The moment he grasped the doorknob, his eyes instantly recognized the other’s identity.
“Lord Crobe.”
Lentz, who had emerged from the profound darkness of the cloister, bowed slightly, a gesture that was both respectful and economical.
“Lord Rehart.”
The air hung heavy with the scent of damp stone and night-blooming jasmine.
“What are you doing here?”
Blayden’s voice, though calm, held an undercurrent of surprise.
He had sent Lentz to the main house, to meet his family, to tend to matters that surely required his full attention.
Had he not gone home?
Had something unforeseen transpired?
“I returned early.”
Lentz’s response was dry, devoid of embellishment, a characteristic brevity Blayden had come to know well during their campaigns.
With a slight shift, Lentz lifted the wooden basket in his hand, revealing its contents only partially to the faint light filtering from the cloisters.
As the candle, flickering precariously in its sconce, continued to shorten, the Purgatory Road, a long, echoing corridor within the convent, became progressively engulfed in a deepening darkness.
Gabriel, a young novice whose dewy gaze lingered on a melancholic painting adorning the wall – a depiction of a saint wrestling with inner demons – finally tore his eyes away.
Turning to Leni, his voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet infused with an eager hope.
“The Mother Superior said I could look at books about medicinal herbs. Do you want to go to the library with me?”
The words hung in the air, awaiting a response.
When Leni didn’t answer immediately, a delicate blush, like the first flush of dawn, spread across Gabriel’s cheeks, betraying a hint of nervousness.
He hurried to add, his voice gaining a touch of pride, “The library at Ruette Convent is famous for its rare collection of books. It miraculously survived even during the war, a true testament to its sacredness and the dedication of the sisters.”
The implication was clear: this was an opportunity not to be missed.
“Oh, I’d like to take a walk instead.”
Leni’s reply was gentle, a small smile playing on her lips, feeling a pang of genuine sorrow for repeatedly refusing Gabriel’s earnest invitations.
Her mind, however, was already elsewhere, captivated by a different pursuit.
She wondered if Blayden, Lord Rehart, had indeed gone to the garden with the Mother Superior.
If fortune favored her, if the stars aligned just so, she might be able to eavesdrop on their conversation, a furtive listener hidden amongst the dense shrubbery.
It might be too late, she mused, a fleeting regret for having lingered so long by the painting, lost in its somber beauty.
But even so, it was a chance worth taking, a small gamble against the odds.
Gabriel, with a grace that spoke of his gentle nature, nodded without any discernible sign of displeasure, understanding Leni’s unspoken preference.
He simply turned away, leaving Leni to her own devices.
The quiet footsteps of Gabriel echoed softly, gradually fading into the cloister’s silent depths, a sound that seemed to carry the very essence of tranquility.
Leaving the confined spaces of the convent behind, Leni went out into the moonlit garden, her heart quickening with a mixture of hope and anticipation.
Contrary to her expectations, however, Blayden was nowhere to be seen, the expansive garden appearing empty of any human presence beyond her own.
But the profound tranquility of the deep moonlight, casting long, ethereal shadows across the well-tended paths, and the soft, caressing breeze, whispering secrets through the leaves, seemed to wash away her initial disappointment, replacing it with a sense of peaceful solitude.
Leni strolled leisurely through the garden, savoring the rare peaceful and romantic ambiance of the night.
Her steps, light and unhurried, led her deeper into the verdant expanse, until she discovered a large, ancient tree, its silhouette stark against the luminous sky.
This massive tree, with branches stretching in all directions like gnarled, arthritic fingers, stood in stark contrast to its surroundings.
Its branches were dry, devoid of the verdant leaves that should have adorned them, and its sparse foliage was withered, brittle.
It couldn’t be due to drought, Leni mused, her brow furrowing in confusion.
All the other trees and flowers in the garden were boasting their vibrant beauty, their leaves glistening with dew, their blossoms bursting forth in a riot of color.
As she wondered, a soft, almost imperceptible sound reached her ears – the distinct crunch of grass being stepped on behind her.
Leni turned around, her movement fluid and graceful, and upon seeing Mother Superior Ercanine, she greeted her politely, a deferential bow acknowledging the elder woman’s presence.
The Mother Superior approached her, her benevolent smile radiating a warmth that seemed to chase away the night’s chill.
“Were you looking at the tree?” her voice was gentle, laced with a knowing curiosity.
“I was walking and ended up here,” Leni replied, explaining her presence.
“But Mother Superior, why is this tree so dry when it’s spring? All the others are so full of life.”
The Mother Superior’s smile deepened, a profound wisdom settling in her eyes.
“It’s the Tree of Lies. It’s admirable that it withered from breathing the breath of truth.”
A shiver ran down Leni’s spine.
There was a similar tree, she recalled, in Claville Palace, standing solemnly beneath the formidable Tower of Time.
That tree, however, had always been abundant with lush leaves and vibrant flowers, a picture of thriving vitality.
It had made her heart ache, she remembered, feeling like undeniable proof that the palace, with its labyrinthine politics and hidden agendas, was perpetually full of hypocrisy and deceit.
At that time, in her youthful naivety, she had wished for that tree to be barren, to be as withered as this one before her, a symbol of truth triumphing over falsehood.
But now, seeing the actual withered tree, a wave of unexpected sorrow washed over her.
“Truth is poison to this tree,” the Mother Superior continued, her voice soft but firm.
“That is the meaning of this tree’s existence.”
Leni considered this, a new understanding dawning.
“I saw a Tree of Lies in the garden of Claville Palace as well. Is this tree connected to that one?”
A profound sigh escaped the Mother Superior’s lips, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
“They were originally one. I stole it and planted it here right after the Sun War broke out 21 years ago.”
Leni’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Excuse me? You stole it?”
The audacity of the statement left her speechless.
Why?
She wanted to ask, a thousand questions forming on her tongue.
No, setting aside the reason, how could she, a woman of such seemingly delicate stature, steal such a large, ancient tree?
Leni discreetly examined the Mother Superior’s petite figure and slender arms, a silent incredulity etched on her face.
The Mother Superior smiled, perhaps discerning the unspoken meaning in Leni’s gaze, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.
“If you can plant it, you can also dig it up and move it, for it is a tree.”
That may be true, Leni conceded inwardly.
But the Mother Superior had said, ‘I’ stole it.
Did she truly move the tree by herself?
Is she also a magician, capable of such feats?
While Leni hesitated, grappling with these bewildering possibilities and the overwhelming desire to ask, the Mother Superior, with an almost imperceptible shift, changed the subject, her gaze drifting upwards to the moon.
“King Muhahtion, who founded Kiavech, maintained friendly relations with all spirits, a king renowned for his wisdom and diplomacy. According to legend, the shadow spirit, who was particularly close friends with the king, left a prophecy concerning this very tree. It said that this tree would meet its final death after a thousand years when it encountered a harsh truth, a truth so profound it would shatter its very essence.”
Why, Leni wondered, are all legends either so sad or so cruel, filled with foreboding and tragic inevitability?
“It’s the nine hundred ninety-ninth year since this tree was planted.”
Gasp!
The realization hit Leni like a sudden gust of wind.
So it will die next year?
A thousand years of history, of growth and endurance, will simply disappear?
The tree’s death would, by this logic, mean the world is finally filled with truth, an unadulterated reality.
So, should she be happy about its impending demise?
Leni, her mind reeling in confusion, struggled to reconcile these conflicting emotions.
“Mother Superior,” she managed to ask, her voice barely a whisper, “can truth be harsh?”
The Mother Superior’s gaze was solemn, profound.
“Some truths are so pure that they lead life to death, a paradox that defies simple understanding.”
Pure things bringing death, what could this possibly mean?
Leni felt a chill despite the mild night.
“Beauty exists in many forms in this world, some obvious, some hidden. Truth is sometimes dark and plain, unadorned by superficial splendor. Our mission, our sacred duty, is to cultivate a heart that discerns true value, that perceives the essence of things without being misled by external splendor or superficial appearances.”
“Yes,” Leni nodded, her understanding deepening with each word.
The Mother Superior, who had been observing her with a solemn, penetrating gaze, took a subtle step closer, a movement that brought her into Leni’s immediate space.
Her calm, knowing eyes landed on the intricate steel rose pin nestled in Leni’s hair, catching the faint moonlight.
“You possess a rare item, one imbued with a unique power.”
“It’s a gift from a precious person,” Leni responded, her fingers instinctively reaching for the pin.
She carefully took it out, placing it gently in her palm, the cool metal a familiar comfort.
Although this pin was imbued with a lingering sadness, a poignant reminder of Princess Kiabel’s tragic death, it was also a grateful object, a silent guardian that had protected her through various trials.
“It has gone to the person it should go to.”
The Mother Superior uttered an ambiguous remark, her voice almost a murmur, then added, as if speaking to herself, a profound truth unfolding before her eyes, “This is how fate flows, an intricate dance of destiny. Yes. Just as there cannot be two suns in the sky, dominating the heavens, there should not be two moons, for balance must be maintained.”
A monologue, with a distinct, almost metallic sound, scratched at the pervasive darkness, lending an eerie quality to the night.
Leni’s heart chilled, a sudden apprehension seizing her, at the Mother Superior’s subtle yet undeniable change in voice, a shift that suggested a deeper, more profound persona beneath the placid exterior.
The Mother Superior, with an unexpected swiftness, took Leni’s hand, raising it with an almost regal gesture, and then, to Leni’s astonishment, she bent her head and kissed the back of her hand, a gesture of profound reverence. “
My Queen.”
The words, spoken with an unsettling certainty, hung in the air, echoing in Leni’s mind.
“Huh?”
Leni, horrified by the unexpected declaration, snatched her hand away as if it had been burned, her reaction instantaneous and involuntary.
She didn’t even have time to worry about the impropriety or rudeness of her action; the sheer shock of the Mother Superior’s words obliterated all other concerns.
Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat of pure terror, and she instinctively looked around, her gaze darting through the shadows as if checking for invisible eavesdroppers, for phantom ears that might have heard the incendiary pronouncement.
The palace situation was already a chaotic maelstrom, a political quagmire that had ultimately led to her enslavement, a brutal reversal of her former life.
And now, this, this pronouncement of “Queen”?
If that word, even whispered in the stillness of the garden, were to spread beyond these confines, her head would be on the chopping block for treason, a swift and brutal end to her already precarious existence.
“Qu… Queen? Why are you saying such a thing?”
Leni whispered, her voice barely audible, a thin thread of sound swallowed by the vastness of the night.
The Mother Superior, however, replied without any hint of caution, her voice calm, unwavering, and devoid of the slightest tremor of doubt.
“Because you are the one who will save this tree.”
The Mother Superior’s confident and dignified tone, though meant to reassure, only served to intensify Leni’s disquiet, sending a prickle of unease crawling up the hairs on her neck.
Her rational mind screamed in protest: I don’t want to get tangled up with legends.
Things can’t get any more complicated here than they already are.
The only thing that truly matters, the sole objective, is returning safely to Claville and saving my father, freeing him from his unjust imprisonment.
But, betraying her deeply ingrained rationality, a cursed curiosity, an insidious serpent of fascination, burst forth from within her, overriding her carefully constructed defenses.
“Um… by any chance, are you the wise woman who made this pin, Mother Superior?”
Leni ventured, her voice still low, but now tinged with an undeniable eagerness, a desperate need for answers.
“Why do you ask that?”
The Mother Superior’s gaze was shrewd, discerning the unasked questions behind Leni’s words.
“Actually, Princess Kiabel gave me this pin as a gift, and she told me that a wise person left a prophecy: that something beautiful is hidden within the steel.”
Leni explained, her fingers tracing the delicate contours of the rose pin in her palm.
“Ah,” the Mother Superior sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of ancient knowledge, of destinies woven and unwoven through time.
“It is indeed beautiful. But to reach that beauty, to truly grasp its essence, one must cross a long and deep river of sorrow. So please, remain strong always, for the journey ahead will demand immense fortitude.”
The Mother Superior bent down, her movements graceful and deliberate, and gently kissed Leni’s forehead, a gesture that was both maternal and profoundly ceremonial.
Then, with a breath that was scarcely more than a whisper, a secret shared only with the night and the budding queen, she breathed out, “My Queen,” the words a soft caress against Leni’s skin, a lingering promise.
***
Blayden, having left the confines of the main house, went into the garden, his steps purposeful but unhurried.
He walked along the neatly trimmed shrubbery, its dark mass a comforting presence in the growing dusk, until he found a flat, weathered rock, smoothed by centuries of sun and rain. With a sigh that carried the unspoken weariness of a lifetime of burdens, he sat down, the coolness of the stone a welcome sensation against his tired frame.
Lentz, ever the loyal shadow, who had followed him without a word, now sat down on the opposite side, mirroring Blayden’s posture, the wooden basket of strawberries resting innocuously between them, a silent offering.
A fresh, almost intoxicating scent of wild strawberries, sweet and earthy, rose from the abundance filling the basket, a small pocket of summer amidst the approaching night.
Blayden simply gazed at the strawberries, his eyes distant, lost in thought, without making any move to eat them.
After a long moment of contemplative silence, he finally spoke, his voice low, almost a murmur.
“Did you see your mother?”
“I paid my respects to my elder brother.”
Lentz replied, his gaze fixed on the strawberries, a subtle tension in his jaw.
Erhasen, Lentz’s half-brother and the eldest son of Duke Crobe’s house, had participated in the war of conquest, a brutal conflict that had reshaped kingdoms, and had died shortly after it began, a life cut short before its prime.
So, “paying respects” meant visiting his grave, standing before a cold stone marker that bore witness to a life irrevocably lost.
“Who suffers more: a person who has a mother but doesn’t see her, or a person who wants to see their mother but she’s no longer there?”
Blayden mused, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability, an uncharacteristic willingness to even bring up his own situation, his estranged relationship with his own mother.
But Lentz remained silent, his face unreadable, his heart a stone.
Blayden observed him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
A stone fills your heart too, he thought, recognizing the unspoken pain, the shared burden of complicated familial ties.
“Don’t hate your mother too much,” Blayden continued, his voice softening imperceptibly.
“She was someone who desired freedom, above all else.”
“No, she wasn’t. She was someone who desired everything, including freedom. And then she lost everything.”
Lentz’s voice was sharp, a raw edge to his words that betrayed the depth of his resentment.
Julianne Paleen, Lentz’s birth mother, had been Duke Deruan Crobe’s mistress, a position of precarious prestige.
If she had wanted to, she could have become his second wife, legitimizing her position and that of her son.
Duke Crobe, deeply enamored, had courted Julianne for a long time, persistent in his affection, but she had steadfastly refused his proposals.
She had only agreed to maintain their illicit relationship, never accepting the formal bonds of marriage.
This, she believed, was because the moment a woman took marriage vows, she legally became her husband’s property, her autonomy and freedom irrevocably curtailed.
“Mother, now a criminal, will never be able to leave the Duke Crobe’s house her entire life. At this rate, it would have been better if she had just gotten married.”
Was it pity, Blayden wondered, or a deep-seated resentment that colored Lentz’s voice, a simmering bitterness for a fate he also shared?
Julianne, in her misguided pursuit of both love and freedom by remaining unmarried, had believed she was carving her own path.
But she had to face the cruel reality of a situation where her perceived happiness led directly to her child’s misfortune.
A mistress’s child was legally illegitimate, a societal outcast, and could not inherit titles or property, condemned to a life without formal standing.
So Julianne, desperate to secure her son’s future while clinging to her own desires, devised a scheme, a gamble, a desperate, ill-conceived plot that she hoped would allow her to enjoy what she wanted while simultaneously securing her child’s future.
That reckless gamble, that desperate scheme, ultimately killed the Duke’s eldest son, Erhasen, and made Julianne a criminal in the eyes of the law.
In principle, she should have been executed, a grim fate for her transgressions.
But Tigrinu, in an act of calculated clemency, granted Julianne a special pardon, considering Duke Crobe’s considerable prestige and influence.
It came with a severe condition: she was to be confined to Duke Crobe’s house for life, a gilded cage from which she would never escape.
Now Julianne would spend the rest of her life imprisoned within the very walls that once offered her a semblance of freedom, and Lentz, her son, had to bear the ignominy of being a criminal’s son, a mark that would forever follow him.
“Wouldn’t the Duke be largely content? Marriage was just a means to keep your mother by his side forever, and he achieved that wish, albeit through a circuitous and painful route.”
Blayden muttered, a cynical edge to his voice, his gaze still fixed on the strawberries.
Lentz turned to him, looking genuinely shocked, his usual composure momentarily shattered.
“How can you say such a thing?” he demanded, his voice rising, uncharacteristically flushed with indignation.
But Blayden didn’t bat an eye, his expression impassive, unyielding.
“Love has a way of making people cunning and despicable, twisting their intentions, corrupting their very souls,” Blayden stated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
“Lord Rehart!”
Lentz exclaimed, his voice filled with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
“I’m not saying your father is like that, but that love is. Even the most clear-headed individuals, those whose minds are usually sharp and rational, can be blinded by love, utterly consumed by its irrational demands. And it’s not like getting love makes you happier, not necessarily. No, even when love leads to the abyss of misfortune, to a precipice of despair, people willingly go down that path, driven by an inexplicable compulsion.”
Blayden’s voice, though low, was incisive, piercing to the very bone, laying bare the harsh truths of human nature.
“Anyone listening would think you’re a master of love, a seasoned veteran of its battlefields,” Lentz retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Right now, Lord Rehart, you sound like a bard criticizing strategy, bringing up battles you didn’t even fight in, pontificating on experiences you haven’t had.”
“Hmph!”
Blayden scoffed, a dry, humorless sound.
“Why do you think I didn’t fight? I’ve served kings my entire life who ruined kingdoms for love, who waged devastating wars for love, who sacrificed everything for that elusive emotion. I think that’s enough to earn me the right to criticize love, to speak with authority on its destructive power.”
Blayden’s eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, were now as gloomy as his voice, filled with a deep-seated weariness.
Inside that fortress-like shell, behind the stoic facade, was, in fact, a battered heart, a soul scarred by witnessing the devastating consequences of love’s folly.
Fearing Blayden might, in his current melancholic state, start to mock his own situation, to delve into the painful history of his own personal entanglements if left alone with his thoughts, Lentz wisely changed the subject, redirecting the conversation away from dangerous territory.
“Let’s stop digging into my family history,” Lentz said, his tone firmer, a subtle plea for respite.
“You didn’t send me to the estate just to see my mother, did you, Lord Rehart?”
Blayden looked at Lentz with an expression of renewed interest, a flicker of his usual shrewdness returning to his eyes.
“We’ve sufficiently stockpiled provisions even during the war, and the castle’s defenses are solid, impenetrable even.”
Lentz continued, anticipating Blayden’s unasked questions.
“Why did you think I’d be curious about that?”
Blayden asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a rare softening of his features.
“It’s been a whole five years, sir. The time I’ve spent with you on the battlefield, through countless campaigns and strategizing sessions. I can pretty much guess what you’re thinking, what your concerns are.”
Lentz replied, a quiet confidence in his voice.
“Then I’ll have to kill you,” Blayden said, his feigned chilling tone failing to evoke any real fear in Lentz, who knew his lord well.
Even with the feigned chilling tone, Lentz remained calm, unflappable, accustomed to Blayden’s mordant humor.
“Have some strawberries. They’re perfectly ripe.”
He pushed the basket closer, a silent offering of peace and simple pleasure.
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