Chapter 43

The Royal Wedding

The two moved to another place. Roberta followed Archbishop Vinicio up two flights of stairs, and the archbishop led her to a reception room at one end of the corridor.

The windows were wide open, letting in the summer breeze along with sunlight. On the table in the middle of the room sat a single teacup alongside a book. It seemed he had been resting there until just moments ago.

“Please, sit.”

Vinicio gestured to a chair. When Roberta sat down, he placed an empty teacup before her and poured in pale yellow tea. The fragrance drifted on the breeze and tickled her nose.

“Before I hear your story, I would like you to answer my very first question.”

He was asking whether she had come with Ulrich.

“No. The Duke of Dithmarschen did not come with me.”

“He did not come?”

“No.”

She answered reflexively.

“Hmm… I see. Then did you come alone, Sister?”

“I came with Lord Armin, the duke’s adopted son.”

“Armin?”

Murmuring the name to himself, the archbishop narrowed his eyes.

“His adopted son?”

“Yes,” Roberta replied, watching his reaction carefully. He might see through the lie. He seemed to know Ulrich better than she did. There was a good chance he knew how many adopted sons Ulrich had and what their names were—yet she lied anyway.

It was an answer she had pondered since the moment she was questioned before the altar. Ulrich had said he would continue using an alias, but should she hide it even from the archbishop?

However, the archbishop spoke of Ulrich with great reverence. Until she heard the truth about him, she judged it safer to remain cautious.

“……”

The archbishop sat across from Roberta, frowning slightly. The look in his eyes as he stared at his teacup suggested he was searching his memory for the name Armin.

“Yes… yes, I have heard of him.”

The answer that came after a long pause was unexpected.

“I haven’t heard news of him for quite some time, but it seems he is still around.”

She barely suppressed her surprise. Was Armin not just a simple alias? Had there really been an adopted son with that name? Even Fritz, the attendant, hadn’t known it. She forced herself to remain calm.

“…Yes. Lord Armin came to attend the wedding in the duke’s stead. And I accompanied him because I carry an order issued by His Holiness.”

“I see,” the archbishop murmured, nodding.

“It is unfortunate that he did not come in person, but there will be another opportunity.”

He took a sip of his tea.

“Now, tell me. While you were in Dithmarschen, what did you come to learn about him?”

Roberta hesitated, wondering where to begin.

Though it had only been a single year, her experiences had been so extraordinary that it was difficult to organize them. She began recounting everything in chronological order—from the moment she was appointed as the parish priest of Dithmarschen up to the present. She spoke of the events she had experienced and the names she had heard.

She briefly described how Ulrich had performed an infant baptism on her first day, how an old man named Rashid had brought a worm that had grown inside his son’s corpse, and how a half-dragon, half-human from the Kingdom of Carbonihar had come to visit, among other things.

The only thing she did not mention was the secret history Ulrich had told her.

She had no reluctance in sharing anything that was not part of that secret. She had faithfully written to Alonso, informing him of everything she experienced. And the archbishop was someone of even higher standing than Alonso—and seemed to know Ulrich better than she did.

“What kind of person do you think he is?”

The archbishop asked after hearing her story to the end.

“I think he is… a peculiar person.”

“Peculiar, you say? Is that all?”

She opened her mouth to answer again, but then closed it.

“You are just like Alonso. You act as if you believe in nothing beyond what reason can verify, yet when the truth stands right before you, you grow afraid and turn away.”

“……”

“Your story points to a certain truth. And there is no way you have failed to notice it until now. Am I wrong?”

Roberta did not answer. Silence filled the room.

Their gazes met, but there was a difference between them. Her focus wavered, while his remained steady. His eyes held not the slightest doubt. Soon, the archbishop rose from his seat, turned his back to her, and looked out the window.

“I will ask no further. Nor will I speak of it. Alonso sent you here as one who does not know, and His Holiness permitted it. Above all… he himself has not revealed it.”

He let out a soft chuckle and shook his head.

“Do you have anything you wish to ask?”

She stared at his back for a moment before speaking.

“…I heard that a summons has been issued.”

“His Holiness has given a truly dreadful command.”

“I would like to know how the situation is unfolding, Your Excellency. I understand why the summons was issued… but I do not know how long this situation will continue, nor what will happen next.”

“The turmoil will likely not end quickly. His Holiness has excommunicated even the emperor, and in response, the emperor is gathering an army to strike the Pantheon.”

Roberta frowned and let out a breath.

“To strike the Pantheon? How could that be possible?”

The heavenly gods cultivated the world, and even now that they have departed, their influence remains—so how could it make sense to attack the divine authority that connects heaven and humanity?

There had always been those with deviant beliefs like heretics. But they were never the majority. Even when a few secular rulers gathered soldiers, those soldiers would flee at the mere command of a priest.

She had thought this time would be the same—but it was not.

“The divinity of Kormillius is being questioned. Even within the Pantheon, factions have already formed. Unlike Osnover, in other nations many priests are refusing the summons.”

“Did Your Excellency also oppose the will of the Pantheon?”

She assumed that must be why the archbishop had remained here.

“I belong to neither side. I am only concerned for those who remain. This summons of priests is nothing more than taking innocent citizens hostage. Of course, the emperor and King Rihart, who escalated matters despite knowing this, are hardly sane either.”

He let out a long sigh.

“I simply could not stand by and watch this. That is why I am conducting provisional ordinations to fill the places of the priests who have left. They lack ability beyond their faith, but at least they can perform the sacraments.”

“But…” he added, lamenting that he did not know how meaningful such actions would be amid a chaos that had only just begun.

It was an unprecedented situation since the rise of the Third Empire. No matter which side won, the turmoil would continue. Once a fracture appears, it does not easily mend—it spreads, gradually bringing everything down.

“The present age we call the Third Era was established by the two houses of Kormillius and Jocaster. Yet now those two houses are pushing each other off a cliff. Perhaps… the true end of our era has come.”

Roberta did not visit Count Meyer’s residence until after noon.

Though called a “residence,” it was not particularly large. It was a two-story house with low walls and a modestly decorated yard. Guided by a servant, she headed to the backyard.

“Hoo…”

A long breath greeted her.

In the yard, two figures stood facing each other with swords in hand. It was Fritz receiving training from Ulrich. Since Roberta had rarely seen Ulrich hold a sword, she quietly watched without making a sound.

Fritz’s breathing was rough. His white shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat from his vigorous movements under the blazing sun.

In contrast, Ulrich had not shed a single drop of sweat. It was not that he did not feel the heat—it was as though heat itself did not exist for him.

Thinking back, it had been the same on the Ice Peninsula. Wearing nothing but thin cloth garments, he had carved a path through waist-high snow with his bare hands.

“Do not drag your thoughts out.”

Ulrich stepped forward and brought his sword down.

Startled, the boy hastily raised his sword to block. A sharp metallic sound rang in the air. The blade stopped just above the boy’s head. His hands trembled as he gripped the sword.

Roberta flinched. Sparring was naturally rough, but this felt as if he intended to kill. If Fritz had been even slightly weaker, his skull would have been split open by that downward strike.

“When your thoughts grow heavy and hesitation follows, it is worse than charging forward without thinking.”

“W-wait a moment!”

Her worry proved unnecessary. The attacks continued without pause. The boy barely managed to block and evade, over and over again. His cheeks, hands, waist—every part of his body was grazed or narrowly avoided the blade.

She watched with wide eyes, fearing a serious accident, but as the exchange went on, the flow changed. The frightened boy steeled himself, gritted his teeth, and charged at his master. It was almost a reckless, desperate assault.

Yet at some point, the tide shifted, and Ulrich became the defender, blocking the boy’s continuous strikes.

“Good, like that. Drive your opponent back.”

Of course, Ulrich was not truly being pushed back. Unlike Fritz, he moved as if he had already seen what was coming—each time the boy swung his blade, Ulrich’s was already there to intercept it.

Each time, he spoke in a calm voice—one so faint in emotion that only someone like her could notice it—offering guidance. Faster. More unpredictable. The boy’s movements grew increasingly intense, his posture breaking apart, yet to Roberta, he appeared far more threatening than before.

The spar ended when the boy collapsed helplessly. His legs gave out, and he fell on his own. Ulrich simply said, “Well done,” and sheathed his sword. Even then, not a single bead of sweat had formed on him.

“Did you have the meeting you were looking forward to, Roberta?”

Ulrich sat down on a chair brought by a servant.

“Yes. The archbishop was there.”

“If it is an archbishop, then it must be Vinicio.”

“So it seems he did not follow the summons,” he muttered. Roberta dismissed the servant, leaving only the three of them in the yard before speaking again.

“Lord Ulrich… is the name Armin an alias?”

Seated casually, he looked up at her.

“So Vinicio said something, I see.”

“Yes. He said there had been an adopted son with the same name.”

“It is true. Armin—that was the name of a child I took in.”

Fritz, who had been sitting and wiping his face with a towel, froze. The boy looked at the two of them with wide eyes. Like her, it was the first time he had heard this.

“I have many children. And most of them are not of my blood. Children who lost their parents in the clan, or were sold off as slaves, or each had their own circumstances—I took them in.”

She had heard bits of this before. It was why people believed him when he used aliases and claimed to be the duke’s adopted son. Anyone with interest in him would know he had taken in and raised many adopted children.

“To me, each and every one of them is more precious than blood. I have never once taken raising them lightly. But sometimes, those children fail to take root properly and leave… before I can do anything about it.”

“Armin…?”

“He was one of them. He left when he was about Fritz’s age.”

Ulrich clasped his hands together over his abdomen and looked up at the sky.

“I sometimes use other people’s names. Not all the names I have used were originally mine. Some I began and finished myself—but others, I take up from those who began them yet could not see them through, and I bring them to completion.”

Armin was one such name, he said.

“He left too soon, and I could not help but regret it. So I use that child’s name. Just as those bound to me might wish to be remembered by me… sometimes, very rarely, I too borrow a name, hoping that someone else will remember it.”