Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 406

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 176.
In the Name of Loyalty and Vengeance (18)
Act 10. Secret
1. Giscard de Natangsong
“I was reading a book when I noticed one page was completely blank. So I tucked a leaf between those pages. Days later, I found vines crawling out from between the books on the shelf. When I forced the book out—it was stuck terribly—the roots had wedged themselves into every crevice. I frantically flipped through the entire book. Not a single letter remained on any page.”
“So what did you do with the book? Or rather, the vines?”
“I grew frightened and shoved the book back, then repeatedly convinced myself it wasn’t real, that there were no vines at all. But when I returned to the Study days later, the vines had swollen grotesquely, writhing across the floor like a serpent. By then, every book had already turned blank.”
“And then what did you do?”
“What did I do? I tore off the vine leaves and made a salad. It looked as though grapes might grow from it. Say, might you lend me some of your books? I promise to share the grapes.”
The scent of brewing tea drifted through the air.
A narrow room that could be crossed in three strides held a tall, vertical window. The curtains were drawn back, revealing a stone wall where climbing roses wound upward. As the top of the wall caught the backlighting, the roses there became silhouettes. Beyond them, a golden plain was fading into dusk. The sun over Rosa Alb, ringed by mountains, descended with unusual haste.
The chair in which Langie sat was a quilted lattice chair that had been fashionable about seven years prior. In those days, the salons of central Anomarad and Orlanne had competed to adorn their walls with lattice patterns studded with pearls, filling them with such chairs and inviting guests. Crystal chess sets were popular too, and one could not participate in salon conversation without possessing a fan decorated with ivory and seashell, along with a silk sachet of fragrance.
All of it was long past. Those people who had once acted as though ignoring such things would bring ruin had forgotten it all and now chased some other fashion. For Langie, who no longer needed to know such things, it remained only a vivid memory.
A table so small it seemed barely large enough for two people to face each other sat some distance from the window. Langie rested his elbows on it, gazing out at the view, before eventually turning his gaze to the opposite side. A display cabinet that might have held several books contained only a single wind-up doll, sitting alone.
It had caught his eye from the moment he entered. He glanced out the window for a time, but his gaze inevitably returned to the doll. In truth, there was nothing else to see in the room. He had been waiting for half an hour—had there been books, he would have read anything gladly—but the doll was all there was.
The girl wore a blue floral skirt and a blouse with small puffed sleeves, a cape adorned with bells, and a white bonnet. She stood frozen with one arm and one leg raised. When wound, the doll would dance. The pose was so unnatural that he felt tempted to wind it slightly to allow her limbs to settle more gracefully. He had thought this from the first moment, yet he had refrained. It was not his place to meddle. Even if he had once stayed here for some time, today Langie was merely a guest.
Looking at the doll again, he realized that during the time he had spent gazing out the window—longer than he would have liked—the doll had stood helplessly with her arms and legs held awkwardly aloft. Though Langie had never played with a doll before, something stirred within him, and he rose to his feet. Then he wound the doll’s mechanism.
Half a turn should suffice.
The clicking ceased, and he placed the doll on the table. The moment his hand left the spring, a clear waltz melody shattered the silence. Langie started, his eyes fixed on the doll.
Lagging a beat behind the waltz, the doll began to raise her arms and lower her legs. The movement was more akin to calisthenics than dancing. That he had not recognized it as a music box was fitting for someone with no memory of playing with dolls. Yet as the music box melody rang distinctly through the empty room, Langie grew uneasy. Perhaps it was because his behavior was unbecoming of a guest. No—something else unsettled him. Small, tender things he had long struggled to keep at a distance.
“How fortunate that you have a friend to wait with, Rosencrantz.”
A middle-aged man entered through the door, a steaming teacup in his hand. Langie’s face flushed without thinking.
“There was little to occupy myself with while waiting.”
“I arranged it that way intentionally. Had I left even one book, you would have read it instead, and never spared a glance for the girl struggling to stand.”
The man was closer to fifty than forty, yet his youthful eyes made him appear far younger. His thin cheeks, in contrast to his prominent cheekbones, were softly lined, and his eyebrows and lips had indistinct contours. His slightly drooping eyes held a certain charm. His elegant, almond-shaped eyes were deep and sparkled with childlike clarity.
The man set the teacups he carried, one in each hand, upon the table, then left and returned with a teapot. Langie soon regained his composure and smiled.
“She was a girl without words.”
“Instead, she sings. Better comfort than words.”
With a tick, the spring caught, and the waltz ceased. Now the girl stood with her arms and legs lowered, in a relatively natural posture.
“Where did such a doll come from?”
“I made her.”
“You made her yourself?”
When Langie’s expression showed surprise, the man laughed.
“I made her as a gift for my daughter’s seventh birthday.”
“Then why did you not give it to her?”
“Oh, I did give it to her. But when I came to my senses, it was in my hands again.”
“I don’t recall seeing it during the time I stayed here.”
“Strange indeed. I wonder where it had been all this while.”
“Perhaps a fairy has been watching over it.”
The man took a sip of tea and answered with dignity.
“Our family has a guardian spirit. A lake fairy who married one of our ancestors long ago. Supposedly, she has a peculiar temperament and only protects wayward descendants who leave home and return.”
“You must be receiving protection in abundance, then.”
Shortly after, the laughter of the two mingled with the steam rising from the teacups and drifted out the window. As evening fell, the deepened fragrance of roses seeped in thickly.
Giscard de Natangsong, Count. That was the name of the middle-aged man. He was the Grand Lord representing six territories of Rosa Alb bordering the Anomarad Kingdom and possessed the formidable background of being a sixth cousin to the Grand Duke of Orlanne, yet few nobles in either Anomarad or Orlanne knew his face.
The Grand Lord of Rosa Alb had been Giscard’s elder brother until several years ago. Giscard, the second son, had left his territory early and wandered throughout Anomarad. Had his brother and his brother’s only son not died simultaneously, he would still be living that way.
The family did not know what Giscard had done while wandering Anomarad. Had they known, they would have deliberated more before granting him his title. Though not yet pursued with persistence due to weak influence, the Republican Faction was a target for arrest in Orlanne as well. Most importantly, had the deeds of the talented individuals Giscard had discovered throughout Anomarad and sent to the Exile Council become known, the Royal House of Anomarad might have directly demanded that the Grand Duke of Orlanne summon the Grand Lord of Rosa Alb for questioning.
Fortunately, such a thing had not occurred. Giscard de Natangsong, Count, continued to play the role of a mysterious Grand Lord who rarely appeared in society. Simultaneously, he served as the chief advisor of the Organization Division of the Exile Council and as a consultant to the Education Division—a person of concern.
Even after becoming Grand Lord against his will, Giscard rarely attended gatherings where nobility assembled. He delegated full authority to his adult daughter and entrusted her with the Manor, while he himself lived in a villa in a corner of his territory. He had actually wanted to pass on the title entirely, but those around him opposed it, and his daughter, with a living father, had no desire to become a Countess and draw scrutiny.
Thus, he lived as a Count and Grand Lord in name only, attended by a few mysterious servants, spending his days leisurely writing polite letters of refusal to invitation cards from the Capital Orlie.
That was how it appeared.
“Shall I close the window?”
“No. There’s no one around today. As you know, no one would cross the enchanted wall, and I’ve sent the students on errands to the Lower Village. They won’t return for a couple of hours. Let me enjoy the rose fragrance for once.”
Had the nobility seen Count Giscard carrying teacups himself, they would have found it quite strange. But Giscard retained the habits from his traveling days and rarely relied on others’ hands. Thus, he was not inconvenienced at all by the absence of attendants.
“Are there two students?”
“One will be leaving soon. When the Exile Council heard about it, they seemed worried I’d have too much free time, so they said they’d send one more soon.”
Langie nodded and offered a smile.
“It’s been a long time.”
“It hasn’t been half a year, I think. I know you can’t visit often.”
A faint wistfulness colored Giscard’s voice. Hearing that tone, Langie felt the atmosphere of the days spent in this house revive within him. It was a rare period of quietude in Langie’s life, which had been turbulent from youth.
On the back of the oak chair where Giscard sat was a coat of arms faintly worn away—a shield and six stalks of wheat engraved upon it, symbolizing the bond between Rosa Alb and House Natangsong. It was entirely different in atmosphere from the salon-style chair where Langie sat. In fact, the furniture in this place had no consistency whatsoever. A table whose surface had deteriorated with age and been repaired with a leather top, a chandelier set with glass beads of subtly different colors—all came forth without hesitation and performed their function. Giscard did not discard anything easily. The more scratched something was, the more carefully he maintained and used it. During those days spent here, that landscape had appeared to Langie as a kind of consolation. Any object, so long as it did not crumble completely, could be repaired and made useful once more.
At the same time, it felt like a very distant past. When one entrusted oneself to events unfolding moment by moment, all peaceful memories receded swiftly.
“Is there any new news?”
“Nothing much, except that despite my constant refusals, invitation cards keep arriving in ever greater numbers.”
During his wandering days in Anomarad, Giscard had been a genius at discerning talent from places with no foundation, weaving the threads of an organization around them, and ultimately constructing a small, self-sufficient organization. Anyone who had been part of the Friends of the People knew all the stories of the legendary organization member who had nurtured the foundation of the young Republican Faction. They simply did not know that his true identity was Giscard de Natangsong, Count.
When his brother died and he inherited the position of Grand Lord, Giscard ostensibly retired from his post. Yet the Exile Council continued to send young people to him. Though troubled, he willingly took on the role of their patron.
His villa, that of a lord ranking among the top five in Orlanne, had also become a cradle where bright young people newly initiated into republicanism were brought, trained, and sent forth. Young people entering the Friends of the People had turbulent childhoods and were passing through tempestuous times, making it no simple matter to teach and guide them.
“Have some tea. Haven’t you missed the taste of my tea while you’ve been away?”
Brewing any tea deliciously was a talent Giscard took pride in. He often called it his “only useful talent.” No one who knew him took that seriously.
Langie took a sip of tea, parted his lips, and spoke.
“I drink even tasteless tea well.”
Giscard knew that with those very close to him, he would not even offer flattery. Giscard smiled slightly.
“That’s right. You drank the tea Hailjer brewed well too.”
Children of Rune – Winterer
Author: Jeon Min-hee
Published by: 14 Months Publishing
The copyright to this book belongs to the author and 14 Months Publishing.
To reuse all or part of the contents of this book, written consent from both parties is required.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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