The Third Child

The Third Child

After Peturabo left Lokos, Mors finally decided how to complete the left hand of his statue—the one lacking the sacred mark.

He used sturdy, serrated walls to form a broken circle resembling a theater, with gears, hammers, and mountains carved in the center. The inspiration had undoubtedly come from Peturabo.

As for the face, he now planned simply to carve a mask and attach it someday, thus completing the work.

Then, when he eventually dumped it on Peturabo under the pretense of a gift, sparing himself further irritation from the statue taking up too much indoor space, he could cryptically tell the child that the mask symbolized how his image changed according to the observer, so he could regard it as anyone.

During this time, he met separately with Andos and Calipha. While making small talk with them, he silently examined the state of their souls, guided by the attitude that courtesy was social morality, and morality was clay in one's hands.

Just as they had been years ago, their minds remained spotless, so much so that Mors had to wonder whether he himself had grown overly suspicious.

The moment that thought arose, Mors dismissed his hesitation.

He was not ignorant of the myriad evils behind the veil. Having personally seen that fire-stealing madman enter the Highest Heaven and return laden with spoils, he understood even more deeply that a moment of negligence could brew a grave disaster.

Human civil war was one of the most absurd manifestations of humanity choosing its own path of evolution. Even so, it remained an internal matter in the development of human civilization.

But if it involved the malicious manipulation of external beings, or even external wills, Mors did not believe remaining uninvolved would still be wise.

"Have we done something wrong?" Andos sat uneasily across from him, watching Mors review the paper records covering the entire naming ceremony procedure.

To the left of the man in black lay documentary summaries and illustrated descriptions of royal naming ceremonies throughout the years from the Lokos archives. The stack of documents, several inches thick, had already been committed to his memory for detailed comparison with the current ceremony.

"Were naming ceremonies always presided over by priestesses of the Church?" Mors asked.

"Yes, Mr. Mors. But Lokos's relationship with the Church has been at rock bottom for several years now. They even tried to use the choice of officiant for this ceremony to threaten us. Calipha proposed replacing the priestesses directly with local female officiants from our own country... Everyone agreed." Andos answered respectfully.

"The correct choice. No one cares who presides over the ceremony, so long as they are elegant enough."

Mors turned another page, and the thin paper gave a crisp rustle. He then precisely located the corresponding description among the stack of ancient parchment beside him.

"Such ceremonies were previously held in the palace's inner hall. Why was this one opened to a broader public and held in a public theater?"

"That was Peturabo's request..."

"Very well, next question." Mors's expression barely shifted. "Are there any references for the old styles of the officiants' golden masks?"

"The materials are all at your side... Aside from a few poorly preserved documents that are difficult to decipher due to dampness, insect damage, and other causes, we brought every related record."

"No one recorded what the masks looked like?"

"The Church believed the priestesses' golden masks were equivalent to the face of Goddess Hefoni, and therefore could not be profaned or recorded." Andos sighed.

"These mask blueprints... I made them according to my memory of the golden masks during my elder brother's naming ceremony. I also consulted many courtiers and attendants who had attended naming ceremonies. They should not differ too much from the old ones, right?"

Mors raised his eyes and swept his gaze over Andos's expression. "There were no changes to the masks' expressions or details?"

Andos thought carefully, and this helped the gentle prince regain a little confidence.

"No." He spoke firmly. "I did my best."

After saying that, his bearing weakened again. His large hands folded together as he asked in confusion, "May I know... exactly what is wrong with the ceremony we arranged?"

"I am looking for the problem." Mors turned to the next page. "I also hope that any problem with this ceremony has nothing to do with you. Better yet, I hope there is no problem at all."

Just as every member of the Lokos royal family, including Harkon, had emphasized, they had treated Peturabo's naming with the utmost solemnity and without the slightest neglect. The records for this ceremony were also the most detailed of any year.

Everything had been documented: the overall setting, food and drink, orchestra, sound effects, entrance arrangements, and more, down to the names of every person assigned to each position and the correspondence between personnel and venue effects. Together, these records filled several thick volumes.

As for the six female officiants presiding over the ceremony, everything from their ages and life histories to family relations and social connections had been recorded without the slightest omission. There were even photographs of their appearances, taken with a camera Peturabo had forcibly created from nothing in recent years, beginning with one link in the industrial chain.

Yes, Peturabo had invented the camera once again, and more than once emphasized to Mors that his camera possessed superior image reproduction and far greater shooting efficiency than Mors's daguerreotype camera.

And Mors had refused his request to return the very first photograph he had taken to the owner of its portrait rights.

He reviewed the files on the six female officiants one by one and still found no issue. The ceremony's procedures—bloodletting, offerings to the gods, and so on—were also largely the same as in previous years.

There were differences, though. Previously, the priestess would use a blade to take blood from the palm of the named person. This time, a silver blade had been presented for Peturabo to do it himself. It was not difficult to guess that this had also been Peturabo's own demand.

"Then let us move on to the penultimate question, Prince Andos. Why were there six officiants in this ceremony?" Mors leaned back slightly and raised the back of his new adjustable wicker chair a little higher.

"The number of people at earlier ceremonies seemed to vary according to some set of rules used by the Church itself... There were seven priestesses for Father, five for my elder brother, and five for me as well. After discussion, following the recommendation... we decided to take the middle number."

Mors closed the volume and lightly tapped the cover bearing the royal crest with his fingertips, making the crest seem as though it were flowing from beneath his black cloth-covered fingers.

"Then I suspect our final two questions are becoming one." Mors realized he had been neglecting to conceal the coldness long ingrained in his speech.

"After you and before Calipha, there is a record of a strange naming ceremony."

"Likewise, there is nothing erroneous or unclear in the account of the entire ceremony, and the identities of the invited guests are all reasonable. Yet one point alone gives rise to endless suspicion."

From the way Andos lowered his gaze, Mors read a conflicted desire to evade the matter.

"Who was named?" Mors asked. "Who is Cruz? Why was his naming ceremony so desolate and pathetic that the only guests were Dameks, Harkon, Andos, the chief priest of a Church branch, and the still-young Calipha?"

"Interestingly, the Church also assigned six priestesses to him."

Andos's face twisted with pain and guilt. The prince grasped the robe over his knees and drew in a deep breath, trying to ease the hesitation that nearly left him unable to speak. "Cruz is the younger brother of Harkon and me, Calipha's third elder brother, Father's disowned son, the shame we cannot speak of."

He turned his face to the side, allowing shadows to cover his pain. "He is insane."

"He is deep within this palace. I visit him sometimes and tell him about things outside..."

"Who proposed having six female officiants?"

"He did." Having voiced the royal secret, Andos no longer seemed so tense.

The prince revealed his melancholy. "He said that perhaps this way, everyone would remember that he existed. I thought... six people would not affect anything."

After speaking, he hesitated again. "Does it really not affect anything? Did we do something wrong?"

Mors smiled and casually reached out to pat Andos on the shoulder.

"It is nothing. If any suitably chosen number can summon laughter as fallen as an infant's first cry, then certain fellows must be far too busy, working without rest all year round."

His smile vanished at once. "I need to see Cruz."