“Pardon my intrusion.”
“So?” I asked. “Damage report?”
“Ahem.” The maid cleared her throat awkwardly. “I believe some clumsy, reluctant early steps towards potential reconciliation have been taken in the family, Miss. It will take more time for old wounds to mend, but it doesn't seem anyone's life is at peril, at least. For now.”
Good enough.
“But that’s not quite what I came here for,” she added. “I’m to inform you that her grace, Lady Ruthford, expects you in the master’s study at your earliest convenience.”
What did she want with me now? I thought my enrollment was a done deal already, and everything necessary was said at the dinner table. It was a long and tiresome day, and I wanted to sleep early. But you didn't say no to the head of the Royal Army.
“Alright. I'll go see her now.”
I made the lengthy climb upstairs to the fourth floor study, where I’d crammed the days of June away, and received the permission to enter before my hand could touch the door. Inside, my gaze met the General sitting on the desk, her feet on the chair, working through a bottle of Pinot Noir instead of a chronicle or a report. The window was wide open and an easy wind blew in, stirring the curtains and the General’s cascading hair.
I realized this had to be the first time I saw her out of a uniform, in only a plain shirt and pants, and barely recognized the image. The wonder of this woman putting on a dress had yet to come. There had to be a gown to her name somewhere in the house. Maybe, if I incinerated every other garb overnight, she’d wear it? She wouldn't just go back to the base naked, would she? I honestly couldn't say for sure.
“What?” the General asked in a steely tone, narrowing her one open eye at me. “Is there something you want to say, XA?”
“No.”
“Smart kid,” she said and refilled the tulip-shaped glass in her hand. “And then? How did you like the taste of peaceful civilian life? Was it all Hell for you?”
“I don't think any civilian has to deal with being drained of all magic around the clock. What else could it be but Hell?”
“Rich words from someone who burned through the Corridor of Sages in a quarter-hour and busted up Old Ben. Do you know why they call the golem Old Ben? Because it was around already when I was at the academy. Now they're going to need a New Ben. And replace every door you broke. Anything taken apart by your power will never conduct mana again. And you know that. Do you want another black dragon ring?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then don't hog so damn much attention! What do you want, daddy to notice you? That'd be me in this case, huh? You want me to tell you what a good girl you are and pat your head? Then bring it closer, damn it! Next time, ask before you wreck more iconic school traditions!”
“I think you've had too much to drink, ma'am. Maybe you should lie down. I'll come back in the morning.”
I was about to turn to the door but she quickly called after me.
“No, you stay right where you are. I don't care how many doors and golems you break. But things like this give me an ulcer. I'm sure you’re aware, but not everyone upstairs approved putting you under the same roof with a slew of noble brats. There are general-level names who insist you should be terminated before you grow too strong to control. Those voices may be in the minority, for now, but don't give them an excuse. Guess who’s going to have to do it, if you ever cross the last line? You know that, don’t you!?”
There were only two warriors left in Calidea today who could take me down with reasonable certainty at full power, in case I went rogue.
Lord Lebercant, the sole living Sword Saint—and the woman said to be infinitely close to the level of a Sword Saint, even though not quite there; the one in the room with me now.
That was what it meant for the General to take custody of me. Whatever I did was also her responsibility. If the King ordered it, she’d have to lop off my head on the spot, whatever she thought about me personally. It would seem that wasn't her top choice.
“I'll be more careful.”
“Well, that's that,” General Ruthford said and waved her hand, the stormy tension about her clearing. “I didn't call you here just to nag at you like an old hag. Honestly, you did well, Hope. Better than well. I got a real cute letter from the headmaster too, earlier today. When the war was on, he was one of our most vocal critics, calling war mages nothing short of traitors to the Art, dark wizards abusing their gift for evil, and blah-blah-blah. In one morning, you made a patriot out of him.”
“I didn't do anything.”
“The best weapon is the one you never have to use. Isn't that right?”
“Is that why I was sent there?”
“Huh…?”
The General’s hand froze, the wine glass half an inch from her lip.
Those working in black ops quickly learned the two most important rules.
They were:
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You don’t ask why.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
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You do not ever ask why.
“Why” was a word reserved for strategists and analysts. Lethal poison on ordinary soldiers’ tongues. Curiosity killed the cat, and it killed people too. The higher up in the hierarchy they were, the more allergic military personnel were to that word. It gave them nightmares. If the common people knew why wars were really fought, there wouldn’t have been any wars, because that question could never have a satisfactory answer that matched the effort given. All they needed to know was that it was necessary.
In the beginning, proud of my power, I’d tell anyone who asked that I was the ace come to win the war for them. A very stupid thing to do. Those hearing it would naturally want to know why exactly was a child made to fight for them. And the ones asking too many questions disappeared.
Disappeared.
A secret weapon that was no longer secret wasn’t very good.
As long as I did my job and kept winning, nobody would tell me what to do, so as to not “interfere with my functionality.” I was untouchable, but common soldiers were not. And sealing their lips was cheap. After all, death was a frequent guest on a battlefield.
I recalled one upstanding captain. A scion of a noble family. He declared outright my treatment wasn't right. He said his clan was powerful, with contacts in the Royal House. He’d have me freed and sent away from the fighting before the end of the week, he would arrange it. And I believed he could.
The next morning, that captain was found in his tent with his throat cut from ear to ear. Killed by a Tarachian assassin, they said. An assassin, who had somehow infiltrated an encampment far from the active front, only claimed one middling company commander and vanished into thin air. The culprit was never caught, but had courteously left the murder weapon at the scene of the crime to be identified.
For the jaded foot soldiers, the incident turned into a running joke. “Nobody’s ever ready for Tarchian assassins.” But even a child could put two and two together.
After that incident, I changed my act. If anyone got too curious about me, I'd tell them,
“I'm an evil witch who will eat your heart, gahaha!”
Not very smart either, but I was eleven. The act did help in most cases, but there were also those less cowardly, who saw through it and forced their kindness on me, no matter what. But who could’ve helped such people?
Over the years, I eventually adopted the way of High Mage Couren: Say nothing. Just shut up.
But maybe I was getting tired of bottling it up. Living with your head stuck in the sand. So I asked why. Whether I’d be the next one to disappear—I frankly didn’t give a damn. What did it matter? I was ready to die when I was nine. But death kept leaving me hanging, and I was starting to wonder if it was coming at all.
“The Archmage wanted to know why I was sent to Belmesion.”
“I'm sure he would,” the General remarked and resumed drinking. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Since I have no idea myself.”
“Studying isn’t a good enough reason for a student to go to school?”
“...If you don’t feel like telling, then forget about it.”
I turned to leave again.
“Come now, Hope,” the General laughed wryly and waved me back. “You really aren't cute at all. I was going to tell you about it, eventually. Not this soon, when it’s still mostly only speculation—but eventually.”
“So there is a real reason?”
She got off the desk, put the wine glass away, and turned to the darkening garden.
“I wanted you to see life, grow as a person, and come to understand ordinary people a little; that was not a lie. Those were my honest feelings. But you’re right. That couldn’t be all of it. There was no way to convince the Board to give you this opportunity, never mind the King, unless there was more to the story.”
Without making a sound, without moving a muscle, I listened. I didn’t think I’d get the story voluntarily, but it was actually coming.
“The war was won,” the General said, “but only a fool would have thought our problems were going to end there. No, you could say the real trouble is what follows after wars. There may be little the army can do about domestic issues, but yesterday’s enemy isn’t necessarily out of the picture either. Would the proud Tarachians quietly bow out and swallow the humiliation we gave them? No chance. Not all of them, anyway. There are elements that are sure to seek payback, by any means possible. We control the northern continent from Farsal to Orbeggio now; a military reprisal is impossible. But they still have one broad, poorly controlled road open to them.”
Did they? Calidea had assimilated almost two-thirds of the former Empire’s territory after we gained the decisive breakthrough in Najjier and pushed them back. Over 1,700 miles lay between us and the Tarachian mainland. It looked like a safe distance on the map. The Kingdom had supremacy at sea and many allies in control of the Strait of Eflein. If there was any way they had left to get back at us, it would have to be…
“…You’re kidding, right?”
The General turned back to face me, not looking like she was joking.
“That’s right. The Scarlet Forest. The remains of the Great Wood that reach across the continent from the far west of Tarachia to the eastern Anthrober, the northern Duchy. The Wood is infamously difficult to navigate. Any larger gathering of men will quickly turn into a banquet for hellions. But for the same reason, what goes on inside is almost impossible for us to supervise. Watching the outer borders is the best we can do. But with our forces spread so far and thin, with a lot of new land to cover, the guard is more lax than it's ever been.”
I shook my head, unable to hide my smile.
“That’s a fantasy.”
“Is it?” she retorted. “The Tarachians are known for their arts of controlling hellions. A small, mixed guerilla unit of mages and commandos could potentially make their way through the Wood, hunting and foraging their supplies, never stepping out of the shadow of the trees, impossible to track by anyone outside. If they’re able to tame the Wood and make use of its ancient paths, it would bring them within striking distance of the one place, where even a handful of combatants could deal devastating damage to Calidea’s future.”
“The academy?”
General Ruthford picked up her bubble glass from the desk and refilled it, then to hold the glass up against the light, the liquid fluid and red as a fine jewel. Red as blood.
“The third Prince Leander is attending Belmesion, among many other young stars of major families. The staff may be made up of experts from many fields, but who could ever be ready for Tarachian assassins? A troop that can survive a hike of a thousand miles through the Forest can only be a force to reckon with…And reason good enough to deploy a Cardinal Mage.”