Sarg sat on the edge of the bed, watching the baby sleep peacefully inside her swaddle for a moment before he spoke.
“…I haven’t thought about it.”
“Then start thinking now.”
Hyderlin finished counting the money and swept it into her pouch. The sound of coins sliding against each other was, as always, genuinely pleasing to the ear.
“There’s no longer any reason to stay here now that your stand-in’s bones have been cleared out of that grave. Start thinking about moving and going back to work. We can go to the cathedral and grovel to get you reinstated.”
“You’re saying that again. I already told you before—I have no intention of going back.”
Sarg’s expression was openly unenthusiastic.
The Holy Knights was a kind of monastic order, distinguished from ordinary monasteries by the fact that it was composed of clergy rather than monks. Taking holy orders and receiving the rank of Holy Knight was much like making a lifelong vow to a religious order; resigning from the Holy Knights was treated no differently than leaving one’s order.
A monk who had broken his vows and spent years living in dissolution, who then came crawling back to the monastery—they might be readmitted on grounds of charitable mercy, on the slim hope of witnessing genuine repentance. But the other monks would still regard him with suspicion and barely concealed contempt.
It wasn’t worth enduring all of that merely for the sake of returning to a life in holy orders that he didn’t even particularly miss.
“Then what about returning to House Gloriosa?”
“Not yet.”
“The Duke must be worried out of his mind.”
“…”
Sarg looked at Hyderlin for a moment, then pressed his fingers to his temple with a slow exhale.
“…I suppose I could find a decent employer and join a knightly company. Or set myself up as a swordsmanship instructor. That’s all contingent on getting through this whole business and coming out the other side intact, though.”
“That’s achievable. Your accomplice is Countess Biche.”
“Right. With Countess Biche involved, how hard can it be to deal with one king?”
Having offered that lukewarm endorsement, Sarg crossed his arms over his chest.
“And what about you? What will you do after Chesa is dead? You’re not planning to stay in Nadirotsa.”
“I… well. I should go back to where I came from.”
“Where you came from?”
The coffin.
She didn’t say it aloud.
Hyderlin, who had been tilting her chair back idly, looked out the window. From here, the cathedral churchyard was perfectly visible.
“There’s a castle I bought under a false name in Larrochelle. It’s rather beautiful.”
Of all the countless lies she had told Sarg, that one, at least, was true.
In the border region between southern Lotsa and Larrochelle, under the false name Lin Verche, she had purchased a small old castle—a place she owned on paper, even if she had no living claim to anything. They said it had stood since the era of the Twelve Kingdoms. The castle was surrounded by a broad-leafed forest, and she had fallen in love with it the moment she stumbled upon it during a journey south, years ago. She had promised herself then that when she finally laid down her post as Captain of the Guard, she would go there.
She had kept no caretaker. By now it was probably close to ruin.
“So that’s where you’ve been for the past four years.”
“Yes.”
“Living in a castle suggests you had considerable funds put away.”
“Of course.”
“Then you could afford to take on an additional employee. Any interest in hiring a former holy knight?”
“I’m not currently hiring.”
“Why so definitive? There’s always a shortage of capable hands. Give me a chance. My swordsmanship is the obvious qualification, but I’m also quite competent around the household in general.”
It was audacious, and it was deliberate. Hyderlin decided to make things clear.
“You want to keep seeing me after this is over?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“…You already know why.”
“Pretend I don’t. Say it again.”
Sarg was quiet for a moment.
“…I care for you.”
“And what was my answer to that?”
“…”
“I told you it sounded like a bad joke. I still think so. Setting aside how cold you were to me before all of this—you have nothing to your name, Sarg. What exactly gives you the confidence to keep pressing the point?”
Hyderlin looked at him steadily, chin resting on her hand. Sarg, who had been lounging back, slowly straightened up.
“I wouldn’t say nothing—”
“To my eyes, it’s close enough. Listen to me. A man needs three things: bloodline, power, and wealth. You’re lacking in the last two.”
The corner of Sarg’s mouth went briefly tight. Hyderlin gave a short, dry laugh. And who am I to talk—a condemned woman asking for things she has no business wanting. She was mocking herself. Sarg said:
“Right. The last two. So if I were to satisfy those conditions, you’d grant me the right to court you.”
“Naturally.”
“And what standard are we working toward?”
Hyderlin smiled serenely.
“Oh, I’d say you’d need to be at least at the level of the Duke of Gloriosa.”
The corner of Sarg’s mouth twitched. Hyderlin scratched her cheek idly, chin still in her hand.
“Once Chesa is dealt with, we go our separate ways. When word reaches me that you’ve become the Duke of Gloriosa—I’ll invite you to my castle.”
She said it the way she said everything: with the smooth, practised ease of a practiced deceiver.
The word would never reach her. By the time Sarg achieved anything of the sort, she would be nothing but bones beneath the earth.
Sarg answered without hesitation.
“Agreed.”
The deceiver smiled.
“Good.”
True to Hyderlin’s wishes, they bought clothes and shoes, rings and a brooch and a belt. They had a pair of gold rings fitted. For Princess Beronis they bought toys and several swaddling wraps. The princess seemed happy. And so Hyderlin decided to be a little happy too.
For the remaining time, they returned to revising the plan for the king’s assassination. When they disagreed—which was often—Hyderlin growled and Sarg invoked his rights as homeowner, which mainly meant evicting her.
“You petty, small-minded—are you really going to keep doing this!”
“Cool your head out there.”
After a good deal of bickering, they arrived at an agreement.
They would take aim at the king with a crossbow.
Time moved with cruel speed, and before long the day the messenger had promised to send the carriage finally came.
It was four days before the birthday banquet of Princess Margarite.
