Part 2: The Branch in the Coffin, Mistilteinn (2)

The meeting was being held at the Miller Family Estate.

The Miller Family was based in Haold, in the center of the continent. There were three main reasons they had been chosen: their standing was too low for them to consider buying Mistilteinn, they had no particularly close ties with any of the attending families, and their estate lay centrally between those families.

“Brother.”

I looked at Atzier as we headed toward the carriage.

“Do you want Mistilteinn as well?”

As a rule, Atzier did not lie. Since he was the likeliest person to end up with Mistilteinn, I was curious how he felt about it.

“Well...”

Only then did Atzier tilt his head, as though giving it some thought.

“It would be nice to have.”

That answer was Atzier through and through.

Satisfied, I nodded.

A short while later, the carriage stopped, and we arrived at the Miller Family Estate.

Then I caught sight of someone standing outside the mansion and drew in a sharp breath.

The Iron Wall, head of the family—Angper de Roah.

If Atzier was a blade, Ampere was the very embodiment of a finished weapon.

He had stern eyes and a handsome mustache covering his upper lip. His hair and facial hair had turned white with age, yet there was nothing frail about him.

Seeing them together, it seemed terribly incongruous that Frondier was Ampere’s son and Atzier’s younger brother.

“... Let’s go.”

Just two words.

I had thought Atzier spoke with remarkable finality, but Ampere was even more terse. And as he spoke, he never once looked at me.

“Everyone is waiting. This way, please.”

The mansion’s butler led us inside.

Since we had the longest journey here from Constel, it seemed only natural that our family had arrived last.

... Actually, it wasn’t natural at all. We could simply have set out a few days earlier.

This was nothing more than a display of Ampere’s pride—a demonstration that he alone could keep the great families gathered here waiting.

With a creak, the butler opened the meeting-room door.

‘Ah.’

I nearly let the sound escape aloud.

I could already feel what it meant to have the Terst Empire’s most eminent families gathered in one place. The love the gods bestowed upon them had become an oppressive weight, seemingly about to spill out of the room.

“There you are.”

The brief greeting came from a white-haired man past middle age.

Heldre, one of the Zodiacs.

“You’re late. Has nobody got anything to say about that?”

The family head who defended the frontier on the opposite side of the empire from the Roach family.

Lidwe von Urpa.

“Welcome.”

Ampere’s rival, whose gaze was at least somewhat friendlier than the others’.

Ortel de Richae.

Elodie stood behind him.

Other famous family heads and their Named Character children were all gathered here as well...

‘Huh?’

Then a woman caught my eye.

... No other Named Character was quite so easy to recognize.

Black hair, black eyes. Even her dress and the fan she held were black—a woman clad entirely in darkness.

Quinier.

Quinier de Biet.

The Biet Family’s only daughter and a Third-Year at Constelle. The “Little Devil” who had restored her family when it stood on the brink of ruin.

Amazingly, despite those accomplishments, she was only two years older than me.

For some reason, the faint smile concealed behind her fan was directed at me. It was deeply suspicious.

Did she know me?

I doubted that was possible, but she seemed worth keeping an eye on...

“Then let’s get on with it. Mr. Miller, where’s that thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lidwe looked at Miller, speaking in his usual idiosyncratic dialect and casual tone. It might seem rude at first, but Lidwe spoke this way to everyone, regardless of rank.

In other words, he was rude.

The family head gestured to his butler, and the servants carefully carried in the “coffin.” They placed it on the table in the center of the meeting room.

“Oh, so this is it.”

Heldre’s eyes gleamed. That gaze had lost none of its intensity since his prime—sharp and fierce, with an equally dark, sinister air.

But everyone’s eyes were gleaming.

“It certainly looks convincing, doesn’t it?”

As someone remarked, the branch inside the coffin had a certain dignity to its shape. Above all, it matched the descriptions of Mistilteinn handed down through the ages perfectly.

“So the question is who gets it, isn’t it? I’ll go first. I offer mining rights to Idus Mine. Five years.”

Someone abruptly made an offer.

“Impatient, aren’t you? In that case, I—”

From there, the families began competing with heirlooms and rights.

Some had gathered all manner of valuables and calculated their worth in cash beforehand. Others offered land and buildings, arguing that if the sellers owned no property, they could simply give them some.

Naturally, their children merely watched, mouths firmly shut as they surveyed the room. They had no right to speak in the first place. They were only here to observe.

Three parties remained silent: the Roach family, the Richae family, and Quinier.

Ortel, head of the Richae family, had never intended to buy it, while Quinier watched the proceedings, her thoughts unreadable.

Ampere, however, was merely waiting for the right moment.

And that moment, it seemed, was not far off.

“The Roach family offers a sword.”

“Come now, man, there are any number of swords—”

Lidwe began objecting in his usual manner, then stopped.

“Did you just say you’re offering your sword?”

“Must I repeat myself?”

With a click, Ampere detached the scabbard from his waist. Worn leather and the weight of steel settled onto the table.

“... You intend to trade a Divine Relic for a Divine Relic?”

Ortel smiled with interest.

But Atzier’s expression was the most striking of all.

“... Father.”

“I decided this before coming here.”

Atzier closed his mouth, unable to find anything to say.

His father’s expectations of him were weighty, but they were not a burden. He was not desperate for Mistilteinn, but he would be glad to have it.

And yet, truly—was that object really worth giving up Gram?

Gram, the famed sword of the hero Sigurd.

It would be no exaggeration to call Sigurd the most famous hero in Norse mythology. Although he was not a god himself, the term “Divine Relic” encompassed heroes’ weapons as well.

And Gram surpassed the weapons of most gods.

“J-just a moment. Please, calm down.”

Flustered, Miller intervened.

“The bidding began so suddenly that I was watching for a moment, but there is a matter we must settle first.”

“Quite right,” Quinier continued. “Is this truly Mistilteinn in the first place?”

All eyes turned to her. Having watched until now, she stepped in to urge them to reconsider.

“If this is not Mistilteinn, this transaction becomes an entirely different matter.”

She was right. It was too early to negotiate on the assumption that it was genuine. Its value should have lain in the fact that they did not know whether it was real.

“Then who’s going to check?”

Lidwe pointed at the transparent coffin surrounding Mistilteinn.

There was only one simple way to find out: break that coffin.

As it stood, no divine presence whatsoever could be sensed from Mistilteinn. But what if the coffin was “erasing” that presence? The transparent coffin might be part of the Divine Relic itself.

If so, breaking it would be tremendously dangerous. No one wanted to suffer divine punishment.

“We won’t check.”

“What?”

“We cannot determine whether this branch is Mistilteinn. It may be, or it may not. That is where this object’s value lies. We must keep that in mind as we proceed.”

In other words, the object had value as it was. If someone paid an amount commensurate with that value, they had a deal.

That was Quinier’s thinking.

If they negotiated on the assumption that it was genuine Mistilteinn, she could never offer enough to compete.

Nor did she want to.

But suppose it merely had symbolic value as Mistilteinn and could not actually be used. The price would fall, and the families interested in it would change.

Not families seeking to wield Mistilteinn as a weapon, but families seeking to use it as a symbol of their name.

Families like Quinier’s own.

‘Good. If things keep going this way, I might get it rather cheaply...’

“It makes no difference.”

Those words interrupted her thoughts.

Ampere spoke in a voice like a verdict.

“We need only establish its authenticity later.”

“... And you would still offer your sword? What if it isn’t genuine?”

This time, even Ortel questioned him in surprise.

“If it is not, that is the end of it. Nothing more.”

“Don’t be a fool. Do you understand what giving up Gram means—”

“Ortel.”

A faint breath mingled with his voice, and the atmosphere grew heavier with it.

“My era passed long ago.”

Those were not words anyone dared dismiss. Everyone stared at Ampere in bewilderment.

“Atzier will surpass me. What meaning, then, does a sword hold for me?”

“... Are you truly going to abandon Gram?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

Ampere’s eyes were proud and aloof. They had never been anything else.

“Mistilteinn belongs to Atzier.”

His words silenced the room, clear and definitive, as though the matter had already been settled.

Quinier sighed.

She had never imagined the head of the Roach family would go this far. There was no helping it; this was the time to withdraw. What could she do when he was offering Gram?

There were other valuable objects out there.

Everyone seemed ready to accept Ampere’s decision.

Then a voice drifted through, light as a blade of grass.

“There is no need for that, Father.”

Utterly unlike Ampere’s voice, it had the ease of everyday conversation. Yet its meaning was anything but casual.

The gulf between tone and content was so great that everyone reacted a beat late.

“Frondier, mind your words.”

His older brother, Atzier, warned him. Ampere’s eyes narrowed as well.

A low, simmering voice escaped Ampere’s lips.

“Do you know what you are saying?”

“Of course.”

Frondier’s voice remained carefree, as though oblivious to the atmosphere.

Lidwe leaned his displeased face toward Frondier.

“So this is the boy? The second son Ampere’s been keeping tucked away?”

For the first time, Lidwe looked directly at the face of the boy he had taken no interest in until now.

A languid, carefree face.

That was the kind way of putting it. Less kindly, it simply looked lazy and indolent.

Was he really going to head into battle someday with that utterly peaceful face?

“Boy. You’re butting in without knowing your place, aren’t you?”

Frondier glanced at the growling Lidwe.

Only for an instant.

Then he turned his gaze away and pointed at Mistilteinn.

“Father, there is no need to throw away Gram for something that isn’t even genuine.”

Frondier’s words left Lidwe momentarily stunned.

Had this brat just ignored him?

“What do you know that gives you the right to spout that nonsense?”

“I have no way to prove how I know, but...”

Frondier stepped forward.

His steps flowed as naturally as water, unhurried as though he were going for a stroll. They were so peaceful that anyone would have felt certain peace awaited at their end.

At the end of those steps, he stood before the coffin and placed a hand on it.

“Checking is simple.”

By the time he said that, everyone understood what he meant.

They had feared it from the moment he stepped forward.

Ampere, Atzier, Ortel, and Elodie moved simultaneously, then stopped. They had tried to stop Frondier, but it was too late. Whatever they did, he would act first.

Unless they cut off his hand—or killed him.

“What’ll you do if that really is a Divine Relic? Aren’t you afraid of the gods?”

In his alarm, Lidwe’s dialect grew even stranger.

“Hah.”

Frondier laughed. His laugh was so utterly out of step with the atmosphere that it lent a languid ease to the space around him.

“I have never feared anything of the sort.”

CRASH!!

The coffin shattered.