SN Chapter 36

On her way back, Rosaline stopped at Rikardis's room once more. Even without a sword drawn, enemies were arrayed on all sides. Her vigilance would not relent—it only hardened, without pause.

"Excuse me, Your Highness."

Rosaline threw the door open and walked in. Rikardis was shirtless, in the middle of removing his lower clothing as well. The senior knights inside the room and Itserion went rigid at her sudden entry. Rikardis's expression turned savage. He ground out each word as if chewing it thoroughly before releasing it.

"Out."

Rosaline paid this no mind and surveyed the room at length, checking every corner for anything unusual. Only the senior knights inside were making the faces of men attending their own funerals. Rikardis still held his trousers in one hand—caught somewhere around his hips, unable to pull them up or let them drop—stranded between one state and another. After her long survey, Rosaline gave a short bow and exited. The instant she was gone, Rikardis threw his clothes across the room.

"That knight... I swear, I really... I am genuinely going to—"

She returned to her room, but Macaron was nowhere. She checked under the bed, beneath the blankets, the windowsill, inside the water glass. Not even a trace. A few hours ago it had slipped out to investigate the violent magical energy shrouding the palace—and with the sun now down, it had still not come back. She decided to go find it.

The people currently guarding Rikardis were senior knights of considerable ability. Added to that, the particular circumstances of Balta's royal palace meant escort personnel had doubled from their usual number. Rosaline could step away from his side for a little while with a clear conscience.

"Macaron."

She walked the corridors for a long while and found only several cats living in the palace. The kind that looked very much like they would enjoy a small gray rat. Unease began to fill her. Rosaline quickened her steps and left the palace building where the delegation was staying.

A flower garden. Blooms everywhere. Though shrouded in the curtain of night, if sunlight were to find it, it would have been a dazzling space of every color. The scent of flowers and grass was different from Illavénia's. She sniffed—nose moving without her quite deciding to, taking in the smell—then caught herself and recalled her purpose. This was no time for that.

"Macaron."

In the quiet garden in the dead of night, a knight of an enemy nation was calling out urgently for macarons. Anyone who had seen would have found it very strange. She wandered for a long while. Then a rustling sound entered her keen ears. Its scale suggested something larger than a small animal. Deliberately stepping on a branch to announce a presence—from that alone, Rosaline understood: the sound's owner was human.

She turned. A figure entered her field of vision. A man with black hair and copper-brown skin—the distinctive Baltan coloring. But he bore very little resemblance to the portly chancellor Atilak she had seen earlier in the day. He was tall, and handsome. His eyes were round and soft, which only sharpened the contrast with his otherwise fierce impression—thick eyebrows, solid bone structure. His clothing was similar to the chancellor's but more elaborate, and longer, with a hem that swept the ground. The man met Rosaline's eyes and gave a warm smile. A few long strides and he had already arrived before her.

"What beautiful black hair."

The man who said this also had black hair himself. Brighter in shade than Rosaline's—in light, it would have looked dark brown. Black hair was not unseen in Illavénia, but it wasn't a common color either. Even within the empire she had occasionally received the comment oh, you have black hair—so to Baltan eyes it might well seem rare. The man kept his gaze on her hair with unhurried interest.

"Thank you."

His gaze drifted across her white uniform. He found the White Night Order emblem embroidered on it and smiled.

"You appear to be one of a prince's knights... quite far from where you should be. Your name?"

The informality was perfectly natural. Her suspicion that this man was someone of considerable standing in Balta gathered weight.

"Rosaline of Redwheel."

"A strong-sounding house name. Pretty name, too."

"Thank you."

Two compliments in such rapid succession, from someone she had only just met—the first since Kallix and Raymond. A good person, perhaps? And yet, strangely, every nerve was on edge. Her instincts put her on guard against him. The man seemed to sense her wariness. He gave a soft smile.

"I am the first son of Hyxsalla Adon. Haqaev."

A name she knew. Balta's First Prince. The one who held real power in place of the king, now laid low by illness—a rat snake, by all accounts. The characterization of slippery was Rikardis's, but Kallix and Raymond had offered similar assessments. Said to be a frightening man, one who killed many without mercy.

'......'

Rosaline looked into the eyes of the man before her. More strange than frightening, she found—the feeling of someone whose depths could not be seen, someone she could not read. She realized she had been staring fixedly at his face when the prince's smile drew her attention. She had been staring at his face this whole time. Come to think of it, he had said he was a prince. Had she been rude before he announced himself? Could this constitute some manner of incident? She thought it through carefully.

It didn't appear so. She let out a quiet, private breath of relief.

"I have the honor of meeting Balta's first son."

As Rosaline said this and began to lower her head, Haqaev's arm came around her shoulder and stopped the motion. Her eyes went wide. Then his cold lips pressed heavily against her cheek. He pulled away deliberately—smack—making the sound on purpose. Haqaev grinned directly in front of her face.

"May the soul of Hyxsalla Adon be with you."

Ah—Raymond had explained this before they left for Balta. Those of higher rank initiate the kiss on the cheek toward those beneath them; elders to the younger. The recipient then returns the kiss. Applied broadly—not just among close family, but between friends and in professional relationships as well. Even complete strangers, they said. In Illavénian terms, it was the equivalent of a handshake. Or a wave.

"......"

Rosaline rolled her pupils round and round. As a knight, the proper formal courtesy was not to be shown to anyone outside Illavénia's royalty—so she had planned a simple bow of the head. That plan had just collapsed completely. What kind of greeting was she supposed to give now? Illavénia-style? Balta-style? While her eyes moved in deliberation, Haqaev smiled. He tilted his face very slightly toward her—even to Rosaline's limited social awareness, the meaning was clear. He was asking for the Balta-style return.

She thought for a moment, then brought her face toward his. Since Haqaev was considerably taller, she rose onto her toes and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. Haqaev bent slightly to meet her. Just as the man's face was coming closer—

"Dame Rosaline!"

Someone pulled her from behind. Rosaline's lips didn't even graze Haqaev's skin before they separated. She found herself held firmly—a man's chest solid at her back, rising and falling in large swells as if he had just run here. Rough, quick breathing at her ear. The man squeezed her shoulder once more, deep and deliberate, then released her.

Rosaline turned only her head to look back. Fifth Prince Diez stood with a cold expression, facing Haqaev. The brow that had not furrowed once during the entire exhausting delegation journey now had a crease in it. Different from the image she held of him—he who had met her with nothing but smiles from the very first day.

"Your jest has gone too far, Prince Haqaev. Asking someone from Illavénia to follow Balta's open customs. Won't Dame Rosaline be flustered?"

She didn't know the difference between open customs and not-open ones, but Rosaline held her tongue. Diez took her arm and drew her behind his back.

"Should we not follow Balta's ways when in Balta, Prince Diez?"

"Though we've been acquainted for years—you never extended such a greeting to me......"

"Well, that's because......"

For something conducted in light tones, the atmosphere was as tense as two predators in a standoff just before they lunged. They had reportedly been acquainted—but nothing about it looked warm. Diez pressed against Rosaline's back, urging her forward.

"His Highness the Second Prince is looking for you. Please go on ahead, Dame Rosaline."

"Yes."

From behind her departing back, Haqaev sent off a farewell with laughter woven into it.

"Until we meet again. Rosaline."

Rosaline bowed her head toward Haqaev and left the flower garden. Now that she thought about it, she had been hearing rather a lot of footsteps. Unlike earlier when she hadn't been able to find even one rat, a considerable number of people now surrounded the garden. Some of Diez's trusted subordinates were among them, and many armed figures with brown skin as well. Probably Haqaev's people. In their bodies too she could feel fierce magical energy coiling—more than the guards seen during the day. Rosaline's expression turned cold. Her chest churned, unpleasantly.

Dark night. A small flower garden, separated from the palace. People arrayed to keep watch around it. In this place, Diez and Haqaev had come with a prior arrangement to meet. She walked slowly toward the palace after leaving the garden behind. Two voices drifted over, faint.

"Stop being so touchy."

"Don't flirt with a foreign knight. It looks cheap."

"Hair darker than the night itself. She was beautiful. I've never thought of white skin as attractive before—but today, for the very first time, I think I understand Illavénia's sense of beauty. Just a little."

"I said, don't flirt."

The two men bickered at some length over something that didn't appear particularly important. The sound grew gradually smaller. Diez—who had talked so freely about wanting the lamb dish at the banquet—spoke next, in the same unhurried tone:

[This is Elpydion's message.]

Eyes were trained on Rosaline from all directions. She had no choice but to keep walking. Diez and Haqaev's voices diminished further. She was passing steadily beyond the radius within which she could hear them.

Before long, all that reached her ear was the insects singing in the dark.

[Trr-eee... trr-eee...]