A Mother's Heart

I was brought before Queen Ludmila still sealed inside the Magic Stone Prison.

Ludmila stretched a hand toward me, her eyes gleaming, and the cubic prison dissolved.

"Did you find Shari's mother?"

"......"

Instead of answering, Ludmila looked at Shari perched atop my head.

What is that supposed to mean? Did she find her or not?

"Shari. Come away from that man and step forward."

Ludmila's command left no room for argument. Shari's eyes went round; she drifted slowly off my head and floated out in front of me.

Ludmila's eyes began to gleam once more.

"Wait! What are you—"

A vast magic circle bloomed around Shari without warning, wrapping her in its light. Ludmila flicked her fingers a few times, and the circle locked shut around the girl the same way the Magic Stone Prison had locked around me. Shari looked back at me, her face bewildered.

"Be silent, human. Unless you wish to die."

Ludmila's eyes kept glowing as she poured an unknown spell into the circle. Shari tried to push through it, but to my astonishment she struck the barrier and could not pass. Magic that could imprison a ghost? I had never heard of such a thing.

The circles multiplied, layer upon layer, until at last I could not even see Shari anymore. I stared at the sealed light in a daze, unable to believe what I was looking at.

"Hah... Magic that binds a spiritual body truly does consume a tremendous amount of mana."

"What are you doing all of a sudden? What crime has Shari committed?"

"So that child cannot hear what I am about to tell you."

Ludmila spoke with a faintly weary look.

"Shari can neither leave that barrier nor hear anything beyond it. Undo the seal and she will emerge unharmed, so do not worry."

"Why...? Didn't you find Shari's mother?"

"I did."

"Then why lock her away?"

I asked it with a grim premonition already settling in my chest. If she had found the mother, all that remained was to let Shari meet her. It might have been a sorrowful reunion, given that Shari had become a ghost—but Shari had wanted to see her. That should have been enough.

"Forte. That child's mother is a woman named Forte. And..."

"And...?"

I listened as Ludmila told me, in full, the story of Shari's mother.

Forte had lived as a writer and a traveler. She would leave Einblad to journey across the continent, setting down in books everything she saw and experienced, and once she set out her passion was such that she might not return for months. The library of Einblad held dozens of her travelogues and volumes. Among the demons she had been quite famous as an author, with a following of devoted readers; whenever she departed the city, talk of her next book would ripple through every street. She was well-versed in ecology and geography besides, and her work held genuine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scholarly value.

Then she became pregnant with Shari. She had never married, and so the father's identity remained unknown. Even while carrying the child she toured the famous flower fields and scenic places near Einblad, as if the journeys themselves were a blessing for the life she carried. After Shari was born, Forte set her travels aside and devoted herself entirely to raising her daughter alone. But once Shari was old enough to walk on her own, Forte began taking her along on the road again. Writing travelogues was her livelihood, and she could not leave her daughter home alone.

And that, in the end, was her undoing. Forte lost her daughter. No one knew what accident had separated them on the journey. What was certain was that one day she returned to Einblad alone, without her child.

"Forte never even knew her daughter had been taken by humans. She gathered people in Einblad and returned to the place she had lost her, again and again, searching."

Ludmila narrowed her eyes at the magic circles that still held Shari.

A mother who had lost her daughter on the road. Honestly, I thought a great share of the blame lay with a mother who had failed to look after her child properly. And yet mothers who lose their children in some absurd, unthinkable moment exist whether Forte was one of them or not. I had a dizzying memory of my own from childhood—going to the market with my mother, looking away for a second, and finding myself holding a stranger's hand. If someone with ill intent had taken me then, I would never have made it home. Accidents always happen just like that.

"I understand what kind of person Shari's mother was. But why on earth..."

"Forte ultimately failed to find her daughter, and she fell ill. Whether it was a sickness of the heart or some fatal disease she had picked up somewhere, I cannot say—but she did not last long after that. She died."

"......"

"I understand well that you wish to let this child meet her mother. But perhaps there are times when ignorance is a mercy. If you wish it, I can tell her that Forte left on a distant journey and has simply not yet returned."

Only then did I understand why Ludmila had sealed Shari away from our conversation. A little girl who had come all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this way because she missed her mother, only to be told that her mother was dead—it might be a shock no child could bear. Ghost or not, the mere thought of it squeezed my chest until it hurt.

"Human. I will ask you. Do you still wish to tell that child about Forte?"

Ludmila put ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the question to me. Even asked directly, I honestly did not know. If I thought with my feelings alone, it might be kinder to let Shari go on without knowing her mother was gone. But another part of me suspected that was only what I wanted to believe. If I had been in Shari's place, I would have wanted to be told the truth. However painful the reality, I would have thought it was mine to know and to accept, rather than to live forever in the dark.

"May I... ask a few questions first?"

After a long struggle, I looked at Ludmila and found my voice.

"Speak."

"Has a grave been prepared for Forte?"

"We do not bury our dead. We cremate them in flames of mana."

"Then is the house Forte lived in still standing?"

"It should still be there."

Thank goodness. At least the house remains.

I made my decision then. Better to tell Shari the truth than to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deceive her. She had a right to know about her own mother. I had no authority to take that right from her simply because I had decided, on her behalf, what her heart could bear. If that was so, then the proper thing was to tell her honestly—and to do whatever I could for her afterward.

"I have a request..."

I looked at Ludmila and, slowly, began to speak.

I decided to visit the house where Forte had lived, and to take Shari with me. It was a chance I had wrung from Ludmila with some difficulty. She had seen that Shari would not leave my side even when I was locked in the Magic Stone Prison, and so she had granted me special permission to accompany the girl to Forte's home.

The time given to us was a single day. By tomorrow I would have to leave Einblad, without fail. If I failed to depart on time, Ludmila might well have me executed in earnest.

"They're staring so hard..."

The cold gazes of the other demons had become familiar by now. The fact that I was walking through Einblad alive at all was an extraordinary privilege.

I still had not told Shari about her mother. I had not yet found the words, or the place to begin. It would have been better, perhaps, to tell her before we entered the house—but my mouth would not open. Shari knew she was going to the home she had once lived in, and she led the way with a face full of joy. I followed behind her, watching that small, happy figure with a complicated, bitter ache.

Forte's house stood in a quiet corner of Einblad, far from the bustling streets. In the neatly kept yard, purple flowers were blooming in bright, generous clusters. I took the key Ludmila had given me and carefully opened the door.

The smell of books washed over us the moment we stepped inside. On the desk where Forte had clearly done her writing, an unfinished manuscript still lay open beside a pen and a bottle of ink. Bookshelves stood packed with volumes of every kind, and a great map of the continent hung on one wall. No one was home, and yet the place held such a vivid sense of daily life that it felt as though the owner might walk in at any moment. It was a house with that peculiar warmth and nostalgia that only a family home can hold.

"Shari."

I called her name as she drifted through the rooms, gazing around in a daze. She turned and blinked at me.

"There's something I really need to tell you..."

My lips trembled as I forced the words out. I had already made up my mind to tell her, but now that the moment had come, they would not leave my mouth.

"I found out about your mother through Queen Ludmila."

Shari watched me in silence.

"Your mother... passed away from illness not long ago, it seems."

At last I told her the truth. Shari's expression slowly froze.

"From what I heard, she was a remarkable woman. She wrote a great many books while she traveled. Her books are still popular in Einblad, even now. So..."

No. Don't say things that don't matter.

"I'm sorry, Shari. For bringing you this news."

Shari's face crumpled as if she were about to cry. But she did not shed any tears. Was it because she was a ghost? I no longer knew what I was supposed to say to her.

For a long time she stared through the house as if she had turned to ice. Then, after a while, she drifted slowly toward the desk Forte had used for her writing. A half-open, unfinished book lay on its surface—and beside it, a thick notebook. Shari showed an interest in the notebook, so I picked it up with care. When I opened it to the first page, writing that could only have been Forte's own filled the paper.

"Shall I... read it to you?"

Shari nodded, slowly. I began to read her the words written in the notebook.

When I had finished the opening of the notebook, I turned the page. The remaining leaves were filled with drawings. Flower fields overflowing with blossoms of every color. A pale violet plain seen from a cliff. A forest carpeted in fallen leaves. Landscapes of every kind, rendered with a painter's fine and generous hand—and in every one of them, Shari was there, smiling with her whole face.

Judging by the notebook, these pictures had been drawn after she lost her daughter. Longing for the child she could not find, Forte had painted Shari into every landscape, one by one. Shari could not take her eyes off them. I turned the pages slowly, showing her each drawing in turn. They were so vivid it was as if she had truly stood inside those places.

And so, through the whole of the night, I read her what Forte had left behind and showed her every picture, for as long as she wanted to look.

Hoping that this, at least, might offer Shari some small measure of comfort.