A Weighty Proposal and Its Price
Fortunately—or not—Karem's sudden growth failed to raise nearly as much of a stir in Winterhome as either Catherine or the boy himself had expected.
A curse, of course.
Black magic, no less.
It was a forbidden art.
Yet if the curse had actually killed Karem, that would have been another matter entirely. The victim himself was still very much alive, if a little older.
True, the sudden appearance of a once-promising prospect now transformed into a prime catch would soon multiply the number of eyes gleaming with interest. For the moment, however, everyone else simply waved the matter aside and turned their attention elsewhere.
There was simply no room to dwell on such a trivial(?) affair when the next rumor sweeping Winterhome proved far more delicious.
"…So the rumors are true?"
"They are! Absolute truth. No—I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Even so, mammoths in those numbers—"
"Not just one—three whole beasts!"
And with the testimony of eyewitnesses, rumor hardened into fact.
Mammoth.
To any true gourmet, an irresistible delicacy.
And not one mammoth, but three.
As a rule, no native of Iceland—or of the Seophon Kingdom itself—disliked meat unless forced by extraordinary circumstance. The news that mammoth meat had arrived at the Mage's Tower therefore raced through every corridor of Winterhome before half a day had passed.
All credit belonged to the soldiers, manservants, and maids who had marched and fought alongside the caravan.
"Good heavens. Nothing but the highborn will ever taste a scrap of it."
"No, wait—think. Who among us actually knows Karem? The cooks? The storehouse keepers? What do we need to prepare so we can at least snatch a few crumbs—"
"Ahem. Servant! Submit a formal request for audience at the Mage's Tower under my name."
"Bolton Barony lies in ruins; reconstruction funds will be needed. If we put up a handsome sum, we might secure some. The ledgers! Where are the ledgers?!"
"Rumor has it the Margrave himself will gift more mammoths come next spring—"
"Truly?!"
Mammoth meat set every heart in Winterhome ablaze.
Those who had tasted it before closed their eyes in fond recollection; those who had only heard of it clutched their chests, swollen with anticipation. Countless gazes locked upon the Mage's Tower.
While Winterhome simmered in quiet uproar, a visitor arrived at the study of the Duke of Iceland.
The call was unscheduled, yet Alfred readily made time.
One of Coldon's only two archmages.
The Duke of Iceland's foremost magical advisor.
Alfred had originally intended to postpone the audience until Catherine recovered her strength. Her condition had been reported at once. She had not failed the task entrusted to her; the delay in her return stemmed from the near-calamitous siege—an external factor beyond anyone's control—and even that affair had ended well. There was no reason to force her further.
"Hih—hitchoo!"
Yet Catherine had insisted on meeting Alfred as soon as possible, even if it meant overtaxing herself.
"…You might have rested a little first."
"This is more urgent."
Alfred privately thought the cough suited her rather well—though Catherine would never know it.
Click.
She set a small casket on the table and pushed it toward him with her fingertips. Inside lay the object she had carefully carried all the way from Afterglow Fortress, the item Margrave Richard had asked her to deliver in secret.
"Is this truly so pressing?"
Alfred studied her with open concern. He was hardly in a position to lecture after all the times he himself had driven her to exhaustion, yet anyone could see she looked ready to collapse from sheer fatigue.
"My lord. Do you recall the incident at Fungusby?"
"I do. You reported it yourself—the catastrophe wrought by an unidentified necromancer."
"And one of the Three Gods appeared in person that day."
"Naglfar's Scale, was it? The relic used by the necromancer confirmed as the culprit. I was rather startled when a legend suddenly walked into reality—"
Even now the memory left Alfred shaking his head in disbelief. Then his expression froze, the smile vanishing as his gaze dropped.
Pop.
Oooooooooooze—
Through the narrow gap of the opened lid, a thin, wicked miasma poured across the tabletop like heavy fog.
The mana alone was enough to raise the hair on one's neck.
"…Surely not this foul artifact?"
"Yes. A byproduct of the Death Dragon Naglfar. Confirmed beyond doubt."
A single fang, its surface bristling with countless blackish-gray nails like rotting scales, rested on a silk cushion and radiated malice.
The same vile presence she had felt before—down to the bone-deep chill. Catherine was certain. Narque, currently Coldon's foremost expert on necromancy and her own subordinate, had verified it himself.
"Once may be coincidence."
The first incident had erupted almost at the heart of Iceland—in Fungusby. The perpetrator was a necromancer who had apparently sought to seize the Death Dragon's magic through Naglfar's Scale, only to fail and run amok.
Then the second: the undead legion's invasion of the northern front. The byproduct harvested from the giant that had spearheaded the attack.
Alfred clutched his head. Just when he thought the workload might ease, another headache landed in his lap.
"Twice is inevitability. That trouble-magnet of a father has gone and manufactured more work for me again."
"Both incidents in a single year share the same origin."
"Hold—were there not demons who had infiltrated the fortress? Shapeshifters?"
"Yes. I also received several of their skins as evidence."
"Demons, damn it. We must issue an immediate warning across all of Iceland—"
"My lord. It is not only Iceland."
As she spoke, Catherine drew a scroll from her robes and offered it. The provisional contract for cold-resistance potions, obtained only after fighting through a full siege.
"First near Coldon itself, then at the northernmost front. Twice already the unknown enemy's schemes have failed within Iceland."
"So their next target will not be here."
Foes meticulous enough to plant a spy for over a year inside one of the Seophon Kingdom's five most critical strongholds would never make a third attempt in a region that had already thwarted them twice. A warning was required—at the very least, to his own liege, the King of Seophon.
Alfred accepted the documents, his bearing sharp and cold. Catherine exhaled softly.
Nothing in the world is absolute. Clever people, more than most, often overlook the obvious. She closed her eyes in quiet relief that her lord had not let this matter slip past him.
One major concern settled, she was about to take her leave when a sudden, crushing pressure settled over her.
A hazy sanctity.
It intensified at once, and she turned her head.
—Caaaaaaaaaaaw—!
Against the long, low cry of a crow, the roaring fireplace and the small candle flames froze solid.
Between Catherine and Alfred, in a chair that had been empty a heartbeat before, sat a figure wrapped deeply in a dark robe adorned with crow feathers.
Catherine had met this presence once before; Alfred, native of Iceland, had seen the likeness upon the temple's sacred icons. Both rose from their seats.
They stood.
"Alfred, son of Richard, son of Aethelred, greets the Nameless Traveler."
"Once more—"
With a leisurely wave of a leather-gloved hand, the robed figure dismissed the formalities and glanced about as though searching for something.
…
"Pardon? Karem, you say?"
…
The unexpected request left Alfred blinking; he turned to Catherine. If anyone knew the boy's whereabouts, it would be his direct superior.
"He is with Elder Iona, studying the divine power he suddenly awakened—"
"What? Divine power? Who—Karem?"
"Something must have occurred while he overcame the Curse of Aging, though we still do not know exactly—"
…
At those words the Nameless Traveler simply waved a hand. A faint whisper conveyed that the absence was no matter; the two vassals resumed their seats.
Somehow the traveler's robe seemed to droop ever so slightly, as if disappointed.
Divine power—the strength borrowed from the gods—and the holy arts that employ it.
Their history stretches as far back as religion itself. Gods and faith existed long before magic or aura ever appeared.
Yet for all that length of time, divine power, unlike magic or aura, possessed almost no systematized scholarship devoted to its teaching.
The reason was simple: it was far too abstract.
Borrowing divine power depended entirely upon a believer's sincere faith, prayer, and devotion. The same held true for holy arts rooted in that power. Moreover, while the foundations of divine power and holy arts remained constant, their effects diverged wildly according to the god one served and the individual believer. Systematization bordered on the impossible.
Of course, basic educational curricula did exist. With a history so long, even elementary instruction could hardly be absent. There remained, however, the minor problem that holy arts had advanced not one whit beyond the radiant heights of the ancient Palatino Empire—Europa's most glorious age.
"Um… Elder Iona?"
"Hooh. Awakening to divine power and the strength of that power both vary greatly from person to person, yet this degree…"
"It's… rather overwhelming."
"Hm? Ah, my apologies. You should have the feel of it by now, yes?"
"Yes. It's a strangely marvelous sensation."
Iona released Karem's hand and stepped back.
"I often witness awakenings, but one this potent is rare indeed. I myself have not seen its like in a very long time."
"Ah… is that so?"
"Doubt colors your voice."
"Well, you suddenly said something so vague."
"Divine power awakens whenever a believer's faith and trust are genuine, regardless of age, sparked by some chance catalyst. Talent and aptitude play a part, yet only a minor one."
Karem massaged his throbbing hand and looked around. The splendid temple interior, crowded with sacred icons and statues, was utterly unlike the chapel he had seen at Afterglow Fortress—and thoroughly familiar to him.
"Have you any interest in the faith?"
"Uh… is this a recruitment pitch?"
The invitation, so reminiscent of the cult solicitations he had heard in his previous life, made Karem recoil. He had never expected to hear such words even after reincarnation.
Yet Iona's expression was entirely serious.
"Such a dense residual divinity… divine power of this magnitude. With potential like yours…"
Perhaps even the rank of sect master—or champion—of a god-serving order.
Iona closed his mouth, swallowing the rest of the admiration.
Few things anger a person more than trailing off mid-sentence, and second among them—
In any case, the proposal that Karem give the matter serious thought. Karem, however, required no deliberation whatsoever.
"I'm quite fond of my present life. I still have to look after Lady Athanitas's curiosity—and her meals."
"Hmmm?"
"Your gaze has grown rather strange."
Iona arched a brow and studied him intently. Beneath that firm refusal he had sensed another emotion—something beyond the ordinary duty, joy, or relief. For the briefest instant a sweet-and-sour, piquant feeling had flickered.
Specifically, the moment Catherine's name was mentioned.
With the experience and years he had accumulated, Iona could hardly fail to recognize that emotion; still, he chose to let it pass. Such matters were best watched from the sidelines, cheered and supported—not meddled with. Interference was the province of third-rate busybodies.
Then a recent rumor floated into his mind.
"In that case, since you have already begun learning to control divine power, why not also study the fundamentals of holy arts?"
"The fundamentals?"
"Indeed. The most basic healing, purification, and consecration—and techniques such as this."
Iona rolled back the sleeve of his priestly robe and clenched his thick, wrinkled fist.
Tick. Tidik—Crrraaack—
Ice crystals sprouted across his skin like scales, completely covering fist, wrist, and forearm before solidifying into a heavy gauntlet—the same one Karem had witnessed in Blackwood Village.
"You could learn sacred projection as well."
"Ohh…"
"Power of that caliber seems a waste left idle."
Iona's offer was tempting. To claim he had felt no disappointment upon learning he possessed no talent for magic would have been a lie; Karem, too, had once dreamed of shooting spells from his fingertips. He had half resigned himself to simply acquiring magical tools instead. Letting this chance slip away was unthinkable.
"It does seem a waste. I could even put it to use in cooking."
"Exactly. And speaking of which—might there be some way to obtain a bit of that mammoth meat?"
So that was the real goal. No wonder the atmosphere had felt off.
Iona could read the sudden frost gathering in Karem's eyes. He freely admitted his own lack of dignity. But this was mammoth meat. Shame was only a momentary thing. If Karem merely accepted, the finest of all delicacies would fall into his hands.
So hurry and accept the offer!
An elder of the Three Gods Sect, rich in experience, was offering to personally teach the foundations of divine power and holy arts in exchange for a mere portion of that mountain of mammoth meat. What bargain could be cheaper?
"…Well, if that is all it costs."
"An excellent decision! Then let us first settle our schedules—"
"Before that, I need some advice."
"Hm? Advice?"
Iona blinked in confusion, then his eyes lit with deep interest as the hesitant words left Karem's mouth.
Heh-heh. So even though the body has grown, he is still young enough for such concerns!
With a warm, satisfied heart, Iona savored for a moment the sweet-and-sour troubles of the youth seeking help before him, then opened the mental codex he had compiled after counseling countless young people of Winterhome over the years.
The age gap was considerable, of course—but the lad had always been precocious. It would be fine.