Chapter 173

EPILOGUE From the Silent Witch to the Clay Man Once all the work was finished and they’d left the mansion, Raul brought Monica and Bridget back to their inn in one of his family’s carriages. Normally, servants used the horse-drawn carts loaded with tools, but the two girls got special treatment. In the carriage, Raul smiled. “Did you find out anything useful?” “…Yes,” said Monica clearly. Raul nodded in satisfaction, then casually patted her on the shoulder. “If you ever need help, just ask me! We’re friends, after all!” “Um, th-thank you.” Still trembling a bit from the loudness of Raul’s voice, Monica looked at Bridget. She was staring down at her feet in silence. Eventually, the carriage reached their inn, and Bridget gave a polite bow. “Please excuse me,” she said, disembarking first. Monica got up, meaning to follow her, only for Raul to stop her and whisper, “Hey, Monica, about her…” “Wh-what?” “Why does she have cotton in her mouth?” Monica stared at him blankly. Nobody else had given Bridget’s disguise so much as a second thought. She never expected Raul to notice such a thing. It was probably best to hide the fact that Bridget was the daughter of a marquess. As Monica wondered what excuse to make, Raul’s expression suddenly grew serious. “Could it be that…she’s so hungry she stuffed her mouth with cotton?” “……” “In that case, here you go,” said Raul, taking a carrot out of his bag and putting it in her hand. “Have her eat this!” “…Umm…” After thinking hard about what to say, Monica decided to keep things simple. “Thank, um, thank phew,” she said awkwardly, before climbing out of the carriage, carrot in hand. What am I supposed to do with this carrot…? Slightly troubled, Monica went up the inn’s stairs and opened the door to her and Bridget’s room. Bridget sat on her bed, having spat out the cotton in her mouth. She was wiping her face with a cloth. Monica couldn’t see her expression behind it. She placed the carrot on a sideboard, then awkwardly spoke. “…Um, Lady…Bridget?” No reply. The other girl didn’t even look up. There was no space in the duke’s mansion where the real Felix could have been locked up. They’d visited nearly every room with Raul. There could be no doubt about it. Furthermore, Monica had compared the mansion’s exterior and interior values, and she was certain there were no hidden rooms or anything of the sort. The prince Bridget yearned for was not in that mansion. And now, after looking around the place, Monica had grown sure of something else. It was a cold, cruel truth, but she had to say it. “The real Prince Felix… He already—” “Don’t,” Bridget interrupted, her shoulders shaking. The light streaming in from the window illuminated her brilliant golden locks, and they shone beautifully each time her body trembled. “…I think…I think I knew…all along.” Bridget was smart. The moment she realized the current Felix was an impostor, she must have considered the worst—that the real Felix Arc Ridill was already dead, and that was why they’d needed a body double for him. “But I still… I needed to come here in person. To see the truth for myself.” Bridget hung her head for a few more moments, but eventually she wiped her face roughly and looked up with vigor. Even without her makeup, she still had the countenance of a dignified lady. She was her usual self once again. “Thank you for your assistance, Monica Norton,” she said firmly. “You have some strange connections, and while I would love to ask you about them, for now, I won’t.” “Um, that’s…very kind of you…” “I know it will be difficult to dig any deeper. But for now, I’ll plan my next move—even if the prince is no longer with me. I must know the whole truth.” She really is strong, thought Monica. Even after being forced to confront such a horrible reality, she was determined to carry on. She still wanted to find out what really happened. But…I can’t tell her everything. “Lady Bridget,” she said in a hard voice, “you’re, um, familiar with foreign languages, right?” “Yes. Why?” Monica didn’t know much about the Imperial tongue. She needed to ask someone skilled in linguistics, like Bridget. “If you were to say the name Arthur in the Imperial language…what would it be?” Bridget frowned dubiously and answered simply, “Artur.” Monica had heard that name at the school festival. The one to say it had been an Imperial mage who snuck into the event and made contact with Felix. “Ewan, were you able to confirm it?” If Monica remembered right, the man named Ewan had answered the girl with the thick eyebrows like this: “I wasn’t able to make direct contact, but I got a good look up close, and I saw the traces. It’s the work of the traitor Artur. The prediction we were given was correct after all.” Monica shut her eyes and curled her hands into fists. …Now everything makes sense. Now she knew why Ewan had infiltrated Serendia Academy. He’d had the exact same suspicions as Monica, so he’d used his body-manipulation magecraft to—quite literally—get confirmation. Monica slowly opened her eyes. Her voice was still hard as she said, “Lady Bridget, can we stop somewhere before going back to the academy?” “As a reward for helping me, I’ll take you wherever you wish. Where would you like to go?” After thinking for a moment, Monica spoke again. “The capital.” The gardener slowly sat himself up in bed, then gently bent and stretched his creaky knees. His body was old and decrepit. They’d need to look for a successor soon. Duke Clockford’s estate, where he was employed, boasted a great variety of rare flowers as a display of the duke’s authority. They’d need a gardener suitably versed in the field to take care of them. Not just anyone could do this job. “If only he were here with us…,” the gardener murmured, putting on his jacket and heading out into the garden. Even from the gardener’s perspective, the Roseburgs had done a good job of replanting. He was a bit envious, since he took pride in the fact that he’d protected these gardens by himself until now. But the truth was that his body could no longer withstand the harsh demands of field work. Around ten years ago, a boy had often helped him out. He would weed, carry heavy tools, and even nimbly climb up trees to prune them. Once, the man had shared some of the plums from one of the trees as thanks; he remembered how the boy had hidden them in his jacket instead of eating them right away, smiling and saying he would save them for a late-night snack. Later, while drinking with the other servants, he’d let slip that he hoped the kid would take over for him one day. But the head chef had insisted that the boy, with his skills, ought to succeed him instead. They’d even argued over it. That chef had already retired. Less than half of the servants from those days were still around. “…What’s this?” The pruned branches had been stacked neatly in one corner of the gardens. That Roseburg must have done the pruning, too, while he was replanting. One of the man’s jobs was to take such branches and burn them with the other trash. I’ll have to ask the butler if we have anything else that needs burning… Suddenly, a memory overtook him. That day, he’d been given some paper trash to burn along with the branches. There, among the trash, he’d found an awfully nice book on astronomy. He thought it was a waste to destroy it; the book was sure to fetch a high price if sold to a used bookstore. Well, the master says to burn it, and I suppose I understand how he feels, somewhat… He sighed and brushed off his pants as he prepared the fire. But then, someone ran up to him and begged him to wait. It was the blond-haired boy who always helped him with his work. The boy gazed at the book lumped in with the pruned branches and paper trash; he looked chagrined. “That book…” “The master says to burn it.” A wind blew through, ruffling the boy’s bangs. He used his hair to hide a deep scar that ran vertically over his right eye—the claw mark of a large beast. He could still see, but that scar would probably last forever. The boy didn’t talk much about his life before coming to the mansion, though he’d once let slip that he was from the eastern provinces. Lot of dragonraids in the east… That scar probably came from a dragon. The boy held down his bangs with his right hand and bit his lip. He looked deeply conflicted. He was probably wondering if taking the book would get the gardener in trouble. The man turned his back to the boy and walked off toward the mansion. “All right. I’ll go check if there’s anything else that needs burning.” “……” “And if someone were to pick something out of the trash, well, I would never know about it.” “…Thank you.” The man turned around just slightly and saw the boy stuff the astronomy book in his jacket. The boy always stashed such treasures in his clothes, hiding them away. That was how he smuggled things to the prince. Eventually, the master found out about the book… From what the gardener had heard, the book was burned, and the boy received a severe beating. At the time, the gardener hadn’t even realized what had happened. The boy could endure just about anything; he never let anyone see his pain. “If he were alive…he’d be twenty years old, eh? I know he would have liked to see Prince Felix come into his own as a man.” But while Felix was now a fine adult, the boy was no longer beside him. The thought made the old man sad. He lit a cigar and offered a prayer to the boy who had died, right here, ten years ago. One day, as spring light poured in through the window, Ewan noticed a letter in the classified section of the largest newspaper in Ridill, headquartered in the capital. Clayman of the Blue Scales. Let us verify the horrible truth together. I await your response. From the Woman of Few Words. Espionage was Ewan’s main line of work, so he made it a daily task to look over all sorts of newspapers both foreign and domestic. He’d noticed the ad right away. “Yes,” he said. “I’m certain this is a message from the Silent Witch.” He handed the newspaper to his employer. Ewan often changed his face, but he always maintained the same one in front of his employer—an even face with slightly narrow eyes. It was a face Ewan had once been forced to give up, and the one that caused him the least strain when using body-manipulation magecraft. “Give it here,” his employer said as he ran his eyes, dark and glimmering, over the paper. The man was in his late twenties and had black hair that fell in gentle waves. His facial features were pronounced, making him look heroic and beautiful, like a statue of some mythical figure. But unlike a statue, he was filled with vitality and vigor. His sharp eyes slowly scanned the letter, then his lips curled into a smile. He looked like a beast with its fangs bared. “The Silent Witch… Yes, she was one of Ridill’s Seven Sages, wasn’t she? Ah, the Seven Sages. Has a nice ring to it, eh? The Four Heavenly Kings, the Three Musketeers… Why, it makes your heart dance like something from a storybook, doesn’t it?” For a moment, the man seemed lost in fantasy. Then, all of a sudden, he pounded his hand with a fist. “Oh! We should make one, too! Let’s see. If they’re the Seven Sages, then we’ll want an even bigger number. The Convocation of Ten? The Twelve Sword Saints? Ah, the Thirteen Knights is an excellent choice as well. Hmm. Which should I choose?” “…Oh, but you jest, sir,” Ewan said with a wry smile. The man chuckled, clearly amused. “Fool. How many times have you seen me turn a jest into an accomplishment?” “Then perhaps it’s best not to increase the number without reason, sir. Too large and it might begin to sound cheap.” “Ah, yes, you have a point. Let’s keep it to six or less, then. In any case, what is your opinion on the Silent Witch?” The man would often say something ridiculous, making it impossible to tell if he was serious or joking, then abruptly launch back into the topic at hand. It was simply the way he was. Ewan was used to his quirks, so he answered unfalteringly. “As a professional assassin, I would give an arm and a leg for her unchanted magecraft.” If she wanted to, the Silent Witch could behead her enemies without uttering a word. There was no technique more well-suited to assassination. “And her level of precision is incredible, sir… It can wreak far more havoc against people than against dragons.” “Could it be used as a weapon of war?” “She is a monster. In fact, sir, I can scarcely believe she’s the same species as we are.” The man threw his head back and guffawed. “Says the man with no face. I think most would call you the real monster, eh, Ewan?” “Please think of the Silent Witch as even more monstrous than me, sir.” “…Oh?” Ewan’s employer recrossed his long legs and rapped his fingertips against his chair’s armrest. “Very, very interesting. By the way, Ewan… This Silent Witch, is she a good-looking woman?” There’s his bad habit again, said Ewan, unintentionally falling silent for a moment. Recrossing his legs yet again, the man went on. “You know how I love beauties with big chests and rear ends—and eyes that glimmer with ambitions and treachery. You know, a temptress or a femme fatale—ideally someone like the first Witch of Thorns, Rebecca Roseburg.” “…Unfortunately, the Silent Witch is quite the opposite.” “Damn. What a shame! …But I suppose I am quite interested in this unchanted magecraft, or what have you.” Ewan grimaced, sensing something ominous in the other man’s words. “Sir? You’re not thinking of…” “Oh, I am. I will go to the Kingdom of Ridill myself.” Ewan chuckled, a little desperately, then began to grimace. “…You’re joking, right? Sir, you’re kidding, aren’t you?” His employer began to laugh uproariously, as if to drown out Ewan’s chuckling. “Wah-ha-ha! You know I love to do everything I can to make my jokes a reality!”