Chapter 88
As the count’s attitude shifted, Gray found himself paying closer attention to what the man was saying.
“The head of a house—the father—holds absolute authority over a child’s marriage. Just as Hannibal became engaged to Ann Pero overnight.”
Among nobles, marriages are not decided by personal will, but by the will of the family. When it came to a child’s future spouse, the lord of the house’s authority overrode all else.
Had he come to probe him because of what he’d done to Ann? Gray waited for Arthur’s next words.
“I saw you meet Ann in the back garden. A slap, a blow. One of you ran out; the other crouched there a long while before coming out.”
“…!”
“It felt as though I’d witnessed a clandestine tryst—lovers who’d parted meeting in secret again.”
Arthur spoke as if he’d seized on a weakness, and Gray’s eyes narrowed.
“And?”
“Even so, what scandal is a duke’s tryst with a maid? It’s hardly worth the gossip.”
Ann Pero was no longer a maid but Hannibal’s fiancée; even so, Gray did not correct Count Arthur.
“But for Ann it would be fatal. Are you planning to use her to blackmail me?”
At that, the count grinned like a fisherman who had just landed a catch.
“So it would work?”
He had as good as admitted that Ann had value as leverage against him. Looking at the old fox’s beaming face, Gray felt a twinge of discomfiture.
“With talk of a scandal with the duke, I could drive Ann out. I could even break off the engagement.”
Arthur set down his glass and leaned forward, staring fixedly at Gray as he spoke in a low voice.
“Duke Gray Benton—if I make it so you can have Ann, what will you give me in return?”
He finished with a sly smile. Gray studied that wizened face, thinking.
As head of the family, the man could easily blemish Ann and cast her out. Then she would never again be able to work as a maid in a noble house. If, at that moment, he as a duke could bring Ann back to House Benton…
For now, it sounded like the simplest way to have her.
Tempted as he was, Gray hesitated. Taking her while she was wounded ran counter to what he wanted.
He wanted Ann’s true heart—wanted her to recognize his sincerity and, of her own will, to love him.
As she had before. As in the happy memories Gray still held.
But the Ann he had met again was walking a path wholly unlike what he’d expected.
She had fallen in love with another man.
And hadn’t Hannibal himself seemed interested in Ann? At the banquet, every little thing he did toward her had been strikingly favorable.
It was, in truth, no surprise. If he’d felt nothing for Ann, he wouldn’t have gotten engaged in the first place.
Thinking that, jealousy surged, sweeping away the last shards of reason and conscience in Gray’s heart.
In the end, he extended the hand he had been wavering to offer—and clasped Arthur’s.
“…What do you want?”
“Find me a post in the Imperial Palace.”
To push into the capital’s political world, put down roots, and be acknowledged as a noble—that had long been Count Arthur’s aim. Not merely flitting from party to party like a moth and showing his face, but standing shoulder to shoulder with high nobles like the emperor and dukes, recognized not merely in the West but across the Empire.
Seeing the hunger in the man’s eyes, Gray exhaled and nodded.
“When I return to the capital with Ann, you’ll need to come as well, my lord. If you’re to attend state council meetings, you can’t remain this far away.”
Securing a position at court was nothing to him. Pleased with Gray’s answer, Count Arthur burst out:
“Thank you! Hahahahaha! Truly, thank you!”
Gray rose with the bottle, filling Arthur’s cup and then his own.
“Western whiskey is truly excellent.”
Having found common cause, the two men drank together late into the night.
The next day, Hannibal went with Mismighty to the outer ramparts to inspect the magic circle.
“It doesn’t look like anything was seriously damaged.”
With a flick of Mismighty’s hand, the cracked and broken segments of the array restored themselves to their original shape.
Hannibal watched the manifestation of magic with only half an eye; his thoughts were elsewhere.
Gray Benton knew even Ann’s tiniest eating habits.
Of course, if he’d loved Ann since childhood, he would know that much. So why did it grate on him so?
By comparison, the time Hannibal had spent with Ann amounted to little more than a year. And even then, he knew nothing of her private side—only the face she showed while working as a maid.
They had become engaged and he had left at once; they’d had no time to truly learn each other.
He had had no chance to learn what she liked, what her tastes were, how her palate ran.
All he knew now was that she wanted a high salary and a severance payout.
“Can we use it immediately?”
He had to conclude the peace talks as quickly as possible. Only then could he send that duke and his father packing.
After that, he would be able to spend unhurried time with Ann.
“Of course.”
“And how, exactly, do we use it?”
It was known that Asad Clayde had designed the circle in his lifetime to trade with Luto, but no records remained beyond that.
“For someone so indifferent to magic, you’ve truly never once read anything about magic circles, have you?”
Clicking her tongue as if in pity, Mismighty reached toward the array. Light flared from the patterns etched into the stone.
“Did you know Asad Clayde created this circle five hundred thirty-nine years ago?”
She glanced back at Hannibal as she asked, and when no answer came, turned to the circle again. She began chanting softly; ancient script appeared along the rim of the array and began to shift, aligning itself like a dial.
“It seems the West has almost no records left of Asad. Nor has the lore of magic been properly passed down. As if someone hid it on purpose, doesn’t it?”
Indeed, the most ancient and detailed source on Asad Clayde was his own chronicle—and even there, beyond the fact that he had been a mage, little was revealed.
But Hannibal didn’t particularly care to be curious.
The West had always been coveted by many; they had been too busy repelling invaders and preserving their autonomy.
“…I’m not terribly interested. Clayde has managed to survive on its own until now.”
“You don’t seem to understand—Clayde’s greatest strength is magic, Hannibal Clayde.”
Emphasizing each word, Mismighty looked straight at him—and the light swallowed her form as she stepped onto the circle.
“…!”
His surprise lasted only an instant. Hannibal waited calmly for the magic circle to shine again. With negotiations so close at hand, he had no reason to think she would flee or vanish.
He merely wondered what she wanted to say badly enough to stage such a spectacle to draw his eye.
As expected, it wasn’t long before ancient characters reappeared on the array, light surged, and Mismighty returned.
“I had something to fetch.”
She was holding a small booklet.
Curiosity drew his gaze, and Mismighty held it out to him.
“In hopes of closer exchange to come, I’ve brought a special gift.”
The moment he checked the inside cover, Hannibal’s eyes widened.
There was Asad Clayde’s signature—written in his own hand.
Inside were pages dense with letters and numbers he could not decipher at a glance. It appeared to be a research journal Asad had kept while he was a practicing mage.
The front read “Volume 1,” suggesting there were many more volumes behind it.
“This is Asad Clayde’s research journal from Luto’s royal archives. Rather than Tegenes, the state he founded, Asad conducted certain research at the royal laboratory in Luto—beyond the witch’s influence.”
“And why are you showing me this?”
“To let you know there’s far more of your forebear’s material preserved in Luto’s royal collections.”
Her manner said: we can give you more. Which meant she clearly wanted something from him as well.
“Mismighty Luto, I cannot hand over the Golden Key. I’ve answered that plainly. So what is your true purpose in following me all the way here?”
With peace talks looming, he would have preferred to avoid uncomfortable topics, but after accepting the journal, he couldn’t leave the question unasked.
Her subordinates were waiting below the walls; it was a good moment for Hannibal and Mismighty to speak alone.
At his words, Mismighty cast her gaze to the far north, toward the Witch’s Forest, then fixed her blue eyes back on Hannibal.
Her husky voice emerged low and weighty.
“Let me meet the witch.”
It was a request, but it sounded like a command. Hannibal’s brow knit for a moment.
Her face was expressionless, yet the way her fingertips curled made it seem she was anxiously awaiting his answer.
Was this the wish the future king of Luto was ready to stake her life on?
If one longs desperately enough, the witch will grant a wish in exchange for a life.
Everyone in the West knew that. The rumor had likely spread across the border into Luto as well.
And still she asked this.
“Only the Clayde line may enter the Witch’s Forest. I’m sorry.”
On the eve of peace talks, he could not act as intermediary for a contract with the witch that would put Mismighty’s life on the line. Especially if he personally escorted her into the forest and something happened—war might flare again.
“If your wish is truly desperate, the witch may come to you of her own accord. But remember this: whatever follows from that will not be the West’s responsibility.”
At times, the witch sought out people in the West directly to strike a bargain, so Hannibal offered the warning in advance.
He could not bear more trouble. He wanted only to conclude the peace talks safely and restore stability to the West.
