Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 619

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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 69.
The Velvet Invitation (32)
7. Sprezzatura
Long ago, Tastania had been a name for a vast region that required four days of riding to traverse. But it gradually shrank until it came to denote only a single fortress rising from a hillside. And with the fortress’s end, that name too had perished.
No, to be precise, the fortress did not disappear. It remained in its place. It simply became uninhabited. Thus, for those living near the castle, “Tastania” remained an existing name—though only as the name of ruins that inspired dread, a name people preferred not to speak aloud.
A wooden stage had been erected on a hillside where a half-crumbled fortress appeared no larger than the palm of one’s hand. It was a semicircular stage, perhaps twenty paces across.
Being a rehearsal stage, its floor was rough. There was nowhere to hang backdrop paintings. Instead of stairs, several wooden crates were stacked for access. The grassland was yellowed, with withered miscanthus and twisted shrubs, rabbit burrows scattered naturally about. In this strange landscape, one person was ceaselessly shouting.
“Groups 1 and 2! Stand by below the stage. Groups 3 and 4, you have time—let’s clear the space for the bonfire!”
As people hurried into lines or dispersed, Amaryllis Crown turned toward the tent. Spotting a man peering out from within, she furrowed her brow and shouted once more.
“Erichi! Hurry! What about the music?”
The young man called Erichi emerged from the tent and ambled over, his expression startled upon seeing Amaryllis.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Even in the Southern Region, it was the depths of winter. Moreover, halfway up the mountain, the wind blew fiercely. Amaryllis wore only a ballet costume, thin stockings, and a black shawl, yet she shook her head and shrieked.
“You? Cold is your concern? The director will be back soon, won’t he? But what’s with that getup?”
“Why? Today’s just an audition, isn’t it?”
Your uncle would have smacked you on the back of the head if he saw you like that. Go put on a jacket at least.”
Erichi began sidling toward the tent, muttering.
“The director should pay Amaryllis a fee for nagging him like this…”
“You’re joking around. I might just set your tail on fire.”
The audition participants nearby were glancing at their exchange. Noticing them, Amaryllis playfully stuck out her tongue slightly, then neatly tidied her fallen strands of hair and retrieved a small tiara from her jacket pocket, placing it on her head.
It was the perfect performance-day costume.
When Erichi returned, he was wearing a jacket, though it was clearly not his own. It was so oversized it looked as though someone had tailored a flour sack into it. As Amaryllis sighed and glared, Erichi made his excuse.
“That wretched garment—it must have legs or wings of its own.”
Then he quickly dashed toward the musicians. Amaryllis furrowed her brow in thought, but since costume production hadn’t even begun, there were no alternatives. She hadn’t even found a suitable—no, a perfect—costume designer yet. Could the director’s stage possibly tolerate even a single imperfect staff member?
Unable to help herself, Amaryllis murmured as she climbed onto the stage.
“Miss Jusitangue’s costumes from back then were truly magnificent.”
Of course, Amaryllis had no idea where Miss Jusitangue was now or what she was doing. She had broached the subject with the “director,” but his response had been lukewarm.
Standing on the stage, the surroundings came into clearer view. The sloping mountainside was encircled by beech forests. Below the ridge, the small rooftops of the village where they were staying were visible, and to the left, the crumbled tower of Tastania’s fortress rose distinctly.
This open hillside had been chosen after the staff, following the director’s instructions, had visited three times and combed through the entire mountain. The only drawback was a nearby pasture where livestock came out to graze at any hour.
Upon hearing this, the director had said he would accompany them on the third location scout. He met with the pasture owner, listened humbly to what the man had to say, and then bought the entire pasture. The matter was resolved just like that.
Amaryllis, delighted, had impulsively planted a flag atop the pasture’s water tower. It was a prop from the previous performance. Beyond the forest, that flag too could be seen fluttering. Amaryllis smiled contentedly and shouted toward Groups 1 and 2, who sat comfortably in the grassland.
“Now then, twenty minutes until we begin!”
Though the director had not yet returned, Amaryllis announced the time as though it were a certainty.
Did the director carry a pocket watch? That was none of her concern. In any case, the director never ruins an audition. He never disappoints those waiting for him. Not once has he ever done so. What kind of man is this director that he would disappoint anyone?
Whenever Amaryllis recalled the day she first met the director, laughter often burst forth. Looking back now, she could hardly believe how amusing that scene had been. And back then, she could never have imagined the future that now lay before her. She had not even sensed what an event would transform her life.
Three years ago, Amaryllis had been a ballerina belonging to a faded theater in the harbor city of Kalayso. She had some talent and led a group of dancers, but she took no real pride in her profession, possessed no true expertise, and felt no genuine passion. She had simply refined her natural gift enough to make a living, and she was content with that, expecting to retire soon. In truth, even “retire” was a luxury—dismissal or unemployment would be more accurate.
Then one day, the man she now called the director appeared. Joe Hispanie. At the time, she had thought that was his real name.
In truth, Joe Hispanie had not appeared only before Amaryllis. He had appeared before all of Kalayso—before the famous, the talented, the magnificent and glamorous. And before those living ordinary, dull lives as well. He appeared suddenly and, with a single performance, captivated everyone’s soul.
The legendary “The Wedding of Il de Morbiane,” still spoken of as myth today, had begun with a sheaf of scripts written in a single night. All manner of distinguished people became entangled in such a script.
What had initially seemed an absurd fantasy became something that all of Kalayso’s finest people, who had first scoffed and mocked it, forgot to ridicule as they fell under his spell. Thus Joe Hispanie and they created, in merely fifteen days, one perfect performance and forged a moment that would never be forgotten in that city’s history.
It was genuinely fifteen days of pure magic. With merely two performances, over a million Elso flooded into Kalayso. The audiences who came didn’t just purchase tickets—they spent lavishly on lodging and meals. And they demanded more performances. When none materialized, they scattered to every theater in the vicinity, watching whatever they could find.
Then they returned seething with frustration, waving fat wallets and demanding that the same spectacular production be recreated. Fourteen people came forward offering to finance an entire series of at least ten performances. Five of them promised to pay in full upfront.
Simultaneously, the lives of those who had created that performance transformed. Those who had directly participated in that magic eventually reunited to organize a memorial performance for someone, and after it concluded, they found themselves reluctant to disband. They formed regular meetings and called themselves the “Morbianez”—meaning the people of Morbihan.
The Morbianez included a vivacious Theater Master, a musical genius, a former prima donna, a legendary choreographer, and an exceptional lyricist, among others. Originally, they had all been on the verge of twilight in their careers.
Yet the explosive success of that performance miraculously revived their creative powers. They planned new productions, achieved success, and created a system to debut the flood of newcomers who arrived. As a result, Kalayso experienced a sudden economic boom.
Amarilli happened to be working at that theater at the time, which was why she led the dancers in The Wedding of Il de Morbiane. In other words, though she stood at the center of that event, she was neither famous nor particularly distinguished. So at first, she didn’t even realize what she had accomplished. She thought she had simply been swept up in a magical moment that had then ended.
However, the Morbianez did not turn away even those who had merely dipped their toes into that production. Shortly after, when choreographer Giovann Hantke reached out to meet her, Amarilli thought, “Do they need a dancer or two for the new production?” and attended the meeting.
“Miss Crown, would you like to work with our group? We need a dance director.”
“I’m sorry?”
Amarilli let the candy she had just placed in her mouth drop onto her tongue. It was a candy Giovani had taken from his own tin and given to her—genuinely expensive, though somewhat bitter.
“Wow, that candy’s pricey. Anyway, come help me out. You handle the dance direction, and I’ll just do the choreography. What do you say? A good division of labor, isn’t it?”
For Amarilli, it was hard to believe, but Giovani genuinely needed her. He had driven away all his potential disciples during his younger, more temperamental years, and had spent his days in indifference, thinking that such skills were worthless—if there was no one to pass them to, they might as well become fertilizer for potted plants.
But when his old passion was revived thanks to Joe Hispanie, his affection for his own skills suddenly ignited as well. It would be such a waste to let such enjoyable talents rust away. I should pass them on to someone, shouldn’t I?
To such a Giovani, Amarilli—who had never once struggled to improve throughout her life, but simply used her talents as naturally as plucking coins from a pocket—caught his eye.
The arrogant Giovann Hantke of old would never have given her a second glance, dismissing her as pitiful. Yet Joe Hispanie had made even someone like Amarilli yield a golden nugget from the deepest corner of a locked chest.
Giovani changed his perspective and carefully observed Amarilli as she led the dancers from the standpoint of his specialty—ensemble choreography. And he reached a conclusion: this person is worth polishing.
Giovani, true to his nature, polished her thoroughly. Amarilli possessed genuine talent not just in dance, but in choreography and direction as well. Perhaps the brilliance of her ballet talent, discovered so easily in childhood, had been so striking that even she had never thought to search deeper than the surface.
About two years later, Amarilli truly became the dance director of the Morbianez. Those two years were likely the most earnest of her life. Giovani, keeping his promise to handle only choreography, was content to write his name beneath “Dance Director Amaryllis Crown.” More precisely, he was satisfied with having properly selected and cultivated a person.
Other members of the Morbianez also attempted to cultivate a second generation, though not all succeeded. If one charitably views success and failure over two or three years as difficult to judge, then Erichi Hantke occupied that gray area. Music Director Strauss attempted to mentor Giovann Hantke’s nephew, but Erichi, regardless of his talent, was remarkably obstinate.
He never immediately accepted even the finest instruction, insisting on digesting it his own way, only to let things fall apart.
“Erichi! Are you finished with the music setup?”

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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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