Memory (6)

When Theorad opened his eyes again, an old corridor lay before him.

A crowd had gathered there. Some wore the white robes of priests, others the clothes of witches. Lanterns shone in their hands, and beneath that light they drew their weapons with faces taut from fear.

At the center stood a silver-haired elf. Her hair fell to her waist, her long bangs hiding one eye. For a moment, Theorad did not recognize her as Linea.

“…What are you doing?”

Her voice shook. Holy water dripped from her wet hair, ran down her cheeks, and fell from her chin.

“Walpurgis Night is over. We won. You said you wanted to celebrate our victory, so you invited me here…”

“We?”

One of the witches pushed forward with a snort. Heavy makeup framed her narrow, sharp eyes; she folded her arms and stared at Linea with undisguised contempt.

“Can you really say we when those pointed ears are showing? There was always something strange about how much personal magic you could use. Of course—you were an elf all along. If the priests hadn't brought holy water, we'd never have known.”

The witch's mouth twisted.

“And Riya isn't even your real name, is it?”

“Derna. I'm sorry I hid what I was. I had a reason. Give me time, and I'll explain everything. Please stop this awful joke.”

“Oh? Does this look like a joke to you?”

Derna gave a careless shrug. A low ripple of laughter spread among the others.

In truth, Linea understood. Witches and priests had been enemies. For them to be standing together, armed, against her, they had found a reason to set their hatred aside. And that reason was almost certainly the Black Flame Witch herself.

The two sides had signed a nonaggression pact on Walpurgis Night. But from the Church's perspective, an uncontrollable weapon like her could not be left at large.

The witches had their own interests. Their more moderate members needed the leader of the radicals—the figure credited with so much of the war's victory—to disappear if they were to consolidate power in a rebuilt witch society. The revelation that their leader was an elf offered a convenient pretext for turning on her.

“Riya, you stupid bitch,” Derna said.

“Do you think a non-witch has any right to lead witches? I certainly don't. I'm sorry, but you have to die here.”

“Derna…”

“Don't worry about what comes afterward. We'll make sure no one hears of your death. The name Riya will remain in our hearts as a legend.”

Linea stared at her. She had done everything she could for the witches. Even now, she seemed unable to understand how all that effort had brought her to this.

She had known betrayal before. Familiarity did not make it painless. It was another blade driven into wounds that had never properly healed.

Tears slipped from her eyes, though her face hardly moved.

“It's the same.”

Resignation settled over her colorless gaze.

“In the end, witches are human too.”

Derna frowned, unable to understand what she meant. Then she seemed to lose interest in understanding at all.

“Kill her!”

The priests released divine power. The witches hurled spells. The floor shattered under the attack, and lantern glass burst, filling the corridor with dust and smoke.

As soon as the first barrage ended, priests charged through the haze with drawn swords. Metal rang against metal. Light flashed; explosions and screams followed.

There were many attackers and only one Linea.

When the smoke finally cleared from the ruined hall, she alone remained standing.

“….”

Moonlight streamed through the broken ceiling. Her silver hair and clothes were drenched in blood, none of it her own.

Bodies lay at her feet. People who had called themselves her companions seemed to stare up at her in accusation.

“…What did you expect?”

Her laugh held no amusement. If betrayal had happened so many times, surely she should have learned. She should have left the witches before they had the chance to turn against her.

“Why… Why did I expect anything…?”

She had believed she could become their friend. This was what that belief had brought her.

Her laugh broke into sobbing. Then the sobs became raw, anguished cries. Linea fell to her knees among the dead.

Theorad reached toward her.

Before his hand could touch anything, the corridor and its corpses dissolved into countless drifting particles.

The fragments gathered again, arranging themselves into the walls of a cramped cabin. In one corner sat Linea, her back against the wall and her knees drawn close. She stared at her feet without moving.

She ate nothing. She drank nothing. The mana in her body alone sustained her through the passing days.

Two years slipped by in that narrow room before she reached the end of her thoughts.

The elder was right.

Humans were selfish, hungry for power, and quick to wage war. They used one another and threw one another away, treating the cycle as something natural.

She had been foolish to expect anything else. There was no reason to meet humanity with kindness. Thinking back on the days when she had blamed herself for everything—even thought of taking her own life—filled her with contempt for her former self.

From now on…

Humans would have to be destroyed.

Or, if she stopped short of exterminating them, they would have to be brought under her rule, unable to begin another pointless war.

The wicked would be killed. Corrupt officials would be imprisoned. Kings and emperors would be made to understand what awaited them if they abused their power.

It was the only way she could imagine to end war and betrayal.

She could think of nothing else. She had lived among humans for years, yet had never learned to see the malice behind their smiles.

“Scoundrel.”

Linea lifted her head, her lips tightening. Something strange gleamed in eyes that had seemed empty for so long.

“Theorad Deharem.”

She had pushed that name aside while fighting the war. Now it returned to her.

He was the man who had predicted the struggle between witches and the Church—and declared with confidence that it was all part of a scheme he had devised. He had called himself the worst villain.

She would no longer dispute the title. If he had truly engineered the war, then he deserved it.

“…I have to kill you.”

She clenched her teeth and struggled to her feet. Two years of sitting had left her unsteady, but she soon found her balance.

Theorad Deharem would be the first. After him, she would seek out the wicked throughout the world and destroy them. Even the smallest sin could be enough in her new, merciless judgment.

Anyone who defended such people would share their guilt. If a group or a kingdom opposed her, its members would face the same fate.

The thought was feverish and extreme. Betrayal had left her unable to judge the world as she once had.

Hatred alone remained.

“Theorad Deharem…”

She opened the cabin door and stepped outside. Sunlight flooded the vision so brightly that Theorad, watching the memory, had to close his eyes.

“Good heavens! Aren't you the Black Flame Witch?”

The voice reached him before he could see its owner.

Theorad opened his eyes.

His father stood in the sunlight.

“I heard you disappeared after Walpurgis Night. Whatever brought you here?”

Wellion had been working on the lawn in front of the Deharem mansion. He wiped his hands as he approached.

Linea made no attempt to straighten her crooked witch's hat. She merely fixed him with a hostile stare.

“Theorad Deharem. Where is he?”

“Eh? You know him? Why do you need to see him?”

“Answer me.”

Wellion's brows drew together. The visitor was curt, and she smelled as though she had not bathed in a very long time. Still, he was not about to be discourteous to a guest at his own home.

“He's having a late breakfast in the dining room. Ate something he shouldn't have yesterday and gave himself a stomachache. Ha ha.”

“Take me to him.”

Her tone had not grown any friendlier. Wellion swallowed his irritation and led her into the mansion.

Servants stepped aside as she passed. Wellion walked beside her down the corridor, slowly growing used to the smell.

Hoping to lighten the mood, he spoke again.

“By the way, Black Flame Witch, have you heard this? A merchant from the Kingdom of Agela told me elven urine is a cure for all kinds of ailments. Said it tastes good, too. I was thinking of buying a bottle. If I could bear to drink it, perhaps my old complaints might finally improve—”

Wellion fell silent.

Linea's look was cold enough to kill.

“That's superstition.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, I thought it might be.”

They continued the rest of the way without speaking. At the dining-room entrance, Wellion recovered enough of his manners to raise a hand.

“This is the Deharem mansion's dining room, and—”

“Move.”

Before he could finish, Linea drew her wand and kicked the door.

Bang!

The door flew open so violently that it shook on its hinges.

Linea strode inside and aimed her wand at the figure eating at the table.

But she could not bring herself to cast.

Her hands trembled. Her gaze wavered. Drawing one long breath after another, she slowly lowered the wand.

“How…?”

Theorad, seated at the table, looked back in surprise.

He was small. His face was round and young. He was only five years old.

“How could you…?”

Linea's murderous certainty gave way to bewilderment. The child stared at her just as blankly. Then he set down his knife, swallowed, and drew a breath as though gathering his courage.

“Excuse me…”

He looked at her carefully.

“Are you the Black Flame Witch?”

It was the moment the young Theorad and Linea met for the first time.