Installing the Young Tree (2)

The self-proclaimed saint had spent a while fleecing the villagers.

"Exhausting work, this."

Having stuffed himself with riches, the saint strode into what must once have been the village chief's house, and only then shrugged off his outer coat. The water spirits clinging to both his arms bounced off and scattered.

"You've worked hard too. Just wait a moment."

The saint fetched a large water tub that looked like something the villagers had brought for him. Then he drew out a mana stone and shaved at it with a knife, sprinkling the finest dust of it into the water.

"You can get in now."

The water spirits dove into the tub with evident delight. Water splashed. Blissed-out spirits bobbed round and round on the surface.

Whoa? Their spirit welfare is better than ours.

To think we treated them worse than a fraudster. I'm shocked, honestly.

I had no idea they loved plain pure water mixed with mana stone dust. Though it makes sense — mana stones are nature condensed into the earth, so they'd be fond of it.

The saint, it seemed, was a true master of spirit welfare.

He brought over a chair, sat down in front of the tub, and picked up some sort of wooden mallet. The head was wrapped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in thick, soft cloth, giving it a nice cushioned feel.

The saint scooped a floating spirit out of the water and tapped it with the mallet — tap, tap, tap. He patted down its whole body like he was giving it a massage. The spirit melted into a happy, boneless puddle. When he set it back in the water, it just drifted there, utterly loose and content.

Whoa? They liked this sort of thing all along?

The enterprising spirits who'd struck out into the world beyond the forest appeared to be living far happier lives than they ever had in our village. If it weren't for the criminal complicity, I'd say letting them keep this life was the right call.

But it was criminal complicity.

I shifted my view back to our village.

Priest Dahlia was admiring the earth spirit perched on the windowsill. The earth spirit, for its part, sat perfectly still, indifferent to whether anyone was watching.

Hey, Dahlia. I have a question.

"Ah. O Young Tree, please speak."

Priest Dahlia stood with her hands clasped, posture immaculate. Unlike Thermia, she carried herself with the polish of proper training.

How should we handle a fraudster who calls himself a saint? We happen to have one in our territory.

"We would report it to the temple. If someone dares claim the title of saint, paladins will come and haul him away."

She continued.

"However, this territory is religiously neglected, so no temple exists here yet. In such cases, one goes to the lord. A devout lord will spare no explanation and put soldiers at your disposal, and even a lukewarm one will cooperate if he has any care for his honor."

So I just need to notify the acting lord.

Then could you draft a letter for me?

"Of course."

Priest Dahlia wrote the letter.

All that remained was to send it off by carrier pigeon.

Supplying fruit to the royal family had earned the village a considerable sum of money — and that was before the full-scale deliveries had even begun.

So we were now purchasing expensive, specially trained carrier pigeons capable of flying straight to the lord's castle, and training staff to look after them.

The village had always had pigeons, technically — but only ones old Chief Eldrin had used for coordinating the self-defense militia. Bringing in proper carrier pigeons was a landmark occasion.

After all, pigeons with a direct line to the lord's castle had previously been something only major cities could afford. The upkeep — feeding them, replacing them when they died — was nothing to sneeze at.

Only a village like ours, now supplying dried fruit to the knight orders as military provisions and fresh fruit to the royal household, could make such a bold investment.

I handed the letter to one of the administrative staff who'd been trained by Teacher and me to manage the village's affairs.

The bureaucrat made a few small adjustments, then dispatched it by pigeon.

With so many new things springing up around the village, life was getting easier.

Granted, we were still at the unprofessional stage where the same bureaucrat both verified the Four Seasons Orchard's harvest figures and fed the pigeons, but I could feel the village's framework taking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shape into something city-grade.

I turned my view back to Thermia.

Having ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handed the human trader who'd smuggled out the water spirit over to the self-defense militia, Thermia had gathered her things and was now racing out of the Forest of Serenity toward the lord's castle. Thanks to the divine domain radiating from my bow, she was moving astonishingly fast.

How about we build a small shrine in every major village and city?

"I think that's a fine idea. Humans are experiencing miracles just as we do, so they should come to understand the discipline you've set and be given the chance to shed their worldly filth into the offering boxes."

Not that I set it consciously or anything.

Still, I wasn't sure our funds could sustain pushing shrine construction across the whole territory.

Which raised the question of funding, and then it came to me.

What do you think about selling a time-limited priority right to the acting lord?

"A time-limited priority right, you say?"

Our orchard is producing fruit, isn't it? Right now we're not selling to noble society — we're focusing on raising quality for the royal deliveries. But we'll sell eventually, won't we?

"Yes."

So we sell the right to be first in line — the right to purchase the fruit meant for the nobility, ahead of everyone else, for a fixed period. If the buyer doesn't exercise it, other nobles can buy freely, but if he buys it all, the others can't get their hands on any no matter how much they want it. A time-limited monopoly, essentially.

At the moment, every noble except the tiny handful Velesa had personally shared fruit with was barred from so much as a taste, cowed by the Queen's ominous warnings to leave the Elf Village alone.

And this was fruit so delicious it had made the King himself half faint when he ate it.

Right now, it was an ultra-exclusive royal delicacy only royalty could taste.

Selling the right to monopolize it for a while — and to resell it in secondary distribution, no less — even at merely noble-grade quality... that would fetch a steep price indeed.

If I were running a merchant house, that would be a right I'd buy without a second thought.

There was also an element of risk management in the plan.

Compared to the nobility, our village was hopelessly weak.

The only reasons the Four Seasons Orchard hadn't already been plundered were the Queen's warnings and the fact that the territory belonged to the King, leaving the nobles unable to act rashly.

If a village of elves — the ultimate underdogs — had swaggered up demanding direct trade at exorbitant prices, we could easily have been branded with the crime of lèse-majesté and smeared with an ugly image.

The weaklings flaunting their patron's power while indulging in greed — the perfect villain, no? All the more so for being a fringe community of elves.

If avoiding that charge meant we could sell in peace, the gains would be enormous.

And by proposing the deal to the acting lord — the Steward — we would effectively be selling the priority right to the King himself.

Hidden in the King's shadow, we could expand our distribution network in safety.

The moment we actually started selling fruit to noble society, every noble with a stake in the matter would begin jockeying and obstructing us — and this would cut that off at the root.

Teacher was away at the Count's territory, so I couldn't ask his opinion, but I suspected he'd approve of the plan.

Thermia, who had run herself ragged, arrived at the lord's castle.

You really did run the whole way, huh.

"Uuugh... I still can't get used to riding horses — they hurt. Besides, with your miracle taking care of me, it's not like it's even exhausting."

Thermia grimaced and opened her waterskin.

She pulled out a water spirit and — squeezed it. The water spirit squished mercilessly.

Um, excuse me?

"Aaah! Sorry! It's habit!"

Horrified, Thermia frantically rolled the crumpled spirit between both palms until it rounded back into shape.

Habit really is a terrifying thing.

The Steward trembled with fear.

Ever since miracles had begun unfolding across the western reaches of his territory, sleep had become a stranger to him.

Had the Sun God truly existed all along?

After crossing paths countless times with corrupt priests wallowing in greed, he had stopped believing in the Sun God. Had he been the one in the wrong?

And what omen could it be, that unprecedented miracles should unfold in the very territory where he served as acting lord?

However hard he tried not to think about it, dark imaginings spread like ink in water.

When Priest Dahlia — renowned as an incorruptible priestess of the marginalized — had counseled him, his heart had settled briefly, but the relief never lasted.

Once the audit of the slave-market city began and his men started arresting the officials and slavers who had enslaved elves at their own whim, fear welled up in him: was this actually allowed?

By rights, they should all have been sent to the executioner's block long ago — yet he remained frozen in hesitation, keeping them locked up, unable to settle on any formal punishment.

As the days dragged on, quiet protests from the devout neighboring lords were piling up. Combined with the letters from the priests, they would have filled a whole carriage.

If word reached the Grand Temple late and they chose to voice their concerns, it could inflict real harm on his lord, who was already agonizing on the fault line between the pro- and anti-slavery factions.

He knew he might have to release everyone involved — and knowing it made the decision all the more agonizing.

Miracles were happening. Was it truly permissible to do this?

Not long ago, Priest Borlidon had come and explained the situation to him.

The current miracles, he'd said, were granted by the sacred tree of the Elf Village. Moreover, that sacred tree might ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠well be an emissary sent to the world above.

The Steward knew the Elf Village and the sacred tree well.

It was where the Crown Prince had gone into hiding — how could he not?

And the tree was visible even from here.

From the top of the lord's castle, looking toward the Elf Village, the sacred tree's colossal silhouette stood so distant it appeared as a faint white smudge on the horizon.

If the old human mage hadn't long ago named that thing a sacred tree, its sheer size would have demanded an investigation team be dispatched on the spot, screaming, what in the world is that?

And now that very sacred tree was working miracles.

It was news that finally loosened the knot of fear in his chest.

He knew perfectly well that the Elf Village had sent its self-defense militia to raid the slave market.

During the audit of the slave-market city, he had also heard that the raid had been decided by the sacred tree itself, at the village assembly.

The sacred tree despised slavery. That put it squarely at odds with the teachings of the Holy Kingdom.

If the sacred tree truly were an emissary of the Sun God, perhaps it had been sent down precisely to correct the Holy Kingdom's corrupted doctrine.

Only then did the Steward find it in himself to consider sending those connected to the slave market to the executioner's block.

Of course, he still couldn't bring himself to actually decide.

Because one perfectly reasonable suspicion had seized hold of his mind.

Didn't Priest Borlidon take a bribe?

Before departing for the Elf Village, the man had gone so far as to say the miracle-granting tree ought to be burned.

He had even demanded that the slave-market detainees be released at once.

Yet when they met again after his return, he was a completely different man — even suggesting the tree might be an emissary sent by the Sun God.

Priest Borlidon, celebrated as one of the Grand Temple's most promising and devout priests, would never say such a thing out of pure faith.

No matter how he looked at it — wasn't it a bribe?

Hadn't the Elf Village, unable to withstand his torrent of threats to burn their sacred tree, handed over every coin earned from the orchard as hush money?

In that case, the miracles gracing this territory were not the sacred tree's at all.

They were merely a sign from the Sun God, bestowed before He judged those who had lost their faith.

And so the Steward drifted through sleepless day after sleepless day, unable to commit to either course.

Enduring the mounting pressure letters from the neighboring lords and priests without ever releasing the slave-market detainees — that was the last shred of his conscience.

Why are the gods so cruel?

Why do they spread teachings like these?

Is it truly my thinking that is wrong?

Must I repent of all my past conduct and pursue righteous deeds from this day forward?

"A threat, you say...?"

The girl seated across from him looked flustered. A girl named Thermia, come as representative of the Elf Village.

"The miracles are the Young Tree's doing. Truly."

The girl explained, but the Steward found it hard to believe.

It was far more rational to assume that Priest Borlidon, frightened out of his wits, simply hadn't dared speak the truth.

But when it became clear he didn't understand, the girl asked his pardon and then, without warning, started talking to her bow.

"I think we should just show him once. Yes. That shouldn't be any problem, right? Right."

Having finished her one-sided conversation, the girl turned back to him with a smile.

"The Young Tree has consented to let you witness the past."

What on earth is she talking about?

In that instant, light flickered from the bow.

Suddenly, the parlor changed.

The ceiling and the walls on every side split apart into countless feather-like fragments and went scattering away. Everything within sight — the entire interior of the castle — flaked off and flew into the air.

The only thing left whole was the sofa he was sitting on.

And where everything had scattered away, the scene of a lush green forest had quietly settled in its place. A breeze stirred, tickling his hair and carrying the scent of the woods to his nose.

He turned his head, dazed, and there at the edge of a forest clearing stood Priest Borlidon, gazing up at an impossibly enormous tree.

Within the vision, the priest opened his mouth.

"Are you the emissary the Sun God has sent down to the world?"

Beats me.

The exchange between the priest and the sacred tree continued.

A different voice echoed through his mind.

This is a scene from the past. Look carefully. Borlidon may be greedy, but he never actually threatened us. Please don't judge him over a misunderstanding.

A scene... from the past?

The Steward shook where he sat.

Clutching the one lifeline left to him, he gripped the sofa's armrest with all his strength.

Well? Can you tell it was a misunderstanding?

No — is that really what matters right now?