Chapter 126

CHAPTER 11 Homecomings Cyril’s hometown of Ashendarte was in the southwest of the Kingdom of Ridill. It was famed for its textiles, and all the women there were taught weaving from a very young age. In his memories, his mother was always sitting behind a loom, reeling in threads of all different colors, weaving them into beautifully patterned cloths. These days, automatic water-powered looms were taking over the market, and hand-woven products were on the decline. But those of Ashendarte—known as Ashenda weave—had stubbornly held on to their popularity both inside and outside the kingdom, due to their intricate patterns and vivid colors. It had been quite some time since Cyril had visited, and a lot about the townscape had changed. But he could still hear the clacking of the looms all around, just like he had as a child. Cyril got out of the coach with his travel bag in hand, then walked alone through the familiar streets. His foster father, the Marquess of Highown, had told him he could borrow a carriage if he visited home, but Cyril had politely declined. The carriage would immediately mark him as a noble, and it would draw too much attention parked in front of his mother’s house. His mother hated standing out like that. So instead of wearing the high-quality clothing Marquess Highown had given him, he wore simple traveling clothes and a hat. His deep-blue eyes, lustrous silver hair, and gorgeous facial features all made him look like a noble, and he’d always stood out among the other children. He could still remember how much that had concerned his mother—much more than it had ever concerned him. She always saw his father in him, and that made her afraid—afraid he’d turn into his father someday. Cyril pulled the brim of his hat down as he walked, his gaze on the ground. He was used to others looking at him with fear and curiosity. He could deal with that—what he couldn’t deal with was when they looked at his mother the same way. The house he’d grown up in was the same as it had been several years ago. Marquess Highown had provided enough financial support for Cyril’s mother not to have to work, but she had chosen to remain where she was and continue her life as before. Cyril gulped and came to a stop in front of the door. He brought his right hand up to knock, then paused and held it there unnaturally. If he opened the door and announced that he was home…would his mother say, “But this isn’t your home,” and chide him? That thought passed through his mind. “……” It was his home, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to say so. After thinking hard about it, he came up with an idea. I know. I’ll say “It’s been so long,” instead. That will flow more naturally. And then I can see how she responds, and— “Oh, Cyril. Welcome home.” The voice came from behind him. He was so startled, he almost dropped his things. Awkwardly, he turned around to find his mother behind him, holding a broom. Apparently, she’d been sweeping outside the house. Forgetting about his concerns, he responded in a panic. “I, er, I’m home!” His voice cracked terribly. He sounded like Monica. His mother seemed a little dazed as she looked at him, but eventually she put her broom up against the wall and opened the door. “You must be cold from the trip. I’ll fire up the stove.” “No, no. I-I’ll do it!” “You will? All right. Thank you.” That simple thank you, and the fact she’d let him call this place his home, filled Cyril with such relief, he could have cried. The inside of the house, just like the outside, was almost exactly as Cyril remembered it. In the corner was his mother’s loom; she was using it to create a beautifully intricate pattern. The cloth featured a white rose, depicted with glossy thread on indigo fabric. He looked at the rose more closely. It used threads of slightly different gloss and color here and there, giving the full image a sense of depth. After he fired up the stove, his mother boiled some water and brewed tea. “Here you are,” she said. “Thank you,” replied Cyril, accepting the drink. Then he remembered he hadn’t taken out his gift for her—he’d been too tense. Hastily, he dug the item, wrapped in paper, out of his bag. “This is…a gift,” he said. “For you. I hope you can get some use out of it.” His mother opened the wrapping a little to examine the contents, then blinked. “Soap?” “Yes, well. I was with some underclassmen, and we picked these out together. They had a lot of different scents, but…this was the most calming, so…” “It smells nice.” Seeing his mother’s little smile relaxed him, and the corners of his mouth began to turn up, too. It seems I made the right choice… I’ll have to thank Accountant Norton. He breathed a covert sigh of relief and picked up his cup. The cup had been his ever since he was little. He was happy it was still here, and that his mother hadn’t poured the tea into a cup meant for guests. As he pondered such things, he put the cup to his lips. The tea wasn’t too hot—Cyril’s tongue burned easily—and it was already sweetened. This was the same flavor he’d liked as a kid. One sip was enough to make his chest tighten in nostalgia. For a time, the two of them drank their tea in silence. When their cups were about half-empty, his mother asked stiffly, “How has school been?” Cyril straightened up nervously. He’d been considering what to talk about the entire carriage ride home. But now that he was in front of his mother, his mind went blank, and he had trouble forming words. He’d already told her all about school in his letters, and he couldn’t think of any new topics. Cyril put his cup on the table and thought. Oh, I know. I’ll talk about the prince. He was confident he could talk about Felix until the sun went down. Whenever Elliott heard him talking on this subject, he would look at him with pity. But in Cyril’s opinion, Elliott simply lacked the proper respect for the prince. “Student council work is going smoothly,” he began. “We have a new accountant this year, so things have been somewhat busy. But the prince’s guidance has been sublime. All of our events went smoothly, which has only impressed on me further how excellent a commander he is. His greetings during the academy festival were especially—” “I wanted to hear about you, not Prince Felix.” The quiet interruption caused Cyril to freeze. His gaze wandered for a few moments. “Oh, well… I put almost everything about myself in my letters,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t mind if you tell me again… I want to hear it from you.” Cyril’s face tightened up, and he fell silent. When he was little and still attending the school in town, he would often brag to his mother about how good his test scores were and how his teachers had praised him. But now he was scared to talk about himself at all. “Mother, I scored full marks on today’s test. I was number one!” Whenever he excitedly announced such things to his mother, she would sigh, say “oh,” and look away. When he was writing a letter, he could calmly reflect and give a full report. But when it came to telling his mother things in person, he suddenly found himself afraid of how she would react, and his tongue froze in place. But he couldn’t stay silent forever. And there was something he needed to tell her about. “Well, it’s been decided that I…will go to the castle for the New Year greetings.” The New Year greetings took place after the New Year’s ceremony held at the royal castle. The event lasted for a week, during which nobility from across the kingdom would visit the castle one by one and pay their respects to the king. In general, only those with a title took part in the tradition; their families generally stayed at home. Eldest sons, however—the ones set to inherit the family title—were permitted to accompany their fathers. And Marquess Highown had told Cyril that he’d bring him along this year. In other words, the marquess had accepted Cyril—his foster son—as his rightful successor. It had been several years since the marquess had taken him in, and yet Cyril was still anxious about his position. It was clear to everyone that his mental faculties paled in comparison to Claudia’s. In an attempt to gain a skill of his own, he’d studied magecraft. But in the end, he’d wound up suffering from mana hyperabsorption. He was getting nowhere, and he wasn’t meeting the expectations placed on him. If this kept up, wouldn’t the marquess eventually abandon him? Such thoughts plagued Cyril. Of course, for the past few months, a certain underclassman had kept him so busy that he hadn’t had time to feel anxious. Still, when he’d returned to the Ashley estate for winter break and Marquess Highown had broached the topic of the New Year greetings, Cyril had been so happy, he’d nearly broken down in tears. But at the same time, he felt a new anxiety well up within him—how would his mother react when she found out? No matter how many times he imagined how it might go, his mother always sighed and said, “You really are a noble’s son.” What if she said that to him again…? The fear made his fingers tremble. He was afraid to look at his mother’s face. If she sighed in resignation, what would he do? As Cyril hung his head, his mother addressed him quietly. “…Good job. I know you worked hard.” Cyril’s slender shoulders shook. Slowly, he brought his face back up. His mother, sitting across from him, wore a peaceful expression. “There was a girl at the academy’s festival who helped me find my way around. She said you always taught her how to do her work…and that you were very kind.” “…Huh?” “I think Marquess Highown must have noticed those good qualities in you.” Cyril’s vision began to blur. He saw his mother’s loom. He loved watching her weave—hearing the loom’s rhythmic rattling, seeing the pretty patterns gradually emerge. As a young boy, he’d always sat right here and watched her. “When weaving, it’s important to work diligently and carefully, taking each step one at a time.” Cyril had done just that. He’d taken each step one at a time and never stopped doing his best. He savored his mother’s words—“I know you worked hard”—and smiled, tears in his eyes. With pride, he said, “I’m your son, after all.” Felix Arc Ridill completed diplomatic talks with the Kingdom of Farfolia and departed from Duke Rehnberg’s mansion eight days after he had arrived.