Chapter 122 — In which all meetings are a pure coincidence and nothing else (1)
Rubrun was beautiful on early summer days.
That was a fact no one could deny.
Some trees bloomed in their full might, some other, the early bloomers, were already bearing fruits.
Rubio, the capital of Rubrun was the city of colorful trees and colorful papers.
And it was brilliant.
“Sir, may I ask what are you doing?”
“Admiring the city.”
“By plastering yourself to the wall and only sticking your head out?”
Citrie stiffened and glanced at the servant of the Archmage, who was sent to pick him up.
The young, one-armed woman, who introduced herself as Durio, was staring at him with a scorching gaze.
Citrie had a strange sense of déjà vu.
It was almost like that time he was caught by Young Lady Saffra’s ladies-in-waiting sneaking around the mansion.
He cleared his throat.
“Ehem, I was overwhelmed by the city’s beauty. It’s completely different from any Flavun city I ever saw.”
“I suppose so.” Durio turned her glare away from him. “With no stone to build, we can only build alters to the fire.”
She said somewhat darkly, looking at the buildings made from clay, wood and paper.
Different from Flavun, which was situated on the high plains, Rubrun was located in the most forested area of Luminere.
But lack of non-burning building materials meant that city fires were much too common, especially in the dry seasons like early summer or winter.
“I apologize.”
Citrie instinctively apologized, feeling he stepped on a touchy subject.
“Nothing to apologize for, Sir. It was a simple musing. I appreciate your compliments for our little town.”
Durio said, leading Citrie through the not-so-little town.
He didn’t waste this chance to get a thorough understanding of his surroundings, memorizing the roads and landmarks.
During Vern’s coming-of-age ceremony, the guests were directly teleported to the party venue as it was an official occasion, but as Citrie was moving with a somewhat secretive matter, he had to use more conventional means of transportation.
A mechanical carriage, even when moving at its full speed, couldn’t beat the teleportation, and left him all sore, but he liked that it provided him a chance to see the town.
They arrived at the Archmage’s mansion quickly, a bit too quickly to Citrie’s likings, but he didn’t dare to complain, with Durio watching him with open wariness.
He only had a second to admire the old red columns of the Archmage’s mansion, when he found himself before the Archmage himself.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
To Citrie’s disappointment, the Archamge’s office was infinitely plain — if you excluded terrible amounts of papers.
Citrie felt like he returned to the office of the knight captain (the poor man always drowned in documents, especially after Young Lady Saffra’s visit).
“You want me to confirm whether those wills are genuine?”
“Yes. Can it be done?”
Crimo shifted his eyes from the two wills laid out in front of him to Citrie.
His red, silver-tainted eyes quietly observed the lonely envoy.
A minute passed in complete silence, and Citrie began to feel like a bug pinned to a board and scrutinized by a most grim scientist.
He maintained his posture to the best of his ability
“Most certainly.”
Finally, Crimo answered quietly.
With his eyes still pinned to Citrie’s face, he continued:
“It will take some time though. Until then, I’ll ask you to stay here. We will provide lodgings and daily necessities.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Archamge.”
“Mhm… Sir Citrie.”
Citrie, who slightly bowed in gratitude, twitched when his name was suddenly called.
“That little skirmish you had with a wax puppet during my little brother’s coming-of-age ceremony.” Crimo paused for a second, as he stared at him, unblinking. “Do you have anything to say about it?”
Citrie recalled how Saffra and their team followed after the people with the looks of Orche’s subordinates.
He followed one of them and got into the fight that resulted in the man melting and breaking down.
“I’m afraid I have nothing to say.”
“Is that so? I was really curious about it. Excuse my rudeness, but for me, it seemed like you and your companions were just waiting for someone to show up to cause trouble. And that weapon… I’m sure it’s not legal to have it even in Flavun. It surely isn’t here.”
‘Aah, so he saw it all…!’
Citrie was quietly hoping that the Archmage didn’t see that political bomb — that weapon.
Now the weapon was safely left in Young Lady Saffra’s hands.
And really, the existence of just one wasn’t such a big deal.
If there were more though…
Citrie felt himself break out in a cold sweat , unsure what the Archmage was hoping to hear from him and what he was digging for.
One wrong word, and he could severely sour the already tense relationship between the two states.
He was a knight, not a diplomat, for the light’s sake!
“I assure you, Lord Archmage, it was all simple coincidence.”
“Really? World truly works in mysterious ways.”
Crimo spat out sarcastically and then waved his hand.
“You’re free to go now, Sir. The servant outside will guide you to your quarters.”
Citrie barely managed to leave without his legs trembling.
He suddenly thought the rulers of Yellow Throne, the Flavun’s throne, were much better.
With them, you will at least see them reach for a weapon if they’re going to cut off your hands.
With the mages and their archmages?
The Archmage could snap his fingers and Citrie wouldn’t know what happened until his entire arm burned into ash.
… Ah, wait. Why was he thinking of arms?
That was impolite for the young lady that brought him here.
Speaking of young lady… she was not here. Thank goodness.
Instead, Citrie faced a young skinny man, who quickly looked him up and down as if confirming something and then asked:
“Sir Citrie?”
“Yes.”
“I was ordered to guide you to your temporary quarters. Please follow me.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
The young man replied sternly and quickly led Citrie through the mansion.
Upon arriving at the door to Citrie’s quarters, the young man was about to hastily leave — it almost seemed like he was fleeing.
But Citrie held him back.
“Please wait a moment. Am I allowed to leave this room and wander around?”
“…”
The young man, Cuprit, paused.
He didn’t receive any orders about that.
But considering what he was ordered…
“Unless Lord Archmage ordered differently, I have no reason to believe you can’t, Sir.”
Then he bowed and left in hurry.
Citrie didn’t bother him, instead he set down his baggage and then…
He set off to explore his surroundings a bit.
His quarters were set on the more outer side of the mansion, and Citrie soon found himself in the gardens surrounding the mansion.
As he wandered between ponds and pavilions, he suddenly felt drawn to something.
A smell of incense.
‘A shrine? People of Rubrun don’t worship gods…’
Approaching closer, he soon found the source of the smell.
Under a pavilion rooftop, thickly surrounded by defense spells, sat a painting encircled by incense burners and flowers.
Citrie stopped in his tracks.
His gaze froze on the face in the panting.
It was an old portrait.
A fairly young, though not too young man, was sitting at the table, idly reading something.
But his fiery red hair fell flatly on his face, blocking his view, so it seemed he wasn’t reading after all.
The man’s sunken eyes, like burnt-out stars, were looking at something hazily.
Citrie had to force himself to breathe.
This face was so familiar yet unfamiliar…
Who was it? Who the hell was it?
“’Ghost of the past’, the restored self-portrait of Vermillian.”
Citrie jumped and turned around.
The Lesser Lord Mage and the Young Master of this mansion, Vern, looked at him with a smirk.
***
“Achoo!”
“Master Sangria, did you perhaps catch some sickness from Young Master Vern?”
“Grandmaster Scarlen, please don’t remind me of Young Master Vern. It haunts me to even think what he would be doing right now.”
Sangria wiped his nose and said with hollow eyes.
“I can feel it in my bones somehow. Young Master Vern is about to set off a great fire without anyone knowing.”
“… Master Sangria, I think stress made you over-paranoid.”
*~*~*
