Guardian (2)
Cardinal Demian Proud.
A cleric who held as his creed the words, “Eternal light shall be upon those who praise God.” Yet he concealed another meaning entirely: “Eternal darkness shall be upon those who insult God.”
The image the world knew of Demian was that of a devout, incorruptible priest, kind to everyone he met. But beneath that surface lay cruelty and coldness. He was a fanatic who would bring down the iron hammer without hesitation or restraint on anyone who spoke or acted in insult to God.
And the hammer he used was Lowen.
He had hired Lowen, then belonging to the Empire’s dark underbelly as a contract assassin-knight. Naturally the primary purpose was assassination. Every last soul Demian deemed guilty of blasphemy was entrusted to Lowen’s hands. For the record, the man who commissioned the disposal of the bishop who had been playing tyrant in Wind-shelter Village was none other than Demian himself.
“It’s been a truly long time, Lowen. To think that in the few years we haven’t seen each other, you’d become a cleric.”
Demian smiled slyly as he sipped his black tea.
“How’s the life of a priest treating you?”
He asked the question in a friendly tone. Lowen, however, offered no answer; instead he radiated pure discomfort at Demian’s presence here.
“You’re looking at me like you mean to devour me. Have I done something to wrong you?”
“Hasn’t Elder Demian been attending to the second Saintess?”
“Answering a question with a question, are we?”
Lowen continued to stare at him unflinchingly. That intense gaze of his—any woman who didn’t understand the meaning behind it might well fall in love on the spot. Demian let out a dry chuckle at the idle thought.
“Yes, as you know, I attend to the second Saintess. But a cardinal of the Holy See has the duty to watch over and protect the Grand Saintess and all seven Saintesses. That is why I have come—duty. To fulfill that duty.”
Then he added, almost as an afterthought:
“And while I’m at it, I have a favor to ask of an old friend.”
Lowen’s already pale face went the blue-white of a frozen corpse. Was he to be dragged back there again? Had hoping for a peaceful daily life been nothing more than a luxurious fantasy after all? He had begun this new life with the archbishop’s help, only for the past to seize the feet that were trying to step into the future.
“Now you look like you’re about to be eaten.”
Demian drew a cigarette from the pocket of his mantle and set it between his lips.
“Care for one?”
“I’ll pass.”
“You, the chain-smoker, turning down a cigarette?”
“I’ve quit.”
The thought struck him then: what was the point of quitting? If he was dragged back into a life reeking of blood, the stress would have him smoking every day again. He had sworn off tobacco as the first step of his new life, but what good was that now?
“I can see what you’re fretting over, but don’t worry. It’s true I have a request, yet it isn’t the bloody sort of thing it used to be. You could even call it a gentle, easy favor.”
Lowen watched him in silence, as if telling him to continue.
“Hoo…”
Murky smoke drifted out. Demian lowered his voice as though someone who must not overhear might be nearby.
“In the month you’ve spent with her, what did you make of Saintess Violet?”
The sudden, off-kilter question made Lowen’s brow furrow. Demian urged him to answer honestly.
“She is a good person. So good that being near her is almost burdensome.”
“Drop the act.”
“It isn’t an act. There are times I think her a fool, yet she is diligent in her role.”
Demian nodded as if he shared the opinion, then snorted and shook his head as if he did not.
“Unfortunately… the Holy See already knows everything, so you may speak more frankly.”
The easy composure that usually filled Demian’s face clouded with something heavier. Even when heretics had been giving him headaches he had maintained that unflappable dignity. The moment Lowen saw the expression, he understood exactly what “everything” the Holy See knew.
“Before I speak, I would like it understood that my words are neither blasphemy against the divine nor against the Holy Spirit.”
“Of course.”
“To be honest… the Saintess is full of problems.”
Lowen answered with the blunt honesty Demian had wanted. He recounted everything from the steamy incidents that had occurred during their month of cohabitation to her everyday slothful habits, sprawled out like a tree sloth. As he listened, Demian took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled a rough, acrid breath, and gave small nods as though none of it were news.
“To summarize the important points: the Saintess is a pervert.”
Demian snuffed the cigarette and tapped it against the table.
“As I said, the Holy See already knows. Her sprawling nature, her tendency to fall easily into lust—even that she has lately become thoroughly addicted to the act of comforting herself. We know it all in such detail that my head aches just thinking about it.”
Listening to Demian’s grumbling, Lowen asked why he was suddenly bringing all this up.
“Because it’s troublesome, that’s why. Troublesome.”
Lowen knew the phrase well. It was the verbal tic Demian always used when he had an important favor to ask of him—especially when the problem could not be solved by murder. Just like now, he would heave heavy sighs and declare it troublesome.
“The Holy See wants you to—”
“I refuse.”
“Now, now, a man ought to hear a person out to the end.”
Startled by the flat rejection, Demian cleared his throat.
“And… you know full well you are in no position to refuse right now.”
Frustrating as it was, Demian was right. If he reported Lowen to the Empire’s dark underbelly, Lowen would be dragged away. He had not retired properly; he had deserted the knight order without leave.
“They are searching for your trail with desperate urgency.”
A capable asset and a major combat force—how could they let him go easily?
“And who do you suppose has been hiding you so thoroughly that the underbelly hasn’t caught on?”
Demian beamed at Lowen as if the answer were sitting right in front of him. Come to think of it, creating a bishop’s post and assigning him to the cathedral where a Saintess was convalescing was not something a single archbishop could manage alone. It would take someone higher—someone like the cardinal sitting across from him, for instance.
“Correct.”
Demian spoke as though he had read Lowen’s mind.
“I’ve been covering for you in consideration of everything you’ve done for me until now.”
“I’m grateful for that.”
But that was that, and this was this.
“So will you grant me just one favor? It isn’t a difficult matter.”
There was no room to refuse. Lowen forced a heavy breath up from deep inside his chest and expelled it.
“Haaaah… Fine. I’ll hear what it is first.”
Given that Demian had asked about Ariel, it was clearly something related to her.
“The Holy See intends to entrust the seventh Saintess to you for one year.”
Lowen’s brow crumpled at once. It was not that he found Ariel particularly unpleasant; rather, all the plans he had first made were scattering like mist. His dream of a solo cathedral life would never cross the river of reality and would remain forever in the realm of imagination. That was what displeased him enough to scowl.
“While you care for the Saintess here, I want you to make her into a somewhat more diligent person.”
“Isn’t that something the Holy See itself ought to do, not me?”
“If the Holy See could have done it, we wouldn’t be asking this favor.”
Lowen crossed his arms and jiggled one leg, looking unconvinced.
“We tried any number of things. All of them failed—no, they made matters worse. We packed her schedule so full she would have no room for idle thoughts, increased the number of people she had to meet for counseling… we even added meditation periods outside of prayer time, but… heh heh…”
Ariel’s craving for sexual release had only grown fiercer. On top of that she had become haggard. Dark circles under her eyes had deepened as though she never slept properly; her once-upright posture had gradually hunched forward; even during meditation she would stare blankly into empty air like someone whose mind had left her, and she could no longer concentrate on prayer.
“It was really that bad?”
Looking at the Ariel of today, Lowen could scarcely imagine it. There were occasional moments when she grew gloomy or, when caught in an unflattering state, radiated a worn-out air, but he had never seen the figure Demian described. She slept well enough, and when she prayed she concentrated so deeply that she would not notice even if someone called her from right beside her.
“Why would I lie? In any case, the Holy See could no longer stand by and decided she needed rest, so they sent her here to convalesce.”
Still Lowen’s doubts remained.
“What does any of that have to do with me looking after the Saintess?”
“Because you have a track record.”
“A track record?”
One possibility sprang immediately to mind. If the Holy See was willing to entrust the care of a Saintess to a mere contract killer, there could be only one reason.
“Thanks to you, the second Saintess recovered her health and became cheerful, did she not?”
Yes—the second Saintess. Lowen had once looked after the second Saintess, who felt such gratitude toward him that she had even gifted him a rosary imbued with her blessing. More precisely, he had not “looked after” her so much as served as her escort knight for a year and become a conversation partner. In the process the frail, timid second Saintess had gradually brightened, and she was now spoken of as the person most suited to become Grand Saintess.
“So we thought we would entrust the seventh Saintess to you as well. Of course, His Holiness the Pope has already given his consent.”
It seemed becoming Ariel’s guardian was already treated as a settled matter.
“Haaah…… In that case I have conditions.”
Simply hiding him from the underbelly’s pursuit already felt like a sufficient bargain, yet Demian, in a generous spirit, agreed to hear the conditions.
“There are three.”
Demian waved a hand for him to speak.
“First: even if I fail to change the Saintess, do not hold me responsible.”
“Very well. We are not treating you as our last resort, merely as one method among others. And the second?”
“Second: after one year, send me to a quiet rural cathedral.”
“Understood. And if you do well, I will see to it that you can live in peace for the rest of your days.”
Lowen stated the third and final condition.
“Third: I become her guardian only if the Saintess herself consents.”
After a moment’s thought Demian decided Lowen was right and nodded.
“Very well. I shall ask the Saintess once.”
If there was even the smallest chance, Lowen hoped with all his heart that Ariel would refuse.