People Leave Their Names
"Hmm. I take it you've heard we arrived yesterday."
"A guest?"
"Yes. Show them in."
At Catherine's chin-jerk of a command, Karem had no choice. He fed her the last scrap of bread soaked in broth, then rose from his seat.
The distance from kitchen to front door was short, yet the presumed guest kept knocking in a steady, unhurried rhythm the entire time Karem walked over.
Only after Karem turned the latch did the knocking stop.
"Hm? Ah. A servant, I presume."
The moment Karem looked up at the visitor—or rather, the visitor accompanied by an entire retinue—polite honorifics rose unbidden from somewhere deep in his gut.
"Good day to you, my lord. I am Karem, exclusive servant and chef both."
"Chef? At that age?"
The first thing that caught the eye was a pair of curious eyes gleaming from within a helmet shaped like a bear's head. Beneath it, full plate mixed with mail covered every inch of the man, draped in a thick bear-skin cloak, a longsword at each hip. Behind the knight stood a line of soldiers in leather-reinforced quilted armor.
By every measure, a knight leading troops.
"No—that isn't important. I was told the Lord of Atanitas is staying here. Is she inside?"
"Yes, my lord. She instructed me to bring the guest in."
"Very well. The rest of you wait here."
Karem led the knight inside with what grace he could muster. Frankly the house was hardly large enough to need guiding, but a guest was a guest all the same.
The heavily armored knight weighed as much as he looked; every step made the floorboards groan and shriek. He paid it no mind, simply strode after Karem. Thankfully the floor held all the way to the kitchen.
Catherine had clearly expected the visit. With perfect composure she produced from her robes the same scroll she had shown at the outer and inner gates and handed it over. The knight broke the seal without hesitation, scanned the letter of appointment, and returned it.
"Forgive the intrusion, Lord Atanitas. I am Haifon of Bearpond. It seems I may have interrupted your meal—"
"No need to apologize. Though my chef was in the middle of eating."
"Ah. Interrupted a meal, did I? That will not do. A man should break his fast properly, after all."
Karem gave Haifon a fresh, appraising glance. With a build like that, the knight looked fully capable of chewing through a whole spit-roasted pig—bones and all—before sunrise. In the Seophon Kingdom, where breakfast was usually a light affair, the remark was unusual enough to stand out.
"Chef. Finish your meal."
Haifon was not merely being polite. He flipped up the visor of the bear helm, fixed Karem with a pair of fierce eyes, and silently insisted he meant every word. So Karem sat right back down, sopped the last of the reduced chicken soup with bread, and polished off every scrap until only clean bones remained.
"Will you need time to pack?"
A natural question for a visit at first light. But Catherine had already sent the bulk of their luggage ahead. Given the circumstances, all Karem carried was a money pouch and a bulging moss-boar-hide pack hung with assorted cooking tools.
They did, however, need a moment to hand the house key back to the owner, Hammerson. Understanding the situation, Haifon waited only until Catherine and Karem stepped out with their meager belongings before taking up escort duty at once.
Borderster and its surroundings were at their busiest. Even the inner citadel—normally a quiet cluster of wealthy estates—was already thronged with people who had been up since before dawn preparing for winter. Yet when a column of soldiers advanced down the main street, the crowds parted like sheep before a sheepdog. Anyone who had been about to grumble took one look at the heavily armored knight at the front and suddenly discovered manners they never knew they possessed, stepping aside of their own accord.
It was impossible not to notice. But unlike Karem, neither the knight, nor Catherine, nor even the soldiers trailing behind seemed the least bit self-conscious. They simply carved a path through the press of bodies with the unshakable confidence of people who expected the world to make way.
"So then, Sir Haifon."
Catherine tired of the spectacle almost as soon as she began enjoying it and called to him casually.
"Who has been appointed to guide us?"
"His Grace the Duke of Iceland has named Elder Iona as the one responsible. It was he who ordered me to escort you this morning."
A priest. Karem had no fond memories of priests. His brow furrowed before he could stop it; he smoothed the crease away at once. Fortunately no one paid the short boy any attention.
Whether Karem was tense or not, Catherine made a small sound of genuine surprise.
"Ho. An elder? I expected them to send a mere attendant."
"Hah. Sending a mere attendant to guide the Great Spirit of the Cold Wave would hardly be fitting. At His Grace's command, the elder has bestirred his heavy person."
The Seophon Kingdom was polytheistic, yet priestly ranks were mercifully uniform: priest, high priest, elder, pontiff. Rank rose from priest to pontiff within each sect. Considering that pontiffs rarely left their central temples, an elder was, in practice, the highest religious authority over an entire region—the real administrator of sacred affairs.
Karem had known that working for a mage would eventually bring him face-to-face with important people. Still, the sudden prospect of meeting someone this exalted left his mouth bone-dry.
Catherine, however, looked flustered.
"Th-the Great Spiri—khhm."
"Hm? Lord Atanitas, is something the matter?"
"Ah. Nothing at all."
It was most certainly not nothing. The title "Great Spirit of the Cold Wave" was a black mark of history she had invented for herself.
Every child passes through a storm-and-stress phase of adolescent pretension in their own way. The cruel joke was that hers had arrived only after she attained immortality. Drunk on her own power and talent, Catherine had spent years as an adventurer referring to herself in the third person as the Great Spirit of the Cold Wave and rampaging across the continent. Fortunately that phase was a mere blink in her long life. She had long since graduated from the disease of middle-school syndrome—yet she was still forced to live with the disaster she had created.
"The Great Spirit of the Cold Wave?"
"Hm. Do you mean to say you do not even know whom you serve? For a subordinate to be wholly ignorant of his superior's deeds is unforgivable."
"Might I ask you to tell me of them, my lord?"
People leave their names behind when they die. Those who had met the Great Spirit of the Cold Wave face-to-face were long dead, yet the records remained, stubbornly refusing to fade—and every time she tried to forget, they dug the old wound open again.
"Surely you at least know she became a Sage at the youngest age in history and achieved immortality?"
"Ah, that much I know, my lord. Though I've never heard the word Sage before."
"Half-knowledge is better than none, I suppose."
Rescuing a noble convoy under attack by an ogre pack. Crushing a band of robber knights that had terrorized a city. Slaying a mutant troll that had plagued the kingdoms of the continent for years. Destroying the undead sea-troll known as Seaweed-Beard. Any single one of those feats would have set bards scrambling for their lutes. They were achievements worth boasting of to anyone—yet to Catherine they were nothing but catalysts that dragged up an embarrassing flash of the past.
How dare you torment the weak before this Great Spirit of the Cold Wave! Have you no shame as a knight!
Is that all? The vaunted might of the ogre that makes even knights tense? Hah—disgusting enough to make me want to die.
Behold! The Great Cold Wave descended upon the earth!
With overwhelming power! Infinite might!
Catherine nearly exploded with an involuntary Enough! Damn it, you little brat—are you betraying your own employer?! but mercifully the tale ended the moment they reached The Sword Fallen into the Beer Barrel and handed the key to the elf waitress.
Haifon led Catherine and Karem not to the inn itself but to the vast stable attached to it—a building larger and grander than any of its neighbors. Inside, people hurried between wagons, shifting luggage. Soldiers in the same gear as Haifon's escort stood loosely ranked in the yard alongside several dozen warriors of a more Viking cast, each armed in his own fashion.
The inn itself was impressive enough to steal anyone's eye, yet Karem's gaze stayed locked on the stable.
He was not looking at the soldiers, nor the horses, nor the luxurious inn. He was staring at the creatures that let out deep, rolling cries—
Guuuuuk—! Guuuuuk—!
—massive beaks, bodies as large as horses, and thick coats of fluffy plumage that made them look even bigger. Enormous birds of the sort that often appeared as mounts in games were accepting the hands of their riders with those distinctive calls.
"I never expected to see Snowrunners here."
"Snowrunners. Those are them?"
"Yes. Yesterday, kid—those are the creatures whose meat you ate on a skewer."
He had been told they were birds, but they looked nothing like what he had imagined. Cute, in a way, yet every feature was far more aggressive than an ostrich's: the huge beak, the claws a full handspan long. Weren't these closer to dinosaurs?
"They look like they could swallow most monsters whole."
"They have the size for it and live in flocks, but Snowrunners are timid creatures. Herbivores, at that."
"Herbivores? With claws and a beak like that—and they're scared?"
"Looks can deceive. A Snowrunner carrying a knight obeys its rider's every command without question."
Karem watched one of the birds nuzzle its armored rider. He suddenly recalled hearing that warhorses trained to carry knights were fierce and clever enough to bite predators to death.
"Ah! Our awaited guests have arrived!"
An aged voice made Karem turn. A stout old man in robes with wide sleeves and hems was just emerging from the inn. With every step down the stairs, the tip of a prayer-bead necklace nearly swallowed by his double chin bobbed and swayed outside his beard. Despite the bulk, his movements were surprisingly light—a white-robed mass of flesh rolling halfway down the steps.
"Allow me to introd—"
"Ah-ah, Sir Haifon. I shall introduce myself. I am Iona, elder of the Three Gods Sect and, though unworthy, also chief seneschal of House Felwinter."
"Catherine Marigold Atanitas. I am the exclusive mage newly employed by House Felwinter."
Iona studied the document Catherine held out. Each time he nodded, the thick jowls his beard failed to hide quivered.
"Mm. My lord's letter of appointment is genuine."
"Elder, shall we depart at once, then?"
"Yes—once preparations are complete. Lord Atanitas, forgive the suddenness, but I must ask you to board the carriage immediately."
Before anyone could react, Iona was already ushering Catherine toward the largest, most ornate four-horse carriage waiting in the stable yard. The coachman was already seated; everything was ready.
Karem was only a chef, yet thanks to Catherine's offhand remark that he also served as her exclusive attendant, he was allowed inside the carriage. Iona, however, still had business to finish and left them for a moment.
"Uh, Lady Atanitas… he seems awfully busy."
"He has every reason to be. Arriving ahead of schedule bought us a little time, but not enough to lounge about."
"Even though we arrived early?"
"Better to reach Iceland as soon as possible before winter sets in hard."
While Catherine settled onto the carriage seat and straightened her clothes, Karem took the place she had left empty for him with a discreet glance.
"Does it snow that much?"
"You'll understand faster by seeing it yourself than by listening to me. You'll grow sick of snow every year while we live in Iceland."
The words were barely out of her mouth when Iona climbed into the carriage. Moments later the vehicle lurched into motion and began to roll.