Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 4 - Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

That’s Why You’ll Always Be My Rival

After the morning meeting was over, the president of the student council, Felix Arc Ridill, was left alone in the council room. He looked out the window.

Outside was a garden full of unusual varieties of rose, a gorgeous fountain made by a famous craftsman, and beautiful buildings with intricate designs extending even into the details of the pillars. This academy was the epitome of luxury—all of it a display of his grandfather Duke Clockford’s authority.

“Come, Wildianu.”

In response to his voice, a white lizard—the spirit Wildianu—peeked his head out of Felix’s pocket. Felix scooped the creature onto his finger, then held him up to give him a good view of the scenery outside.

“It seems we have more guests than last year,” Wildianu commented.

“Indeed,” replied Felix mildly.

Graduates of Serendia Academy had an advantage when it came to working in the royal court. Nearby nations understood that, and in recent years, more students had been traveling abroad to study here. At this point, diplomatic exchange was one of the school’s primary offerings.

I want to forge as many connections with our neighbors as possible today. We have those negotiations with the Kingdom of Farfolia coming up, after all.

A great many people would be attending the festival, including Ridillian nobles, wealthy merchants, temple staff, and ambassadors from nearby nations. And through the splendor of the day’s event, they would learn the second prince’s name: Felix Arc Ridill.

“What say we answer His Excellency’s expectations?” said Felix in a smooth, singsong voice. He continued, the words doubling as a personal vow, “To engrave the name ‘Felix Arc Ridill’ into everyone’s memory.”

The bell announcing the start of the festival rang out across a clear sky. As he listened to its high, proud tones, the prince left the student council room behind him.

As the bell sounded, the academy’s front gates opened. One after another, people dressed in the garb of high society alighted from their parked carriages and passed through. Watching from a window in the school building, Monica clenched her hands nervously.

It’s finally started…

When Monica thought of school festivals, she thought of students busily rushing around back at Minerva’s Mage Training Institution. Monica was always a part of the hustle and bustle, too—though in her case, she was fleeing from pursuing teachers demanding she present her research.

The atmosphere at Serendia Academy that day was completely different, however; this school was attended by noble children, after all. The main events for this festival were exhibitions, research presentations, singing, performances, and theater, but the behind-the-scenes tasks and odd jobs would be handled by servants and hired craftsmen.

So, aside from those performing or presenting, the students had quite a bit of free time. They could choose to spend it with visiting family, or if they had an eye on posts in the royal court, they could devote their time to boosting their reputation.

Monica—who didn’t belong to either group—mentally went over her objectives for the day. I need to protect the prince and recover the shamanic tool… Mr. Louis should arrive soon, so I can meet up with him and discuss the tool.

The issue of the House Albright traitor and the cursed tool concerned not only a noble family but the prestige of the Seven Sages. Rather than have Ryn convey the message, it would be best for Monica to speak with Louis directly. Nero and Ryn were already in their cat and bird forms, Nero standing by on the roof and Ryn in a tree.

“…Miss Ryn, can you hear me?” murmured Monica into the empty classroom.

“Yes, my lady,” came the immediate response, directly into her ears. As a wind spirit, Ryn could detect even a whisper, and she could deliver her own voice straight into the ears of others. She’d be the center of their communication network.

“Is Mr. Louis…?” Monica asked hesitantly.

“He’s just made it through reception.”

“I have something important to discuss, so I want to meet him behind the school building.”

“Understood. I will tell him.”

Before even a minute had passed, Ryn’s voice returned. “I was able to contact Lord Louis. He will go to the rear garden right away and wait for you there.”

“All right. I’ll head there immediately. In the meantime, please keep watch over the prince.”

“Understood, my lady.”

Her talk with Ryn over, Monica left the empty classroom and started toward the meeting point.

The problem will be swapping the real item with the fake once I find it… She hummed in thought as she walked down the halls.

Just then, a baritone voice rang out. “Lady Monica! Lady Monica Norton!”

Monica stopped at the sound of her name, and when she saw who it was, her eyes went as wide as they possibly could.

A well-built, black-haired young man in a black uniform—that of the Temple-Affiliated University—was rushing toward her. It was none other than Robert Winkel, a first-year student in the University’s advanced course, and the one she’d played at the chess competition the other day. He was also the one who had proposed marriage to her for the sake of playing more chess.

Generally speaking, you needed an invitation to attend Serendia Academy’s school festival. Nobody without one was allowed in. How was he even here?

As Monica stood there agape, Robert carefully peered at her face, then nodded, seeming convinced of something. “I knew it. It is you, Lady Monica. You look different from the last time we met, so I was afraid I had the wrong person.”

Now that he mentioned it, she had been wearing makeup and a different hairstyle on the day of the competition. It was only natural Robert would be surprised—he’d never seen her in her natural state.

“But your outfit today looks every bit as neat and tidy, in my opinion.”

“Um, thank you…,” said Monica, awkwardly smiling and backing away.

But for every step back she took, Robert took a bigger one forward. “I was so desperate to meet you that I talked my teacher into letting me accompany him.”

Monica remembered then that teachers from nearby schools had also been invited. Belatedly, she realized there was a chance that some familiar faces from Minerva’s might also be in attendance, and the color drained from her face.

I knew I should have had Lana do my makeup…! she thought.

Lana had promised she’d help her get dressed and do her makeup before the ball that night, so Monica had felt too guilty to also ask her to help figure out her appearance for the first part of the day. Now, though, she regretted her choice.

As she panicked internally, Robert took yet another step forward. They were a little too close for two recent acquaintances speaking to each other, and Monica began to tremble. She felt like a cornered animal.

“Have you given any thought to what we discussed the other day?”

“Th-the other day…?” she stammered.

“My proposal.”

Naturally, she hadn’t given it even a moment’s thought. On the day of the chess competition, she’d been too preoccupied by her run-in with Bernie and protecting Felix. In all honesty, she’d nearly forgotten Robert even existed.

“Um, so, I’m not really, ummm…”

“If there’s anything you’re dissatisfied with, please don’t hesitate to tell me. If it’s within my power, I will deal with it. I’ll pour my entire heart and soul into making you happy.”

She couldn’t tell him she was one of the Seven Sages working undercover and thus engagement was out of the question… So instead she just stammered.

Robert continued earnestly pressing his case. “I have never seen anyone who plays chess like you. And according to Mr. Redding, you only started recently. That means you must have so much room to grow… Will you aim for greater heights at my side?”

Monica enjoyed chess, but only insofar as it was one of her electives. She didn’t plan to dedicate her life to it.

“I—I, um… Well…”

What could she say to get Robert to back down? She got the feeling that it didn’t matter what she said—he’d probably be able to out-debate her anyway.

The nervousness and confusion caused her to pale. She teared up. She knew Robert only had good intentions, but he was still intimidating, and that made him terrifying for Monica.

Sh-should I…call for help…?

If she asked Ryn or Nero, maybe they’d put on those flamboyant outfits like before and run to her side. Or maybe she could use her hand sign and Isabelle would take care of it in true villainess style.

But Robert wasn’t an assassin after Felix’s life. The issue of his pressing her for an engagement was separate from her assignment to protect the prince. She’d have to solve this one herself.

Monica had raised her left hand halfway when she stopped and lowered it again. If she touched her left ear, that would be the sign for Isabelle to help. But she didn’t want to bother her collaborator with a personal problem like this.

Finally, she squeezed out a few words from her wheezing throat.

“I…I can’t…get engaged.”

Her voice was so weak, it might as well have been made by an insect, and Robert opened his mouth again to argue his point.

But before he could, a clear, ringing voice cut him off. “Robert Winkel,” it said. “Professor Redding is by the front gate looking for you. Stay with your chaperone—don’t wander off.”

Monica, her back now completely straight, turned around out of reflex. She saw someone rush over, his silver hair tied in the back and swaying to and fro—it was Cyril Ashley.

After wedging himself between Robert and Monica, he cast Robert a cold glare. “Accountant Norton is a member of our student council, and the school festival is a very busy time for her. If this is a personal matter, I must ask you to come back another day.”

“I see,” said Robert. “I apologize. I had no idea.”

Robert’s way of doing things inconvenienced Monica, but he seemed serious and earnest at heart. He gave in surprisingly easily at Cyril’s admonishment, then said, “I’ll see you again,” and hurried away.

Monica heaved a sigh of relief as she watched him go. If Cyril hadn’t been beside her, she would have collapsed to her knees on the spot. Instead, she took several deep breaths to calm herself and looked up at Cyril.

“U-um, Lord Cyril, I…”

Cyril turned a quiet stare on her. He looked somehow unhappy. Monica shrank back despite herself. He was probably angry because she’d caused him trouble.

“I-I’m sorry! I know you’re busy, and I didn’t mean to…to…”

“……”

Cyril remained silent, frowning as he watched Monica.

She began restlessly fidgeting with her fingers. Just then, he brought his right hand from behind his back and held it out to her. In his palm was a white rose.

Monica looked back and forth between it and Cyril until he suddenly made a face like he’d just realized something.

“Oh no. The ribbon…,” he muttered, pulling the ribbon tie from around his neck. The broach he was using to fasten it was a magic item. He was afflicted with mana hyperabsorption and never went without it. He smoothly slipped the item into his pocket.

Then he tied the blue ribbon—the color of which signified his academic year—onto the now thornless stem of the white rose, fastened it with a pin, and handed it to Monica.

“Put this on somewhere.”

“A…flower? I think I’ve seen other people wearing them, too…”

Monica had been seeing mostly female students wearing floral decorations in their hair or on their lapels. Was this some sort of festival event?

When Monica gazed in bafflement at the white rose, Cyril looked surprised. “Wait, you don’t know about the floral decorations?” he asked.

“Is it some sort of event?”

“…Never mind. It’s fine,” said Cyril bluntly to the confused Monica. But his eyes were drifting, looking restlessly down at his feet.

Monica looked wide-eyed at the uncharacteristically fidgety Cyril. He brought his slender chin back up sharply, like he always did, and pointed at the rose.

“It’s a good-luck charm. If you wear it, you won’t embarrass yourself today. Make sure you keep it on at the ball, too.”

“Th-there’s a…a charm like that?!” Monica looked down with admiration at the floral ornament. She didn’t see any magical formulae embedded in it. That meant it wasn’t the kind of charm or curse that was imbued with magecraft. It must be related to some custom or local superstition.

She didn’t know what meaning this flower held, but apparently, if she wore it, she wouldn’t embarrass herself for the rest of the day. As she examined it closely, the gentle aroma wafting from the white rose brought a small smile to her face.

It’s so pretty…

This might be a charm, but it was the first time anyone had ever given her a flower.

“Thank you for the pretty flower, Lord Cyril.” A crooked smile formed on Monica’s face.

Cyril’s own lips turned upward, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Well then, I have business to attend to, so I must be leaving. If anything should happen, tell me or one of the other student council members immediately. But try not to burden the prince with any more work!”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Leaving her with a very Cyril-like scolding, he hurried away.

Monica looked down at the white rose in her hand. Um, should I fasten it to my bolero? she wondered. She pinned it there, her fingers uncertain. The white rose imparted just the right amount of extra brilliance to her richly colored bolero.

Up until a little while ago, she wouldn’t have cared about some groundless good-luck charm. Now, for some reason, it filled her with confidence.

I’ll do my best to help the festival succeed.

Robert had really worn her out, but now she could feel a little bit of energy coming back to her. After expelling a puff of air from her nose, she began to walk toward the rear garden.

First, I have to meet up with Mr. Louis.

She went down to the first floor, where the hallways were already bustling with guests. Before, she would have cringed at the crowd and run away. But Monica had recently experienced an even livelier festival.

The festival in Corlapton had so many more people.

The crowd still made her nervous, but not so nervous she couldn’t move. Spurring herself onward, she was just about to turn a corner when someone grabbed her arm from behind.

“Hold on a minute.”

The low, stifled voice was familiar. She’d never forget it. She sucked in her breath and slowly turned around.

Grabbing her arm was a bespectacled young man with wavy blond hair—the boy she’d broken off her friendship with during the chess competition. It was Bernie Jones, son of Count Ambard.

“Bernie…,” said Monica in a hoarse voice.

Bernie kept his eyes forward and spoke quickly. “Mr. Rutherford is that way. You don’t want him finding you, right?”

“Huh?”

Professor Gideon Rutherford worked at Minerva’s Mage Training Institution. He’d been Monica’s teacher when she was a student there, and he’d done a lot for her. Nicknamed the Mage of Violet Smoke, he was an elderly professor with wild eyebrows who always carried a long-stemmed pipe. He was the very man who had recommended Monica to the Seven Sages.

If this was a simple social engagement, she’d want to go say hello. But considering her current undercover mission, it would be a disaster if he saw her.

Monica peeked around the corner and saw an old man in a robe a short distance away. Despite his age, he stood up straight, both his short-cut white hair and bushy eyebrows the same as she remembered them.

It really is Mr. Rutherford… Monica ducked back behind the wall and glanced up at Bernie.

The young man sighed and shrugged. “Let’s go somewhere else. This is no place to stand and talk. Unless…you’d rather not see my face anymore?” he suggested with a sardonic grin.

Monica wasn’t going to wither beneath her former friend’s mean-spirited attitude any longer. “No,” she said. “I had, um, something to tell you, too.”

“…I see,” Bernie said and went quiet. His gaze told her to lead the way.

“Follow me,” she said, walking. He trailed after her in silence. They didn’t speak at all.

During her days at Minerva’s, they’d walked the halls side by side, trading casual conversation. But this was their relationship now—this distance, and their eyes that wouldn’t meet.

That made Monica a little sad, but the pain in her chest it used to cause was gone.

Monica took Bernie to an empty classroom on the first floor. This one would be cordoned off for the duration of the festival, so there was no need to worry about anyone interrupting.

“Did you come here with a teacher from Minerva’s?” she asked, thinking he’d probably tagged along with a professor like Robert.

But Bernie shook his head. “I came alone. After what happened, the only Minerva’s attendee this year is Mr. Rutherford.”

During the chess competition, an infiltrator had harmed a teacher from Minerva’s. Apparently, the other school was in turmoil over Eugene Pitman’s death. It was no wonder their teachers had abandoned any plans to attend. Professor Rutherford—the only one who came—was a powerful, fearless combatant. He was probably here to gather intel and trade information about the incident.

“Wait,” said Monica, “but if you’re not with Mr. Rutherford, how did you get an invitation?”

“Don’t you remember who I am? I come from House Jones. The school would never turn down an application from one of us.”

“Oh, um, I see…”

She didn’t have much of a grasp on the details, but Bernie’s family was apparently one of the top aristocratic houses in Ridill. It was a source of pride for him; during her days as a student, she’d always hear him saying things like, “Well, I come from House Jones, so…”

As she reminisced, Bernie pressed her further, his words somewhat rushed. “But anyway, you said you had something to say to me, right? Knowing you, I bet you’re about to ask why I covered for you.”

“…Yes.”

After Monica defeated the assassin disguised as Eugene Pitman, Bernie had lied and said he was responsible. That way, her identity wouldn’t be exposed. And he’d just helped her again, stopping her from bumping into Professor Rutherford. Thanks to him, nobody had found out about her, and she was able to stay at Serendia Academy.

Bernie has no reason to cover for me…

His answer came smoothly and quickly, as though he’d prepared it in advance. “At first, I was suspicious about why you were here. I thought it was just another one of the Sages’ games—fooling around, pretending to be a student. But when I realized the second prince was here, and after witnessing an intruder in the school, it’s only natural to assume you were dispatched to protect him.”

He looked at her for an answer, and Monica gave a small nod. The mission was top secret, but she couldn’t lie to him at this point.

“If you’re here on Seven Sages business protecting the prince, then as a noble of the Kingdom of Ridill, it’s my responsibility to aid you, isn’t it? That’s the only reason I covered for you, O great and mighty Sage.”

He hadn’t helped Monica as a friend—he’d helped a Sage out of his responsibility as a noble. On that point, he was very insistent.

Monica fell silent. He peered into her face and grinned cruelly. “Convinced now, Sage?”

Bernie certainly didn’t see her as a friend anymore. He stressed that point stubbornly and repeatedly. Almost like he was trying to convince himself. Any words Monica had for him as a friend wouldn’t reach his ears anymore.

But there was one more thing Monica needed to ask him. “You don’t have to answer this if, um, you don’t want to, but…”

“Oh? What is it? As a member of House Jones, I will of course obey the command of a Sage,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Monica closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them again and looked straight at Bernie. “Why did you take part in the chess competition?”

All expression faded from his face.

Ever since they’d reunited, she couldn’t help thinking it was strange. When Monica attended Minerva’s, Bernie had always ridiculed chess as an idle man’s sport and insisted mastering magecraft was a much more worthy pursuit. So when she’d spotted him at the competition, she’d been surprised—surprised to see him again but also surprised because he was there to play chess.

Bernie made a sour face, like she’d struck a nerve, and Monica grew anxious. Maybe she’d just said something very cruel—maybe she’d hurt him. “Um, if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to. I’m sorry for asking something so strang—”

“I’m dropping out of Minerva’s soon.”

“Huh?” Monica froze, her mouth hanging open. Shocked, she looked up at him and saw an exhausted smile, full of resignation.

“My older brother died in an accident last month,” he continued. “And no, it wasn’t a conspiracy or an assassination. Despite his awful riding skills, he got cocky and went for a long journey, then fell from his horse and broke his neck… A fittingly stupid death for a stupid man.”

Monica didn’t know the details of Bernie’s family situation. But she had heard that he was the second son of Count Ambard and that his older brother would inherit the title. Bernie, unable to inherit, had poured everything into studying at Minerva’s so he could become a Sage and attain the rank of count of magic, making him equal to a normal count.

But now that Bernie’s brother was dead, he would be the one to inherit.

“Bernie, are you, um, giving up on becoming a Sage?”

“Yes. Come winter, I’m going back home to focus on my studies to become the next count. I went along with the others to the chess competition to have a little fun in the meantime.”

No one had paid attention to him as a second son, and so he had burned with anger and a need for recognition. He’d funneled those emotions into hard work and given his blood, sweat, and tears to earn the kind of grades that would make others notice him.

Monica wondered how he’d felt when it all came crashing down.

Ever since he was young, he’d hopelessly wished to inherit. But to have the status he’d longed for fall into his lap like this couldn’t have made him very happy.

And yet she saw no anger or distress on his face.

“To be honest,” he said, “I’m relieved. Now I can give up my dream of becoming a Sage.” Monica was at a loss for words. Bernie continued wearily, almost murmuring to himself. “Deep down, I’d given up on it a long time ago.”

Monica found that hard to believe. Bernie was a hard worker, and he had talent. Nobody doubted that he’d become a first-rate mage one day.

“Is it…my fault?” she said, her voice scratchy.

Bernie turned a spiritless, derisive smile on her. But was he ridiculing the foolish Monica, himself…or both of them?

“Yes. It is your fault. When you used unchanted magecraft, I saw the impossible gap in our talents… It was a rude awakening. It would have been for anyone. Knowing that I’d never reach you, I’d never be your equal…” A dry laugh. Behind his glasses, his eyes swiveled to look at Monica again. “And yet you kept smiling at me like that, so innocently… It felt like you were making fun of me.”

No matter how many words of hatred and loathing he threw at her now, there was no spirit in his voice. He’d already given up on the future he’d been striving for—on becoming a Sage.

“You kept on calling me your friend—but I never wanted to be your friend.”

Monica had also given up—on expecting anything from him. But to hear him reject the days they’d spent studying together still stung. She hung her head.

“I wanted to be your rival,” he said. “Your equal.”

Monica blinked, then slowly looked up.

When he saw her idiotic expression, he gave one of his usual mean-spirited snorts. “Well, I am talented. One day, I will be known far and wide as the greatest Count Ambard to ever live. And since I’ll be a count, we’ll be the same rank—won’t we, Count of Magic Everett?”

“Huh? Um? Oh, well… Yes.” Monica faltered in the face of this sudden change in attitude but managed a nod.

Bernie folded his arms and laughed haughtily. “One day, I’ll be a capable count. And when that happens, I expect you to rely on me—with that same pitiful look on your face.”

Bernie delivered this line like a storybook villain and turned his back on her, as if to say they had nothing further to discuss.

Monica and Bernie would probably never go back to being friends. But not everything had been lost. She was sure a new relationship could sprout, even from the remains of their ruined friendship.

She lowered her head to Bernie as he left and spoke a few words as the Silent Witch. “…I sincerely thank you for your aid on this mission, Lord Bernie Jones, son of Count Ambard.”

Bernie twisted around to look back at her and grinned. She knew that expression. It was the smile he always flashed Monica when she went crying to him for help, and he’d sigh and say, “Oh, fine.”

“That’s right,” he replied. “You’d better keep thanking me for the rest of your life.”