Chapter 29

The Meyer Family

Roberta reined in her horse atop the hill, bringing it to a halt. Ulrich and Fritz stood to her right. The three of them had followed the tail of a mountain range that curved like a crescent as it descended from north to east.

Looking down from the mountain, a city came into view. To the south flowed a wide, long river, and to the west stretched cultivated lands reaching beyond the horizon.

“That’s Witten!”

Fritz raised his voice, pointing toward the central city of the Meyer County.

“Look! It’s a nice place, isn’t it?”

“I’ve heard it’s the most prosperous place in this region. It certainly seems so.”

She noticed small boats drifting along the river. At their sterns were ornate canopies embroidered with elaborate patterns, and beneath them, men and women in bright-colored clothing whispered to one another.

It was a scene of leisurely enjoyment of summer—something she had not witnessed since arriving in Osnover.

“Not just in this region—it’s probably the best place in all of Osnover.”

Fritz spoke proudly. As the fourth son of Count Meyer, born and raised in Witten, the boy seemed visibly uplifted at the sight of his hometown after so many years.

“Right, Sir Ulrich?”

“Hmm.”

Ulrich calmly surveyed the scenery. He was likely comparing what he saw now with what he remembered. On their way to Witten, Fritz had once asked him:

“Sir Ulrich, when was the last time you came to Witten?”

Ulrich had replied that the most recent time was more than a hundred years ago.

Like the village of old man Luman, it was a place tied to him by deep connections—yet even older than that. For him, this journey must also have been one of retracing memories. What thoughts crossed his mind now?

“How is it? Does it still resemble how it used to be?”

Ulrich stroked his chin and began,

“Hard to say. As I told you before, I never paid much attention to scenery.”

“Well… you did say it was over a hundred years ago.”

He pointed with his right hand toward the river below the city.

“At the very least, I recall that there was no settlement down by the river. There was a bridge, but not a walled residential area like that.”

Fritz nodded beside him.

“That’s right. It was expanded recently.”

“A great deal of time has passed. For it to have changed this much…”

The three of them began riding down the hill.

“When a child born in Dithmarschen and bearing the Meyer name inherited this land, Witten was little more than a slightly large village. It was territory barely claimed by a rustic man who had come down from the north.”

At the word village, Roberta looked at the city again. This was a story from about two centuries ago. What must once have been a settlement similar in size to Luman’s village now appeared before her eyes as nothing less than a flourishing city.

“As Fritz said, it has now become the most prosperous place in Osnover. Even the capital, Iselburg, or Solna, where the Grand Temple stands, cannot quite match it.”

“Is it truly that remarkable?”

“For generations, capable rulers have governed it, and it suffered little from the civil war. Had that child not refused, the one to wear the crown would have been the Count of Meyer.”

That child? The crown?

Roberta widened her eyes and looked at Ulrich.

“What… do you mean?”

The current king of Osnover, Richard, was Ulrich’s adopted son. After ending the civil war that had lasted thirty-two years, Ulrich had chosen not to ascend the throne himself and instead placed his adopted son upon it.

But did that mean the original candidate Ulrich had put forward was someone else—and that person was the Count of Meyer?

“You know this, don’t you? The secular lords of Osnover gathered together, had the dwarves forge a new crown, and ultimately presented it to me.”

She had heard that story so often her ears nearly ached from it.

“And I heard you refused it.”

“Yes, I did. I first sent that crown to Meyer.”

But it had been returned, he said.

“Wilhelm Meyer—the count who is Fritz’s father—refused the throne. It was the best choice, but if one lacks the will, nothing can be done.”

This was the first she had heard of it. She had only known that Ulrich had refused the throne and that his adopted son Richard had ascended instead. She had never imagined such a hidden story existed.

“That is why my adopted son, Richard, was crowned. The boy said he would stand in Meyer’s place. And so, a child without even a scrap of land came to found a royal dynasty.”

With that, Ulrich led them toward the outer city gate.

Not long after passing through the outer gate, the three of them were met by a reception party. Someone recognized Fritz. News was quickly delivered to the lord’s manor, and retainers came out to greet them.

Their attitude resembled that of Lord Matthias at Castle Kir. Rather than joy at seeing the young master after so long, they showed concern.

“We had not heard that the young master would be arriving…”

At the steward’s question, Fritz answered as though he had expected it.

“I just stopped by on my way to Iselburg.”

“Ah… so you are on your way to the royal wedding.”

The steward let out a sigh of relief. He must have been worried that the young master had been cast out of Dithmarschen. Fritz gave a bitter smile.

“And these people are—”

Fritz then introduced Roberta. There was no need to conceal her identity, so she remained in her priestly robes and clearly stated that she was a priest of Ganymea.

“Armin Dithmarschen.”

However, Ulrich was different. He introduced himself under a false name. Since there had been no prior warning, both Roberta and Fritz showed a brief moment of confusion. If he was merely visiting as a guest, why use an alias?

More than that—was there anyone who wouldn’t recognize him?

Thinking this, Roberta carefully observed the steward’s reaction.

“Could it be that you are… connected to Duke Dithmarschen…?”

He didn’t recognize him. It was clear he had never imagined that the lord his master served would be standing right before him. Rather, he only looked puzzled, as though searching his memory for the name Armin.

“Lord Armin is Sir Ulrich’s adopted son.”

Fritz quickly added.

“Ah, I see.”

And even that trace of doubt melted away at Fritz’s words.

Watching the reaction, Roberta narrowed her eyes.

In this land, Osnover, there was no one who did not know of the Duke of Dithmarschen. Yet strangely, very few knew his appearance. Not only Matthias, the vassal of Count Meyer, but even the steward acting in the lord’s stead treated him as a complete stranger.

Ordinarily, nobles would meet one another multiple times, even across distances. All the more so in a relationship between lord and vassal. Even if the Duke of Dithmarschen never left his territory, there should have been vassals who visited him. And among those who accompanied such vassals, there should have been many who recognized him.

Yet so far, the only one who had recognized him was the village chief of Luman, a mere rural settlement.

“Lord Armin, welcome to Witten.”

The steward did not even doubt the alias. It was something she had only realized after Ulrich used a false name at Castle Kir, but Ulrich had many adopted sons. Aside from King Richard of Osnover, there were several lords who were said to be his adopted sons. Perhaps that was why no suspicion arose.

“Is my father inside?”

The steward shook his head.

“He has gone out hunting… he will likely return late.”

“In that case, inform him at once. Tell him that I have come with his elder’s adopted son. He will understand what that means.”

After agreeing, the steward tried to guide them into the lord’s residence. However, Ulrich stopped him and said,

“I would like to visit the underground tomb first.”

The steward, thinking he had misheard, asked again, then turned to Fritz with a bewildered expression. What kind of person would not be taken aback when a guest they had never met before suddenly asked to visit the tomb first?

But Fritz was not surprised. As if it were only natural, he followed Ulrich’s words. The three dismounted and descended toward the tomb beneath the inner keep.

The underground tomb was the family mausoleum beneath the inner keep.

The three descended the stairs, with Fritz leading the way, holding a lantern. As they went down into the cold underground, Roberta wondered:

Why visit the tomb first?

She had never seen Ulrich seek out a grave before.

Only once had she heard about it, through the steward Bernhard. And that had been just before this journey began—when Ulrich had visited Hilde’s grave.

“……”

The underground tomb was not a communal graveyard.

She had expected a large space filled with many graves, but instead, it was a rectangular chamber about the size of a bedroom, with only a single grave.

And before that grave stood a statue.

‘Hohenlohe Dithmarschen.’

That was the name inscribed upon it.

The eldest among Hilde Dithmarschen’s adopted children, the founder of the Meyer family—Hohenlohe—had been sculpted in the form of a young man. The craftsmanship was exquisite.

“It is well maintained.”

“My father takes care of it personally. When he is away, we do it ourselves, and we do not even allow servants to come here.”

Ulrich stood before the statue. The figure wore a faint smile and slightly raised its chin as if looking upward, so when Ulrich stood before it, their gazes aligned perfectly. It was intentional. The one who commissioned it had known who would come.

“Hohenlohe was the only one among Hilde’s children who left the territory.”

He gently brushed the statue’s cheek.

“As death approached, he came here, built this tomb, and was buried in it.”

Roberta carefully asked the reason.

“He must have known I would come looking for him.”

He added that Hohenlohe had wanted him to see his descendants.

“He was a clever child. Compared to his talents, his circumstances were poor, and it was almost a pity that those talents were directed at me and Hilde. Hilde did not cherish him simply because he was the eldest.”

According to Ulrich, it was Hilde and Hohenlohe who had bound him to Dithmarschen. Hilde had asked him, and Hohenlohe had left behind children.

“Hohenlohe sought out a fallen branch of the Dithmarschen line and paired his child with them. And among the children born from that union, he showed me the one who most resembled Hilde.”

That, he said, was the beginning of the Meyer family.

It had been on the day Ulrich visited Hilde’s grave. Fifty-three years after her death, he had paid respects with Hohenlohe and then returned to the estate to meet the children.

“I scolded him. Those children—Hohenlohe’s descendants—were not the purpose, but the means. Was it not that he had children solely to bind me?”

And yet, Ulrich had forgiven Hohenlohe. The Meyer family line had endured to this day, had it not? If he had not forgiven him—if he had rejected Hohenlohe’s children—would this family even exist?

“What could I do? I had spent a long time with that child, Hohenlohe, and he was the only one who remembered Hilde. At the very least, I intended to stay by his side until he departed. And as always, even after sending him off, the bond continued.”

And so, through repeated continuations of that bond, it had reached the present day.

“They are a bloodline created solely to support me. They inherited that disposition and were raised that way. Even over just a few hundred years, the will to continue a lineage is truly formidable.”

At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed. Someone was descending the underground stairs.

Roberta and Fritz turned toward the entrance. Beyond the dark stairway, a faint lantern glow spread, and soon a man stepped before them.

Roberta thought he resembled Fritz. It was only natural—he was Wilhelm Meyer, Count Meyer, and the boy’s father. His face was flushed, and he breathed heavily.

Ulrich still gazed at Hohenlohe’s statue. With his back turned to the boy’s father—the rightful heir of Hohenlohe—he spoke.

“It has been a long time, Wilhelm.”