A Talented Maid

Chapter 6

“You may go.”

Count Gilbert, Head of Imperial Affairs, bowed at the waist like the sycophant he was and left.

“Leech,” the prince spat the moment Gilbert had gone. He could see right through the man, who had clearly launched a garden renovation to win himself favors. He was a prototypical lackey who only had power in his sights, rather than responsibility and duty.

I ought to get rid of him at the earliest opportunity.

“Anything else on my schedule today?” the prince asked his guard, Viscount Armond, who was standing in silence behind him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.”

The prince took off the iron mask obscuring his face and set it down on the desk.

Beneath the mask, it turned out, his face was singularly handsome. Viscount Armond stole a glance at his sovereign’s face—so unexpectedly beautiful one could hardly imagine anyone would wish to conceal it—with lines so soft it would far surpass the exquisite beauty of any gorgeous woman’s face, and could even be called angelic.

But the blue eyes were icy, as befitting his moniker, the Iron Blood Monarch. They were piercing enough to cut with a mere glance.

“I’m more tired than usual today.”

“Are you unwell, sir?”

“No,” the prince shook his head. He was fine; just tired. He sat with his eyes shut for a moment, then got up as though he’d thought of something.

“Your Highness?”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Now, sir? It’s raining quite heavily.”

“It’s fine. Bring me my raincoat and umbrella.”

Armond decided not to make another attempt to dissuade the prince; going for walks incognito without his mask on was his one pleasure and rest.

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I’d rather go alone. I have some place I’d like to visit—alone.”

“Where, sir?”

The prince answered as he put on his raincoat: “To see Mother.”

***

Prince Rhaël headed to the Rose Palace, where his mother the Third Empress had resided before she’d passed away.

It has been a while, he thought to himself.

The grave of the Third Empress was in one of the palace’s gardens. Having died in dishonor due to an unjust accusation, she was not interred in the Imperial Cemetery, where members of the imperial family were buried.

The Rose Palace had been neglected these ten years since her death. The only ones who would come by were the prince and his younger sister the Seventh Princess. But now Prince Rhaël alone visited his mother, since the Seventh Princess had been poisoned to death.

And always in secret, the prince thought. It was none other than the former emperor who had framed the Third Empress. No one believed she had committed the crime, but she had to accept her death—the emperor had spoken.

Ridiculous, the prince’s lips curled into a cold sneer. It was indeed ridiculous, not just about his mother, but his entire life to date.

He was still contemplating his life when he entered the Rose Palace grounds and he heard something unexpected through the rain.

What’s this?

Clang! Clang! Clang!

It was the sound of a hammer hitting a chisel.

Is someone sculpting? In this rain?

Rhaël clicked his tongue. He could not imagine how Count Gilbert must have frightened the sculptor that he was working at this hour in this weather.

I ought to tell him to retire for the day, the prince thought as he went toward the sound.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Soon the prince was close enough to see the face that the sculptor was chiseling. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Ah... Prince Rhaël swallowed a moan.

What... How...?

The sculpture was not finished. The chisel was still carving out the face, but the prince found himself biting his lip nonetheless.

“Mother,” he murmured to himself. The name he’d buried deep in his heart as he trudged through a path of blood.

Within that mass of stone was his mother, a woman of perpetual sorrow but a loving mother to Prince Rhaël. She had soldiered on through her tragic life for her son and her son alone, and took her dying breath with her eyes fixed on him. He had been everything to her.

“Rhaël, Rhaël, don’t be afraid. Mommy’s here.”

In the far recesses of his memory, he could almost hear her voice. The gentle smile of the statue seemed to be for him alone.

So silly, chided the Bloody Prince of himself, as he choked back tears. He gazed at the sculptor, who was still engrossed in his work.

Who is this? Do I know this sculptor?

With a heavy hood up and his back to the prince, the sculptor revealed nothing about himself except that he was a very small, thin person. Prince Rhaël wished to speak to him, but thought better of it.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

There was something sacred about the way he was working. Sculpting did not seem to be a simple act of carving stone, but of inviolate worship.

I mustn’t disturb him, the prince thought as he turned on his heel.

He made a mental note to summon the sculptor the next day, and bestow riches upon him for allowing him to feel his mother’s presence again.

I shall summon him to the palace first thing tomorrow morning.

***

The curtain dawned on the next morning. The rain had stopped just before the sun rose. The gardeners and Hans returned to the garden and were shocked beyond belief when they saw the statue.

“How could this be?”

The face of the statue was finished!

“How...” Hans gazed at the statue, bewildered.

He could not believe his eyes; the statue wasn’t just finished, but was imbued with untold depth—breathtaking on the outside, soulful on the inside. The gentle smile on the lips seemed almost alive.

How could such a sculpture exist?

Even Hans, the greatest sculptor of the imperial court, could not achieve this level of mastery.

Truly a masterpiece unlike any other.

He looked and looked but could not believe his eyes. Who had come by and sculpted this in the night?

Who?

“Achoo!”

Just then, someone sneezed near Hans.

It was Marie. She must have caught a cold, as her cheeks were red and her nose runny.

“Marie, do you have a cold?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Oh, no. You should have stayed out of the rain.”

“Hans, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“The sculpture... is that okay? I don’t have an eye for art.” Hans was surprised by her cautious tone, almost as if she’d sculpted it herself and was asking for feedback.

“It’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Best, sir?”

“Yes. The statue contains everything that can be contained in stone. Not just in its shape, but the soul that a piece of art can hold. I am certain I can’t even imitate that level of mastery.”

“So... the prince will not punish anyone?”

“Of course, not. This is a great sculpture by any standard. No one will be punished.”

Someone will be rewarded, if anything, Hans thought. But who did this? Did an angel come by in the night?

In fact, Hans had prayed the night before for a miracle, any miracle. But he never imagined that the heavens would really send down an angel.

Marie, cheeks red with fever, grinned at Hans.

“I’m so glad.”

Just then, the sound of marching boots approached them. They turned around in surprise and saw imperial knights bearing the eagle crest coming toward them.

“I am Viscount Armond, Imperial Guard to the Crown Prince.”

All present tensed up at their sudden appearance. What were the imperial guards doing at a garden renovation?

“Which one of you is the sculptor?”

“I am the supervisor here, sir. I am also the sculptor,” Hans volunteered, timidly raising his hand.

“His Imperial Highness Prince Rhaël has asked for you. Please come with me,” the knight pronounced.

***

Hans was terrified as he followed the knight to see the prince.

Wh-what does he want with me?

Unaware of the fact that the prince had been by to see the sculpture, Hans was left to imagine the worst. Prince Rhaël was a fearsome character to most, who knew him for the copious blood he’d spilled on his way to power.

I heard he bathes with the blood of virgins every night. And eats human flesh. And enjoys torture.

The sculptor recalled rumors he had heard about the prince.

He isn't going to torture me and eat my flesh, is he?

Hans began to tremble. Viscount Armond saw that Hans had fallen behind, and urged, “Keep up.”

“Sir, is the prince going to kill me today?”

“What?”

“Please, sir! Please spare my life! I have a horrid wife and a darling daughter back home who rely on me—”

“What are you talking about?” Armond was baffled. “Get a grip and keep up. The prince is waiting for you.”

So Hans followed, half out of his wits from fear, which reached a critical point the moment he entered the Lion Palace and came face-to-face with the infamous iron mask.

The Bloody Mask! This had to be the mask that was wet with blood all through the civil war. Hans hiccupped to think that the next spatter of blood to wet that mask might be his.

But the words out of the prince’s mouth astonished Hans:

“You have done well. I have asked you here to reward you.”

“Please, Your Imperial Highness, spare my—huh?”

Hans’s jaw dropped mid-grovel. The prince frowned slightly at Armond.

“Spare your life? There must be a mistake. Armond, I told you to escort him here with utmost respect.”

“But I did, sir.”

“Never mind. Did you say your name was Hans?”

Hans quickly bowed and cried, “Yes, sir! Your most humble servant at your service, sir.”

“All right. As I have said, I called you here to reward you.”

Hans didn’t know where to look anymore. He was glad he wasn’t about to be executed, but what was he being rewarded for? Why?

“I saw your sculpture last night,” the prince said, clearing things up for the confused sculptor. “It was magnificent.”

Hans was astounded.

The prince continued, “I have never seen anything so remarkable in my life. Is there anything you wish for? I would like to give you anything you ask for, within reason.”

Hans stood in stunned silence.

The prince, after a few seconds’ wait, said, “What is it? Don’t be shy. You may ask for anything you wish.”

“It wasn’t me, sir.”