To the Place Where Precious People Are Waiting (3)

A week had passed since Theorad's reunion with the people of his household.

Life at Deharem Mansion had kept him busy from the moment of his return. Havid had managed the estate in his absence, but there were matters only the head of the family could approve and serious disputes only he could resolve. Work had accumulated accordingly.

He rarely found time to rest. On the occasions when he did escape his office for a breath of fresh air, the elf invariably appeared to spend that brief respite with him.

For all the demands on his time, Theorad was content. His days had regained a familiar, peaceful rhythm, almost as though everything were finally back to normal.

Almost.

War between the Empire and the Demon Realm was drawing near.

Will this peace survive it?

Anxiety brought sigh after sigh to his lips. But worrying was no excuse for a household head to leave his duties undone.

He straightened in his office chair and returned his attention to the papers before him.

Moonlight fell across a report from the workshops. Candle flames added a softer glow to the quiet room.

With all this damp weather, pests and disease are likely to spread. Anthrax would be particularly troublesome. I'd better have preventive measures arranged at once…

He was studying the report, one hand at his chin, when a shadow crossed the desk.

Startled, he looked up. A witch was floating outside his window. She gave him a broad grin and waved.

“Hello! Long time no see.”

“Dremes.”

Theorad set down the report and rose, still recovering from the surprise.

“I don't recall inviting you to frighten me out of my wits.”

“That's mean! I haven't seen you in ages, and that's how you greet me?”

“What's mean is arriving at someone's window instead of his door. I wonder where you learned those manners.”

“Ooh, how cold! I'm going to freeze to death!”

Dremes folded her arms and shivered theatrically. Theorad's eyebrow twitched. Still, she had come to visit him, and he had no intention of turning her away.

“Come in.”

He opened the window and stepped aside. Dremes climbed over the sill with a cat's easy agility. Her floating broom followed a moment later and settled into her hand.

She checked the broom, brushed off her clothes, and took the chair opposite his desk as though she owned it.

Theorad shook his head, closed the window, and sat down again.

“So,” he said, gathering the papers Dremes had disturbed. “What brings you here?”

“Something I want to ask you. I came to see Beynon after hearing he was injured, so it worked out nicely.”

“Ah. Beynon is resting downstairs.”

“I've already visited him. He was sleeping soundly enough, but the moment I woke him he gave me an earful. He must be recovering. What a nasty man! Does he have any idea how worried people were?”

She looked genuinely annoyed. Theorad suspected Beynon had teased her because they were on familiar terms, though that had not made the visit any easier for her.

“Anyway, there's something I need to know. May I ask?”

“Would it stop you if I said no?”

“Well, no, but…”

Dremes coughed, momentarily embarrassed.

“Fine! A couple of simple questions, then. First, is it true you've sided with Princess Benelia?”

“Yes. War is almost upon us, and I've already been attacked by people hostile to Her Highness. Joining forces with her is the best way I have to protect my household.”

“I thought so. Next question! Are you the Black Flame Witch's disciple?”

“…What?”

Theorad stared at her.

He had never met the Black Flame Witch, much less studied under her. The question was so far from anything he expected that, for a moment, he could not even frame an answer.

Dremes mistook his bewilderment for surprise at being found out.

“Oh, everybody in witch society knows by now! They say you're the Black Flame Witch's disciple. The rumor's reached every corner. Some even say that if anyone crosses you, three generations of their family will be ruined.”

“No. What on earth are you talking about?”

“There's no point pretending. Witnesses saw you destroy an assassins' stronghold all by yourself. I went to look afterward. Black spears were driven into the ground everywhere, with traces of that violent wind magic. Who besides the Black Flame Witch—or a disciple of hers—could have done such a thing?”

Theorad was speechless. Where was he supposed to begin correcting an account of feats he had never performed?

Dremes leaned toward him, her dark eyes narrowing. Plainly, she had already decided what the answer ought to be.

“Tell me clearly. Does the Black Flame Witch support Princess Benelia?”

“…”

“Please take this seriously. It matters to me and to the guild. If she supports the princess, the Dokwol Guild will join her side as well.”

Such an alliance could bring virtually the whole witch community behind Benelia. Theorad understood how valuable that would be, but he would not claim a connection he did not possess.

“I don't know what answer you're hoping for. I've never met the Black Flame Witch. I'm not her disciple.”

“What? But they said—”

“I never destroyed an assassins' stronghold, either. If someone claims to have seen me do it, they're mistaken. Is that clear?”

Dremes sank back in her chair and blinked. Theorad's account contradicted every rumor she had heard.

He noticed the doubt lingering in her eyes and sighed.

“I'm not being modest. If I had done those things, I would say so. I'd be pleased to have the Dokwol Guild support Princess Benelia. But I won't claim credit for something I haven't done.”

“…You really mean it?”

“I do. Now, if that's all, please excuse me. I still have work to finish.”

Dremes nodded and stood. Broom in hand, she gave one last puzzled glance around the office and left through the door.

She stopped abruptly.

An elf was waiting in the hallway, hands folded neatly before her maid's uniform. Her silver hair caught what little light reached the corridor, and her red eyes had an unmistakable brilliance.

I've seen her here before…

Only briefly; the elf had vanished before Dremes could get a better look. Yet those half-lowered eyes and that familiar way of holding herself recalled someone else.

The Black Flame Witch.

The more closely Dremes looked, the stronger the resemblance seemed. Of course, one was an elf and the other a witch. They couldn't possibly be the same person.

Unless…

If Theorad truly had not destroyed the assassins' stronghold, perhaps the Black Flame Witch herself had been there.

No, it couldn't be…

But the pieces fit. The Black Flame Witch could have taken Theorad's appearance with transformation magic, raided the stronghold, and left behind the black spears. It would have been a formidable undertaking for most mages, but well within her ability.

And she disappeared from Deharem Mansion eighteen years ago…

Every circumstance seemed to point toward the elf before her. Yet suspicion was no license to demand an answer.

While Dremes searched for a way to approach the subject, the elf turned away with visible irritation. Caution glinted in her red eyes.

“Aren't you leaving?”

“Ah. Well…”

Dremes scratched the back of her neck and gave an awkward laugh.

“What are you doing out here? Theorad's right inside.”

“The master is working. A maid shouldn't interrupt him.”

“Oh, so you're waiting for him to finish?”

“Yes. Once his work is done, I'll speak with him.”

“Then you must have only just arrived.”

“No. I've been here for three hours.”

Dremes stared. It would take perhaps three minutes to walk from the office to Theorad's room, yet this elf had been waiting more than three hours for the chance to speak with him.

It made very little sense. Then again, it was hardly the strangest thing about her.

Dremes cleared her throat.

“Tell me something. Have you heard of the Black Flame Witch?”

“I haven't. I only came to the human world recently.”

The answer came too quickly. Dremes felt oddly outmaneuvered, but she was not ready to give up.

“I see. Then perhaps you can help me name a spell.”

“A spell?”

“There's one the Black Flame Witch is famous for. People have been calling it something like Gale-Black Slash. Pares told me recently that she hates the name. Does it sound strange to you?”

The elf nodded immediately.

“Yes. It's awful. Not merely bad—revolting.”

“Ahaha! Even an elf thinks so. Then we should find something better than Gale-Black Lance. I feel a little sorry for the witch, but the spell is going to appear in witch society's histories. It needs a name.”

Scholars who compiled teaching texts had to choose names their students could readily remember. If the owner of a technique despised the one everyone used, Dremes supposed a change was only reasonable.

She gave the matter considerable thought, then brightened.

“How about this? The Dark Giant's Raging Javelin Beneath the Firmament! You can practically picture it as soon as you hear—”

She stopped.

The elf's formerly half-closed eyes had opened wide. She stared at Dremes with unmistakable fury.

“You.”

A killing pressure spilled from the elf. The air seemed to freeze around them. Dremes flinched despite herself as that gaze narrowed.

The elf's voice was deathly cold.

“Do you want to die?”