The Empire is a place where everyone wears a hat.
Originally, hats were a privilege reserved for the nobility.
However, the law does not forbid commoners from wearing them for practical purposes such as protection against cold or sunlight.
Imperial law merely stipulates that certain styles of hats may only be worn by those of high status.
Over time, the everyday need of working people and the idea that only the higher classes wore hats came together, so that in the end it was almost as unusual to see someone bareheaded as to see someone walking around half-naked.
Moreover, before the Empire was founded, it was an unspoken rule that slaves were not permitted to wear hats.
Even the poorest commoner, unable to afford a proper hat, would at least wrap a torn piece of cloth around their head.
Slaves, however, were required to remain bareheaded regardless of the cold, and even if they found discarded hats in refuse heaps, they were not allowed to claim them as their own.
It was an era in which no one cared whether a slave froze to death.
After the founding of the Empire, conditions improved somewhat.
A law was established requiring slaves to wear identifiable hats.
Both summer hats for blocking sunlight and winter hats for warmth were made in a dull ash-gray.
As a result, gray hats became the exclusive mark of slaves—anyone wearing one could be identified as such at a glance.
That said, certain slaves—such as elf slaves like Medipl—are treated differently and may wear hats of other colors.
In any case, within the Empire, people do not go outdoors without something on their heads.
Some noble ladies may choose ribbons, tiaras, or decorated headbands instead of hats, but regardless of form, it is rare to see anyone outside completely bareheaded.
Even when a hat is removed outdoors, it is considered proper to keep it secured by a cord around the neck or shoulders, or at least held in one’s hand.
Unless it has just been blown away by the wind—and even then—failing to put something, anything, on one’s head is widely regarded as extremely rude.
For that reason, even someone with a head injury wrapped in bandages would normally still wear something over it.
The mere fact that the opponent Gladeborah had encountered wore no hat at all marked him as profoundly out of place.
As this realization settled in, Gladeborah spoke.
“A most inscrutable foe in many ways.
And given that I had children to protect—enough to force me to raise a barrier—it may well be fortunate that he chose to withdraw.”
“Indeed.
Fighting while protecting an uninitiated girl with magical potential would be difficult enough, and the boy was still alive as well.
If both were to be kept safe, ceasing combat and limiting oneself to containment was the correct decision.”
“Which brings me to a thought—would you consider pursuing him, Sir Ledgetak?
He cannot have gone far.
A Ranger such as yourself would not lose his trail.
My assessment may be mistaken, but if his skill is merely comparable to mine at Tier Four, he would stand no chance against you, a Tier Seven.
If there is to be a pursuit, now would be the time…”
“Tracking him would not be difficult.
I need only have my companion memorize the scent of this place.
Even without a bear’s sense of smell, it can be done days later.
However…”
Sensing the reason for his hesitation, Gladeborah spoke.
“As the huscarl of the viscount, you cannot act freely.”
“Precisely.
Coming here required only a word, but a full pursuit would require my employer’s permission.”
“I understand.
Then—would you take charge of this child?
I must take Rimgaile with me, and it would be difficult at present.”
“Very well.
We will return together to Whitestone.”
He then swept his gaze over the surroundings, as if committing everything to memory, before tying his horse to Rimas’s supply wagon.
He lifted the still-unconscious Rimas onto the driver’s seat, then found a cloak in the wagon and draped it over him.
The boy was still clutching his father’s severed head.
Ledgetak did not wish to force him to let go—but nor could he allow others in the village to see such a sight.
The cloak would at least conceal it.
As he moved to take the driver’s seat, Ledgetak suddenly spoke.
“You examined this child yesterday as well, did you not?”
“I did.
He showed no aptitude for magic.”
“Then it should be possible to test immediately for aptitude as a cleric or a warrior.”
“That is true, but why—?
Ah… surely not.
One cannot determine a warrior’s aptitude merely by lifting a child onto a wagon.”
“Ordinarily, no.
But when one has suffered severe mental and physical shock, it may reveal itself more readily.
I suspected as much when I lifted him earlier—but now I am certain.
This child has the aptitude of a warrior.”
“If you say so, Sir Ledgetak, then it must be so.
“Yes.
With both parents gone, I feared for his future.
But if he has the talent of a warrior, then at least that is one burden lifted.”
Gladeborah nodded, as if reassured.
However, she did not notice that Rimgaile, seated before her, lowered her head slightly and murmured something under her breath.
Gladeborah spoke.
“How do you intend to handle the funeral?”
Ledgetak paused for a moment before replying.
“We should respect the child’s wishes, but I do not think we will proceed with a simple cremation.
Please contact the Necromancers’ Order and ask them to dispatch someone here as soon as possible.
If all goes well, they could reach Whitestone in as little as twelveth day—fourteenth at the latest.
If no one arrives by the morning of the fourteenth day, we will assume they are not coming and proceed with cremation.
Please make that absolutely clear to them.”
“Then I will set the deadline for the afternoon of the thirteenth.
That should encourage them to move a little faster.”
“That would be best.
Please do so.
And—judging by the ice that has yet to melt nearby, I assume you have a Cryomancer subclass.
Is that correct?”
“Yes, I do.
Why do you ask?”
“If we are to conduct the funeral with only the father’s head, we will need to preserve it.
I assume you have already used up your points, given the bauble—but if you happen to have a magic scroll, could you use one?
Or sell it to me?”
“I don’t have any scrolls.
I’ll have to use another spell gem.”
“My apologies for making you use a gem.
I will cover the cost.”
“You are not particularly close to the child either, are you?
Let us set the matter of payment aside for now, and simply do what decency requires.”
“…I understand.
Thank you—truly.
We can settle the cost later, somehow.
For now, please go ahead and use your magic.
We need to preserve the remains… well, a part of them at least—until the itinerant coroner arrives in Whitestone.”
“Understood.
But before that, we will need the boy to let go.”
“I will take care of that.”
“Then I will handle the rest.”
With that, Gladeborah leapt upward from her saddle.
Despite her somewhat full figure, she moved with astonishing agility, springing high into the air and hooking the curved head of her staff onto the side of the wagon.
The staff’s design left a slight gap beneath the cobalt-blue gem, allowing it to function like a hook.
Using the strength of a single arm, she pulled herself smoothly onto the wagon.
Rimgaile watched in awe, both surprised and impressed.
Ledgetak, familiar with the physical capabilities of mages, showed no such reaction.
Without touching the ground, she moved from horse to wagon and slipped behind its covered section.
After a moment of rummaging, she emerged holding a jar.
“There is no permission from the owner, but this will have to do.”
By then, Ledgetak had already managed to lull Rimas into sleep.
He gently placed Skelvis’s head into the jar.
Gladeborah chanted a spell, freezing its contents before sealing the lid.
She then wrapped the jar in layers of cotton and wool she had found within.
“Without this, an ordinary person could suffer frostbite.”
Finally, she wrapped the bundle once more in the cloak Rimas had been wearing.
“This should prevent frostbite.
He can hold it without risk of catching a chill as well.”
“Thank you.
You are thorough.”
“Experience.
One learns through causing harm—and so I take care never to forget.”
“…In any case, thank you.”
“Do not open the lid.
The effect will dissipate.
If it is no longer frozen when the Necromancer arrives, they will be unable to do their work.
Since we do not know when they will arrive, I have set the spell to dispel upon opening.”
“Understood.”
With that, they exchanged farewells and went their separate ways.
Rimgaile rode back with Gladeborah and, before parting, offered Ledgetak a final goodbye.
<<Interlude: Rimgaile>> Imperial Year 1215, September 9
“Will Rimas be all right?”
Rimgaile was riding ahead, so she could not see Gladeborah’s face, but Gladeborah replied with a smile.
“Are you worried?
Of course you are.
But no one who has lost their father could truly be all right.
All we can do is hope he gets through it and keeps moving forward.
At least, fortunately, that boy—Rimas—has a natural talent for the warrior’s path, so that’s one less thing to worry about.
More importantly, there’s something else we need to take care of.”
“What is it?”
“I came to this region partly to travel from village to village, looking for children with magical talent.
But more often, I’m here to repair or replace milestones that have developed problems.
This time is no different.
I was told that one of the stones between Whitestone and Tofsloin was acting up, so I came to deal with that—and while I was at it, to check on the children in the nearby villages.”
“I see.
Then what’s worrying you?”
“I’ve used up all my magic.”
“Then… you can’t use magic right now?”
“You will learn this soon enough, so you may as well understand it now.
A mage casts spells using mental ability, and the total amount one can use is measured in points.
These are called Spell Points.
Each spell requires a certain number of points to cast, and some spells can be strengthened by investing additional points.
I currently have a total of ten Spell Points.
But during the fight with that white one, I used more than that.”
“More than that?”
“Expended points recover at a rate of one point per hour.
In about five minutes, I will have regained a single point—but for now, I have none.
Even then, I will only be able to cast spells that require one point.
There is no way to recover Spell Points other than waiting for time to pass.”
“Then what do you do if an enemy appears when you’ve used them all?”
“I rely on a wand, spell gems, or magic scrolls.
Do you remember the dulled gem I showed Sir Ledgetak earlier?”
“Yes, I remember.
You called it a bauble.”
“Correct.
A ‘bauble’ is what we call a gem after the magic stored within it has been used.
Mages often store spells in gems in advance.
The spells I used after my Spell Points were depleted in that fight all came from such gems.
The spell that froze Rimas’s father’s head came from one as well.”
“Then that means you have to buy gems regularly and store magic in them beforehand.”
“Exactly.
For a mage, gems are not mere ornaments as they are for ordinary people.
Aside from magic scrolls, there are very few items that allow you to store spells in advance for later use.
If you become a mage, you will find that the greatest portion of your expenses goes toward gems.
Turn around and look at me.”
As she said this, Gladeborah glanced around once before suddenly loosening her outer garment and letting it fall open.
Fortunately, there was no one nearby, and since Rimgaile was also a woman, nothing inappropriate came of it—though her undergarments were plainly visible.
“Oh!
What are you doing?”
“Don’t look anywhere strange—look at my waist.”
When Rimgaile did as told, she saw that beneath Gladeborah’s clothing was a thick leather belt strapped around her torso.
Set into it were thirty gems, arranged neatly in a six-by-five grid.