SN Chapter 40

"Ro—Rosaline—"

I couldn't answer. Ah—ugh— Only formless sounds escaped. The inside of the half-destroyed carriage was thick with the smell of blood.

"…Y-you're alive. Thank goodness you're alive—"

A sharp fragment of the shattered carriage had gone through the girl's abdomen.

Aaaaahhh! A sound tore through the silence—sharp, visceral, and capable of splitting an eardrum. Impossible to tell whether it was a scream or weeping.

Mine—no. Rosaline. Her voice.

'It frightens me. That people seem to die so easily.'

Her words rose up, and the boundary between past and present began to dissolve. It had been a moment of happiness. Rosaline was smiling, her fingers moving through the girl's soft hair. Warm sunlight fell freely; the air, rustling gently like a spring breeze, was warm and cozy.

'Don't worry, Your Highness.'

"Please—I'm begging you. My brother—"

'I will protect you.'

Rosaline woke before the dawn broke.

The previous night's dream had left her body heavy and reluctant. She turned her head and looked at Rikardis, sleeping soundly. She understood, without hesitation, that the dream had belonged to Rosaline. She wiped the dried tears from her face with the back of her hand. Her first human tears had flowed through hours she would never remember.

She came out through the window and walked directly into Raymond, who was on patrol.

The Second Prince's room. Before dawn. Sneaking out secretly through the window.

Raymond looked as though he were on the verge of producing an entire bucket of tears.

"I—I did not raise you like this, Rosaline!"

The scolding showed every sign of settling in for a considerable stay. Rosaline read the signs and fled immediately. At approximately the speed of wind. Raymond stood in the corridor, still unable to fully exit the shock, one hand pressed to the back of his neck.

When she returned to her room, Macaron was just beginning to stir—asleep in a teacup until that moment, sesame-seed eyes blinking open. Its round belly was scattered here and there with the remnants of corn kernels. You wretched creature... out prowling half the night again... that's not allowed......

Outside, the morning sun was rising.

Diplomatic proceedings, in most countries, unfolded under an atmosphere of gravity and weight. That was natural enough—these were spaces where many factions gathered and wielded mouths instead of blades, each side honing their interests to a point. Balta's particular form of talks, however, presented a different aspect from the taut proceedings most nations favored. The smiling concealment of a blade being ground beneath the surface was the same. The atmosphere was otherwise.

The banquet hall blazed. Gold and pigment of every color, thousands of lanterns and candles, food enough to satisfy hundreds of different palates crowded onto every surface. People drank and danced amid music that was, variously, beautiful and energetic. It would not have been misidentified as a festival. As a royal banquet.

There was, however, one element common to such gatherings in every country: no weapons permitted inside the hall. Affairs of state changed hands here; the principal figures of nations convened here; risk was to be minimized accordingly. And yet—

"…A message arrived this morning from Prince Haqaev's side. The full Illavénian delegation is granted permission to carry weapons at any time, in any location."

Unusual. A ripple ran through the knights. Permission to carry weapons at any time, in any location—and plainly framed with today's talks in mind. Announced only a few hours in advance, no less. The situation grew more suspicious by the moment. Rikardis smiled, crookedly.

"I wondered where that charming character of his had gone. This is a provocation, nothing more. Pay it no mind."

Even under Rikardis's equable manner, the members of the White Night Order could not fully suppress the complexity of what they felt. Permission to carry weapons. There could be unanticipated dangers. Was something being planned for the hall? Was the weaponry itself the pretext for an incident? What exactly was Haqaev intending?

The delegation's unease refused to settle. Whatever their calculations, there was little to be done—time for countermeasures simply wasn't there. Rikardis crossed his arms and made a slow survey of the room. A single stone dropped in a lake, and the ripples it produced. Being made to look this much like fools is becoming—somewhat irritating. He stood.

"Every member entering the hall disarms."

"We receive this command."

With a single, synchronized motion, they unfastened their sword belts. Rosaline's expression said she found this entirely incomprehensible. They had been told they were permitted weapons. She set her sword down slowly, her expression one of mild, lingering dissatisfaction.

"Dame Rosaline."

Rikardis called to her.

"Yes."

"The weapons in your boots as well."

Rosaline retrieved two short daggers from inside her boots, one by one.

It had never been a difficult question for Rikardis. Haqaev was a man who enjoyed holding others in his palm—shaking them with a single offhand word, a single casual gesture, then watching the result with pleasure. Elpydion had described that character as dog-like. Rikardis had expressed his view with a different word entirely: fucking shit.

"What exactly are we accomplishing, letting ourselves be moved every time someone makes the attempt."

Itserion wore the expression of a man deeply edified. What a bold man he is—!

Rikardis glanced at Diez, sitting quietly. Diez neither endorsed the decision nor opposed it, as he always did. A leaf on water—going wherever it was carried.

The hall had no doors, open in an archway that let everything inside be seen from without. Beautiful melody wove through the sound of glasses meeting. Chancellor Atilak greeted them with a broad smile. The Illavénian delegation has arrived!—the announcement rang out—and Rikardis stepped into the brilliant space.

Prince Haqaev, who had been surrounded by others, walked toward the entrance. He wore a long tunic embroidered in gold thread, a sweeping length of fabric trailing to the floor layered over it; every manner of adornment gleamed from his arms and ears. He welcomed the delegation with an affable smile. The rest of the delegation managed strained smiles—the kind worn by nervous people. He looked genuinely pleased.

Haqaev's gaze moved to the space behind Rikardis, scanning deliberately along the waists of the White Night's knights. Confirming the absence of weapons. His expression shifted to one of frank interest. Elpydion would certainly have arrived carrying every weapon he could lay hands on. Haqaev swallowed a smile. Far more trouble, this one.

"You have traveled a great distance. The honored guests of Illavénia. I am Haqaev—first son of Hyxsalla Adon."

Rikardis had been about to respond with appropriate ceremony, but Haqaev was already moving—walking straight toward him, without hesitation. Knight-Captain Stas stepped into his path.

"Sir Stas."

Rikardis said his name, quietly. Stas inclined his head and withdrew. Baltan conversational distance was considerably closer than Illavénian. And Prince Haqaev, First Prince of Balta, was not a man obtuse enough to draw a blade in the middle of the conference hall and attempt harm to an Illavénian prince. Stas knew this perfectly well, and had reacted anyway. The mechanism Haqaev had planted before the talks had done precisely what it was meant to do. The black-haired prince passed Stas with pleasant amusement in his eyes.

The guard formation around Rikardis dissolved. Haqaev smiled and took one step closer. Then one more. Close enough that the toes of their boots nearly touched. This is somewhat—Even Rikardis had begun to go rigid. Haqaev raised one hand and rested it lightly on Rikardis's shoulder.

"Ah."

From her own prior experience, Rosaline understood exactly what Prince Haqaev was about to do. Just as she'd anticipated, the prince's face turned toward Rikardis.

Mmph.

Through the hall's music, Rikardis heard it—registered with vivid precision on his eardrum.

Felt it. A soft, firm press of lips against his cheek.

He turned his head. Slow. Deliberate. Something in his composure going dry and crumbling. Haqaev's face was directly one inch away. Rikardis's thoughts, which were ordinarily reliable, ground into sluggish bewilderment. So. Just now. My. Cheek. This prince—

"I have so wanted to meet you, Prince Rikardis."

Haqaev wore a magnificent smile—the kind that reportedly earned him the devoted affection of thirteen concubines. Rikardis's expression went dry and fell apart. Diez, unusually, developed a slight crease between his brows.

A kiss to the cheek in greeting was a Baltan custom. It occurred occasionally even between people of different nations, if a relationship had grown sufficiently close—but it had never, not once, been performed in a formal diplomatic context, least of all toward the envoy of a foreign nation.

The hall fell briefly silent at Haqaev's impulsive act. Even the musicians faltered for a moment. Then warm laughter broke out. The Baltan nobles applauded and laughed. The Prince of Balta was welcoming the Illavénian delegation with this much warmth. Whatever the true intention, he was communicating to everyone present: take note of this.

The delegation understood his meaning. They had arrived at the heart of a nation that had been Illavénia's bitter enemy for centuries—it still seemed nearly impossible to believe. Balta's royalty, Balta's nobility. Not a trace of hostility from any of them. The polished smiling faces, each concealing something beneath, were unsettling in their very precision. But this was far preferable to proceedings conducted under open malice.

Whether the affectionately-greeted Prince Rikardis would share this assessment was unclear. Excluding him, however, everyone present was quite warmly disposed toward the occasion.