were your words to me, teacher. Regret is for ordinary people, not for those who must make decisions and give orders. It is nothing but an obstacle.”

“... Do you want to become emperor that badly?”

“No. I look beyond being emperor. Human history is the process of extending a sovereign’s control far and wide, into every corner. I do not know whether you understand. Imperial authority reached its peak under Martellus II and has declined ever since. My incompetent father all but destroyed it. My duty is to restore it and strengthen it further. Only then can the world have order and peace, wouldn’t you agree? You may not be highly educated, teacher, but you are intelligent. I believe you understand what I mean.”

“...”

Although Bellator had come of age, he was still young. Yet his philosophy was fully formed, and there was not a crack in those unshakable convictions. What would be the point of saying anything?

“I shall take my leave.”

“Before you do: once you have settled matters in Adelorn, come swear fealty to me, Red Prince. Promise me here and now.”

Ricard bowed his head and considered in silence, then looked up again.

“No. I cannot promise that.”

His refusal was firm. Yet, unexpectedly, Bellator’s smile deepened.

“Do you know why I like you, teacher?”

“I do not.”

“You speak your mind. So openly that I wonder whether anyone should be that honest. We really are different, aren’t we?”

“I wonder. The look in your eyes has not changed either, Your Highness.”

“Mine? How so?”

“Arrogance. The arrogance of believing yourself above everyone else in the world. You were the same before. Even when the former Crown Prince was alive. Even when the Emperor was alive. The arrogance of believing everyone, without exception, beneath you.”

“Is that so? Ha ha...”

To those who spent time close to him, Bellator seemed easygoing. Much like Ricard had been as a child. But the source of that disposition was the exact opposite. Bellator treated everyone alike because he looked down on every human being in the world except himself.

At Ricard’s words, which pierced straight to his essence, he gave a genuinely pleased smile instead of the masklike one he had worn before. After savoring his teacher’s observation for a moment, he spoke again.

“If you intend to become king, remember this. A sovereign’s position is a lonely one. Your dearest friend, your closest wife, even a child of your own blood can become your enemy.”

“I do not know whether I will become king. But if that is what it requires, I will take off the crown without regret.”

“Well, perhaps you could do that, teacher. Go on. It has been a long time since I enjoyed a conversation this much.”

Bellator turned away as he spoke. The smile had already vanished from his lips.

Ricard left the imperial palace, collected his belongings from the inn, and set off on horseback once more. As he was leaving, he saw Edmund’s execution taking place in the square. A vast crowd had gathered. Firewood was piled high, and Edmund was bound to a stake. A priest questioned him one last time.

“Will you confess your sins?”

Edmund, who had been hanging limp as though dead, slowly raised his head. His tongue, spared through all those tortures so that he might confess, and his lungs stirred powerfully, kindling one final flame.

“I am! Innocent! I have! Committed no crime!”

“Carry out the sentence.”

The flustered priest spoke hastily. But the final declaration of this prisoner who was no criminal was not yet over.

“I am! Innocent! I have! Committed no crime!”

Even those who had come merely to watch a gruesome execution began to murmur at the conviction in his cries. But soon the wood was lit, and flames roared up in an instant. Flesh sizzled as it burned. Trembling all over, Edmund shouted to the very end.

“I am of the Order of Flame! Rise, flames! Burn bright! Carry my wrath to God! O God! Sing of wrath! Pass judgment...!”

Ricard bowed his head. Edmund’s cries hammered against his heart. To the last, he proclaimed his innocence and prayed to God for vengeance.

Eons had passed since the universe was born, and eons more would follow. Yet Edmund’s final cry had branded this very moment: I am innocent. Whatever sentence had been passed upon him, whatever disgrace had been heaped upon him, that searing brand could only crush it to nothing.

Ricard vowed that even if he could not obtain the Order of Flame’s help, he would deliver the reliquary to its headquarters without fail. And with it, Edmund’s blazing wrath and his innocence, indelible as a brand.

Part 26 – The Sovereign’s Duty. End.