8
Looked at another way, the Rite of Imperial Selection was a domestic conflict within the empire—a civil war.
The battle for the throne was a contest of wits, ingenuity, and combat prowess among the members of the royal family, one that turned the entire country into a battlefield; any place within its borders could become the stage for a decisive conflict at any moment. And, of course, civil wars were also times of heightened tension with neighboring countries. It was only natural that some diminishment of national military power was unavoidable given that domestic affairs were in disarray.
It was much like how, decades before, the Kingdom of Lugunica had had to be extremely vigilant against incursions—not least from Volakia—when a major domestic conflict had broken out within its borders. And although that was hardly the only reason, it was one explanation for why the Rite tended to come to a conclusion quickly. The imperial throne couldn’t be allowed to sit empty for years on end. Perhaps that was the practical reason why the Rite generally lasted no more than a year.
The point being…
“I think this will be the outermost extremity of the Rite of Imperial Selection,” Prisca murmured, tapping a red folding fan to her lips as she observed the completed cordon. She was encamped atop a small mountain, protected by the Benedict family’s personal army. They were all dressed in red armor—Prisca’s personal preference—but they were something less than elite troops, lacking in training and untried in battle. But morale, at least, they had in spades.
“I don’t need them to be gifted, I just need them to do what I tell them. Arakiya, you’re there?”
“Mm… Beside you,” Arakiya said, appearing from among the Redmongers at Prisca’s call. She startled the soldiers, who hadn’t noticed her presence at all.
Prisca held up a hand to still the murmuring, then turned and looked at Arakiya. As ever, Arakiya was dressed in minimal clothing, her arms like twigs, but battle-ready. She looked so frail compared with the soldiers in their full armor—but there was a reason she was dressed the way she was. Vincent’s boy swordsman might have ridiculed her for it, but leaving her skin exposed was a way of maximizing her abilities as a spirit eater. According to Arakiya’s own account, lesser spirits prized harmony with nature and thus shunned anything worked by human hands. Hence, her minimal state of dress was a way of attracting those spirits—her food.
It was all so that Arakiya could use her powers to the fullest. If she needed to expose herself to that end, Prisca thought, then let her go naked for all she cared.
“Maybe I’d feel differently if she were ugly…”
“—? What do you mean, Princess?”
“I only mean that you are beautiful. Lovely enough to withstand even my scrutiny.”
“Thank you…I think?” Arakiya tilted her head, somewhat perplexed that her appearance was suddenly the topic of conversation. But Prisca didn’t intend to pursue it further than that. At any rate, this was no time for idle chitchat.
“Reporting, Your Excellency!” said a messenger who rushed up to Prisca. He pushed through the army, his red armor rattling, and knelt before her, offering up a scroll. Arakiya took it, broke the seal, and handed it to Prisca.
Prisca looked it over and grunted, “Hmph. Who gave this to you?”
“Count Belstetz Fondalphon, the strategist of House Godwin!”
“Belstetz… That old fossil.” Prisca considered, recalling the face that went with the name, then closed one eye in contemplation. She didn’t make a habit of remembering the dirt under her feet—which meant the fact that she remembered Belstetz indicated he had some value that made him worth remembering.
Lamia favored venomous strategies. She had a cruel streak and intelligence of her own, but there were more than a few people who had nourished those innate gifts. Belstetz was one of them. If Lamia was a poisonous flower, Belsetz was one of the gardeners who had dutifully watered her and helped her bloom.
“Princess. The letter… What does it say?”
“Nothing important. We’re to act as the rear guard when the assault on the castle begins.”
“Rear guard…”
“In other words, we’re to watch from behind while everyone else does the fighting.”
Arakiya’s face went through a series of expressions as she learned the content of the message. First, her brow was knit in incomprehension; then her eyes went wide; and finally, she puffed out her cheeks in displeasure. “Princess… I think, maybe, they are making fun of us.”
“I’m sure she seeks to humiliate us, yes. That vixen is never above inflicting her little cruelties. But she would never be reckless enough to endanger the victory.”
“What, then?”
“I think she believes she can win without seeking our help. Although, with that army at her command, I can’t say I entirely blame her.” Prisca, seeking to placate the annoyed Arakiya, gestured around them with a thrust of her chin. Arakiya looked in the direction she indicated and spotted a series of banners; several other private armies were encamped around them, just like Prisca’s. A combined force of six of the selection candidates, summoned to the field by Lamia Godwin.
It was not clear whether Lamia had offered the others the same terms she’d offered Prisca or not, but in any case, she had spoken to four of their other siblings and concocted the plan they were now enacting. Namely…
“The encirclement of Vincent Abelks.”
In the distance, ensconced in the forest, was the castle that belonged to the Abelks family. The collective army looked down on it from a ragged cliffside—and Prisca, who was now just one part of the threat to the brother who was most likely the greatest threat to her, smiled.
It was a very logical plan. Vincent was the closest to the throne; if they could get him out of the way promptly, it would be worth joining forces with brothers and sisters they would later have to destroy. Even Prisca found herself obliged to approve of the idea.
Historically, it’d been said that the attacking force in a siege must outnumber the defenders three to one for any hope of prevailing—well, by numbers alone, they had five times Vincent’s forces. No wonder Prisca’s troops were in such high spirits despite their lack of honing. There was no reason for them to feel otherwise; they could see that they held an overwhelming advantage.
As much as Prisca loathed to admit it, Lamia had planned the perfect encirclement. All that was left…
“…is to see just how hard my brother plans to fight now that he’s trapped in the vixen’s hunting ground.”
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