Chapter 48
After that, they spent a while exchanging trivial chatter as they tried to memorize the deposed Crown Prince’s full name.
The conversation eventually drifted toward the idea that since he was sculpted like a god—even if he was dead—it might not be a bad idea to have a one-night conversation with him before sending him off. At that point, Lottie stopped listening. She thought to herself:
’Never. No matter what happens, I must never let them find out he’s with me.’
Soon after, Lottie excused herself, saying she had an errand to run. When someone asked what it was, she glossed over it by saying she had to stop by the cathedral.
It wasn’t time for Mass. From the looks of it, there didn’t seem to be a special service scheduled either. Then what?
‘The backyard of St. Viet Cathedral is quite beautiful, after all. Beautiful enough that a man and a woman couldn’t help but spend a sweet time together…’
She was undoubtedly going to meet her veiled fiancé. Having jumped to that conclusion, Mary stood up in a hurry shortly after Lottie left, claiming she had a schedule of her own.
‘That girl. Just how amazing is this fiancé that she keeps him so tightly hidden and won’t show him to us?’
At first, it was mere curiosity between friends. But after undergoing a unilateral breakup herself, things that used to be fine were no longer fine.
‘Her fiancé must be someone subpar, and she’s embarrassed to show him to us. Otherwise, why would she be so secretive about even going on a date with him?’
Mary knew she was being unreasonable. She knew she was jealous because she had suffered a miserable failure while her friend had a fiancé who acted as if he would pluck the stars and the moon for her.
Even if it was petty, what could she do? She had already driven her carriage to St. Viet Cathedral in pursuit of her friend.
Since one had to wear a chapel veil inside the cathedral, Mary quickly pulled out a white veil and placed it over her head.
Hurriedly scanning her surroundings, she spotted a familiar back moving toward the cathedral building. It was Lottie.
At the same time.
Inside the confessional of St. Viet Cathedral, Calyx and Archbishop Demolus sat with only a wall between them.
“Have you been well, Your Eminence?”
“For someone I saw just a few days ago, that greeting feels a bit grand, don’t you think?”
It was an inappropriate conversation for a place where one confesses their sins, but neither of them seemed to mind.
This was a private space where no one but the penitent and the confessor could enter, and the two needed to speak in such a secret place.
“I was so busy explaining my situation back then. It occurred to me later that I had skipped the pleasantries.”
“So you do realize you showed up after several years and pushed your own business on me by force. You cheeky rascal.”
Archbishop Demolus chided him, but there was no malice in his voice. There was a bond between the two men across the wall that could not be built in just a year or two.
Archbishop Demolus had first met Calyx when he was a priest at St. Inette Cathedral in Ronvernon, attending the baptism of the newborn Calyx.
A year after Calyx had been accused of assassinating the Late King and driven away to a military unit at the border, Demolus—who had just been appointed to the Dempis diocese—reunited with Calyx, who had deserted his unit covered in blood.
In that way, their relationship had continued until now, always on the verge of breaking but never quite snapping.
“I was so shocked when you, who were supposed to have become fish food, showed up before me looking perfectly fine.”
“Yet you were remarkably calm for someone so shocked. You didn’t even ask why when I requested that you verify my identity using your official authority.”
“I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to get involved in your troublesome affairs!”
Calyx laughed softly at the Archbishop’s grumbling. Though his words were harsh, the look in the Archbishop’s eyes as he peered through the partition was filled with concern.
“Ormetus, my son.”
The Archbishop called Calyx in a low voice. Ormetus was Calyx’s baptismal name and the name of a saint.
“Has the wind blowing in your heart finally died down?”
The Archbishop did not ask why Calyx had requested a forged identity. He didn’t ask why he intended to stay in Dempis, or why he was posing as the son-in-law of the House of Count Ix. Instead, he asked the question he always used as a greeting.
— Father, no, Your Majesty. What are you doing?
While pondering the answer, Calyx unearthed a very old memory. It was a worn-out memory he hadn’t even known was there, pushed aside like a stone caught underfoot.
In the memory, he was a boy about to turn thirteen.
Before him, as he was just beginning to look like a young man, his father—a man of sturdy build—was crouching down. The large man was absorbed in planting something in the ground.
— I am planting a sapling.
— A sapling? Why not have the gardener do it?
— Because only if I plant it with my own hands will I never forget.
His father answered in a gentle voice. The hands of the King responsible for a nation were a mess of dirt and scratches.
The young Calyx giggled as he watched the attendants standing behind his father, looking utterly at a loss. In a palace bound by boring things like etiquette and regulations, a maverick like his father must have been a first.
— Never forget? Forget what?
— The fact that I am like this tree.
After giving a riddle-like answer, his father stood up, dusting off his hands. Calyx stepped closer to his father and looked down at the sapling planted in the wide patch of dirt.
— What kind of tree is this, Your Majesty?
— It is a Redwood. It grows well in any environment. If the sunlight and rain are just right, it will grow all the way up to your bedroom.
— And what’s this ‘Your Majesty’? It’s embarrassing, so stop putting on airs and act like usual.
As his father added playfully and ruffled his son’s blonde hair, Calyx flailed about, trying to escape his father’s grip.
Calyx looked up silently at his father, who was gazing at the sapling with eyes full of joy and anticipation.
— A Redwood can be a poison or a boon, depending on how it is used. Its branches are hard yet flexible, making them suitable for bows, but the moment that bow is aimed at a life, it becomes a tool of slaughter. The wood is very sturdy and can be used for furniture, but one must be careful with the leaves. They are toxic; if eaten by mistake, you would have to go pay your respects to the Late King immediately.
His father’s voice was light as if joking, yet it held power. Calyx found himself drawn deeper into his father’s story.
— I thought the power of a King was the same. Depending on how it is wielded, there will be those who cheer with joy and those who wail in pain.
— I intend to remind myself of that fact every moment as I watch this tree grow. I won’t forget what this seat I sit in means, or what responsibilities it carries.
Calyx slowly raised his head and looked up at his father.
With the grand palace standing in the distance and the bright blue sky as a backdrop, his father’s blue eyes were fixed on the sapling he had planted with his own hands.
Come to think of it, he was a truly strange man.
He claimed to hate and feel burdened by ascending the throne, yet once he became King, he became more suited for the position than anyone else. Just like how he had unceremoniously cut off his long brown hair, which he had always kept tied back, right before the coronation.
— I’m going to plant a sapling too later. Just like you, Father.
Calyx said softly. His voice was brimming with affection and respect.
Looking down at his clever son who had immediately understood his father’s intent, the father stroked his son’s hair once more.
Though he teased him with a half-hearted “You’ll have to pay me if you want to plant it on palace grounds,” in that moment, the father and son did not doubt for a second that they would both become wise rulers.
— Father. Fa… Father… Father.
Until he witnessed his father’s corpse, collapsed miserably with a decorative knife resembling a Redwood branch driven into his chest.
“Even if I wished for the wind blowing only within me to stop, could it truly be stopped?”
Calyx gave the same answer he always did, smiling like a saint in a holy painting.
Calyx Redbreeze, the boy who only knew how to love the fate given to him, was dead.
All that remained was a rebel seeking to reclaim everything stolen from him through blood, guns, and blades.
The Archbishop, who had been staring at him, let out a shallow sigh.
“It may not stop completely, but it can be soothed.”
“…”
“Why not try calming your heart by carving a piece of wood? In Dempis, there is a custom where a man carves a wooden spoon and presents it to a woman.”
You have someone to give a gift to, don’t you? The Archbishop’s eyes seemed to say exactly that.
Hearing the word ‘custom’ finally brought something to mind. The story about the tokens of affection Lottie had told him.
It seemed that the gift given to a lover was a hand-carved wooden spoon.
Calyx opened his mouth to ask for more details, but for some reason, he froze with his mouth still open. The Archbishop, who had widened his eyes in anticipation, asked back with a disappointed expression.
“What? Weren’t you going to ask something more?”
“…It’s nothing.”
Calyx replied stiffly and closed his mouth. His tone sounded somewhat blunt because another memory he had forgotten had surfaced.
As Archbishop Demolus stared at him with an expression dying of curiosity, Calyx forced out a single sentence.
“I have no desire to cut my own hands making a gift that wouldn’t even be wanted.”
“Mary?”
Mary, who had intended to spy, was instead discovered by her target.
Startled by Lottie’s voice calling her, Mary dove behind a tree, only to realize the trunk was far too thin to hide her body and came back out.
Lottie approached Mary with wide eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is… is there any other reason to come to a cathedral besides Mass?”
“But it’s not time for Mass right now…”
The very words Mary should have said to Lottie were snatched away. Mary broke into a cold sweat trying to find a way out. Eventually, she decided to just be brazen.
“Wh-what about you? You came to the cathedral when it’s not Mass time either!”
“Me?”
As Mary shouted while pointing a finger, Lottie bit her lip. She was clearly hesitating.
‘Hmph, she’s probably afraid to say she’s going on a date because I’ll beg to tag along.’
“I… I came to see the Archbishop for a moment. There’s something I need to ask him.”
“What kind of favor?”
“To ask if I could look at the books in the cathedral…”
“Books?”
Mary asked again with an incredulous look.
“Then what about the date?”
“Date?”
“Weren’t you supposed to meet your fiancé here?”
“Wh-what?”
