Chapter 27

“This is an aphrodisiac.”

“Yes. The proportions may vary slightly from one apothecary to another, but the primary ingredients are almost identical.” Mailot’s discomfort deepened as he lowered his voice further. “According to them, it leaves no lasting aftereffects and begins working almost immediately after consumption. The sensation is supposedly overwhelming. Ecstatic, even. Enough to make someone promise marriage to a one-night stand, though they would probably regret it the following morning.”

“What a degenerate age.”

Lucien made no effort to conceal his disgust. Whatever his reputation might suggest, he was considerably more fastidious than he appeared.

“What, exactly, is the captain of the capital guard doing while a drug like this circulates freely?”

“Well, it doesn’t kill anyone, and it doesn’t usually cause violent incidents when consumed…”

Mailot’s voice faltered. He had not intended the remark as criticism, but the instant the words left his mouth, they sounded dangerously close to a rebuke. He began watching Lucien with visible unease.

Lucien did not appear to notice.

“So this is what they originally intended to make me drink?”

“Yes. Bastian does have a history of driving Arabella’s husband away through that sordid sex scandal, doesn’t he? That is where most of our suspicion currently falls.” Mailot gave a slight shrug. “In any case, I believe the order placed with the mage may have been for this drug as well. The residents of Osterbeek apparently regarded him as something of an apothecary. The problem is that the mage…”

“Tried to make a real love potion.”

Mailot grimaced. “Though he failed completely.”

More importantly, the mage had not even seemed aware that an aphrodisiac could be sold under the name of a love potion.

The thought came naturally to Mailot.

To think someone would order a potion like that from a man who looks like a complete dimwit at first glance…

He quickly changed the subject.

“Speaking of the mage…” Mailot watched with growing curiosity as a subtle but unmistakable tension sharpened Lucien’s blue-gray eyes. “Why don’t we send him home?”

Lucien stopped so abruptly that the soles of his boots scraped against the floor.

Mailot, following half a step behind, nearly collided with him. He halted awkwardly as Lucien turned and fixed him with a piercing stare.

Mailot flinched, drawing his shoulders inward.

Why…?

Why is he looking at me like that…?

He had not thought the suggestion particularly offensive. While a thousand possibilities raced through his mind, Lucien’s keen gaze traveled slowly over him.

“Is it your turn this time?”

Mailot blinked. “My turn? What do you mean?”

“Everyone seems to take turns siding with…” Lucien’s expression tightened as though he were about to give voice to his irritation, but he stopped himself and waved one hand dismissively. “No. Forget it.”

With his long stride and brisk pace, he abandoned Mailot and resumed walking.

What did he just say?

Mailot had failed to catch the muttered words. He hurried after him.

“No, listen. The mage is quite docile and cooperative, so…”

Docile?

Lucien clicked his tongue inwardly and ignored him.

The treatment had continued day after day. The mage had offered a lengthy explanation of its principles, but either he was dreadful at explaining himself or the subject belonged to a realm fundamentally beyond human understanding. In either case, very little of it had remained in Lucien’s mind.

Lucien was not the sort of man to brood over something that refused to make sense. Rather than demanding explanation after explanation until he understood, he had chosen the more practical course and allowed the mage to proceed.

The treatment sessions were not especially long. The method, however, left much to be desired.

First, the mage instructed Lucien to sit in a plush armchair. He then demanded that Lucien roll his sleeve up to the elbow, which required removing his fitted outer tunic and enduring the procedure dressed in nothing but a thin, loose undershirt.

To an Izeland aristocrat, appearing in such a state was profoundly indecent. Wearing only an undershirt was conceptually little different from standing entirely naked, particularly in broad daylight.

The mage, however, seemed utterly indifferent to Lucien’s state of undress. He neither flushed nor showed the slightest embarrassment. He merely took hold of the bare arm exposed beneath the rolled sleeve and kneaded it with both hands, working steadily back and forth.

“The blood flows in this direction here… Magic does not necessarily travel through the veins in the same way blood does, but the body still treats them as an intuitive pathway. I’m guiding the mana along that route…”

The mage rambled through his explanations, but from the patient’s perspective, there was no reliable way to know whether this truly qualified as magical treatment or something else entirely. Lucien occasionally felt a prickling sensation wherever their skin touched, though it seemed equally possible that the mage’s hands were simply cold.

At first, Lucien had suspected the man was using the supposed treatment as an excuse to indulge his own desires.

Hadn’t the mage claimed that he “liked” him?

That suspicion did not survive for long. Throughout every session, the mage remained cautious, grave, and utterly absorbed in the task of kneading Lucien’s arm. His gaze stayed lowered, and he seldom spoke unless explaining some aspect of the procedure.

Bored with watching him work, Lucien had once attempted to begin a conversation. The effort merely revealed that the mage possessed no capacity for multitasking. Whenever Lucien spoke, the man faltered and lost his concentration, becoming incapable of managing either the conversation or the treatment properly.

In the end, Lucien’s patience had boiled over, and he had been the one forced to abandon the attempt.

Throughout the entire procedure, he had found no trace of the mage’s supposed affection.

The matter lodged like a thorn in a corner of his temper.

After all, did Lucien not need to exploit that affection if he meant to twist the mage to his own purposes? According to Mailot’s account, the people of that rural backwater had regarded the man as a pharmacist, which implied that he had acted as their mage as well.

Did he treat people like this back there, too? Did he knead their arms and strip men down to their undershirts without the slightest change in expression?

The man certainly looked far too accustomed to it.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed.

“Your Highness?”

Mailot’s voice shattered his train of thought.

Lucien looked over.

“I don’t know what you were thinking just now,” Mailot said carefully, “but allow me to clarify one thing first. Sending the mage home was not my idea. Eydric suggested it.”

“Eydric?” Lucien’s brow furrowed. “Why would he, of all people…?”

“Isn’t Eydric currently responsible for watching the mage? He says the man has been unable to sleep because he is worried about his geese. Apparently, seeing him in that state left Eydric feeling uneasy.” Mailot paused, testing the atmosphere before adding, “He has always had a soft spot for the elderly and the weak.”

The explanation failed to improve Lucien’s mood.

His frown deepened. “Have they all lost their minds? Where, exactly, is this ‘weak’ person everyone keeps talking about?”

Did they mean to call the mage weak? A mage who could subdue hundreds of soldiers single-handedly without apparent effort?

Faced with Lucien’s incredulous response, Mailot averted his gaze and shifted to another subject.

“That may be true, of course. Still, there is something else troubling me. The blacksmith’s daughter, the woman who supposedly commissioned the love potion.”

Her existence was among the pieces of information the mage had surrendered readily. They had yet to secure her, however, despite the likelihood that she possessed the most important clue in the entire affair.

“We are still searching,” Mailot continued, “but her whereabouts remain unknown. Rumor claims she eloped with a man, though we cannot even confirm that much.”

A moment passed before Lucien responded. “And?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“What does that have to do with sending the mage home?”

“The timing of her disappearance nearly coincides with the day we took the mage into custody. The two events appear connected. I thought that if we returned him, she might be the first person to make contact.”

“What absurd nonsense.”

Lucien flicked one hand dismissively as his irritation rose.

“Because none of you can track down a single woman, you intend to use our most important hostage as bait?”

Mailot fell silent.

“This is hardly your first or second time handling something like this, Mailot.”

Besides, locating the woman was neither urgent nor especially important. It would be useful to identify whoever had orchestrated the magic potion affair, certainly, but the mage was already managing the detoxification. If Lucien’s health returned to normal, allowing the mastermind to disappear into obscurity would not be the worst possible outcome.

More importantly, Lucien was already occupied beyond reason. There were his half-brothers, the King, the nobles, military affairs, financial problems, and countless other concerns demanding his attention.

He had far greater reason to worry about what sort of trouble the mage might cause if left unattended. Sending him anywhere was therefore out of the question.

Lucien swallowed the curse rising in his throat. Before he could dismiss the matter completely, however, something caught at the edge of his thoughts. He had reached the final landing leading toward his office. There, his pace slowed before stopping altogether.

When he looked back, his blue-gray eyes had regained their piercing sharpness. Mailot flinched, wondering what new problem had occurred to him.

“But how would he know whether the mage is sleeping?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere.

Unable to understand what Lucien meant, Mailot stared at him in confusion. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but whom are you referring to?”

Lucien remained silent for a moment.

“No. Never mind.”

He dismissed the matter with a small motion of his hand.

The hard edge of his mood gradually dulled, and he resumed climbing the stairs, this time at a slower pace.

Mailot remained where he was for half a heartbeat, blinking as though uncertain whether he had imagined the entire exchange.

“What was that about…?”

Then he gathered himself and hurried after his master.

***