The man cast a look of deep concern and replied in a heavy, sunken tone.
“They say your aorta was ruptured. Had you arrived even a moment later, not even the priests would have been able to save you.”
Even hearing that he had stood at death’s door, Varkas felt no particular stir.
As though checking the condition of a weapon, he raised his arm, flexing and opening his hand repeatedly before asking in a calm voice,
“How goes the war?”
“We succeeded in reclaiming Amasec, but mopping up the rebel forces remains sluggish. It is confirmed that the Balto independence army, led by Bjorn Blodar Heimdal, has established a new base in Yotengar… but the terrain is so treacherous that an army can hardly advance. At present, we are locked in a stalemate.”
He mapped the northern geography in his mind.
Yotengar was a rugged mountain range spanning the border between the North and the East.
Laced with narrow, steep ravines like a labyrinth, it formed a natural redoubt where marching a large army in formation was out of the question. There was no better ground for an inferior force seeking a protracted war against an enemy several times their number.
‘So they intend to draw this out.’
Varkas recalled the fierce red eyes blazing from behind that steel visor.
Reckless and stubborn as the man was, his reading of the tide was chillingly sharp.
The moment the Northern Noble Alliance turned its coat, Bjorn Blodar Heimdal had rallied the people of Balto to rebuild his strength. It may well have been him who stoked the revolts erupting throughout the province.
He had likely calculated that if he could stall for another year or two, the empire would begin to fracture from within.
Already, the Roem Imperial House had squeezed the provincial lords to muster a massive force for quelling the northern rebellion. Demanding more now would push the nobility’s disaffection beyond repair.
Eventually, the Imperial House would have no choice but to offer terms.
‘He has a sharp mind.’
Varkas gave a dry smirk and pushed himself upright. This time, Daren did not try to hold him back; he merely watched with an exasperated look.
Ignoring him, Varkas sat on the edge of the bed, let out a long breath, and asked,
“Where are we?”
“Dolakan Castle.”
The answer came from the doorway.
Varkas turned toward the voice, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the second son of House Bluestone.
The man stepped into the room unbidden, his tone smooth as silk.
“I suggested to the Shearkan warriors that we bring Your Grace here. Both the imperial delegation and the High Priest of Osiria are lodged in the castle, so I judged it would be for the best in treating your wounds.”
“…I am in your debt.”
At Varkas’s formal greeting, a faint smile touched the man’s lips.
“There is no need for thanks. Had Your Grace succumbed, our arrangements would have turned to ash as well.”
Daren knitted his brow, eyeing the man warily. Evidently, the proposal made to Varkas had not yet been shared with the rest.
Varkas let out a cynical laugh.
“So that is why you brought me here. Do you expect me to raise the matter myself at the conference?”
“As you know, our position hardly allows us to bring up such a request ourselves. If Your Grace would take the lead, matters will proceed far more smoothly.”
A twist formed at the corner of Varkas’s mouth.
House Bluestone clearly intended to make this match a prerequisite for signing the peace treaty.
“You seem in quite a hurry.”
“It has been nearly three years since this war began. With the entire North crumbling into ruin, how could I not be?”
“If you wished to protect Balto, you should never have plotted treason to begin with.”
“Every man is prone to err.”
A bitter smile briefly crossed the man’s face.
“Is what matters not the future to come, rather than the past that has gone? House Bluestone is determined to put an end to this tedious war. We have even resolved to cut down Bjorn Blodar Heimdal with our own hands if necessary.”
· · ·
“Surely Your Grace also wishes to end this war as swiftly as possible.”
Varkas gave no answer. The man studied his face for a moment, then let out a low sigh and took a step back.
“I do not expect Your Grace to attend the talks this very moment. For now, please focus on your recovery.”
Resting a hand over his chest in a respectful salute, the man soon withdrew from the room.
The door had scarcely rattled shut before Daren spoke up.
“What on earth did that man propose?”
“He asked me to nominate his sister as the Crown Princess.”
Varkas spoke calmly, picking up a cup of water from the side table to wet his dry throat.
“It seems they want insurance that the Imperial House will not betray them once the treaty is signed.”
Daren’s mouth fell open. He looked thoroughly appalled by House Bluestone’s sheer effrontery, but pragmatic as he was, he was soon calculating the proposal’s merits.
“As things stand, it is the most peaceful resolution to end this civil war. It would also serve to soothe the hostility of the Northerners.”
Varkas let out a weary breath.
“If His Highness the Crown Prince accepts it willingly, that is.”
“He must accept it, of course.”
Stubborn resolve suddenly hardened Daren’s face.
“His Highness the Crown Prince bears a heavy responsibility for the rebellion in Balto. Having sown the seeds, it is only right that he reaps them.”
Varkas raised an eyebrow, catching the undisguised distaste in the man’s voice.
Most eastern nobles retained some vague goodwill toward Gareth, who shared the bloodline of Shearkan. Yet the reckless path he had walked throughout the war seemed to have steadily eroded whatever goodwill remained.
Daren went on in a cold tone,
“The Grand Duke of the East cannot keep cleaning up after the Imperial House indefinitely. Once this marriage is sealed, Your Grace must return to Kalmor.”
A hollow chuckle broke from Varkas.
“Are you telling me to defy His Majesty’s command?”
“Your Grace nearly died.”
Daren’s tone was somber as he looked him over.
“If His Majesty possesses any conscience at all, he cannot drive the Grand Duke to the front lines any further than this.”
· · ·
“It is time for you to rest. Since you assumed the ducal seat, you have not had a single moment to catch your breath.”
A rare, speechless look crossed Varkas’s face. Urging him to give it careful thought, the man walked out of the bedchamber.
Before long, the priests arrived to tend to him. While they applied strange ointments to his wounds and wrapped them in fresh bandages, Varkas sat leaning back, watching the light of the sinking sun.
When the treatment finally concluded, an elderly servant lit a small brazier, burning herbs that dulled pain. It was a pointless gesture, but he did not bother to refuse.
Drawing in the thick smoke, he thought of the dreams he had seen while unconscious. The memory of her smiling brightly amid a lovely landscape returned in vivid color, only to twist into a face that glared at him with eyes brimmed with venom.
A sudden curiosity came over him.
How had she reacted to the news that he was wounded?
‘Go, and never come back.’
A bitter taste, like swallowed ash, coated his tongue.
Will you be disappointed when you see me return alive and well? Or…
His straying thoughts ground to a halt, as though hitting a wall.
Gazing at the sky darkening to pitch with eyes clouded by the medicine, he soon leaned his head back against the wall, utterly worn.
A fathomless, heavy darkness was swallowing the night.
END