Counterattack And Counterattack

The Grandelvald, Bjoern, and Fjorland duchies.

The Cathedrals of the three duchies exchanged letters in secret, while also sending envoys carrying missives demanding Nastrand’s clear stance and truth regarding the war.

But the border checkpoints, tightly controlled by Fynel, allowed no priest from those duchies to pass.

So the priests returned, unable to deliver their letters. Unbeknownst even to Kraf, the Nastrand Grand Cathedral was becoming utterly isolated.

Yet Kraf was not one to sit idly.

Clearly, the keep’s leadership—Christoph, Morten, and Fynel, the coming rulers—were baring their claws openly at the Cathedral.

Then he too would need to prepare a thorough countermeasure.

“He was frighteningly gaunt. I couldn’t even ask if he approved of the coronation. The way he slept… it wouldn’t be strange if he never woke again.”

Kraf relayed Yodel’s state as he had seen it in the castle, to Mother Cecilia, Thomas, and Joachim.

“So what do you intend to do?”

“Something is amiss. I must get to the bottom of it. The most suspicious is the architect behind all this. Since when was Christoph, not even of age, so ambitious and clever? No. Morten and Fynel—muscle-bound fools—couldn’t draw such designs. I’ve sat with them in council twenty years, I know them. Which means…”

Only one remains.

Thomas swallowed hard.

Indeed, Kraf’s astuteness was no accident.

At first, when Christoph had raged over the matter of Sister Lyset, Kraf had only soothed him, aiming to strengthen ties between castle and Cathedral. But clearly, he too was a born serpent.

Kraf smiled sourly and said:

“Only one—the Duchess, is it not?”

‘He’s figured it out…’

Cold sweat slid down Thomas’s back.

Joachim asked, puzzled:

“But why would the Duchess suddenly push the Young Lord, the Knight Commander, and the Guard Captain to pressure and distance themselves from the Cathedral? What does she gain from it…?”

“The Duchess—Unsette—was clever and ambitious since girlhood. Her birth family? The House Wigrid, once called second in power in this duchy. Rumors of seditious intent hounded them, they withdrew to Telemark and waned. But her ancestors were Norger, fierce Vikings. Such blood doesn’t vanish.”

“I see.”

Neither Thomas nor Joachim had known this.

“Her marriage to Duke Yodel was the ducal house’s way of binding the Wigrid clan by blood, to stave off any threat. But perhaps the Wigrid still dream of influence beyond Nastrand, into other duchies.”

Kraf sighed.

“That Unsette was born a woman was fortune for Nordenheim, and that her husband Yodel lacked ambition was fortune too. I thought that would be her limit. But through her son… she clearly plots something greater.”

The prioress snorted.

“At best, a youth can only do so much. Keep goading the Cathedral, and he’ll be surrounded and killed from all sides.”

“Precisely. Which is why we must make them realize it. In the castle there is one of little presence—Count Mannheim’s son, Friedrich, Yodel’s nephew. He turns sixteen soon, does he not?”

Count Mannheim’s son—suddenly?

Neither the prioress, nor Thomas, nor Joachim could picture the boy, though they recalled the Count’s face.

“I apologize… I truly cannot recall him.”

Thomas muttered, abashed. Kraf roared with laughter.

“They’re a timid house, living as if dead mice. Naturally you wouldn’t remember.”

Joachim tilted his head.

“But why speak of Count Mannheim and his son now?”

“Oh, Joachim. Where has your sharpness gone?”

Ignoring Joachim’s reddened face, the prioress asked:

“So, by chance—the card in our hand shall be Friedrich?”

“Exactly. The quieter, the more timid, the better the card. Easier to control. And fortunately, his piety and reverence for the Cathedral are beyond anything those youths could match.”

The revelation left Thomas’s mind blank. That second document he had once lost—its contents were taking shape in grim reality.

Joachim, mouth agape, stared between Kraf and the prioress.

Kraf nodded, resolve hardening.

“We will gather every detail of Nastrand’s campaign and deliver it to Grandelvald. Even if we achieve only a stalemate at the front, we can declare this a cursed war that defied the Lord’s will—then enthrone Friedrich, and secure Papal sanction.”

“But we lack military force.”

At Thomas’s question, Kraf smiled coldly.

“It matters not. Convince the troops left to guard the keep, bolt the gates, and Christoph can neither come nor go—he’ll die caught between. Do not underestimate Duke Bedgrid and Grandelvald. They are skilled in war.”

Kraf, triumphant, pulled out official parchment and began carefully writing the very scheme he had described—the document Thomas would carry to the old castle in Estderin.

Apart from such intrigues, outwardly Christoph’s coronation and coming-of-age were proceeding smoothly.

In every street and village it was proclaimed: at the coronation, Duke Yodel’s title would pass to Christoph; and with the coming-of-age rite held at the same time, all those of age that year would gain the legal rights and duties of adulthood.

Thus for Lyset, Christoph’s peer in age, the coronation was in essence her own coming-of-age as well.

The special choir including Lyset rehearsed tirelessly for the hymn at the Coronation Mass. With the Ducal Council fixing the date to a fortnight hence, they sang day and night in the great cathedral.

‘Lord Christoph’s coronation… and his coming-of-age!’

Lyset knew better than anyone what it meant.

It was the beginning of Christoph’s reign, and of war. And though she was still but a novice nun, it meant their love would continue from the place of adults.

The sweetness and tremor of his kiss in the library still left her enraptured.

Of course, the weight of prophecy and its dreadful consequences still brought her sighs, but at eighteen, the joy of love outweighed all else.

“Now then, after the hymn ends, the coronation will take place. The High Priest will stand with the Crown, and one priest and one nun will step forth, scattering dried petals over the kneeling lord… let’s see…”

The choirmaster shuffled through the paper listing the ceremonial procedures.

After all, a Coronation Mass was rare—once or twice in a lifetime. So the choirmaster could only rely on a copy of the rites transcribed from Father Thomas.

“Yes. The priest will proclaim, ‘On this joyful day granted by the Lord, all of the Duchy, the birds of heaven, and the trees of the earth gather to witness.’ Then the nun must reply, ‘Let all with eyes and ears see and hear! Here rises a new servant of the Lord as ruler of the Duchy.’ …Who shall it be?”

The choirmaster’s eyes scanned the choir.

The nuns were shy even on ordinary days—and now one must stand before all, scatter petals, and cry out blessings. All shrank from the choirmaster’s gaze.

“I’ll do it, Sister Helga!”

The choirmaster’s face lit up.

“Ohh, Sister Lyset! Yes—you went with the return envoy not long ago, so you won’t falter. And your face shines bright enough for the coronation stage.”

Lyset, blushing, bowed her head.

It was her courage—to stand nearer to Christoph, to share that sacred moment at his side.

The next evening.

Thomas carried Kraf’s letter cautiously to the cliffs behind the castle. He glanced around, checked again and again that no one followed, then began the hard descent between jagged rocks.

The letter pressed to his chest.

It bore all that Kraf had spoken: the Cathedral’s schemes, enthroning a new heir to oppose Christoph, signed by Kraf and prioress Cecilia.

That single letter held the weight of the Cathedral’s very life in its words.

And to Thomas, it was a lifeline—a rope that could raise him to High Priest.

He needn’t go all the way to Estderin’s old castle. At the cliff’s base, toward Estderin, someone from the castle would await him in the forest. He would hand the letter, hear their response, wait a few days, then return.

He had already passed word of his movement to Münhart, under guise of confession.

“Phew… hard work. How did I end up…”

Relying on moonlight, Thomas reached the forest and trudged along a narrow path northward.

“Stop.”

A low voice came from the trees.

Thomas froze. As expected, Münhart emerged, leading two bridled horses.

“You’ve come far, Father Thomas.”

Münhart knelt and made the Sign of the Cross.

“Peace in the Lord be with you. Thank you for coming, Sir Münhart.”

“No one followed you?”

“Mm… it seemed not.”

“Impossible.”

Münhart chuckled and whistled sharp through his fingers.

From behind Thomas, a man appeared. Something dangled from his belt.

As he drew near, its shape came clear.

In the moonlight gleamed a severed head.

“F-Father Hans!”

Thomas’s eyes bulged. He clamped his hand over his mouth to choke back a scream.

Father Hans was the young priest who assisted Kraf in his office—and served his lust.

His face stared lifeless, body gone, blood dripping.

Thomas collapsed to the ground.

The man knelt, made the sign of the cross to Thomas, then saluted Münhart.

“Well done, Ballakson. Where did you catch him?”

“He followed the priest from the cathedral’s side door. I thought it safer to act once he descended the cliffs, so I left quickly, waited here in the woods, and struck.”

Chills shot through Thomas’s scalp. Every step he took was watched—by Castle and Cathedral alike.

‘Kraf doesn’t trust me fully either.’

A watcher in such matters was no surprise—but if it was Hans, Kraf’s closest aide, the meaning was very different.

“Fortunately, he was the only pursuer.”

“The body?”

“Left in the woods. Bears or wolves will finish it. In a few days I’ll take back the bloody robe and some remains, say I found him hunting. An unlucky priest, out in the night, mauled by beasts.”

“Good. Then let’s move at once.”

Münhart hauled the dazed Thomas up and set him on a horse.