The Brand (8)

The Imperial History Museum.

"Forgive me for calling you in on your day off, Director."

"Not at all, Lady Rebecca. It is my pleasure to receive so distinguished a guest."

It was the largest historical museum in the recorded history of the Hainel Continent. To say that the treasures of the entire world slept within these walls would have been no exaggeration. The grounds rivaled the Imperial Palace itself in scale; among artists, the saying went that merely walking every gallery would take close to two months.

"I trust nothing was lacking in the explanation I sent by letter?"

"Haha. It was more than sufficient — overflowing, even."

"You are remarkable, finding your way through a place this vast."

"You flatter me."

The director's smile carried the unhurried ease of long experience, and she marveled at it inwardly. She had only vaguely described in her letter the vision the owl had shown her that night, yet he had understood it perfectly — and there was not a hint of hesitation in his stride.

"Glory to the Eirene Oath! Welcome, Lady Rebecca!"

"You've worked hard, men."

The booming salute of the sentries on patrol echoed through the halls. Beyond them, a great gallery stretched on and on. Shafts of many-colored light, fractured through the stained glass of the ceiling, spilled across a marble floor laid in geometric patterns that played tricks upon the eye.

They walked the gallery for some time.

"…What's this?"

Her steps came to a halt.

"Ah. That would be Euronica."

"Euronica?"

A single painting had seized Rebecca's gaze.

"Indeed. Would you care to hear the description of the work?"

"Please."

A vast canvas filled an entire wall — and within it, a scene of hellish slaughter.

"Does Lady Rebecca know the meaning of the word Euronica?"

"Enlighten me."

"It would be my honor. Euronica is Elvish for 'the heart of the forest.' It was the name the elves of old gave to the land where the World Tree once stood."

The heart of the forest. The land where the World Tree had stood. The homeland of the Druids. The present imperial territory of the Linnel Great Forest.

Unbidden, the face of a child sleeping soundly rose in her mind.

"This work is an oil painting commissioned some thirty years ago by the fallen knight Degal Imaian, from the renowned Elven artist Arondel Muntril. He asked that it be painted to commemorate the Imperial Knights' expulsion of the 'demons of the forest.'"

"But this painting…"

"Just so. Arondel refused the commission any number of times. In the end, however, he could not endure the threats brought to bear upon him, and he took up his brush."

Flames spreading in every direction. Black smoke choking the sky. The atmosphere was so fiercely, so tragically rendered that the screams of the terrified seemed to rise from the canvas itself. Demons in black armor were slaughtering the children of the forest with merciless cruelty. Not a speck of hope's light could be found in that bleak and despairing depiction, and it cut her to the heart.

"And this artist. What became of him?"

"Regrettably."

The director shook his head, his expression troubled. If one had given offense to that piece of filth, there was only one end that could be expected.

"…I see."

Arondel Muntril, master of Elven painting. He had kept to his convictions — and for that price, the fallen knight had taken his head with a single stroke of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blade.

"A truly sorrowful affair. This work became the last he left to this world."

Emotions surged and collided within her. Part of her thought that others needed to see this painting, if the truth of the Druids was ever to be known. Another part of her thought, with equal force, that the child must never be allowed to see it. Should she speak to Her Majesty and have the painting taken down in advance? She had already ordered the librarians to burn every fraudulent volume on the Druids held in the Imperial Grand Library. But things like this…

"Shall we continue? We are nearly there."

At the same hour, the Imperial Magic Tower.

Magia Nexus.

"Get out here!"

"L-Lady Laura! Shh — shhhh!"

They stood before the door of Seris's modest house, nestled within the walls of Magia Nexus. She was a Councilor who could have kept hundreds of servants, yet she preferred to live like this, alone. Compared to the domain of the Knight Order, the atmosphere here was relatively snug and free. The garden before the house was thick with flowers and medicinal herbs of every kind, and possessed a charm all its own.

"Seris, you little brat! Get out here this instant!"

"Please, just lower your voice a little! You're going to get me killed!"

Hers was a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voice as booming as befit an immortal bard. The greenhorn mage — who had once been warned by a senior, The Tower Master hates noise! If you don't want to experience a forced cryogenic nap, you'd better behave yourself! — clung desperately to the hem ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Laura's skirt.

"You hopeless girl…! I taught you and taught you, and this is what I get? You ought to have come running out in nothing but your underthings, and instead you make me come all the way to your door? Tch! No doubt you're sprawled out asleep again, same as always—"

The door burst open with a sudden bang, thrown wide by magic. The magic stone on the messenger-bird perch glowed a vivid blue, and a voice issued from it.

"Y-yes, Tower Master! Pardon the intrusion~!"

The mage seized the chance and fled in a scramble. Laura watched the poor creature go with a look of pity, then stepped through the door.

"Tsk, tsk. How harshly have you been treating that child, that they're shaking like a leaf? Treat them with love."

"A healthy dose of fear makes them easier to manage, Master."

"Honestly… I don't recall teaching you that."

"So. What's your business?"

"Busi~ness? Have I only ever come to you when I had business? Why, you insolent little—"

The master, winding up to give her disciple a thorough scolding, could not finish the sentence.

"…Are you all right?"

"What are you talking about."

A face drawn and hollow with exhaustion. And the bitter scent of medicinal herbs, sharp enough to sting the nose.

"Come to think of it, even that usual insolent drawl of yours is gone…"

Seris did not respond. Every nerve she had was fixed on the microscope. Laura started toward her — and something caught against her foot.

A pharmacological text on the Linnel Great Forest, written by elves?

And beyond it, Druid-related volumes scattered in disarray. The puzzle pieces that had been drifting through her mind found their places at last.

"So Andarlef was telling the truth. The Druid child is alive."

"I'm glad I don't have to bother explaining."

"This won't do. He told me to wait, but I'm going to see that child right now. Come with me."

"No."

She was about to ask why when Seris pointed at something. What she indicated was a notice posted on the wall beside the bed.

"Let's see… So what am I supposed to do about that? Wait." She stopped. "Don't tell me."

Still staring into the microscope, Seris nodded.

"I see. This is something I can settle by meeting Aria myself, then?"

Another nod. And another.

"I won't press you for a blow-by-blow of whatever happened. But this much I do need to confirm. Did you go and cause trouble again?"

A flinch.

"Good grief, you immature child…"

Laura let out a long sigh, and only then stepped close to Seris.

"All right. I'll handle it. Just don't push yourself too hard."

An embrace — the first in a year. The disciple lingered a moment in her master's warm arms.

"This is the place."

The Imperial History Museum, once more. The building Rebecca had arrived at was a circular hall lined with glass display cases.

Here. This is the place I saw in the vision the owl showed me.

The view she had looked out from as a small wild creature.

"The object you seek will be over there. Allow me to open the case for you."

The director pointed toward a far, secluded corner. Her gaze followed the tip of his finger as if drawn.

"…Ah!"

"It seems my guess was correct."

"It was. This is exactly what I was looking for."

A garment of pure white, holding a soft glow beneath the lights. The one the owl had asked to be returned to the child.

"Haha. Lady Rebecca seems to take a keen interest in other races. This is a Druid garment. It is not widely known, but it is said that when their bodily growth comes to a halt, they receive this clothing, knitted by their own mother's hands. The material is fiber drawn ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from the fallen bark of the World Tree, and a peculiar magic dwells in it — driving out the heat in summer, and the cold in winter. It is also exceedingly durable. Three such garments, they say, will last a lifetime."

The joy lasted only a moment.

"……Their mother. Knitted it herself, you said?"

"Just so. Do you see the embroidery on the sleeve?"

The sole ornament on that austere garment: a complex pattern of black vine-work, stitched in thread.

"The form of the embroidery is said to differ from household to household. There is even a saying that one need only look at the pattern to know whose family it belongs to. To them, then, this garment is something that special — something that precious. Though sadly, of course, there will never again be occasion to find the owner of this particular one."

"……"

The more she heard, the heavier her shoulders grew. Dozens of thoughts crowded Rebecca's mind. Whether she ought to return it at all. And if she did, what words she could possibly speak as she placed it in the child's hands. All at once, Euronica — the painting she had seen in the gallery only moments before — seemed to shimmer before her eyes.

"…Lady Rebecca?"

The director had already drawn the garment from the case.

"Here. Please take it."

"Th-thank you."

She had no time to think. She could only receive it.

"As for a return date… well, I won't set one, so you needn't worry overmuch. Only, once your research is concluded, do contact me as we agreed."

"I shall keep that in mind."

"Then I shall take my leave. Glory to the Eirene Oath."

Rebecca bowed her head toward the departing director. And yet, looking down at what she held, a slow regret began to creep in. No — it was already too late for regret. The responsibility had come into her hands, and as a knight, she had a duty to return it to the child. That duty must be fulfilled.

"……"

And yet her hand tightened slightly around the garment. Why?