Chapter 175: The Investigation
The rain finally stopped the next day, but the sky remained heavy and gray.
The Kant domain lay shrouded beneath a lingering, long-lasting cloud cover. The last rains before winter always seemed reluctant to leave. In the coming days, the land was expected to receive several more moderate showers. This abundance of rain was a blessing for the region’s specialty—magical herbs.
Most of these herbs continued to grow through the winter. Though their roots and stalks appeared withered and dead, the mages knew well that these “spiritual plants” were still nourished by the magical environment underground, ready to revive with the coming of spring. How much they could grow during winter depended largely on the final rains before the frost and snow arrived.
Gawain sat in the castle’s dining hall, having breakfast with Viscount Victor Kant. The viscount’s wife was too ill to receive visitors, and their only son was away from the domain. So, despite the grand table set with fine silverware and delicious food, only the two of them were dining together. The atmosphere felt awkward to Gawain.
He preferred the lively buzz of a large group gathered around a table, not this cold formality—just himself and an elderly nobleman seated far apart, speaking as if every word had to be measured and delayed.
“I hope you’re finding some comfort in this old house,” Victor said, slicing his bread. “The castle’s ancient. I plan to renovate it once more before I die.”
“It’s quite comfortable, more than I expected,” Gawain replied, though his praise felt somewhat forced. “There’s a certain security in an old castle.”
Victor smiled and glanced at Gawain’s side. “Your two attendants left early this morning?”
“They don’t like being cooped up. I sent them to town to clear their heads. They feel more at ease in the noisy taverns than here.”
“Understandable. I, too, preferred taverns to quiet castles when I was younger,” the old viscount raised his glass. “Of course, I’m still your junior here.”
Gawain lifted his cup in return and casually asked, “The viscountess’s health is worrying. What exactly is her illness?”
Victor’s hand paused for a fraction of a second before he smiled again. “You’ve already met her?”
According to Lilith Kant, it was supposed to be Victor who arranged for her to greet Gawain, yet now the viscount acted as if hearing this for the first time.
Gawain masked his surprise with a faint smile. “She came to greet me after dinner last night, but she looked quite pale.”
“My poor Lilith,” Victor sighed. “Her health has never been good. She can’t bear sunlight or noise, so she spends most of her time in the North Tower, only venturing out at night. But she’s a kind soul. Much of my leniency toward the peasants comes from her—she always urged me to consider those who can’t afford decent homes or meat. Yet her own condition worsens by the day.”
Gawain had overheard some of the castle servants’ gossip the day before, and this kindness toward the common folk was a surprise. He had initially suspected Victor Kant might be a cultist of the Eternal Sleep or at least under their influence, given the recent capture of vagrants for dark rituals. But everything he’d heard since arriving praised the old lord.
He couldn’t tell how much of the servants’ chatter was true, but he went along: “Treating your people well is every lord’s duty. We founded this kingdom to protect our subjects, not to lord over them.”
“Indeed. It’s a shame so few remember that now,” Victor sighed deeply. “More and more nobles forget why their ancestors first took up sword and shield. We were meant to be a shield for the common folk, a refuge where they could live in peace, a guide toward prosperity and warmth. But most nobles today grow up in castles and manors, taking servitude and tribute for granted, forgetting their responsibilities… cough…”
Victor’s voice grew passionate, then he coughed, struggling to regain composure. “I spend much of the year inspecting every farm and herb field to ensure the harvest is good, so taxes don’t starve the people. I also deal with merchants to sell surplus herbs and grain, so my people have money to repair homes and buy fuel for winter. But that means I miss many ‘high society’ gatherings, and the southern nobles call me a recluse, a tasteless fool… sigh.”
He spoke at length, then sheepishly smiled. “Sorry, I tend to ramble with age. But I think you understand—I’ve heard you’re also kind to your people.”
“Of course,” Gawain smiled, raising his glass. “It’s every lord’s obligation.”
Meanwhile, outside the castle in the town, Amber cradled a frothy mug of ale, listening to idle farmers and craftsmen boast about their dull, meager lives. She wore a look of interest but was calculating how many drinks it would take to get the information she wanted.
The farming season was over, and the weather was too poor for outdoor work. So, the relatively well-off farmers and artisans spent their time in the tavern, wasting what little money they had. Kant’s domain, like the town of Tansan, was one of the few prosperous regions in the south, so the common folk frequented places like taverns and gambling dens. With a few mugs of ale and some flattery, Amber could coax out all their secrets.
For someone like Amber, who had grown up in such places, this was an enjoyable process—especially when she didn’t have to pay for the drinks herself.
Dressed appropriately—a black leather jerkin, a slightly worn cloak, a short sword peeking from her belt, and a “lucky stone” tied to her wrist—she looked every bit a wandering warrior. The common folk regarded such figures with a mix of awe and curiosity, making it easy to pry information.
After several rounds and enough talk about fields and ghost stories in old manors, Amber decided it was time to ask about the lord of the domain. She turned to the blacksmith sitting nearby. “I heard your lord is good at managing the land. Is that true?”
The blacksmith, slurring slightly, replied, “I don’t know much about managing land, but Lord Victor’s a good man… hiccup. With him around, no one goes hungry. Even in winter, folks get at least half a meal. It’s been over ten years since anyone starved here!”
Further south, there were places where peasants not only avoided starvation but sometimes even ate meat.
Amber thought this over, impressed. “That’s no small feat!”
“Sure is. Lord Victor’s the kindest lord I’ve ever known,” an older patron chimed in. “But I’ve heard from those who deliver vegetables and milk that the castle’s pretty gloomy. Feels drafty, like it’s always leaking somewhere…”
A plump tavern maid slammed a wooden cup down in front of the man. “Don’t talk nonsense! The castle’s not your lousy hut. Old George, the delivery guy, was probably drunk and mistook the cold mud for castle drafts!”
Her poor joke sparked a burst of laughter.
“Sounds like Victor really is a good lord,” Amber said, nodding. “But what about the viscountess—?”
The room fell strangely silent.
People exchanged uneasy glances; some lowered their heads to their drinks. The older men frowned, as if recalling something unpleasant. Amber sensed there was more beneath the surface and asked, curious, “What’s wrong? Why the reaction?”
“You’re from out of town, so it’s normal you don’t know,” said the eldest man, likely a wealthy landowner or retired craftsman. Few poor folk lived to his age without succumbing to illness or injury. Such men knew the peasants’ lives and had heard the domain’s stories. “The viscountess… it’s been decades now. When she died…”
“The viscountess died? Decades ago?!” Amber gasped. “How did she die?”
“That poor woman… it was a tragic affair. No good person should suffer such a fate.” The old man frowned, reluctant to speak further, but the alcohol loosened his tongue. Nearby, some younger men urged him on. “Old Sandru, tell us. I’ve heard bits all my life but never the whole story. You’re old—you must know what really happened.”
Amber admired the young man’s persistence and decided to use some of Gawain’s money to buy him a drink.
The old man sighed, took a long swallow, and began slowly: “It was about thirty… maybe more like thirty years ago. Around this same month. It rained—hard and steady for days.
“Back then, Lord Victor was young but already a just and kind lord, just like now. One day, he was returning from inspecting the granaries in the neighboring town. The viscountess was with him, along with their only son, Master Belm. They rode in a carriage from the west, despite the heavy rain.
“They really should have stayed an extra day in the neighboring town, but they set out anyway… You can guess what happened. With such heavy rain and slippery roads, the carriage met disaster. It overturned on the old hillside, sliding from the highest point into the ravine below. The carriage was smashed to pieces.
“All through the night, no one knew what had happened to the lord’s family. It wasn’t until the sun rose and the rain stopped that the viscountess appeared in town, covered in blood. She practically crawled in, battered and bruised, crying so hard she could barely breathe. She said she’d seen the lord and their son thrown from the carriage, landing somewhere unknown, and begged us to go rescue them.”
The old man paused, a deep sigh escaping him before he took another swallow of wine to steady himself. Then he continued, “We escorted the lady back to the castle and immediately sent out search parties to the old hillside, looking for the carriage and the master and young master. But for three whole days, all we found were some bloodstains, broken pieces of the carriage, and the bodies of two horses.
“The lady spent every day in the castle weeping her heart out. She was such a kind soul, always caring for the poor people on the estate. Ever since she married into this place, every winter she made sure to distribute firewood and black bread to those in need. And yet, she was dealt this cruel blow. For three days, neither her husband nor her son were found. Eventually, she lost her mind. The servants who worked in the castle at the time later said she locked herself in her room, screaming and crying, then wandered through the dark corners of the castle, talking to the husband and son she imagined were still there. In the end, she locked herself away in the dungeon beneath the castle’s north tower, where she drank poison to end her suffering.
“On the fourth day, Lord Victor and Young Master Belm returned to the castle alive. They hadn’t died after all.”
(End of chapter)