Chapter 9

***

“There cannot be two suns in the same sky,” Count Liesel said as he massaged his temples. He looked exhausted.

Marquess Ermengart nodded silently in agreement. Indeed, there is no space for two suns.

Unfortunately, the sky seemed to be full of suns lately. One man was acting like a heavenly body that he was not, and to make matters worse, another had just appeared, sent by the heavens.

“I thought the Temple would be furious, but they’ve been quiet following the initial ruckus. I wonder what the duke is thinking,” Count Liesel said as he tipped his silver glass back and took a swig of wine.

Pale sunlight seeped through the curtains. The marquess stared at the light as it illuminated the red wine in his glass. His friend, Count Liesel, often enjoyed partaking in wine when they met for a conversation.

“Has the pope’s faction tried to contact you at all?” the count asked.

“No. There’s been no word. I’m rather surprised that they haven’t tried to make contact with the saint after her dramatic entrance.”

“Hmph. As you know, His Majesty is none too pleased with recent events. The Temple should be begging for their saint and offering something for her, but even now, they’re keeping mum. I doubt she’ll be of any use to His Highness.”

Marquess Ermengart felt drained, having had very little sleep. The king was being as problematic as ever, and his quiet disdain for the Temple had given way to a strange standoff since the saint’s appearance.

Duke Tygernan, who had once announced that he was on his way, had also apparently decided to stay within the Papal Territory. The marquess had to wonder why. While the duke had always been a mysterious man, this most recent decision was simply baffling. Is he acting on the pope’s orders, or is this his own will?

“I understand why His Majesty hates the Temple,” Count Liesel continued, “but at this rate, his predecessor’s misfortunes will—”

“That’s enough,” the marquess interrupted. His friend was not wrong, however. If the king continued to antagonize the Temple so openly, history would repeat itself.

The past incident was still talked about by many, albeit in whispers. The Temple, having gone over a hundred years without an Agent of the Goddess, had become corrupt. Duke Tygernan’s political maneuvering had exacerbated that corruption, making them drunk with power.

The duke turned a blind eye to all of it, his actions only encouraging the priests to burrow deeper into their sinfulness. While the pop had the authority to deliver justice within the Temple, he also chose to let their corrupted influence grow.

The Temple’s power began to threaten the king. Pope Lindo, who was unanimously chosen by the priests, hoped to bring the monarch to his knees. Under Lindo’s reign, Duke Tygernan’s power reached its peak. The ensuing clash between the king and the pope was inevitable, but everyone was shocked at the unexpected outcome—the king’s defeat.

During the conflict, the former king banished the palace’s high priests and ordered an investigation to uncover corruption in the capital’s temples. Much of the Temple’s property and wealth was confiscated. The king also required them to pay taxes and banned them from instating their own officials.

It was a calculated attack. The pope had only recently been elected, and the king did not expect him to fight back. The king also knew that the people were suffering from the Temple’s corruption. He was confident the pope, lacking public support, would have no choice but to comply.

King Asthorga was certain of his victory. But Pope Lindo defied all expectations when he announced that the king was a follower of the Malum. At the same time, natural disasters broke out across the kingdom. Flood, drought, earthquakes, and plagues ravaged the land.

The Temple did nothing as the kingdom descended into chaos. For some reason, the Papal Territory, where Pope Lindo resided, remained unaffected by the disasters. The people became convinced that the holy city was protected by a subdued, divine light.

When the kingdom’s capital came under threat, the pope finally sent his priests to help the common folk. Public opinion turned overnight as the pope’s harshest critics became his newest followers. Rumors that King Asthorga was cursed began to spread, and there were calls for Duke Tygernan, the king’s half-brother and the pope’s closest advisor, to take the throne.

The king endured it all, doing everything in his power to protect his position. But once the rumors began to affect his son and the royal succession, he was left with only one option.

Marquess Ermengart remembered it vividly. No one in the kingdom could forget.

It was a cold winter’s day. The metal of their armor was ice-cold against their skin. The marquess, as a guard and a friend of the prince—the current king—was there to witness King Asthorga’s hour of humiliation.

The king, the sun, bent his knee. The Temple’s power was immense, but it was still unthinkable for the monarch of the Holy Kingdom to kneel before it.

The marquess and his father had to hold back tears of devastation as the king knelt on the snowy ground in front of the Great Temple and asked for the pope’s forgiveness. He scraped his head on the temple steps, and blood trickled from his forehead as his crown tumbled down the stairs. The prince stood by and watched, holding back his own tears.

The marquess remembered the scene as if it were yesterday. Stripped of his royal authority, the king was nothing but a weak old man. The face of the young cardinal watching him was chilling. That man was the king’s half-brother and the prince’s uncle, Duke Tygernan.

With a strange smile, the duke had invited the kneeling king into the temple. Nobody knew what happened inside. All they knew was that the pope later announced the king to be free of evil.

Despite being the late king’s half-brother, Cezare Tygernan was much younger, not much older than the prince. He had joined the Temple after renouncing his right to the throne, so everything that had transpired since then was a shock to most.

Nobody outside the temple caught a glimpse of the pope, even after the king had emerged. Before leaving, the king bowed to the half-brother he had despised and toward the temple, to the pope who had never shown himself.

For both the king and his son, the incident was humiliating beyond imagination. It was so horrid that no one dared even record it in the history books. Funnily enough, the disasters stopped once the king was pardoned, but the king had fallen so ill that he went mad. After destroying everything in the palace that paid tribute to the Goddess, he passed away.

King Asthorga, who was once as gentle as a serene lake, had unleashed his rage against the Temple that had brought him to his knees. He had failed to best the burning humiliation within him. The late king and his son had one last conversation before his death, but no one else knew what they had spoken about.

“There cannot be two suns in the same sky, hmm?” the marquess mused. Perhaps the suns were the king and the pope, or the pope and the saint. Indeed, the arrival of the saint was not welcomed by either the throne or the Temple. The Agent of the Goddess could not be held at the same level as the Messenger of God, after all.

The pope, however, had been silent. The marquess wondered if this was a tactic to diminish the saint, going as far as to reject her.

However, this did not seem to be the case based on the actions of the priests who visited the capital. They seemed to have recognized Violet as a saint from the very beginning. Indeed, with her silver hair, blue eyes, and the stigma on her forehead, she looked just as the records in the history books described. Nobody could fake those things. She was undeniably the new saint.

“Yes, there can only be one sun. And the saint can never be independent from the Temple, which has His Majesty rightfully worried beyond belief. But we’ve done well so far,” the count commented.

“Right. Her Holiness cannot leave.”

The first thing the current king did after ascending to the throne was show his support to the kingdom’s theologians and physicians, hoping to chip away at the Temple’s power. The theologians had made faith into an academic subject, while doctors had begun to replace the need for divine power with science.

But a union between the pope and the saint only served to damage what progress the king had made. The new saint had all the power to undo the plans he had been long concocting and implementing. Fundamentally, the king’s position was at odds with the saint’s.

As the king couldn’t make Violet an ally, he couldn’t use her effectively. Instead, he decided to make sure she did not come into the public eye by claiming that she needed an education. He hoped to keep her at the marquess’s estate for as long as possible.

“Father!” The door suddenly swung open, bathing the dark room in the hallway’s light. A young red-headed girl jumped into Count Liesel’s arms.

“Aww, my Sisi,” the count cooed.

The marquess’s expression shifted. He still wasn’t used to the way the count’s entire countenance changed whenever the man saw his daughter. It was something he had never experienced himself.

“Your beard, Daddy! It’s all prickly!” the little girl said, pushing the count’s face away as he rubbed it against hers with a smile.

The marquess frowned as the little girl hit her father with such insolence. For some reason, however, he could not look away.

Despite his daughter’s disapproval, the count tried his best to kiss her on her cheeks.

“Stop it, Daddy!” the little girl whined.

The count then put her down, clearly disappointed. Finally noticing the marquess, she bowed adorably. For a moment, the marquess imagined the girl at his manor doing the same.

“It’s been a while, Sisuella,” Marquess Ermengart said as he stroked the girl’s head, causing her to smile. The marquess was reminded of how Violet flinched when he laid his hand on her head in the same way. He closed his eyes, feeling conflicted.

“How much longer, Daddy? I’m so hungry!”

“Why don’t we have some dessert after the marquess leaves? I’ll tell the chef to prepare some crepes,” the count replied.

“Really?”

“Yes, but you have to keep it a secret from Mommy.”

“Okay. I love you, Daddy!” Sisi pecked the count’s cheeks. The man accepted her affection with a goofy expression.

The marquess always felt uncomfortable seeing his colleague this way. It was hard to believe that the count was the prime minister when he acted like this. The man was truly a mystery.

“By the way, that little storm staying at your place… Is she doing well?” the count asked as he picked up his daughter again.

The marquess frowned. His friend was looking at him loftily as if to ask, “Are you jealous? I bet you’d die for a piece of this affection, wouldn’t you?” He wondered if he should pick up his sword from where he had placed it on the table.

“I was hoping to know if she enjoyed the custard cream bread I sent over,” the count continued.

“She threw it up.”

“What? What little girl hates cream bread? What a picky child.”

“Or perhaps you have poor taste…” the marquess snapped with a rare frown.

The little red-headed girl’s curious eyes darted between the two men.

“Little girls are sensitive,” Count Liesel stated. “You must treat her like a porcelain doll if you don’t want her to break. It doesn’t matter whether she’s a commoner or a royal.”

The marquess leaned back without a word.

“Tsk, I can’t imagine how tough it must be for Her Holiness, surrounded by those Ermengart boys. Don’t you agree, Sisi?” the count asked his daughter.

“Her Holiness is there?” the little girl asked.

“Yes, my darling.”

“I’d like to meet her. What’s she like?”

“She’s a commoner, so you might not get along.”

“No. Her Holiness has to be noble! What’s wrong with being a commoner?” the little girl asked innocently.

The count pecked her cheeks with great affection, but Sisi pushed him away again, complaining about his beard. The count made a show of pouting in response.

The marquess wondered if he should strike some sense into his colleague, but his thoughts drifted to the little storm residing in his house. “Sisuella, what do little girls like yourself like?” he asked.

Sisuella blinked adorably. “Pretty dresses and cute dolls!”

The marquess hesitated. Now that he thought about it, it was obvious that little girls enjoyed things like dresses and dolls. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself. He recalled how his little sister had liked such things as a child.

He became so lost in his thoughts that he did not realize that Count Liesel was quietly laughing at his stunned expression.

That day, the marquess ordered the butler to purchase dresses. Bread and cream were useless.

He thought bitterly about how his wife would have known what to do had she been alive.

“If only we’d had a daughter. I’m sure you’d soften up.”

He recalled what his wife had said as she held their youngest son, the baby Aiden. While other families were desperate for boys, she had hoped their youngest would be a girl. She had always said that a girl would liven up the rather rigid household. The marquess wondered if the stoic Ethelmund, the often lonely Daniel, and Aiden, the little troublemaker, would have been happier if they had a sister.

His wife, who wished so desperately for a daughter, had passed away five years before. If the angelic woman had been alive, she could have taken care of the wounded little girl she had always wished for.

The marquess suddenly wondered why he cared so much about the girl. He could follow the king’s wishes and keep her hidden away, but no matter how well he did so, she would come into the public eye one day. Was that why he wanted to win over her heart?

In a way, he had taken in a lowborn girl and provided her with a quality education and all the privileges of a noble. Everything he’d given her was an enormous gift. Considering this, the marquess finally concluded that he was doing it for his wife’s sake.

At that time, he had just hoped that Viscountess Iskinder was doing her job properly. He never could have imagined what the dress he’d bought on Sisuella’s advice would bring to light.

***

“Can you explain your actions, Viscountess Iskinder?” the marquess asked.

The woman was very pale when she entered his office. “I-I do not know what you’re talking about,” she replied.

“The maid confessed everything,” the marquess said curtly.

His calm voice seemed to have given the viscountess some false hope. She stated boldly, “I just disciplined her. I tried to tell you how much work it is. A slow, lowborn girl like that needs some physical reinforcement!”

The marquess just looked at her with his deep blue eyes, prompting her to continue.

“It’s egregious! The audacity to wear such a dress when she can’t even act as a noblewoman… I understand you sent her the clothes with good intentions, but how dare she wear them before she even realizes her place—”

“Did you just say ‘her place?’” the marquess said, cutting her off.

The viscountess suddenly realized why this man, the head of a great house comparable to Duke Tygernan, was referred to as the King’s Sword. He had not stayed silent because he agreed with her. He was merely trying to hold back his discontent.

“Your Lordship!” the woman cried, trembling.

“You’re aware that you’re insulting Her Holiness, Viscountess. If the pope or the duke were to find out, your family might never see you again. But I’m going to keep silent about this.”

The viscountess realized she had been rash. According to the records, the saint was the Goddess incarnate. Viscountess Iskinder just couldn’t believe that such a lowly girl lacking any divine grace or presence could be the saint. She also couldn’t stand how a commoner girl had so many things handed to her when her own daughter was mocked for not having the money to buy new clothes.

The viscountess was sure many other nobles felt the same. It had been more than a hundred years since the last saint disappeared, and the saint’s reputation and position in society had diminished over time. Most people in the present hardly knew what her role was.

But the marquess’s words reminded the woman that the little girl she had been coaching was indeed the saint, a figure who was capable of influencing the pope at her discretion. She’s in the marquess’s care now, but what will happen when she goes to the Temple as an adult?

“Th-thank you very much,” the viscountess replied, her voice trembling.

The marquess stood up and turned to look out the window. “But that matters not here. Her Holiness is now a member of the House of Ermengart,” he said. “I will not forget what you did to my daughter.”

As the marquess had turned his back to her, the viscountess could no longer see his face. But she did not dare imagine what kind of expression he wore as he looked out the window. She wanted to punish herself for her arrogance, having underestimated the marquess as a quiet, unassuming man.

His daughter. Indeed, on paper, the saint was the marquess’s daughter. However, Viscountess Iskinder had not imagined that the man would accept it as reality so easily. How can he so readily accept a girl from Flower Street? she thought.

The marquess did not relent. When the viscountess tried to defend herself again, he sent her away. As she left, she worried what her husband would think. Her mind wavered at the thought of telling him that their family were now enemies of House Ermengart.

Once the viscountess left, the marquess sighed, then wrote to Count Liesel. He knew, though he hated to admit it, that the count was the only person he trusted. Count Liesel would surely lecture him after he’d read the letter, but perhaps the marquess could benefit from such a lecture this time.

He paced the hallways, thinking, and eventually saw a silver-haired girl walking toward him. Accompanying her was Anne, the butler’s daughter. Anne, who had grown up with Ethelmund, was one of the most trustworthy of the maids.

The marquess had been worried that Violet wasn’t leaving her room, but it seemed that she was now getting out and about with Anne. He decided that he should try to comfort her, knowing she must have suffered greatly because of the viscountess.

“Your Holiness,” he called out. But just as he was considering how best to start a conversation with a little girl, as unfamiliar as he was with them, Violet scowled. The marquess thought she was frowning, when in reality, she was merely frightened.

Violet pressed her lips together and looked at him as if she never wanted to see him again—that was how it seemed to him, at least. Then she ran away.

“My lady!” Anne called as she chased after her.

The marquess sighed and looked around. He had a feeling he knew what was going on. Aiden had come to him the night before and told him about Violet’s uncontrollable crying, then pleaded with him to reinstate Fynn. But the marquess had coldly rejected the request. This was likely why Violet was mad at him.

Well, at least her legs are well enough to run like that. Regardless, the marquess couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Perhaps she wouldn’t believe him even if he told her the truth—that the viscountess had been bribing Fynn to keep her mouth shut.

Suddenly, Count Liesel’s innocent daughter came to mind. It seems I’ll need a lot more of her help.