by Y. R. Shin
“I did not say you could ask questions,” replied Paseid angrily. “Explain why that man acted affectionately with you, and how he knew about the existence of the mine not even the soldiers of this camp know about because of the gag order—”
“What happened to him?” she demanded. “How—how is it that there are those in Morgana wearing a mantle with the queen’s symbol? I am asking how this came to be!” Reuyen’s voice ripped in a thousand different ways.
Paseid stopped talking. The eyes of the woman, who had surprised many people with a courage quite unlike other docile northern women, were frozen, as though frightened.
Peijak Dollehan Rarkalia. The tale of the man who had betrayed Rarke two hundred years ago and defected to Morgana was a tale that appeared within a couple pages of a history book. For a woman who apparently read books of military laws and orations not to know that famous story was paradoxical. Even the fact that she was bringing him up at this moment.
“Do you not know?”
“Why, just why would he be…of Morgana…? Why—what…?”
The woman was stuttering, unable to continue, and she looked like she had lost her mind. Paseid glared at her, then suddenly sprang up to bring back a book from the bookshelf positioned at the side of the tent.
It was an illustrated book that contained the houses, sigils, and symbols of each country. He opened one section, put it down on the table, and slammed his hand down on it with a loud bang.
A threatening warning ensued. “Do not pretend like you do not know that the man you kept in contact with in secret is the descendent of Peijak Dollehan Rarkalia, the ignominious betrayer of the north.”
Reuyen’s distraught eyes were fixed on one side of the tattered book Paseid pressed down on. She could see the clear butterfly design covered under the inside of his palm. She stumbled to the table and pushed his hand like she was trying to rip it away. The chillingly beautiful creature landed on the dead tree smelling of old leather, the design that should’ve been recorded as the queen’s symbol, was…
Her eyes slid down bit by bit.
Betrayer Peijak Dollehan founds:
Mariposa – of Morgana
Her eyes stopped on the writing she could not understand.
“This…”
This is not your rightful place, dear sister.
The memory wretchedly echoed in her ear. Reuyen barely regained her balance. She leaned on the table with one hand. Her limbs trembled, and her spine felt fuzzy with chills.
Traitor.
She engraved the unbelievable word on her mind. Like someone who thought staring at it so would change the word itself.
“This cannot…this…”
Her voice repeated it over and over. Her throat ached like she had swallowed a blade, and her tongue shivered like it had been touched by fire. Then, she suddenly stopped. Her oft-tranquil face distorted like that day when she turned seven.
Reuyen lost the grip of her body at the rush of stupefaction and slipped down to the floor with her hand still on the table.
How?
She finally regretted neglecting Peijak because she’d been afraid of those who would rejoice at her death.
How?
But it was already too late.
“This is the end of your absurd behavior,” said Paseid. “If you do not explain your acquaintance with Balroid Peijak of Mariposa, I will arrest your brother and the rest of your family this instant to closely interrogate and punish them. Keeping contact with an enemy during wartime by itself signifies treason. The punishment will be execution.”
Sss. Following the sound of the swiftly drawn metal, Paseid’s unforgiving blade touched her neck. Reuyen felt goosebumps run along her body at the cold metal touching her skin. She clenched her teeth. The eyes shining through her hair revealed a disordered resignation.
“Sidan—Sidan doesn’t know anything. My parents do not know anything either,” she stammered.
“Then state what you know and who you are.”
A tsunami of reality that she could no longer laugh off or give excuses for crashed over her.
“I am…I am.”
She raised her head.
As she did, the tattered strategy book neatly laid on the table caught her eye. The book that carried the dullness of years seemed like it had already been sewn back together several times. The shadow of an already faded design on the cover jumped out at her.
The shock from the appearance of an odd order of knights was not just applicable to the Rarkians. The Morganaan army also wondered who these knights were who appeared and shook the entire military system.
Many witnessed the thousands of knights in blue armor standing in formation, with over ten thousand soldiers standing behind them. There were those who excitedly chattered that the ones looked like a great wave crashing on the plain.
No one could deny that the situation had taken a sharp turn in an unexpected direction, starting with the collapse of Olzore. The rumor that the commander-in-chief of the black lion army, Marche Carl Rovantis, might resign had become a fait accompli within half a day.
Then there was the appearance of the murderous knights who carried a blue banner, Mariposa. They were the object of fear for those who were honest, and the object of detestation and disdain for those who were ashamed to admit their fears. Is a friend who frightens their friends truly a friend? They could not help but ask that question when it came to Mariposa.
Regardless of the soldiers’ initial impression of them, the knights in blue armor moved in an orderly fashion and occupied various sections of the camp bit by bit. The heads of the black lion army could not hide their confusion.
“Sir Visevar, this does not make any sense.”
The question was pointed at the banner bearer, Sir Visevar, who was also the second-in-command of the black lion’s army. He was a middle-aged man of great stature, especially among the small but stoutly built southerners.
Marquis Rovantis, the commander-in-chief, was not in his right mind at the moment, so the fact the knights were visiting the second-in-command instead to seek a solution to the situation was not an odd event.
About three months ago, they had received the notice that Count Zars from the east would lead the reinforcements, after rumors circulated that Count Servantes from the middle of the country or the knight from House Loweia who led Ebloom’s mercenary company would be dispatched.
But the one who arrived at the Morganaan camp was not Count Zars; he was Count Mariposa. And he carried a royal document stating that he had been appointed as the new commander-in-chief.
“Do not display disloyalty,” Visevar coldly answered and threw the fabric he’d just torn apart into the fire. It was a letter from his family on the archipelago a knight of House Mariposa had brought. It was not filled with greetings or how-do-you-dos. It was a simple summary of the current situations on the archipelago and at Angredium.
There were three main topics: a question about whether his house should dispatch at least a little bit of its men; the current, urgent situation in Simore Archipelago spurred by the collapse of Olzore; and the news of the Angredium Kingdom, which was not too far away from the archipelago. The most infuriating thing in the letter for him was that King Ionin of Angredium had given a public speech about the fall of the impregnable fort.
“Even so, Mariposa? It’s too much, sir. If it were someone like Sir Loweia…no, you, Sir Visevar.”
Visevar turned his attention from the lamenting knight to his now tattered sword.
Too much.
Could the talk of too much or too little even exist under absolute imperial orders? It was a significant insolence to even dare to judge such a thing.
The soldiers of the black lion already knew that Belrevirehein II was that kind of an emperor. He didn’t think much of life and dictated the decisions on most of the matters outside of the archipelago. The south pretended to be proud of this by justifying its subordination with the phrase dictation is the pride of t
he southern imperial house, but there were times when one could not help but ask if that were right or not.
A couple years ago, Belrevirehein II had put Mariposa on the list of the central nobles who could freely enter the imperial palace. Since then, the people knew that Belrevirehein II had his eyes on the current Count Mariposa, Balroid.
Still, they could not have been able to anticipate that he would think to put Mariposa and Rarke against each other. Did the emperor think this war was some children’s game? Unless that was so, he would not have appointed Count Mariposa as not even the second-in-command, but the commander-in-chief, knowing that either side would be emotionally involved in this war.
The reason dictation is not right is clear. It is the fisherman’s duty to catch fish and pick clams, and it is the huntsman’s duty to hunt or raise animals for food. Selling satin and utensils is a merchant’s job, and raising crops is a farmer’s job. One man cannot be proficient in every field. We have forgotten that. I do not mean to praise the way the northern royal court is run. But they have nobles who can officially oppose the king to direct the king in a sensible way. We are no more than hundreds of different countries tied together under the name of an empire with the oppression of building private armies and the emperor’s right to appoint whomever he wants. This is on a different subject than the claims that we should strictly apply our laws on the descendent of the black lion. But at times, we must raise our voices.
The one who’d said those words to Visevar was Duke Zordia, who incessantly opposed the war against Rarke. Duke Zordia was once one of the closest advisors of Belrevirehein II, but he turned his back on the imperial house when the issue of his duchess and Belrevirehein II’s affair had surfaced.
About two years ago, Visevar had considered those the words of a petty man holding a grudge for having his wife stolen away. But now, he couldn’t help but think that Duke Zordia was right.
The emperor did not know war. He was an almighty being who could not see every soldier’s face, and hence could not know how each of his decisions caused such varying results.
“Have they not reported Count Mariposa’s arrival yet?” asked Visevar.
“No, sir. Marquis Rovantis is waiting only for him right now.”
A sigh escaped his mouth at the thought of their commander-in-chief restlessly waiting for Balroid. The more he breathed in to resolve and let it out, the more his lungs filled up with muggy frustration.
Visevar knew that he was not a perfectly innocent person, but he believed a fight was only cleanly resolved when it was fairly executed and there were no personal feelings involved.
That’s the end of that, then. Now, the scale of this war will become even larger than it already was.
The main cause of the current racket in the Morganaan camp, House Mariposa, had had an idiosyncratic beginning.
It had begun two hundred years ago, when the last prince of the Rarkalia Dynasty, who’d left the north seeking asylum, had been granted a land west of the Iga Mountains by Dernajuke IV (the first emperor, Valarjeff I), who was the king of Morgana at the time. The land beyond the mountain range in the southern continent was a barren land, and there, Peijak Dollehan Rarkalia had founded his house, Mariposa, and devoted his whole life to Morgana.
It was right after Rarke’s conquest had ended. The southerners had detested House Mariposa as much as the northerners did. Amidst the countless prejudices and various practical issues, House Mariposa had established a unique system to survive. They’d volunteered to become the dogs of the Morganaan imperial family, paid their taxes with blood, and trained mercenaries for their army instead of strictly regulated private soldiers. It was quite a famous tale.
Of their recent achievements, the ones people still remembered were how they’d crushed the outskirts of Angredium, massacred minority groups, and greatly contributed in blocking the Daraks, who were marching south to invade Tolf.
They were also the pendulum that balanced the relationships among two kingdoms and over twenty lands west of the Iga Mountains, where their home, Ragodesis, was located. They were the ones who had saved the empire’s border when the king of Vayn, who died ten years ago or so, attempted to undertake an invasion of the west. In short, they already exercised quite an influence when it came to brute force. Visevar would not have had to think this deeply if ability to influence and honor held the same meaning.
On top of these, they’d gained the notoriety of being an invincible order of knights who had not once lost since the current head, Balroid Peijak Mariposa, was delegated all powers.
Sure, it was reassuring to have strong soldiers during wartime, but a massacre was not all there was to a war. Rather, it was a great fight where rules and morality needed to be adhered to more than anywhere else.
Visevar turned his back to the knight and walked out of the tent, trying to hide his complicated feelings. He looked up at the dark midday sky. It seemed like the rain was not going to stop.
“I’m sure His Imperial Majesty had his reasons.”
Even while saying so, he was certain of the darkness already above them.
The appearance of Mariposa was a clear trigger for war.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The rain poured hard.
By the time Balroid returned to the Morganaan camp, it was already early night, with the sun below the horizon.
“My lord.”
The former commander-in-chief, Marche Carl Rovantis, who had been biting his nails and waiting for Balroid to show his face, ran out from under the awning of his tent and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Mariposa! Explain the meaning of this!”
The knight on a completely soaked black horse turned his head to look down at Marche. The night’s shadow cast upon his helmet hid his face. Marche was overcome with the terrifying feeling of being chased to the edge of a cliff as he stared into the undistinguishable face.
“Explain to me this very moment how this—!”
“Bring me a negotiator who is skillful enough to discuss the prisoners with Rarke.” With that, Balroid turned all of his attention away from Marche. One of the knights who was standing nearby quickly ran off to carry out the order.
“How dare you—how dare you ignore me!” Marche screamed, which sounded more like a reproach to his insipid attitude. “What are you doing right now, Mariposa? How dare you insult me like this! I do not know how you inveigled His Imperial Majesty with that snake of a tongue of yours this time, but…!”
His pitifully cracking scream carried a mixture of desperation and rage. It was because he knew what would happen if he simply stepped back, after spending the whole year infuriating the emperor by emptying the exchequer for provisions for the army.
Balroid, who was remaining silent like he could not hear, slowly dismounted his horse. He took off the helmet that was dripping water and blocking his sight and threw it aside.
The thoroughly wet reddish-brown hair and the blue eyes as clear as the midwinter sky were revealed at last. Upon seeing him eye to eye, Marche winced and instinctively lowered his gaze and followed the black helmet that had been thrown down. With an irritating clang, the helmet rolled through a puddle and stopped by Marche’s feet.
“The emperor’s orders have already been decreed.”
“This—this—this is a preposterous measure. The last defeat was due to the idiotic general of Fort Olzore!”
A numbing silence covered the area.
“Do you, Marquis Rovantis, know why Olzore collapsed?” The chillingly low voice pierced through the pouring rain and reached Marche’s ears.
Marche recalled the fallen Olzore, then recalled the emperor’s fury and let out a dreadful moan. On top of everything, he didn’t know much about the fort’s collapse. A blush rose in Marche’s cheeks.
But like he didn’t even remember asking the question, Balroid turned his back to Marche and fixed his eyes on the black horse he’d ridden here. He held the hilt of his sword in his hand.
&n
bsp; “Oh, the general deserved to die as well,” Balroid muttered, and gave a cynical smile.
Another legend of the undefeatable had crumbled on that revolting land, Olzore.
Pitch-black eyes. The horse he was on fluttered his long eyelashes in his barding. He was shivering, wet from the rain. Balroid quietly gazed into the black eyes in the barding, then scrunched his lips. They suddenly reminded him of someone. The remnants of the fury that had subsided at last during the ride back suddenly sprang up to the surface again.
“That will all be revealed through an investigation!” cried the Marche. “Balroid, it seems like your arrogance is soaring through the sky because of the single fact that your house has entered the fifteen central nobles! But, His Imperial Majesty will soon know of your filthy blood—!”
“You do not even know who stands there.”
“Who doesn’t know the Rarkian army is ther—”
Laughter broke out through Balroid’s wet lips, which had stayed motionless. The frighteningly sharp-edged sword hanging by his side swung out without a warning. Neighhhh… The horse’s whinny ceased. The fierce cry of the blade resounded, and hot streams of blood gushed out and up through the rain. Steam flowed through the air with the revolting smell.
Startled, Marche gaped and ungracefully stumbled back. But not paying any attention to him, Balroid just stared down at the black horse’s head rolling around on the ground. Like his eyes were fixed, or taken hold of.
At last, the headless body of the horse splashed blood as it crumbled down. A couple knights stepped back at the massive body falling. Only then did Balroid look back at Marche, shaking the blood off the sword.
“Take it away.”
It was extremely ambiguous. Take it away? Who? Me? Marche winced and made a squeak, then came back to his senses. The female knight who was standing like a wooden doll the whole time started to move at Balroid’s order.