SN Chapter 26

Second Prince Rikardis had been appointed chief delegate of the envoy to Balta.

Moonstone Castle sank low.

The atmosphere was as dark as it had been months earlier, when so many members of the White Night Order had fallen during the hunting competition massacre. The reason was not simply that its master would be absent for an extended period.

The Illavénia Empire and Dark Moon. Their conflict, sustained across a shared border, had endured for a long time. As there was no one on the continent unaware that Dark Moon was the Baltan royal house's own instrument—Illavénia and Balta. That was the more accurate framing. In this light, the commission of delegation was peaceful in name alone. It was no different from walking one's own neck to the guillotine. Rikardis had stood at the forefront of every confrontation with Dark Moon, and he had always won. To Balta, there was no greater enemy. Whatever light his name carried, the guillotine's blade shone with equal brilliance.

Dull shadows settled across the faces of the many servants and maids. An observer might have thought white mourning cloths had been hung on the walls of Moonstone Castle itself to mark a funeral in progress. The White Night knights felt fury on their master's behalf alongside a deep, private grief for their own uncertain futures. Lives more precarious and insignificant than a candle before the wind. Some had resigned themselves. Others had sharpened their resolve.

The quiet that had lain over Moonstone Castle like a December forest under snow broke briefly into noise. A visitor had arrived. Since Rikardis had been named delegation head, a great many people had quietly ceased to find their way to Moonstone Castle—moved by the fear of catching his eye and being committed to a long journey toward Balta. Some called this contemptible. Rikardis would have understood it. He would have done the same himself. Against this backdrop, a visitor was something of an occasion. With abundant gifts, no less. The display that followed was quite a spectacle: wine from a distinguished Illavénian house that Baltan Prince Haqaev was said to favor, rare jewels, delicacies, and beautiful works of art arranged in sweeping abundance.

Rosaline caught sight of it on her way to Moonstone Castle for escort duty. Behind her, Rhaetisia and Eberhardt gaped at the mountains of rare gifts accumulating in the courtyard. They were very tired—they had already endured two of Rosaline's dawn attacks that morning—but the spectacle was sufficiently extraordinary to make them forget it entirely.

A voice, warm with something like amusement, brushed past their ears.

"Dame Rosaline."

A man with bright golden hair separated from the crowd and walked toward her. He stood at a height comparable to Rikardis. The gentleness of his features offset somewhat the weight of presence his solid build naturally produced. When Rosaline simply looked at him with no visible recognition, Rhaetisia leaned in from behind and whispered.

"Fifth Prince Diez of the Glacial Laurus, Your Highness."

Rosaline heard her and gave a small nod.

Rhaetisia and Eberhardt had been told by Raymond that their superior had lost her memory entirely—knowledge, common sense, all of it gone. Since then, they had urgently set about memorizing the appearances, names, titles, and ranks of the high nobility and imperial family. It was one component of the duties that attending their unusual senior knight required.

Rosaline demonstrated exceptional speed when it came to acquiring swordsmanship. She showed precisely no interest in any task that required sitting at a desk. Her bearing communicated something along the lines of: if a knight can wield a sword, why should memorizing faces and titles matter?

The two trainee knights had, of course, known none of this at the time. When Raymond told them she wouldn't even recognize the Emperor's face, they'd laughed it off as an obvious exaggeration—

—and then, shortly thereafter, witnessed her proceeding, with perfect equanimity, through the doorway of the men's communal bath.

Rhaetisia had needed no further illustration. Her understanding of her superior's particular relationship with common sense had been immediate and complete.

"The blessing of Illavénia, which calls the White Night. Senior knight of the White Night Order, Rosaline, presents herself before Fifth Prince Diez of the Glacial Laurus."

Rosaline took one knee. Eberhardt and Rhaetisia followed.

"Oh, please rise, Dame. It's been a while."

Rosaline looked back at her two trainees. Her expressionless face posed the question: Was this fifth prince and I acquainted?

Their eyes wavered. We... don't know... we don't know... They shook their heads, very slightly.

Reading insignia and appearance to identify a person was one skill. Understanding the personal history of a superior who had lost her memory was quite another. This situation was outside their jurisdiction. They had only been at her side for two weeks.

Rosaline turned back to meet the Fifth Prince's gaze. He wore a smile warm enough to shame a spring afternoon.

"I'd heard you were badly hurt. What a relief to see you looking so well."

"Thank you."

"I hear you've been assigned to escort my elder brother? Then I suppose we'll be traveling to Balta together."

"Yes."

Eberhardt was sweating. The conversation was not building into anything. He had been told the original Rosaline was also a woman of few words—but the current audience was royalty, and brevity in such company carried a real risk of reading as rudeness. Fortunately, Fifth Prince Diez appeared unbothered.

"Wonderful. I had been worried you might not have many close companions. I'll be in your care in Balta as well, Dame Rosaline."

"......Are you departing for Balta, Your Highness?"

She asked back. Rare, for her. She had seen the delegation roster, and none of the other princes had been on it. The Fifth Prince smiled pleasantly and confirmed it.

"I've met Prince Haqaev of Balta before. A modest acquaintance." He laughed, easy and light.

The nobles selected for the delegation had been walking around wearing the expressions of people who had already glimpsed their own deaths. Their families, in turn, had taken on that grey, stricken look on their behalf. The man before her—Fifth Prince Diez—exhibited a reaction at considerable remove from all of theirs.

Balta had a traditional dish where whole young lamb was simmered with spices, he explained—quite extraordinary, really. He knew a place; they should all go sometime, Rikardis elder brother included. Five years ago when they'd last met, Haqaev had been taller than him, but he'd grown considerably since, so he was almost certainly taller now. It was an optimism so profound it bordered on the toddler-like.

Rosaline answered dutifully without missing a beat through all of this.

Yes. Certainly. I'm looking forward to it. Yes, that does sound delicious. Yes. You are quite tall.

She nodded along.

Midway through an account of Baltan customs and cuisine, Diez caught her eye and sent a signal. The meaning, to anyone watching, was clear: he wished to step aside from the trainee knights and speak privately. On the present Rosaline, the subtle signal landed without reception. Rhaetisia and Eberhardt understood the Fifth Prince's look immediately and cleaned their nervous palms quietly against their uniforms.

"......"

Several seconds of silence extended between them. Diez's expression turned crestfallen. He appeared to have interpreted her perfect, untroubled stillness as refusal. Eberhardt was stamping his feet internally. Rhaetisia closed her eyes.

And shoved.

She was going to get scolded for impudence, and she'd accept that—but right now she had a superior with not a rat's scrap of situational awareness, and that superior needed attending to.

Rosaline stumbled one step forward. Diez brightened immediately and guided her along. She looked back at Rhaetisia in genuine bewilderment—and flinched.

Rhaetisia was staring after her with eyes blazing, pointing at Diez with considerable urgency. Rosaline appeared to grasp the approximate meaning. She did not ask why are you pointing at the Fifth Prince. She followed him. Her two trainee knights exhaled.

The two of them walked until they found a place reasonably free of people. Rosaline kept glancing back toward Moonstone Castle. Diez read her.

"It will only take a moment."

"Yes."

The duration had been established. Diez only smiled and watched her. Rosaline met his gaze evenly.

"I was worried about you, Rosaline."

Rosaline. Not Dame Rosaline. This man and her predecessor had been close, then. Close enough for that.

A breeze moved through, and a petal drifted down and came to rest across the bridge of her nose. She wrinkled it against the tickle. Diez raised his hand and softly lifted the petal away from her face; it caught the wind and was gone.

She watched it drift, then turned her eyes up to him. A casual hand. A familiar touch. The gesture of someone who had done it before, without having to think.

This man and Rosaline had been close, it seemed.

More than she had assumed. Considerably more.

"Thank you."

At her unchanged, clipped reply, something in Diez's smile lost its buoyancy.

"I see it really was true. I'd heard your head had sustained a small—forgive me. That there was something wrong with your memory."

"Yes."

"How far back do you remember? Do you remember me?"

Rosaline shook her head.

He couldn't quite hide his disappointment. He set his expression and smiled again. Memory loss of this kind was often temporary, he said, and he said it in the manner of someone rather more worried about her than about himself.

Diez appeared to want to know each detail of what had happened to her since the incident. He asked many things. Rosaline made full use of yes and no, and answered him diligently. Despite her apparently perfunctory answers, Diez seemed to have resolved enough of his curiosity.

He let out a long exhale.