System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 196
Which mattered more in the end, the continuation of the family bloodline, or the dignity of a noble?
After a long silence, Ignatius chose the former.
Slowly, he knelt before Kolgrim’s white bones, the whiskers at his lips trembling, and bowed his head to the floor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Three times in succession.
From strain, fear, shame, and humiliation, sweat and tears poured from Ignatius’s face, soaking the stone before the remains.
Roy nodded in satisfaction. As a transmigrator, he had never believed nobles stood above other men. If they committed wrong, then let them atone with the very honor they were so proud of.
Watching this, Letho fell briefly into a daze.
At first, he had only intended to give Ignatius a sharp lesson, or else simply kill him and have done with it. In his decades of life, Letho’s hands had been stained with the blood of nobles before.
He had never once considered vengeance taken in another fashion.
Witcher. What a coarse, lowly word, freaks and mutants despised even by peasants, creatures trampled down into the dirt.
And yet today, here and now, in the Kingdom of Temeria, a legally recognized lord had lowered his “noble head” in the most humiliating posture imaginable and kowtowed in apology to a Witcher, a thing his kind scorned.
This kid truly had no notion at all of high and low, of rank and station?
Bald Letho drew a deep breath, calming the slight unrest in himself. The boy’s youthful back, standing there before him, somehow seemed blurred and distant now.
“Well?” Roy looked down at the lord of White Orchard prostrate on the floor, his voice low. “Do we continue?”
Kolgrim’s life could not be paid for with a few knocks of the head.
“First we find the Banshee,” Letho said, shaking his head. “Then we decide Ignatius’s fate.”
...
“That’s enough. Lord Ignatius, I think Kolgrim’s spirit has felt your remorse.”
At those words, Ignatius let out a breath. With the maid’s help he slowly struggled to his feet. His face was gray, his body stooped, as though he had aged ten years in an instant.
“Witchers ... I ... I apologized with all sincerity ... now it is your turn ... to keep your word.”
“Of course. But one matter is separate from another ... This is a contract, and we should speak of payment,” Letho’s voice cut in.
“Masters, rest assured. The reward will satisfy you.”
“To fully uncover the source of the sorcerous mark upon your family, Lord Ignatius, I have some questions.” Roy got straight to it. “That nameless coffin in the innermost chamber of the crypt, what relation did it have to you? Whose child was the infant inside it?”
Ignatius lifted his head and stared at the Witcher in silence.
“My lord, if you truly wish to put an end to the curse on your house, then you must hide nothing. We can assure you that the private matters of the Verrieres family will not leave these walls.”
Ignatius sighed and sank back onto the sofa. “It was my bastard son.”
“A bastard son?” Roy understood at once, then pressed further. “Where is the child’s mother? Since entering this castle, we haven’t seen your wife even once.”
“He had no mother. And I have no wife.” Ignatius’s fingers twitched where they pressed into the sofa.
“My lord...”
“Fine, then. I’ll say it, all of it!” Ignatius suddenly roared out of control.
At once, there came a knock from beyond the door, and Steward Grant’s voice. “My lord, are you all right in there?”
Ignatius snapped impatiently, “Liv, go wait in the outer room. Do not let anyone come near!”
The dazed maid obeyed and left. In the reception chamber there remained only the two Witchers and the baron of White Orchard.
“No one will interrupt us now.” The lord crooked a finger at Roy. “Remember your promise, Witchers. This secret must never leave Fortress Amavet.”
“Rest easy, my lord. Once we deal with your problem, we’ll leave White Orchard at once.”
Ignatius clenched his fists, his face shifting and tightening. He hesitated so long Roy’s patience was beginning to fray. At last he lowered his voice.
“To tell the truth ... the child who died in that difficult birth was not mine. It was my mother Mary’s bastard child.”
Roy’s expression sharpened, then cleared. “That fits. The inscription said Mary died in childbirth. So the child in the nameless coffin was the unfortunate infant.”
“My mother conceived after my father’s death...” Ignatius suddenly raised his head, his eyes cutting over both Witchers, a trace of madness surfacing in his face. “Witchers, do you find that grotesque? Ridiculous?”
“No ... you misunderstand...” Roy and Letho kept their faces calm. “This is a matter of your house. As outsiders, we have no right to judge it ... in the end, what pleases your family is your own affair.”
Old Lady Mary, left alone after her husband’s death, unable to bear the loneliness, had taken a lover and conceived a child.
Roy found nothing particularly shocking in that. Noble households were forever steeped in such disorder. Temeria’s own King Foltest had long since set an even finer example.
But a son in love with another man, a mother taking a lover after widowhood ... was there a single normal soul in Ignatius Verrieres’s family?
Roy had a growing sense that the strange rot within this family could not be separated from the so-called birthmark on the backs of their heads. He needed to dig deeper.
“With Wraiths thick in the Verrieres crypt, how was Lady Mary’s body brought inside and buried?”
“At first there were only one or two. The soldiers in the castle were enough to deal with them. Most of the Wraiths only appeared after my mother’s burial,” Ignatius explained. “And then Kolgrim came. He demanded trial by mutation.”
The Witchers said nothing.
“As for Lady Mary, the father of that stillborn child...” Letho pressed.
“Witchers, please...” Ignatius’s voice turned dry and hoarse. “Do not torture me further with your words.”
“Lord Ignatius...” Roy sighed. “It seems you need time to steady yourself.” Then his tone shifted. “If you are willing, let us see your family records. We’ll look for our own clues.”
...
The bedchamber at the top of the keep.
“With your leave, masters, and let no one else see this.” Ignatius took a parchment-bound family register from a locked chest, weariness plain upon his face. “Forgive me, but I need rest now. Grant, see that the masters are treated well. Indulge whatever requests they make.”
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