MPNS Ch 98

Chapter 98

From the way Raphael handled him, Nikiel could sense an obsessive streak. Years spent navigating male-dominated spaces had given him ample data; reading the temperament of a man was something he trusted himself to do.

To Nikiel’s eye, Raphael blended arrogance, narcissism, inferiority toward the lords, and jealous, twisted fraternal feeling toward a younger brother with sacred power. So he had likely abused the real Nikiel by controlling him from childhood.

True, by Paul’s testimony, the real Nikiel had been insufferable in youth; even so, this man before him had certainly warped that nature further.

‘Born the king’s elder son, he must have thought none better than himself—until inferiority to the lords scrambled his brain.’

Unable to read the scathing internal verdict, Raphael still seemed to believe a word from him would make Nikiel tremble. The real Nikiel, cowed by his half brother, might once have stiffened at a show of pressure and docilely obeyed.

“One must have thoughts to strut—whereas it takes no thought at all to needle Your Highness’s temper so.” Nikiel’s tone was cool. “But tell me, brother—why did you react so to ‘monster wave’?”

“…What?”

Raphael feigned bafflement. Nikiel examined the neatly trimmed nails Paul had buffed and answered,

“You looked like someone who had foreseen it. You weren’t surprised, and you seemed to want to avoid the very mention before the king. Am I mistaken?”

“…Nikki. What makes you think such a thing?”

Raphael’s face empted of expression—so blank it chilled. Nikiel, noting how some people show no face at all when hit squarely, thought drily and tried to slip his body from between wall and prince.

“Where do you think you’re going.”

Raphael gripped his shoulder and slammed him back. The blank mask was not quite inert; something alien lay beneath it. His gaze swept Nikiel’s face.

“So—of late a rat slips through the palace, and now what has it done to my Nikki? Luna-man—when that vile one blotted out the sun in broad day, at last it dragged in its vassal.”

…Luna-man? As Nikiel knew it, Luna-man was an eastern goddess. Named differently there, but here, the western lands called the moon goddess “Luna-man.” He did not fully understand Raphael’s words—but he was sure they were important.

Clicking his tongue, Raphael issued a warning.

“For now, Luna-man and that rat favored by Luna-man may strut freely. But, Nikki—my dear brother—do not provoke me too far.”

Like a thug who picks a fight with half-cloaked riddles and slinks off, Raphael departed. Nikiel, giving a thumbs-up to his back, decided to investigate Luna-man.

Would the other lords know Raphael suspected a monster wave? Since most were not kindly disposed to him, he decided to tell Lucian first as a matter of order. He was still arranging his thoughts when Raymond called to him, standing alone in the corridor.

“Your Highness.”

“Ah, there you are.”

…Right—this one. Nikiel bit his lip, thinking. The day’s aim had been to stem the rumor tying Gaspar’s death to himself. He had judged the wave-omens urgent and warned the king, who cared only for his own headache rather than the people’s harm.

The heir’s response was worse. What sort of man shrugs at a wave in the kingdom he expects to inherit? Such men need the army—ideology first. Even in draftless Ossinis, Nikiel filed Raphael mentally under “draft-dodger”—the kind who’d pull strings for a light-duty posting with a perfect medical. His teeth ground before he knew it.

By contrast, Raymond had parsed him exactly. He had not expected belief.

‘Asking me to use his name—was that his olive branch?’

Perhaps it meant burying past insults. In any case, they’d agreed to visit the prison about Gaspar’s death—the day’s original purpose—so Nikiel could trust him a little, at least in competence. He upgraded his appraisal from “not worth engaging” to “antagonistic ally,” cleared his throat, and spoke.

“My lord—His Highness the crown prince seemed to have discerned the wave-signs before me. Has anything reached your ear?”

Better to circle than say straight out, “He’s suspicious.” Raymond frowned.

“What do you mean? That His Highness already knew?”

Nikiel nodded once. Raymond ground his teeth softly, gave a short hum, then said,

“…For now, let us go to the prison. There are too many mouths chattering about Gaspar; Your Highness must still them yourself.”

Oh? He’d thought that far. Nikiel did not forget the old barbs, but neither would he spurn a proffered branch.

‘So long as I don’t have to marry him, what’s the harm? We’ll hunt together anyway; better to be on decent terms with the lords. We’re not courting—let it lie.’

Thinking it a businesslike truce, Nikiel nodded briskly.

“That is why I came. If you will accompany me, all the better.”

Raymond watched his smile, nodded slowly, and cleared his throat hoarsely.

“…Yes. Let us go.”

“A touch of a cold? Do take care.”

Treating him like a colleague he neither loved nor hated, the concern came out on its own. At the polite offhand worry, Raymond’s eyes widened a moment; the tips of his ears flushed.

“…Thank you for your concern, Your Highness.”

Nikiel found the reaction unexpected. The world called Raymond kind but slick, courteous yet a rake; today, moved by a single line of concern, he seemed almost… good-hearted.

‘The true Nikiel must have ridden him hard. He won’t pick fights now; might as well be friendly.’

So thinking, he followed Raymond. They left the royal palace altogether, heading for the prison tower that housed royals confined or nobles guilty of grave crimes.

Ordinarily, treason would earn a lightless dungeon; at Raphael’s urging, Gaspar had been moved to a sunlit cell—only to die, burned by the sun.

As long as baseless talk blamed Nikiel, he had to show up and seek the cause himself. Only then might nonsense be stilled. As they went, many palace folk recognized them and bowed. Raymond returned each greeting with a light smile and gentle word—unexpectedly. Nikiel had thought him churlish; perhaps not.

‘So—was it only with me he acted like that…?’

The thought brought a sudden urge to shelve peace and smack his back; but modern men ought not to rage at medieval ones, he decided, and cooled himself. Soon they reached the prison tower.

“Count Gaspar’s body has not been moved,” Raymond said. “The cause being plain, there is said to be nothing to study; thus the scene was left as is.”

Startling. Leave a corpse unburied, and a Ghol—a monster from a corpse’s shadow—can be born. Even in a prison, this was still the palace; consecrated materials would have staved off the worst. Else, a monster would likely already have formed—especially with wave-signs raising the odds.

He looked his question; Raymond met his eyes, speaking weightily.

“Only by leaving the body can Your Highness have occasion to manifest sacred power. Let Your radiance still every absurd doubt.”

Something heavy settled in Nikiel’s chest. It felt like receiving a deep devotion unprepared. In Raymond’s gaze was weight—something for which Nikiel could not yet find a name.