After Sovell discussed the matter with Artoria and Kay, the three decided what they would ask for:
"Once we enter Cornwall City, we'll need a large ship to take us across the sea to France. That is our condition. What do you say?"
"Of course. Thank you for your kindness."
Why had Tristan called the three of them kind?
Because they could have asked Sovell's group for something that did not violate his conditions but was extremely difficult to accomplish, or put him in an awkward position.
Then he might have had no choice but to consult King Mark, burdening his uncle with more trouble simply because he had been unable to resist testing a worthy opponent.
But now, all they wanted was a large ship to cross the sea. Cornwall itself was a major port city, so that would naturally be easy.
Still, if the situation described above had truly come to pass... it would have been terribly sad.
Smiling, Tristan bent down and picked up the "bow" from the ground...
No, calling it a bow was something of an insult to it. And to bows, for that matter.
Only after Tristan lifted the bow in his hands did Sovell and the other two begin examining it closely.
The bow was outrageously long. If stood upright on the ground, it would have been slightly taller than Tristan himself.
Perhaps that was one reason Tristan had chosen to stand on a branch to launch his ambush... no, his test.
Twelve flame-shaped steel blades pierced the two limbs from the inside outward, making it impossible to dismiss its close-combat capabilities.
Though a weapon this strange certainly looked difficult to wield.
Most striking of all were its strings-all six of them!
Sovell recalled the instant he had clashed with Tristan's Wind Arrows. Presumably, the six strands of wind he had felt being deflected earlier had been the work of these six strings.
"Sir Stam... why... do you keep wiping your face?"
Tristan watched Sovell repeatedly wipe his face beside him. The longer he watched, the more unnerving it became, until he could bear it no longer and asked.
"Tsk... it's a long story. When I was rushing over from there earlier, I kept feeling as though I'd run face-first into a whole bunch of cobwebs.
"But it's the dead of winter in England. There's no way spiders would be spinning webs."
"Cob... webs? Oh! Of course, Sir Stam, you're a Wind Attribute practitioner of True Magic, aren't you?"
"A Magus... never mind, that doesn't matter. That's not the point. But does it have anything to do with these cobwebs?"
True Magic and Magecraft might have differed by only one character in Chinese, but in the world of mysteries, their meanings were worlds apart.
There was one fundamental distinction between True Magic and Magecraft.
True Magic was a miracle. Magecraft was not.
If a phenomenon could be achieved given unlimited manpower, money, and time, then it was Magecraft.
True Magic, however, was a genuine miracle, a forbidden realm beyond the reach of the current technological tree.
In short, True Magic was a proper subset of Magecraft.
True Magic was part of Magecraft, but not all Magecraft was True Magic.
Then what exactly was this so-called "forbidden realm beyond the reach of the technological tree"?
For example, bringing down torrential rain beyond what people could withstand, or summoning fierce winds that people could not produce.
Here and now, on Earth, these forms of Magecraft were all True Magic.
Why?
Because the technology people had developed in the fifth century could not achieve those effects.
If techniques for artificial rainfall and artificially generated winds truly emerged in later ages, both would be downgraded to Magecraft.
There was another distinction between True Magic and Magecraft:
True Magic had an indispensable connection to Amala Consciousness-ah, that was to say, the [Root].
But... that condition probably posed little difficulty for practitioners of Magecraft now, or those from even earlier times.
It was not until the first year of the Common Era on the continent that practitioners of Magecraft truly had to actively seek the Root, struggling mightily to do so.
Those in Britain would soon face the same situation, once Britain's Age of Gods faded as well.
Back to the matter at hand.
Sovell wondered what being a Wind Attribute Magus had to do with the strange sensation of cobwebs on his face.
Tristan calmly replied:
"What you ran into probably wasn't cobwebs, Sir Stam, but the strings of Failnaught here in my hands."
"Failnaught... is that the name of your bow?"
"Indeed. She is Failnaught. Failnaught is a bow imbued with magical power, and she also functions as a harp.
"These six strings are made from the intestines of eight-month-old Loaghtan lambs. Magecraft incantations are affixed to them, allowing them to condense air into threads.
"When combat is necessary, playing those threads with Failnaught releases compressed Wind Arrows.
"Presumably, your Wind Attribute Magecraft formed some connection with these threads, Sir Stam, allowing you to come into contact with them. That is why your face felt as though it had brushed against cobwebs.
"One moment. Let me try dispelling the surrounding threads."
Twang~
Taking advantage of the instant Tristan closed his eyes to play, Sovell secretly activated Dragon Eyes.
Through his vision, hundreds of threads stretched taut in the surrounding air, suspended out of nowhere. As Tristan's music rang out, they snapped one after another.
The next moment, the cobweb-like discomfort on his face vanished entirely.
Sovell deactivated Dragon Eyes, and Tristan opened his eyes as well.
In the sunlight, Tristan's eyes shone a brilliant gold. Combined with his handsome face, anyone would have believed it if someone called him a Succubus in human form.
Tristan did not yet know that his threads had not touched Sovell. Rather, Sovell's extremely high magical-power density and Wind Attribute had caused him to resonate with them unconsciously.
"What a beautiful melody. You must be very accomplished at the harp, Sir Tristan."
The blonde girl beside them offered this praise.
Tristan was delighted. For the first time outside the royal palace, someone had acknowledged him for his ability rather than his beauty!
He struggled to suppress his smile as he replied to Artoria:
"Thank you for your kind words, lovely lady.
"Of course, if you would like to hear me play a piece, I would be happy to oblige."
Seeing Artoria so interested, Kay and Sovell naturally had no intention of spoiling her fun, and joined in calling for Tristan to play something.
At the three's enthusiastic invitation, Tristan set his bow upright and began to play.
His fingers gently brushed the bow... ah, no, they were harp strings now.
The strings bent and vibrated beneath the red-haired youth's fingertips.
His slender fingers danced and wove among the six strings.
Every melody born from their vibrations, every verse sung when he opened his mouth.
They seemed to come from another ethereal world, pure, distant, and endearing, possessed of an elegance that seemed to transcend the mortal realm.
Sorrow spilled uncontrollably from the song's lilting notes, yet it did not feel out of place. Against the other, pristine melodies, it sounded all the more mournful and poignant.
Artoria recognized the ballad Tristan was singing:
"It's 'The Lament of the White Doe (Complainte de la blanche biche).'"
"The Lament of the White Doe" was a Celtic ballad recounting the tragic legend of a spirit who was a maiden by day and a white doe by night.
The spirit maiden Margaret turned into a white doe at night and was hunted by the lords. One day, she begged her mother to tell those lords of her misfortune and ask them to spare her.
One of those lords was her uncle, Reynold.
Reynold ignored his sister's pleas. The next day, when the hunting horn sounded for the third time, the maiden Margaret was brought down by the hounds and became the hunters' prize.
The lords ordered a butcher to skin her. Even when he discovered a maiden's features upon the white doe, it made no difference.
Faced with their overwhelming power, he had no choice but to end the maiden's future with his own hands.
And with those same hands, he stripped the maiden of her skin.
The maiden's flesh was roasted, sliced into piece after piece of delicious venison, and served at the lords' table.
Margaret's spirit wept endlessly:
"My head lies upon a platter,
"My heart laments upon a hook.
"My blood spatters the kitchen floor,
"Flowing amid this cruel slaughter.
"My bones burn upon the coals.
"So sorrowful is my fate,
"It fills my soul.
"Such misfortune has befallen me, so grievously..."
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