MPNS Ch 99

Chapter 99

It was the first time Raymond had treated him so well; Nikiel was a little at a loss.

“Mm… thank you. Who knew my lord held me in such regard…”

Flustered, he stammered out his thanks, and Raymond, lips closed, took the lead. Following him, Nikiel noticed the tips of the man’s ears had reddened.

‘Well, well… embarrassed, are we, now that you’ve said it?’

Unaware his own face had warmed too, Nikiel let out a brief chuckle.

They climbed the tower in silence for a time. It was a textbook spiral stair, medieval in its design. Windows were rare on each landing, and those few were small, lending a chilly air. The masonry was stone, heavy with damp.

Despite the sharp reek and mold, Nikiel kept close at Raymond’s heels. When at last they reached the level where Gaspar lay, Minervina was at her post and bowed to him. Amid the smoke-tainted corridor, the silver-haired beauty dipped her head with polished grace.

“An honor to meet again, Your Highness.”

Nikiel nodded and approached. Even with her superior beside her, she addressed him with warm deference—as if the ultimate decision lay with him, and thus the person to please was he.

“The stench may be foul, Your Highness—wrap this cloth at your ears.”

“I had already thought the smoke overpowering; grateful, my lady.”

“Not at all. Also, the gentleman here was summoned at our request.”

She bent slightly at the waist and pitched her voice for him alone. Nikiel looked where she indicated.

At the open cell door stood a man pinching his nose—Vincé Lois, the Vice Count and Master of Wardrobe, notorious for a loose tongue.

As the officer overseeing purchase and care of royal goods, he was not the sort to be found at the scene of a traitor’s mysterious death, yet the look between Raymond and Minervina suggested a plan. Perhaps their whispered talk in the corridor had been to arrange this.

Then Raymond, brow tightening, set his palm to Minervina’s forehead and pushed her back.

“Stand off, Baron Weiss. What are you about?”

“My lord! And what are you about—handling a lady so?”

Startled by the unhesitating gesture, Nikiel cried out on her behalf. Raymond clicked his tongue—the air of a man caught in mischief and in no mood to repent. Nikiel could not see Minervina’s sly grin, aimed like a jab at Raymond.

“Your Highness, let us enter and examine the body first,” Minervina said calmly, as if untroubled. Nikiel threw Raymond a look fit for refuse, then followed her lead—missing the low, vexed sigh behind him as Raymond rubbed at his nape like a man whose day would not go smooth.

“Ah… Your Highness Nikiel…”

The Master of Wardrobe, standing before the cell, turned to him with a sickly face. Unable even to manage a proper bow, he seemed every inch the chatterer he was—weak of nerves, undone by the sight of a charred corpse. Pale as parchment, he addressed Minervina.

“B-Baron Weiss… might I go? I know not why I am here at all—and my gorge will not settle—”

“What do you mean, my lord? We told you there is tip he stole a golden candlestick from the royal bedchamber. If it is found on his person, you must judge whether it is the sovereign’s property or some profane trinket.”

“Now see here… a candlestick… what of it…”

Irresponsible words for the man tasked with stewarding palace goods—but Nikiel recognized the truth in them. Minervina, dragging him under flimsy pretexts and refusing him leave, seemed the better thug.

For his sake too, Nikiel thought it best to show something quickly. Setting foot within, he heard the fragile man squeak, “Gah! Your Highness! Not into that impious place!”—which only strengthened the resolve.

The floor where Gaspar’s corpse lay was black with soot; the body itself had collapsed beyond recognition as human. Even the teeth, which should gleam white, were cinder-black. To call this “sun-burnt” strained belief; he looked nothing but ash.

“Your Highness need only suppress the unclean within this chamber.”

Minervina spoke as if ordering some simple errand. For a modern man, Nikiel could not parse it.

‘Unclean what? On New Year’s I only check the fortune page for fun. I did not come to deal in occult nonsense…’

He had intended to examine the corpse, craft a plausible rationale, and say, “The cause was surely solar ignition; test the fiber of his garments!”—deploying science beyond medieval ken. Instead, he was asked to wield sacred power on the spot. Thinking further, he realized that even if he expounded on spontaneous combustion, these people—who heard modern terms as sound alone—would only furrow their brows and parrot back nonsense.

Reading his hesitation, Raymond said,

“Usually, a cleric would be dispatched. But within the palace, we wished swiftly to erase any lingering shard of a curse with sacred power. Since Your Highness, in oceanic generosity, agrees to act, we are deeply grateful.”

Raymond poured florid praise upon him, face rapt. From that reaction, Nikiel realized the man was performing. No one had yet declared a curse; to summon him and ask a “suppression” made little sense—but the queasy master of wardrobe seemed none the wiser.

Nikiel had never consecrated anything before. Sacred power, when it coursed unbidden through him, had only ever brought up blood; now he tried to cast it outward.

‘The book said to radiate heat from the body… charlatanry… I’m not a far-infrared stone. Is this even religion?’

Following the instructions he’d skimmed, all he felt was doubt—until—

“O—oh!”

The Master of Wardrobe, who had been dry-heaving, burst into noisy awe. Nikiel, ready to snap, clicked his tongue and turned—only to drop his own jaw.

“What… what is this…”

Light, pouring from his hand. Golden, rippling light flowed out and lifted soot from the floor. Startled at his own miracle, he babbled, “What—what is this—” until Minervina, beside him, overlaid the sound with brisk applause.

“Merciful heavens! Our Prince Nikiel indeed! By sacred power, he has erased the vile curse!”

He had been thinking the sacred force seemed rather like a damp rag; still, he turned to her, stunned. She smiled sweetly and tipped her chin at the master of wardrobe—an invitation to join the act.

Nikiel shut his eyes tight, then opened them.

“…It is a relief my sacred power could be of use… Though this man was a traitor who threatened a royal life, let his passing be gentle.”

Apparently, the old art of flattering professors had not withered in him; the words came out with some saintly sheen. A touch stilted, yes—but to the master of wardrobe, still lost in wonder, he must have seemed a chosen herald. The poor man looked fit to prostrate himself on the floor.

Ha-ha, Nikiel answered the gaze with an awkward laugh—when Raymond lowered his hand.

“Enough. Your Highness must not be overtaxed. The consecration is done; let us return. I shall escort you.”

Nikiel glanced at the floor, still dusky in patches, but Raymond shook his head and drew an arm around his shoulders, steering him from the cell. Behind them, Minervina’s voice drifted, the eager cadence of a lay preacher mid-appeal.

“You saw? Sights like these are not for just anyone, yet fortune favored you, my lord. All the capital should know His Highness Nikiel’s sacred power brims with radiance…”

“Indeed! How could any have maligned one upon whom such grace descends…”

“Quite. Perhaps malicious rumors, born of envy for His Highness’s gift?”

It was comical. The true Nikiel had indeed rifled ladies’ skirts and loosened lads’ breeches, living wantonly; yet in a blink, gossip had flipped—now it was all a smear from some jealous soul. And who would be jealous of Nikiel’s sacred power, if not Raphael Ossinis—the crown prince of this realm?