Within the tent, the clerical officials cast Robert startled glances. They had accompanied the holy effigy across the continent and were no strangers to local governors' lavish banquets. At sight of the delicacies Robert presented, they immediately understood his intent.
One rose to decline with courteous firmness. "So it is Young Master Robert. We are grateful for your thoughtfulness, but Lord Michel has decreed most clearly: while on duty, we may not partake in any feasts offered by local lords. Perhaps, instead, you might reward the soldiers outside who toil so diligently."
As he spoke, another discreetly tugged at his sleeve, his look laden with implication. Enlightenment dawned on the first. Though Lord Michel had not spoken outright, rumor whispered that he held this youth in high esteem and intended to favor him with swift advancement. Why, then, offend a promising noble scion by clinging to cold formality?
At that moment Robert pressed his invitation again. With a token murmur of protest, the official relented, smiling as he accepted. Soon the tent was alive with cheer, the clerics gathered merrily around the laden tables.
Beneath the hum of laughter, Robert gave a discreet tap upon the table—a signal for Sena to begin. Then he drank and conversed with practiced ease, all the while letting his gaze drift across the tent.
The vast interior was divided into three parts: the outer ring served as the clerics' offices; the rear held the storerooms where relics were kept; and at the very heart lay the restoration site of the ruined effigy, hidden behind a veil of black cloth.
Robert caught one of the officials in amiable conversation. "Uncle, tell me, how fares the work upon the goddess's statue?"
Flushed with wine, the man slurred cheerfully, "It goes well enough. The body of the statue is already restored; only the finer carvings remain. Hah, but the statue is so lifelike that we men are forbidden within. Only the women may labor there, while we are left to watch in frustration!"
He drank again, then added with a grin, "Robert, are you not eager to glimpse the goddess's visage? Do not be shy. We know well the thoughts of youth. In two days the statue will be whole again. Come find me then, and I shall lead you within to worship."
Robert praised him with practiced flattery, though inwardly he scoffed: Bah, my Ya'er is far fairer than that so-called goddess. Why should I hunger for another's face?
Just then a sharp pain pricked his waist. He turned discreetly—no one was near. He understood: the invisible Sena had already succeeded. With feigned nonchalance, Robert lifted the table drapery and let his companion slip beneath.
After three rounds of wine, Robert rose beaming, lifting the laden table and departing the tent—bearing with him not only the goodwill of the clerics, but also the hidden Sena, burdened with divine relics.
All seemed flawless. Yet at that very hour, in the student encampment, the tutor who had delivered messages held up a certificate. "Where is Sena? Congratulations—he has been chosen to represent the academy in the Yaran Tournament. Not here? On leave? Very well, next—Eddie Haus!"
Haus, still seething over Robert, was startled into joy as he received his certificate. Rising proudly, he declared, "Rest assured, teacher, I shall lead my comrades to reclaim the championship for the academy!"
The tutor chuckled dryly and corrected him. "The academy has faith in your strength, and trusts that together with your fellows—and under Robert's leadership—you shall indeed bring back the crown."
"Robert!?"
Haus, who had already resumed his seat, leapt up in disbelief. He scrutinized the parchment: each certificate bore the bearer's role. Sena's was marked Scout. His own bore the title Core Combatant.
"And why," he thundered, "is the leader of the team not I, Eddie Haus?"
The tutor, uneasy under the eyes of the others, gestured for them to withdraw, then drew Haus aside. In a low voice he murmured, "Haus, this is the academy's decision. We know your family is not well off, and have arranged for you a double stipend in scholarship—"
Haus's eyes were cold as steel. "For centuries the academy's custom has been that the first-ranked student commands the team. For six years I have held that rank. Now I am a second-tier Flame Guardian. Why, then, is the captaincy denied me?"
The tutor's tone sharpened. "It is the dean's arrangement. You need not ask why—only obey."
Haus barked a bitter laugh, and suddenly shoved the tutor away. No student dared treat a master so—save one like Eddie Haus, a god-blessed warrior whose strength already surpassed many professors. For the gods had granted all acolytes one sacred right: to issue a formal challenge of combat against another.
The tutor inwardly groaned. Why had fate saddled him with pacifying this storm? Should Haus invoke that right, refusal would shame him; acceptance would leave him broken and maimed.
So he softened his voice to coaxing tones. "Haus, let me be frank. Robert is the young lord of Moonwatch. Both the Church and the Empire have chosen to cultivate him. He already possesses formidable strength. You cannot win against him. And should you press the matter, the dean himself will be most displeased. He may even strip you of your place in the tournament."
Haus's heart roared with grief and fury. The young lord! Hah. A slave-born wretch like me can never prevail against such a title. Yet—
The Yaran Tournament was the gateway to the Church, to rank and wealth, to glory untold. And the captain of the winning team was destined to rise still higher. This was no mere honor, but the very shaping of one's future.
Rage seared him. He longed to strike Robert down where he stood. But reason whispered: No. To slay a lord's heir would damn me beyond salvation. Not even divine grace could shield me then.
He mastered himself with iron will. After a moment's brooding, he said coldly, "Teacher, if the dean threatens to revoke my qualification, what more need I say? Hmph. My heart is troubled—I must take some air."
The tutor exhaled in relief. At least Haus knew when to bow. Give him time to cool his blood, then soothe him with richer stipends, and the storm would be quieted.
But Haus did not seek calm. Striding from the tent, he did not pause until he had left the ruins behind. Down a lonely alleyway he came at last—an alley that lay upon Robert's path home.