The Wanderer

A thread of light leaked through the meticulously drawn curtains. Like salt sharpening an appetite, it was the barest trace of light and nothing more, yet exactly the right amount for honoring the dead.

A great star had fallen.

Five days had passed since Elrod Paragon, the benevolent lord credited with bringing the North its age of peace, departed the world. Relatives scattered across the vast North had gathered at the White Castle for the funeral. Northern custom kept them waiting in the study while the body of the deceased was cremated, and the estate steward was to read the will aloud.

“This looks near enough to everyone. Why don’t we begin?”

Fifteen-odd candidates for the inheritance had done nothing but size one another up until Count Luigi Husslix broke the silence. Dark grey hair hung to his shoulders. Handsome, sharp-eyed, a man in his prime, he had eaten three raw eggs every morning for twenty years now.

“Thirty minutes is generous. It’s not as though we’re idle men.”

“B-But still…”

The estate steward, though, was beside himself. The envelope, sealed with dark crimson wax, was going damp with sweat.

“What are you doing? Open it, man.”

“Might we wait another ten minutes?”

The woman who stood beside the antique walnut desk like a fixture of it had spoken. Bishe, the housekeeper, lean as a fire-poker, was a collateral relative of the duchess who had died seven years ago, and a countess in her own right.

“The young master has not yet arrived.”

“‘Yet’? Don’t tell me you actually believe the boy is coming? Hah!”

Luigi burst into open ridicule. He strode into the middle of the room and flung both arms wide like a stage actor.

“Seven years ago that boy threw Paragon away on his own two feet and walked out of this castle! After Elrod took him in and put food in his mouth — the very picture of ingratitude.”

“You go too far, my lord.”

“Is there one corner of what I said that’s wrong? Hoping for crumbs, I expect — not a chance of it. So rather than waste precious time…”

— Clunk.

Just then the handle of the heavy study door turned, and every eye in the room went to it at once.

— Creeeeak…

The massive door swung open as easily as if it were made of paper, and a tall man stepped into the room. His hair was blacker and denser than the darkness pooled in the study, and he was wrapped round and round in a robe just as black; he looked for all the world like a reaper come up out of hell. The thick grey-black fur draped over his shoulders hid half his face, but a formidable presence radiated from the sunken sockets beneath his heavy brows and from his red eyes, as though seething lava had been poured into them.

“I’m a little late.”

The man’s low, solid voice rang through the quiet room. He offered no excuse for the lateness. His gaze passed over the estate steward and the housekeeper Bishe in turn, then settled on the envelope, still unopened.

“Not too late, by the look of it.”

“…Young master.”

Bishe called to him in a choked voice. He tipped his chin lightly in answer.

“Bishe.”

“Truly… to see you again like this, I’m overcome—”

“Ahem. Hrmph! You’ve grown into a fine man, Keith.”

Count Luigi Husslix cleared his throat and offered him a greeting.

Keith Paragon.

Elrod Paragon’s half-brother. Entered into the Paragon register only at thirteen, he had grown up at Elrod’s side for the seven years that followed. The brothers were only two years apart, and famous for how fond they were of each other.

“Yes. I trust you have been well, Uncle.”

“I never dreamed you’d come. It’s been a long while, so it’s good to see you, but…”

“…”

“A face one can only see when somebody dies. Next time I’ll have to die myself just to catch a glimpse, ha-ha!”

Luigi laughed at his own irreverent joke. He jerked his chin at the other relatives to draw them in, and low laughter broke out here and there.

Keith’s brow furrowed.

“That remark is hardly appropri—”

“Strictly speaking, it isn’t even correct.”

A clear, ringing voice cut in out of nowhere.

— Rattle-rattle-rattle.

The woman who came in pulling a trolley set with a tea service wore her long hair bound up high and neat, platinum blonde so pale it looked silver. Her dress was an ordinary maid’s uniform, but every eye in the room fixed on her, spellbound by her striking features. She pushed the trolley in between Luigi and Keith and set both hands on her hips.

“Now, if the old man here really did die—”

“O-Old man?!”

Luigi, who took considerable pride in looking younger than his years, snapped his eyes up at her. But he too was cowed by the woman’s beauty, and could only open and close his mouth.

Beautiful.

Truly beautiful!

That was all that filled his head.

The woman went on.

“Whoever came to pay their respects, he wouldn’t be able to see their face. Because he’d be dead.”

“…”

“Unless, of course, he did the one thing you must never do at a funeral.”

Drawn in by the riddle, Keith asked:

“And what is the one thing you must never do at a funeral?”

“Resurrection.”

“Pfft.”

She answered placidly, without so much as a change of color, and the estate steward let out a small laugh. Keith’s eyes lit with interest.

“Resurrection… How interesting.”

“Well, failing that, he could always lie about being dead.”

The woman’s blue eyes glittered with mischief too. An aquamarine iris held in a perfect circle by a thin, dark rim: mysterious eyes.

“A funeral is where the close and the distant alike all gather, isn’t it. It would be a fine chance to watch and see which of them are ‘real’ friends.”

“…”

“…”

— Gulp.

Tension shot up in an instant. A single thought passed through the minds of the candidates gathered in the study.

What if this is Elrod Paragon’s play? What if he deceived every one of us to weigh true friends against jackals?

Luigi’s face in particular went pale.

“T-That can’t be! Because — because…”

“Yes. The old man is quite right.”

“…”

“Funeral rites are far too complicated for anyone to bother with such a thing. Too much trouble, too much money wasted. Dying is quite the chore these days.”

“Y-You…! Do you know where you are, cracking jokes?”

Count Luigi Husslix finally exploded. His face flushed red, and as he jabbed a finger at her, the woman promptly dipped into a curtsy.

“The old man made a joke first, so I thought it was allowed. I’m an outsider, you see — I don’t know the funeral rules here. If I have given offense, I apologize.”

Her eyes tilted up prim as a cat’s, her nose looked carved over long, painstaking hours, and her lips were full and pink. She was a delicate, polished beauty, and she certainly did not look like a woman of the North.

“Hrm, hrm! Right. Well, if you know you gave offense, then later, to my chambers—”

Keith cut him off before Luigi could finish the filthy sentence.

“And who might you be?”

“A maid, young master.”

“A maid… I took you for a jester.”

A jester, at a funeral.

It could have been taken as a reproach, but the woman nodded gravely.

“That is not so bad either. When the grief is too much, a joke is exactly what is needed.”

When the grief is too much.

Perhaps she had read it: that sorrow wrapped in indifference, like a fruit with its seed and flesh turned inside out.

She looked Keith straight in the eye and asked:

“But if a joke is too hard, warm tea is not bad either. Shall I pour you a cup?”

“I—”

“No need!”

Luigi could not stand to watch her placidly lift the pot, and raised his voice. He vented his temper on the blameless estate steward.

“Just open the damned will already!”

“Y-Yes, sir. Everyone who is coming seems to be here, so…”

The estate steward wiped away his sweat and broke the seal. The will was a single sheet of parchment, nothing more.

“I shall now read the will of the late His Grace, Elrod Paragon.”

Everyone in the room fixed their attention on the estate steward.

All but one.

“First, I offer my thanks to those who made the journey here for a departed man of many failings.”

The platinum-blonde beauty. Pai.

She was watching Keith Paragon. His profile, steeped in deep grief, was far younger than the last image of him she remembered. She wondered how that calm, settled gaze would churn once it heard Elrod’s will.

“Near or distant, I do not wish for strife to rise among family who share my blood. Therefore what I leave to say to each of you will be delivered in full to your homes by message magic.”

“…”

“There is, however, one person alone whose whereabouts are unknown, for whom that method will not serve.”

Gazes freighted with curiosity, greed, and puzzlement drifted slowly toward Keith.

The one man whose whereabouts the lord of the North could not know. There could be only one such person, his younger brother Keith Paragon, who had been wandering the Empire.

The estate steward wet his dry lips with tea. The next passage was long.

“Therefore I, Elrod Paragon, do hereby declare. Should I, by some misfortune, depart this life before my sole blood, Ardine Paragon, attains her majority at eighteen, I appoint Keith Paragon as her guardian.”

“…!”

“Further, from this hour I confer upon Keith Paragon the title of Regent Duke. Keith Paragon shall discharge the responsibilities and duties befitting that station, and this title shall remain in force until midnight on the day before Ardine Paragon comes of age.”