An Unstable Mind
The Emperor was so startled by the Saintess's words that he nearly dropped his jawbone—yet he did not.
He had already made a spectacle of himself once before the Hero, and this time he was taking special care not to repeat the disgrace.
Having steadied himself, he answered what the Saintess had said.
"Mental stability, you say?"
The Emperor's voice carried a note of doubt as he questioned her, and the Saintess replied at once.
The answer came so swiftly it seemed deliberate, as if to stress that no other thought had been allowed to intervene.
My mind is in an unstable state.
I could not hide it forever, so I reveal it now.
A lie? No.
The first thing the Emperor felt upon hearing the Saintess was suspicion.
I should hear her out for now.
Yet the doubt resolved itself almost immediately.
It was already common knowledge that the Saintess was not one to speak falsehoods. The report had come from the Holy Kingdom, so its reliability was hardly absolute, but it was something to watch for the time being. Refraining from hasty judgment was a quality befitting a king.
Noticing the Holy Knight regarding him with a puzzled expression, the Emperor realized the Saintess was sending this voice to him alone. The Hero, meanwhile, looked as though he were eavesdropping in secret.
Neither telepathy nor thought transmission... yet it resembles both.
The long-abandoned curiosity of a mage quietly lifted its head and asserted its presence. Feeling it, the Emperor began to analyze the voice that rang directly inside his skull.
What he discovered was that he could not analyze it at all.
Surprise washed over him. He had felt the emotion a few times of late, yet for a being who now retained only a handful of human feelings—like a boulder ground to sand by the wind—to feel so thoroughly human was a first.
A magic that he, a mage who had reached the pinnacle and become a Superhuman, could not even identify.
He quieted the long-dormant excitement and addressed the Saintess. To keep the Hero and the Holy Knight from overhearing, he mimicked a method similar to hers. Succeeding in instantly and quite casually fashioning a peculiar scroll that even he himself could not analyze only deepened the mystery.
Why go to such elaborate lengths?
And then something rose again in his memory—or perhaps it was only a delusion: a recollection of having witnessed magic like this in his childhood.
Hmm... something like this?
The Saintess seemed briefly flustered when the Emperor's voice resounded inside her head, yet she recovered her composure almost at once. How he had done it did not matter; she had come here to achieve her purpose.
Very well. Ask, Saintess. What do you mean when you say your mind is unstable?
The exchange between Emperor and Saintess began.
It means exactly that.
...I am not attempting wordplay.
The Emperor made no effort to hide his displeasure. Using clever rhetoric to draw him away from the heart of the matter was something he detested.
Truly, exactly that. My mind is unstable.
Because two personalities inhabit one body.
The Saintess chose a frontal assault. There was nothing easy about conversing as though one spoke only truth. It was an exceedingly shrewd decision.
What does that mean?
The Emperor asked again, still doubtful.
I will say nothing more.
And at once the Saintess chose silence. She had no confidence in her own rhetoric; the more she opened her mouth, the greater the chance of a misstep. What stood before her was no game character but an ancient monster who had lived for centuries. Every word was like walking on thin ice, so caution was the wiser course.
She tried to read the Emperor's mood, yet there was no expression to be found in the empty sockets of a bare skull. Watching him for any sign of anger, the Saintess was relieved by his next words.
Her conduct had been impolite, yet the Emperor was not so rigid a man; he moved strictly according to profit. He was not without human relationships, but he drew a sharp line between public and private.
He had heard directly that the Saintess suffered from dual personalities—a mental affliction—and he needed Spring.
The gains to be had by severing Spring's head, set against the losses from the Saintess's instability.
The gains from restoring the Saintess's mind to stability, set against the losses of leaving Spring alive.
He placed both values upon the scales, weighed them, and reached his conclusion.
Very well. Do as you please.
Thus the Emperor granted permission.
Thank you.
The Saintess then sent her thoughts to the Hero and Jerome.
The conversation is finished.
Let us go.
"Ah—yes."
"Yes?"
The Hero, having eavesdropped, already knew the talk had ended. To Jerome, however, everyone had simply fallen silent, after which the Saintess announced that their business was done; he could not help but look bewildered.
Spring, still ignorant of everything, was led out of the office by the leash in the Hero's hand.
The way for one poor with words to survive was, when you thought about it, quite simple.
Speak little.
For the tongue is a blade that cuts its owner.
Having succeeded in securing both access to the Imperial Archives and the right of life and death over Spring—more precisely, having obtained the Emperor's permission—they began to go their separate ways.
Each offered personal reasons and departed, until only Jerome and Spring remained once more.
The Hero claimed he had business of his own and suggested remaining here a while longer. The Saintess readily agreed, and the Hero left.
Though the access rights to the archives had been granted to the Hero, the Saintess reasoned—with her peculiar logic—that of course she could use them as well, and she strode boldly toward the entrance.
Only two soldiers barred the way. Everyone had already memorized the Saintess's face, so they opened the path at once. She had rehearsed answers in advance in case they stopped her; now she felt needlessly embarrassed, offered an awkward bow of greeting, and stepped inside.
A door far too small for the name "Imperial Archives," and beyond it another building entirely. Its scale rivaled the ancient mysteries that appeared in the game—or the canyon guarded by an aged swordsman in the desert.
The Saintess intended to read the history books here.
A lack of knowledge. A deficiency of common sense. Reality that refused to follow the plan.
Yes. That was the problem.
Everything surrounding her had become blades of murderous intent, piercing her skin with sharp purpose. They punched through hide with a dull thud and crushed her skull outright.
Recovery.
A brief death cry, and the mind was wiped clean. Addicted to the comfort of something erased by an eraser, she surrendered herself to that ease.
Yet she forced herself awake and looked ahead.
What stood there was the library of every record.
In the past: the game called Four Seasons, and its predecessor, Stars and Magicians.
The immeasurably long blank periods between them, filled with events she did not know.
And whatever had befallen the Saintess before she entered this body.
She would find it.
I will learn here what has happened in this world.
An endless shaft with neither ceiling nor floor, walls built of books, a world in perpetual freefall.
The Imperial Grand Archives.
She set foot inside.
At that same hour the Hero turned his steps toward the Imperial Warehouse.
He had not received the Emperor's explicit leave, yet judging by the support already shown him, he guessed the man would allow it with flexible grace. Some might call the act shameless; the Hero himself considered it justified.
He walked the long corridor down into the underground vault where the Emperor's hidden treasures were gathered. The long war had left almost nothing. Only one person knew of this place, which meant there was no guard. The Emperor could not possibly be unaware that someone had entered a space known solely to him; tacit consent could safely be assumed.
Having finished that self-justification, the Hero once more reached the Emperor's workshop—the deepest chamber of the palace.
On the first day he arrived at the Imperial Palace, this had been the very first place he sought. The black cloak and garments he wore had come from this warehouse, though the Saintess, blindly trusting her game knowledge, had mistaken them for in-game equipment and never learned the truth.
Even so equipped, he had failed to capture Spring; aside from driving the Holy Sword into her, he had achieved nothing of note. He still reproached himself for it.
He had returned now because of the black mask he had shattered. Items that interfered with recognition were rare; he had no choice but to seek another here. The Emperor had already scattered every last grain of the recognition-hindering powder, and the Hero, fretting that he would draw eyes when he later slipped out of the Imperial Capital, strode into the warehouse, snatched a black mask, and tucked it into his breast.
He sincerely believed that if the Emperor had not blown the powder away, none of this would have been necessary.
Then, concealing his appearance, he headed beyond the Imperial Capital in search of the star that had hidden itself in seclusion.
Not long after the Hero's party left his office, the Emperor opened a letter that had arrived.
He lightly stroked the crow that had delivered it, then unfolded his finger bones once more and sent the bird out the window.
Slowly he began to read.
On the central front, Meteor has encountered Summer.
It was the end of Spring, and the beginning of early Summer.