Peturabo woke from cushions and brocade for the second time. The first thing he caught in his vision was a blurred pale figure, but before he could make out the visitor's identity, his hunger made his stomach rumble.
Calipha set down the scroll she had brought and glanced sideways at the awakened boy.
"Would you like some lunch?" Her slender fingers tapped the edge of the golden plate, drawing Peturabo's attention to the sliced grain bread, pancakes drizzled with honey, curds, and cheese, and a small cup of fruit wine.
"Once I invent an instrument for detecting poison." Peturabo threw off the fabric, rose to his feet, and walked over to Calipha in his sandals.
Even standing, he was still somewhat taller than the seated daughter of Lokos.
Peturabo looked around. Though he had clearly known it the instant he woke, he still needed to confirm it with his own eyes.
"Mors isn't here?"
Calipha rose from her chair as well and inconspicuously took a step back, so Peturabo would not have to look up at her.
"Father has something to discuss with him. As for why I came, it is to apologize for our negligence and to tell you that you may enter Lokos's library whenever you wish."
"You should sit down." Peturabo frowned at the unfamiliarity of it, then hesitated briefly over her name. "Calipha."
Calipha gladly accepted Peturabo's form of address. The two sat on opposite sides of the wooden table.
Peturabo continued, "You needn't apologize to me. I expected something like this to happen long ago."
Whether or not Calipha had doubts about that, she obediently smiled. "You are so intelligent, of course you could have expected it. When I boldly wrote to Mr. Mors, his reply also mentioned what a wise boy you were."
"He said that?" Peturabo asked without thinking, then hurriedly answered himself in an awkward manner. "He always likes to exaggerate."
"Mr. Mors is that sort of person?"
"Isn't he?"
"Then he is quite unlike you. All I have seen from you is humility." Calipha's bright eyes blinked mischievously.
"That's exactly what he's like!" Peturabo suddenly discovered that there was someone in the world who understood him. It was as though a suit of heavy armor had been taken from him, along with the helmet weighing on his head. For a moment, the world seemed so clear and refreshing, and everything within it seemed lovely.
As Calipha pinched up a thin pancake with two fingers and took small bites from the melted-then-hardened cheese at its edge as though snacking while chatting with a friend, Peturabo could not help reaching for a piece of bread himself, to fend off the next alarm his stomach was about to sound.
"Mors is that sort of person: arrogant because of his talent, rude and boorish, contemptuous of others, cold and haughty, vague in speech, sharp-tongued and cutting, devoid of ambition, always giving orders and throwing his weight around. There isn't a single good quality anywhere on him."
He picked up the cup of fruit wine and put it down again. The psychological shadow cast by drinks had yet to fade. "Every sentence has to contain ten layers of allusions and sarcasm. Remove the riddles and metaphors, and there is nothing left to decipher."
He took a fierce bite of bread. Once he had food in him, his mood immediately eased again, personally verifying that sugar brought comfort to the starving. "If he were not so learned, knowing all that lies beneath heaven and earth, I would have left him long ago."
After saying that, he quietly swept his gaze around the room. Seeing no suspicious figures, he listened closely as well, confirming that Calipha was the only other person inside.
Calipha pressed her forehead with the pads of her fingers, her raised little finger trembling faintly. After a short while, she finally smiled and spoke brightly. "I have not yet told you. There is something Mors asked me to remind you to look at."
"What?"
Calipha pushed a folded sheet of paper before Peturabo. Its edges had been folded inward into the rectangular shape of a letter. At its center was a scarlet wax seal, stamped with a string of strange, indecipherable writing that resembled lightning and daggers.
For some reason, the moment Peturabo saw it, a very bad premonition arose in his heart.
He carefully held the letter in his hands and picked at the edges of the wax seal, not daring to open it immediately.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A letter Mr. Mors wrote to you. He instructed you to open it somewhere quiet." Calipha rested her chin on her knuckles, smiling warmly and with complete goodwill.
The vague unease in Peturabo's heart grew ever louder, like a shifting mass of black shadow constantly foretelling the misfortune about to befall him.
He forcibly swallowed his panic and encouraged himself not to abandon reason and trust his intuition. Then, with resolute determination, he broke the wax seal.
"Peturabo, I suddenly remembered there is something I nearly forgot to do..."
A male voice brimming with sarcasm and mockery immediately came from the envelope. Peturabo instantly flung it away as if his hand had been scorched by flame. The letter floated into the air, brazenly displaying its terrifying presence.
"...You did not truly think that because I praised you once, your work suddenly became so excellent, did you? I did not comment on you from the stage because I could not be bothered to waste that much effort. You have too many problems; I do not expect to explain them clearly in a few words..."
Calipha silently leaned back.
"...Do you think they truly liked your work? If the first person to take the stage had not happened to choose your paired statue, the citizens after him would not have known what to choose and simply followed his lead. Do you think you could have been fortunate enough to win? I hope you have sobered up from the poison..."
Peturabo leaped up to pounce on the letter, but it drifted even higher.
Calipha felt that it would be best for her to leave first.
"...To begin with the statue itself, I do not know how your self-proclaimed eagle-sharp vision failed to notice the disorderly layers of hair atop the head of my portion of the statue. Nor can I understand why you placed the center of gravity of your portion on an unstable foot..."
Peturabo looked around anxiously. His extraordinarily efficient brain instantly offered thousands of completely useless solutions. "I told you he was utterly detestable!"
Calipha looked out the window and feigned surprise. "It is getting late. I have things to do, and Andos is hopelessly engrossed in creating an even more perfect design. I must go find my brother." With that, she drifted away.
Once there was no one else in the room, Peturabo immediately rushed over and locked the door. Then he grabbed the blanket and tried to cover the letter as it flew ever higher.
"...And then there was your conduct. Who taught you to turn off the amplification and hold a lengthy private conversation with someone in front of everyone? Do you know how many negative impressions that would give people? How many would privately decide that your conduct was improper, that you had some personal affair to conceal? Peturabo, I do not know where your astonishing intelligence went..."
Peturabo slammed the window shut, ensuring there was not a single suspicious gap through which sound could escape. Then, clutching the blanket, he began arguing with the letter on his own, even though the automatically voiced letter paid him no heed whatsoever.
"You are talking nonsense! I considered many things at the time. You cannot make such a hasty judgment..."
"...And you actually agreed to drink the spring water from the golden jar. When I saw you refuse it at first, I thought you were clear-minded and perceptive. Yet before long, you drank it all in one gulp. Had I not been there to heal your heart and lungs, you would by now have become fine dust borne upon a thousand winds, scattered into the purest lake below the plateau..."
Mors had no patience for observing the etiquette of a visit or waiting for a servant to announce him. Thus, the moment he stood before the tyrant's door was the moment he pushed it open and entered the room.
Dameks welcomed him with new wine. He gladly accepted, brought out his own wicker chair, and sat facing Dameks.
"You saw it as well, craftsman," the tyrant said worriedly. "Lokos does not wish to harm others, yet others seek your apprentice's life."
Mors tapped the tabletop with his knuckles, his expression cold.
"Do not hide your ambitions from me, tyrant. Nor play games of right and wrong with me. You want my apprentice to take part in Olympia's eternal struggle. Then tell him yourself what you seek from him and what price you can offer."
"If he dislikes it, I will not persuade him. If he agrees, I will not stop him. But under no circumstances may you use my name to deceive him."
He could not be bothered to voice his "otherwise."
The tyrant solemnly set down his golden staff and bowed his head in respect. "In the name of Lokos, I will never resort to coercion or threats."
Before you continue