Chapter 58
“The events that followed from my mistakes and misjudgment… Even if I devoted my entire life to making amends, even if I paid with my life, I could never undo them. Do you have any idea how many lives were lost because of me? In Teganess alone, more than a thousand people died.”
“…!”
Hannibal’s guilt was deep and unshakable. Like a swamp from which there was no escape, the man seemed to have no intention of freeing himself from his sins.
Perhaps, when he made that contract with the witch, Hannibal had simply been wishing to drown in it.
Anne’s fingertips tingled when she saw his shadowed face.
She wanted to reach out to those pale cheeks and comfort him.
But she forced herself to curl her fingers into her palm.
Who was she to do that?
Could she tell him it was all right, that he had suffered enough, that it was time to free himself from this burden of guilt?
Did she have the right to say that?
Of course not. Anne bit her lip.
“…But still, you gave your life to the witch to save the people of the West. No one there would ever blame you, my lord. They’d thank you for stopping the disaster.”
Hannibal’s gaze only grew colder.
“I didn’t go because I wanted to. My father drove me out.”
Even the choice that hadn’t been his felt like a mistake, a sin. Hannibal had no will to shake off the guilt.
“The Count?”
“Yes. He said it was my doing, so I should take responsibility. That I must not return until the disaster was resolved. He exiled me alone, regardless of my wishes. So—”
“How could your father do that?!”
Anne was genuinely angry.
There was no way Arthur Clayde had been ignorant about the witch’s contract.
He had essentially sent his son to die, telling him to offer up his life to save the West.
“If he had gone with you to beg the witch—if the entire Clayde family had gone together—things might have been different! You said the witch cherishes the Claydes. And that disaster should have been paid for in blood by Count Clayde, who brought Cara Ringbone here in the first place. It’s only right that parents repay the wrongs of their young children!”
Anne spoke of the Count with an expression even more indignant than Hannibal’s.
“The Count is… truly too much. Really.”
Her lips moved as if swallowing many more words she didn’t speak aloud.
To be comforted by a maid cursing his father in his stead…
Hannibal felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly.
As a boy, trudging through rain-soaked earth to the witch’s forest, crying and begging—he had been unable even to resent his father’s coldness.
Hearing someone else tell him it was wrong, that it was something a parent should bear responsibility for…
It was as if she was telling him it had never been his fault at all. And the crushing weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.
“…At least I acknowledged my mistake and bore the responsibility. As lord, I can hold my head high about that.”
Hannibal spoke as though he had finally found himself.
Seeing his face relax, Anne also felt relieved. Then, a question suddenly came to mind.
“I read The Life of Assad Clayde recently. The witch really was your ancestor, wasn’t she? You look just like her.”
“…In truth, the Claydes are closer descendants of Moira than of Assad.”
Judging from his appearance and that mysterious aura, it was easy to believe.
“Is that why the witch cherishes you? Saying she’d reduce your payment if you brought Count Arthur—she was being generous, wasn’t she?”
“Not really. I think she’s just offended. The witch demands the Claydes’ loyalty. My father has never once set foot in the witch’s forest.”
“Really?”
From the very first pact with Assad, the witch had demanded the Claydes’ loyalty in exchange for her blessing.
It was the price for granting the West its forest and oasis.
In addition, every year she would hear the wishes of the Claydes and the western people, grant them in exchange for a price.
“Yes. After my grandfather, my mother acted as regent, and then I became lord. So my father technically had no obligation to go to the forest. I’ve urged him every year, but he refuses every time.”
His tone carried no trace of affection for his father.
Hearing his flat voice, Anne recalled the biography of Assad Clayde.
Back when the first lord was alive, the whole family would go visit the witch…
“The witch was the first bride of the Claydes.”
The witch was the lord’s lover, the bride, the progenitor of the family.
That obvious thought only now came to Anne.
But in the genealogies at the start of the Clayde lineage, only Assad Clayde’s name was recorded.
“But they never married.”
“That’s why she’s not in the genealogy. But if she loved Assad Clayde, wouldn’t she have wanted to be recorded as his wife?”
Anne murmured without thinking. Hannibal reached out and tapped the witch’s gravestone.
“Isn’t that right, Ancestor?”
And at that moment—
With the sound of jingling bells, the witch appeared before them again.
“I don’t marry.”
“But you loved a human man and even had a child with him. You’ve looked after his descendants all this time.”
“That’s because it was part of the contract.”
Moira leaned forward and smiled slyly.
“Love is also a contract.”
Saying this, Moira sat back down beside Hannibal.
The three of them, all grown adults, sitting side by side on the altar—it almost felt cozy.
Each time Moira swung her legs in the air, her long skirt fluttered and a clear ringing sound followed.
Anne, frozen for a moment by the witch’s answer, suddenly remembered something.
“Do you wear an anklet, Witch? Like how humans wear bracelets and jewelry?”
From the witch’s plain appearance, Anne had noticed the one ornament she wore—beneath her hemline.
Hannibal also realized it then.
The witch’s arrivals had always been accompanied by the clear sound of bells.
Of course, the western people would have accepted her even if she had bells instead of feet.
“Yes. This is also a source of my power.”
Her bright smile seemed somehow contrived, as if she were lying.
Hannibal merely glanced at the hem of her skirt, but Anne pressed on with the question she’d been meaning to ask.
“And… if Count Arthur just comes to greet you, you truly won’t take the lord’s life as payment?”
She was inwardly determined to bring him here somehow, already planning to work out the details once they returned.
“Yes. I’ll do that. He’s the only descendant I’ve never met. It’s infuriating that a Clayde hasn’t even come to greet me. Before he dies, I must have his oath of loyalty.”
Anne nodded firmly.
“Does it have to be at the Witch’s Night festival?”
“Anne Perot?”
Hannibal looked startled at her obvious determination.
“Hmm… Fine. If you bring him at any time, I’ll accept it.”
“Yes, thank you!”
A single greeting in exchange for a life—anyone would call that a bargain.
She would make it happen.
“My father will never come.”
“I know, my lord.”
“Then how will you do it?”
“I’ll think of a way.”
What did Count Arthur like? Women? Wine? Parties?
Anne rested her chin in her hand, mulling over ideas.
“Witch’s Night has the best pretext, but I remember reading in Assad Clayde’s biography that people often came for blessings when a descendant was married or when an heir was born.”
“That was in the early days.”
Hannibal remembered the years when his mother carried him, or held his hand, to Witch’s Night.
By the time he could run on his own, he was attending alone.
While Hannibal shook his head, certain there was no chance, the witch’s eyes lit up.
“Hannibal, why don’t you get married? I’ve always met the new heir and his mother in person. Your mother wasn’t the only one.”
“But didn’t you say my father never once came with my grandmother?”
“That’s why I want to see it. When your grandfather Owen was little, his mother brought him to Witch’s Night every year until he was over eight. For such a tradition to fade… it makes me sad~.”
“I’ll speak to my father again when we return.”
Keeping the witch in good humor was important for the Claydes. Hannibal answered seriously.
“Yes, I’ll make sure the Count’s visit lifts your spirits.”
Beside him, Anne’s eyes shone as she repeated her vow to make it happen.
“Yes, do that when you return.”
By now, the blackness in the sky was giving way.
“The sun is rising.”
Hannibal straightened his stiff shoulders. Anne also rose.
“Let’s go.”
Had they really talked so long? Time had flown while she sat up with Hannibal all night.
To give their final farewell, Anne stood with Hannibal before the witch.
“Take care.”
“Goodbye.”
From the altar, the witch waved to them.
The dawn breeze carried the soft, faint sound of bells. With her silver hair fluttering and her white dress, Moira looked almost ghostly.
“Anne.”
They had only taken a few steps when they turned back—she was already gone.
Anne was startled by the hand suddenly extended toward her.
“Huh?”
“Take it.”
“M–My hand?”
Before she could hesitate further, Hannibal took her hand in his own.
