SN Chapter 34

The eagle preened its wing feathers with its beak. Rosaline ran her hand over them. Taut, smooth, solid—the feel of armor.

"The hunters who kept hawks wore gloves and arm guards. The talons are sharp."

The eagle raised one foot and gave it a small wiggle. Talons sharp as awls came into view. She had seen hunters carrying all manner of leather scraps. Roughly cut and wrapped around her arm, that should do.

"Don't speak in front of others."

The eagle, despite possessing entirely the head of a bird, managed to arrange it into an expression of complete disbelief. 'Do you think I'm you?' it seemed to say.

In any case: having found the perfect animal for a human to keep without attracting suspicion, the one person and the one bird were both very satisfied.

Dawn passed and morning came.

The camp descended into uproar. A large animal had descended upon the delegation from early morning. A hunter raised his bow, but Rosaline moved quickly to stop him. They had assumed it had come to attack the humans who had encroached on its territory—but the eagle sat placidly on Rosaline's arm. Large enough to be mistaken for a demonic beast. Rosaline bore its weight without any apparent effort.

Rikardis pressed at his temples with steady deliberate pressure and asked his question. He looked somewhat tired.

"......That...... what is it this time, Dame Rosaline?"

He found himself thinking of yesterday for some reason he couldn't quite place. The image of her, when he had asked what it was—in the sense of how she had possibly caught rabbits—and she had answered "Rabbits......"

"It's an eagle."

Rikardis's expression darkened. He had expected as much. It was still irritating.

"Why is the eagle with you? Where did it suddenly appear from?"

The eagle and Rosaline were quietly confused.

Hunters kept hawks. Hawks and eagles were much the same thing. There was nothing strange about it. Why was everyone looking at them that way?

"Dame Rosaline?"

Rosaline looked at the eagle.

"It's an eagle I know."

Rikardis's eyes narrowed. He could not make any sense of what she was saying. The eagle, as if validating her claim, was rubbing the flat of its beak against Rosaline's hair. Rikardis's expression remained stern. Rosaline found herself reaching for the magic phrase Kallix had taught her. 'I know nothing. I don't remember.'

"I don't quite remember the details."

Rikardis abandoned the attempt.

Well. Over the course of a life, one might know an eagle. The facts that this eagle was enormous beyond expectation, or that it had never appeared once in Illavénia but had materialized suddenly on Baltan soil—these were perhaps not things worth troubling himself over.

"......Alright."

He had no desire to dig further.

His fellow knights had initially been dubious, but recognizing the low probability of the eagle being a spy or assassin, they did not maintain alarm for long. They drifted, one by one, toward Rosaline—touching the eagle's wings, marveling at its size, finding themselves entertained. The hunter, who knew exactly how dangerous an eagle was, spent a considerable while watching from a distance. But soon, realizing the eagle was not merely harmless but outright docile, he cautiously approached.

"Large build, sturdy beak. A truly magnificent eagle. When did you begin keeping it, Dame Rosaline?"

'Yesterday.'

"......Recently."

"How old is it?"

'Oh, a few hundred years, give or take.'

"I don't know."

"What's its name?"

Ah. A name.

The eagle and Rosaline exchanged a glance. She might not know much, but she ought to know its name at least.

Rosaline considered briefly. Not knowing its name, she would need to assign one.

At that moment, she heard the sound of someone stepping on dry, crackling leaves nearby. Rosaline's thoughts drifted, without her noticing.

The one she loved most, among crispy foods.

"Macaron."

"......I beg your pardon?"

"Macaron. Its name."

The eagle wore an expression of attempting to determine what a macaron might be. The hunter looked slightly taken aback—was it a bad name?—but Rosaline looked inexplicably pleased with herself. The hunter privately thought the name Macaron was excessively sweet and delicate for an eagle, but well—the owner said so, and there it was. He let it pass.

The Macaron who would later taste macarons would find her name very satisfying indeed—but that was a little further in the future.

The journey was smooth.

Not an assassin or a trap to be found, and the weather was fine besides. The group had fought frequent battles with various demonic beasts within Illavénia's territory, but upon entering Balta, things had become remarkably easy. One couldn't even find a demonic beast, as if someone had cleared them in advance. For a country where danger was said to lurk at every turn, it was smooth to the point of being boring.

Occasionally a small fox-like demonic beast descended upon the camp, only to be repeatedly driven off by Macaron swooping swiftly down from the sky. The knights, with genuine respect for this display of superior guard duty, began calling it "Sir Macaron."

Rosaline told it that "Sir" meant a knight. And she also told it that a knight was "a high-ranking human who protects the weak, knows honor, and possesses strong conviction."

After that, whenever the knights called it "Sir Macaron," Macaron would look down at them and strut. A thoroughly imperious attitude—though in an animal's body, it was not very obvious.

Their busy travel had brought them within reach of Balta's capital, Rivita. Less than half a day away. Balta's palace looked very different from Illavénia's pure-white castle—colorful ornate patterns and gold blended harmoniously to cover every surface.

The delegation entered through the outer walls. A large contingent of guards stood inside the open gates: men with skin the color of red earth. Rosaline was struck by the fact that every Baltan had black hair. An appearance clearly distinct from Illavénians, with their white skin and varied hair colors. They wore tanned leather protective gear rather than plate armor—in Balta, surrounded by dense forest, swamps, and treacherous terrain, mobility was prized above all. Moving slowly in heavy equipment was a quick way to take an arrow.

After facing the guards, the White Night Order's bearing sharpened by a degree. The senior knights drew in closer around Rikardis's carriage. A strange current circled in the space between the white and black groups.

Then the guards parted, and a fat man elaborately adorned in gold appeared at the center. Itserion had met him once before, when he had visited Illavénia some years ago. Balta's Chancellor, Atilak. He dropped to both knees and greeted them in the Baltan fashion. A large portion of the guard followed him down with crisp precision.

"It is a great honor to receive Illavénia's honored guests. I am Atilak, faithful servant of Hyxsalla Adon. I hold the position of Chancellor of Balta, however inadequately."

Atilak's greeting eased the tension that had been circling between the groups. Knight Captain Stas, judging there was no immediate danger, opened the carriage door.

Rikardis stepped out, smoothing his long silver hair with one hand. The sun was fierce, and the light his hair threw off was more blinding than usual. Atilak, witnessing what appeared to be a halo of light radiating from behind the Second Prince of Illavénia, momentarily lost his words. The sunlight scattering brilliantly behind him—how sacred, how beautiful.

"It's been a while, Chancellor."

Rikardis acknowledged him, and the chancellor burst into fuss. Such a long journey you've made. Were you not too hot, was it not too taxing, were you not hungry. Anyone watching would have been forgiven for thinking him Rikardis's own servant rather than King Hyxsalla's.

The delegation was soon led toward the palace. The armed guards moved with them, surrounding the White Night Order members. As befitting a nation's capital, there were many tall and splendid buildings. Though poverty hid out of sight in the back streets, the road to the palace had been polished to a gleam.

Not one knight spared it a glance. Having set foot in an old enemy's country, vigilance was natural even without immediate threat. Rosaline rode close to Rikardis's carriage, watching the surroundings.

"Where is Sir Macaron?"

Raymond asked, scanning the alleyways. With the enormous eagle that had always flown close now absent, the gap felt considerable.

Rosaline glanced at the sky once, then down at her own chest, and hesitated.

"Close by."

Raymond scanned the wide sky. Close by, she had said—yet it was an unbroken expanse of blue without so much as a cloud, let alone an eagle.

The palace came into view. Raymond returned to full alert.

Rosaline, who had been watching him, let her gaze drop.

Close by—or to be precise, extremely close by. A creature small enough to have slipped between her uniform jacket and her chest armor. A gray-furred mouse, clinging with tiny forepaws the size of grains of rice. Being inside a palace was not suited to a creature as large as an eagle—that had been the reasoning. Before entering Rivita, Macaron had pretended to fly high into the sky, then immediately transformed into a mouse and returned to her.

Having discovered a pocket, Macaron climbed inside and went squeak-squeak.