As usual, Shan had not brought out A Thousand Forms before the princess on the basis of some extraordinarily complex, meticulous calculation.

Their first impressions of each other might have been poor, but he had grown quite fond of Princess Sherin. Ever since they had met, she had consistently shown them—Shan, to be precise—kindness. She had knighted him without so much as an oath of fealty, used her connections to arrange enchantments when he needed them, and even supplied him with a powerful magical device.

Of course, Kalion had been much the same. The difference was that Sherin had gone so far as to expose several closely guarded secrets in the process. She had confessed an ambition that would see her hauled before an inquisitorial tribunal and burned to death if it became known, and even shared personal matters concerning her family.

The final deciding factor was the consideration she had shown them even after learning that they possessed a large quantity of truesilver.

Shan had not weighed each of these things in a careful calculation. He simply felt, vaguely, that he ought to repay such trust somehow. Then it occurred to him that the princess was a mage, too, and would be delighted to see A Thousand Forms, just as Zerpo had been. That was all that had prompted him to take it out and offer it to her.

“What is this?”

A cool, blue-silver blade that seemed almost to radiate a chill, engraved with magical patterns from the ancient Alto era.

She removed her amethyst glasses for a closer look, revealing reddish-brown eyes, normally half-lidded with languor, now widened as though they might pop from their sockets.

“Kageto, Ravana, Abiur... Ah, like this? Really?”

Her gaze swept over the blade with an almost licking intensity, filled with shock and excitement. As she concentrated, she worried at her scarlet lips with her teeth, a sight that seemed incongruously sensual for her age. Perhaps that impression was only heightened by Shan standing before her with the sword extended, watching without the slightest change in his blank expression. Roden found himself looking away.

Sherin continued poring over the blade, utterly absorbed, for several minutes before letting out a small cry. She had accidentally touched it with a finger, cutting herself deeply enough that red blood streamed down.

“Ah!”

Shan hastily withdrew the sword and took out a handkerchief to wrap around her injured finger. She waved him off and applied a thick ointment from the pocket of her hooded robe. The bleeding stopped almost instantly.

“That will do. More importantly, what in the world was that...?”

“It is a relic we unearthed in an Altoan city while exploring the Demonlands recently.”

“I thought you would enjoy seeing it,” Shan added quietly.

Most of the magical patterns were on the blade, which was why he had presented that end to her. Now that he thought about it, though, he probably should have held the blade himself and handed her the hilt if he wanted to show it to her safely.

At that, Sherin let out a strained laugh.

“No, that is hardly the point! You brought out a treasure like that simply because you thought I might enjoy seeing it? Surely you know how extraordinary it is?”

“I was told it is a treasure worth as much as an entire kingdom.”

She had wondered, but he had not shown it to her out of ignorance of its value, either...

What did he intend to do if she coveted it? Sherin wondered. Had he calculated that it was safe to show a princess who knew only how to scheme in the shadows and had no real military strength at her disposal? He already had the knighthood he wanted. What could he possibly mean to ask in return for revealing something so precious?

Yet scarcely had those thoughts crossed her mind when the green eyes gazing at her suddenly overwhelmed her. They seemed gentle, but held an unbreakable resolve and stubbornness. There was no trace of such calculation in them.

This Altoan boy truly had shown it to her for no other reason than the one he had just given: he thought Sherin would want to see it.

“... Who else knows that weapon exists?”

“Roden and I, and the mage and priest who explored with us.”

“And how did you silence those two?”

“We did nothing in particular to silence them.”

They had merely given the pair most of the initial proceeds from their exploration of the ruins. It was a sum that amounted to nothing beside A Thousand Forms' value.

That reminded Shan that he ought to retrieve the other relics buried near Shedil someday. While he was thinking about that, Sherin listened to the story, sighed deeply, and spoke. Without realizing it, she let her honest thoughts slip out, entirely unvarnished.

“I would have killed them both there. Without hesitation.”

“But...”

“I might even have killed Roden as well, to eliminate everyone who knew it existed. All it would take is a little poison in your food on the journey home to kill you and gain sole possession of the most powerful weapon in the world. I am astonished that not one of the four of you considered it.”

In fact, Zerpo had considered just that when he first saw the weapon. He had dismissed it as a foolish thought after Shan proposed dividing the truesilver into four portions, though.

For some reason, hearing that story seemed to put Sherin in a dreadful mood. The woman who had been beside herself with intellectual delight at the magic within A Thousand Forms only moments earlier was nowhere to be seen.

“How can you do that?”

“Pardon?”

“Does it not frighten you? Trusting people so defenselessly, only to be betrayed?”

The truth was that Shan had never been betrayed in his life. Back in Willow Village, the people he encountered had fallen into just two categories: those who hated and despised him, and those who pitied him and felt sorry for him.

That had remained true even after he ventured into the world, met Roden, and set off on his adventures. He had been fortunate indeed: so far, he had always parted on smiling terms with those who showed him kindness.

Strictly speaking, there were the mercenaries who had died trying to steal Arwin, but he could barely remember their faces, so they did not count.

“I did not think you would do that, Your Highness.”

“I...”

“Above all, you have already placed your trust in us.”

Every secret Sherin had freely shared with Shan, every moment of vulnerability she had shown him, had been the product of thorough analysis and calculation. She even had several contingencies prepared in case something went wrong. Had Shan and Roden betrayed her, the price they paid would have been harsher than anything they could imagine.

Unlike her, the Altoan boy before her had revealed his secret simply because he wished to repay the trust he had received. It was neither the impetuous act of a boy desperate to attract a girl's attention nor an attempt to boast about his possessions.

After a brief silence, Sherin dismissed the pair, her face deathly pale.

“I am sorry, but please go home for today. I would like... a little time to think. I will contact you later.”

After they left, Sherin murmured an incantation and extinguished every light in Maya's workshop. As pitch-black darkness enveloped her in its comforting embrace, the pressure that had threatened to suffocate her finally vanished.

Maya would be back soon, but she wanted to regain her composure before then, at least.

'Trust...'

She had understood it intellectually. That was the sort of person Shan was. If she consistently showed him kindness, he would naturally return it. Receiving trust so utterly unrestrained was the outcome she had hoped for—in a sense, it exceeded her expectations.

All she needed to do, then, was rejoice. Was she not doing an excellent job of training a hound that would tear into anyone at her command?

Yet now that she had actually witnessed and experienced it, she could not bring herself to think that way. Like someone who had learned of war only through words and pictures, then vomited at the reek of blood and ruptured entrails, she found that reality always overwhelmed the poverty of imagination.

For the first time in her life, Sherin discovered that she had no defenses against this sort of emotion.

* * *

“She didn't like it as much as I thought she would. I expected her to enjoy it a little more than Zerpo did.”

“You idiot, I honestly thought my heart was going to burst...”

On the way home, Shan looked downcast over Sherin's lukewarm reaction. Beside him, Roden heaved a deep sigh.

“It's not my place to tell you what you can and can't do, but please, at least give me some warning first. All right?”

Thousands of thoughts had truly raced through Roden's mind the moment Shan extended the sword. In fact, his mind was still in turmoil.

Would that ambitious princess really feel no desire for their powerful magical device? It was a treasure she could offer a foreign king in exchange for an army, then use that army to conquer Pendia and claim its throne.

He did not think she was foolish enough to make such a choice, of course, but greed often turned even wise people into fools. Unlike Shan, Roden did not yet trust the princess that much.

“Sorry.”

Shan certainly had acted without thinking. Once he apologized, though, Roden could hardly keep berating him, so he settled for a groan. The princess's reaction might have been rather sour, but she had shown no sign of planning anything immediately.

In any event, she had promised to contact them again. Until then, they could simply get on with their own business. As it happened, there was quite a bit to do—receiving guests, for instance, as Kalion had mentioned before.

The following afternoon, five or six knights invited through Kalion arrived at the Wievers mansion. Even after excluding xenophobes and adherents of the Old Faith, there were plenty of promising knights who wanted to establish ties with Shan.

By arranging these meetings with knights sponsored by merchant houses connected to his own, Kalion reaped considerable benefits from Shan's fame. True, this had cost him some business partners who belonged to the Old Faith. But with most magic stones coming from the east anyway, it was a loss he could afford. Besides, people who bought gemstones for adornment were not inclined to concern themselves quite that much.

After admiring the cockatrice head in the entrance hall, now a famous attraction of the Wievers mansion, the knights settled into soft chairs in the drawing room for a leisurely conversation.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sir Shan. I am Asel of House Dormin.”

“Orind of House Katan. We faced each other once in the tournament.”

“I am Garsa of House Alten.”

“House Alten? Would that be the same house as Sir Feonil?”

The young knight who had introduced himself as Garsa answered Shan's question with delight.

“You know of him! I am a distant relative of Sir Feonil of Libert. His is the main line of the family. Our branch moved to Pendia in my grandfather's day.”

“Oh... In that case, do you happen to follow the Old Faith?”

“My father converted to the New Faith.”

“I see.”

Of course, an adherent of the Old Faith would hardly have come to meet an Altoan like Shan. Kalion would not have approved the invitation, either.

“Come to think of it, Sir Shan, I heard you are from Libert as well. Have you met him?”

“We happened to cross lances once.”

Every knight present was intrigued. The Black Lance, famed for having won more jousts in Libert than anyone else, had faced the reigning champion of the Hasra joust, the most prestigious in Pendia? Any knight would have been desperate to hear that story.

“How did you come to fight?”

“A minor dispute.”

Shan glossed over the details without bothering to mention the Altoan circus. He merely explained that they had each made a single mounted charge, suffered minor wounds, and agreed not to fight any further.

“Ah, it makes my heart race. A tale straight out of an old chivalric romance!”

“Two knights acknowledging each other's skill, promising to face one another again someday...”

While they were eagerly devouring Shan's story, a rather gloomy-looking knight addressed him.

“Sir Shan, you are an Altoan born and raised in Libert, correct?”

“Yes.”

Had he introduced himself as Sir Bolin of House Anix?

The other knights looked somewhat uncomfortable at his words. There was an unspoken rule among them not to bring up Shan's Altoan identity unnecessarily. Sir Bolin, however, ignored their pointed looks and continued on the subject without hesitation.

“It must have been difficult to live as an Altoan in Libert.”

“It was, yes. It is an Old Faith country. Pendia is much better by comparison. I can even become a knight, as I have now...”

“But are you not Pendia's first Altoan knight as well?”

“I am always grateful to Princess Sherin. Circumstances have kept me from pledging my lance to her, however.”

“Do you intend to take Altoans as squires in the future?”

“If they have talent.”

The increasingly uncomfortable questions chilled the atmosphere. It was fortunate that Shan was answering so calmly. No one could have blamed him if he had flown into a rage, risen from his seat, or even demanded a duel.

Contrary to what the others thought, however, Shan was not particularly angry. Life as an Altoan in Libert really had been hard. He really was grateful to Princess Sherin, and he was willing to accept a talented Altoan as a squire.

Besides, there was no overt mockery in the man's voice or expression. Had there been, things might have been different, but as it was, Shan regarded this as ordinary conversation.

“I see.”

Sir Bolin answered meekly, as though giving up. A little later, one of the knights discreetly changed the subject.

“Speaking of Libert, I hear the outcome of the civil war is beginning to look clear.”

“Really?”

“A relative who lives in the west told me recently. It seems Count Valik will win after all.”

“I see...”

“And Sir Feonil, whom we were just discussing, apparently distinguished himself greatly and received a barony from his lord.”

Though the subject had only been raised to steer the conversation elsewhere, the knights soon became engrossed in it. Becoming a titled noble through military achievements was the stuff of dreams for a knight. Pendia had hundreds of knightly houses, but only a handful of exceptional warriors among them enjoyed that honor.

In truth, such an achievement required not only skill but the right opportunity. Feonil himself had already proved his abilities beyond any doubt, yet had found nowhere to put them to use until the war gave him a chance to soar.

“Hah, if His Majesty were still in good health, we might have lent a hand ourselves. Mounting an expedition on our own is difficult, though. We simply haven't the funds.”

“It would be hard to join in now. Count Valik has secured such a decisive advantage that he has no need of knights, and if we joined Duke Morayen's side and lost, the ransom would cost us even more.”

It was customary for knights taking part in a war to be captured and ransomed, provided they did not die in battle. Naturally, a poor knightly house with no more than one or two manors to its name could be ruined if its head was captured a few times.

A knightly house with a long history, then, was one that had either weathered such misfortunes for generations or consistently produced outstanding warriors and read the times well enough to fight on the winning side.

As the conversation continued, one of the older knights glanced around before speaking.

“Sir Shan, I have heard that you are as skilled with a sword as you are with a lance.”

“Oh, is that true?”

The younger knights looked surprised, and the older man nodded.

“I heard it from your teacher, Sir Darkal.”

“You know my master?”

“I rode alongside him a few times while he was still active. I was a complete greenhorn back then, mind you.”

The older knight nodded with a nostalgic expression, then added casually,

“On that subject, would you be willing to exchange a few insights? As a warrior, I cannot help being curious.”

“Certainly. Let us go to the garden.”

“As forthright as one would expect of the hero who slew a cockatrice!”

“In that case, I should like a lesson as well.”

Shan crossed swords with the other knights in the garden, using training swords with blunted edges and tips, the same kind he had often used during Sir Darkal's instruction.

As he sparred, he deliberately held back his extraordinary explosive speed. He meant to use this opportunity to hone the finer points of swordsmanship he had learned from Darkal: the psychological factors and intricate techniques that required anticipating many moves ahead, useful only against human opponents and unnecessary when fighting monsters.

Naturally, Shan won bout after bout. Meeting an opponent's stroke with his own blade, he twisted, pressed down, or lifted it aside to counterattack. As he emerged undefeated from one intricate contest of tactics after another, the watching knights voiced their admiration.

“Hah! You answered that like this?”

“You've got me!”

“Well, now...”

Even in the midst of it all, Shan took care to touch his opponents only lightly with his sword so as not to hurt them. That was possible only if he was holding his strength and speed several levels below their limits.

These men were themselves masters who had practiced every sort of martial art since they could walk. They could sense just how formidable Shan's swordsmanship had become.

“You are about fourteen now, are you not? I cannot imagine how much more remarkable you will be as an adult.”

“Can talent alone explain it? This must be the result of tremendous effort as well.”

Becoming an excellent swordsman demanded immense effort as well as talent. To read an opponent's movements from a subtle shift of the shoulder or the flow of force through touching blades, and produce the proper response, there was only one method: being struck over and over until the lessons were engraved into the body.

In reality, of course, Shan simply saw through his opponents' movements and responded with his overwhelming reflexes and speed of thought. But those who did not know that could only assume otherwise.

“Now I understand how you hunted a cockatrice alone. With swordsmanship like that, I could hardly call you inferior to the Lord Protector.”

Shan turned to the older knight who had first proposed the sparring.

“Have you crossed swords with Marquis Abel?”

“Five years ago, at the royal swordsmanship tournament. I lost after exactly three exchanges.”

The older knight spoke in a matter-of-fact tone of the despair he had felt then.

“You are strong, Sir Shan, but I simply cannot imagine Marquis Abel losing to anyone. His swordsmanship was truly bestowed by the Goddess.”

“Isn't that rather blasphemous?”

“Good heavens! Please, do not report me.”

The knights roared with laughter at the exchange.

“In any case, if the two of you ever face each other, I would dearly like to watch. Though the marquis follows the Old Faith, so I doubt there will be any occasion for friendly relations.”

No one said it aloud, but they all thought the same thing: if those two fought, it would surely be a fight to the death.

* * *

After enjoying themselves for quite some time, the knights departed with warm feelings toward Shan and armfuls of gifts supplied by Kalion. The connections forged in this way would one day become intangible assets for Shan himself, not merely for his patron Kalion.

For some reason, however, Sir Bolin, who had asked all those uncomfortable questions earlier, lingered instead of leaving. Telling him to hurry up and get out would have been rude, so Shan simply watched him until the knight glanced back and spoke.

“Ahem, Sir Shan?”

“Yes?”

“There is something else I would like to discuss with you privately. Do you have a moment?”

Wondering what he wanted to discuss now, Shan readily nodded. Bolin assured him it would not take long. Rather than return to the drawing room, he began speaking as they strolled through the garden.

Glancing around, he lowered his voice.

“Could you keep what I am about to tell you a secret?”

Taken aback, Shan hesitated briefly before answering honestly.

“I am sorry, but whatever it may be, if it concerns me, I will have to consult Roden—my squire, that is.”

“Sir Shan, I am asking you on your honor, one knight to another.”

“Before he is my squire, Roden is my closest friend. He is far wiser and more sensible than I am, and I can trust him with my life. If this is something he must not know, then I have no need to know it either.”

Confronted with a firmness that left no room for compromise, Bolin wrestled with himself for some time before sighing and nodding.

“Very well. It is not as though I have any way to silence you in any case. Please, let your friend be the only other person you tell.”

“Yes.”

“Your word, then.”

After repeatedly stressing the point, Bolin took a letter from inside his clothing.

“The truth is, some of my sponsors are Altoans like yourself.”

“Altoans?”

Shan looked surprised at the unexpected revelation.

Pendia had more Altoan inhabitants than any other country in the world, but most of them belonged to the lowest strata of society. Nobles and knights were out of the question. In reality, even attaining a middle-class position as a merchant or minor official was difficult under the pressure of others' disapproval. Altoans were rarely even employed as servants to such people.

As a result, the best most Altoans could hope for was a skilled trade such as smithing or weaving. Most scraped by as mercenaries, day laborers, or the like. Those who could not manage even that ended up as thugs, pickpockets, prostitutes, beggars, or something similar.

“They are not a criminal organization or anything of the sort. They are simply something like an association formed to advance Altoan rights and interests. They would like to contact you through me.”

Despite that, he wanted it kept secret because the very fact that he received Altoan sponsorship would be frowned upon by others.

After handing over the letter, Bolin repeatedly asked Shan not to discuss it with anyone other than Roden, then left the mansion.

A little later, Roden, who had spent the visit socializing with the squires and was now helping tidy up, stiffened at Shan's news.

“A group of Altoans sponsoring a knight?”

“So he says.”

“I've never heard of them...”

He clicked his tongue, saying that between this and the vampires' Council mentioned last time, he felt distinctly uneasy about strange secret societies continually cropping up and entangling them. Princess Sherin had promised to investigate the Council, of course, so they should have results on that front soon.

Seated across from each other in the sitting room, they opened the letter Sir Bolin had delivered. Its rather expensive parchment bore the handwriting of someone who was clearly well educated.

[To Sir Shan, who has proudly proclaimed his identity and risen to a position more exalted than that of any of our compatriots in the world:

On behalf of those who have lost their homeland, the Brotherhood of the Altoan People wishes to extend an invitation to you.

On the evening of the third day after you receive this letter, we intend to discuss the future of our people in a private box at the Golden Theater.

Should you join us, it would be an immeasurable honor and joy to me as one who reveres you, and a ray of light for our persecuted people.

In the hope of seeing you that day, I enclose a small gift to apologize for the presumption of this request.

With boundless respect,

The Head of the Brotherhood.]