Reunion with the Saint
The next morning, as the sun just began to peek over the horizon, we packed up our bedding and set off once more. According to the map, the journey to Poscotia would take only a few hours.
With daylight, Pirel seemed embarrassed by what had happened the day before. She kept fidgeting while tidying up, her gaze darting away whenever it met mine. I leaned in and pressed a light kiss to her forehead, watching the winter wind kiss her cheeks until they bloomed red, then swung myself onto the horse.
“Kaira, Kaira. Look over there.”
After a few dozen minutes, Pirel seemed to have forgotten her shyness entirely. As we drew closer to Poscotia and the crowds thickened along the road, she pointed toward one of the processions.
“A funeral march… right?”
I followed her gesture. The ash-gray headwind was already sweeping along the path, so a brief glance wouldn’t hurt.
“It looks like it. This is my first time seeing one in person, too.”
Memories from my university days surfaced. Pirel had never received the sort of formal education that included frivolous liberal-arts courses, so I figured I might as well share something interesting.
“The holy city of Poscotia draws people from across the entire empire—sometimes even from the eastern kingdoms or mountain tribes who worship the Light. Those whose days are numbered come here to wait for death in the sanitariums the city provides, tended by priests. Even those who die before they can arrive send their bodies, if nothing else.”
Pirel hung from my back, swinging gently as she asked, her ruby-like eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Oh…? That’s interesting. Why do they do that?”
“For the funeral rites performed by the priests of the Light. Though it’s cremation, not burial.”
The priests of the Church of Light were renowned not only for their powers of healing and purification, but also for their destructive authority to burn away impurity. Azalea had been especially gifted in that regard.
“They burn the body with the power of Light so that the final journey is accompanied only by brightness and purity… or something like that.”
“I see.”
“That’s why Poscotia isn’t particularly hostile to outsiders. Caring for the elderly who come here to convalesce is the city’s main occupation. It might seem like a perfect hiding place for criminals, but because it’s filled with the elderly and crawling with strict monks, it’s almost never used as a refuge.”
…Like a criminal such as myself.
“The requiems sung at those cremations and funerals are said to be beautiful. Since you’ve read my memories, you probably know the one I mean.”
“The one the Saint used to hum…”
Whenever a battle ended, Azalea would sing something under her breath while burning the entire battlefield. I had thought it was just a tune she hummed when caught up in the thrill of combat, but later learned it was a requiem.
No matter how battle-mad she seemed, she had still been a priestess.
“I’ve never seen one myself, but they say that outside every gate of Poscotia there are large, solemn crematoriums where priests personally conduct the rites.”
“That sounds kind of creepy.”
I gave my characteristically cool, mage-like assessment.
“To followers of the God of Light, it’s the most solemn and beautiful of ceremonies.”
The farther we traveled, the more elderly travelers we encountered, a sure sign we were nearing Poscotia. At last, from the crest of a hill carpeted in pale, withered winter grass, we looked down upon the southern gate of the holy city.
“It’s more modest than the imperial capital.”
Pirel’s blunt observation.
“I thought a place called the ‘holy city’ would be more extravagant.”
“It’s a city built around the priesthood rather than industry. Militarily, it’s under the empire’s protection, so it doesn’t need imposing walls.”
Pirel’s opinion, formed from the unimpressive outer walls, changed the moment we passed through the gate. I wasn’t surprised—I had come here once before with Azalea.
Entering the city was easy. As an independent territory, the empire’s wanted posters held no sway here.
Finding where Azalea resided was no trouble either. In this place, the name Saint Azalea carried immense weight, and every movement she made was the talk of the town.
The grand temple at the center of Poscotia, where she currently stayed. A massive building whose eight spires encircled a single white dome.
I had never entered the central sanctuary itself, so I had never seen it, but I had heard that beneath the dome was a mural depicting the descent of radiant light—so masterfully painted that one could scarcely imagine how it was done.
Both the exterior and interior walls were built of pure white marble, inlaid with golden and silver ornaments symbolizing light that shone so brightly they hurt the eyes.
‘Those yellow decorations—are they all gold? Surely not. Gold is too soft and expensive. Probably just brass.’
I entertained such irreverent thoughts while marveling at the temple’s beauty. On my previous visit I had been little more than a broken shell, so the architecture had left no impression. This time, however, the splendor of the sacred building properly dazzled me. I even found myself wondering, in a thoroughly commoner’s way, whether priests were allowed such luxury.
Then again, there was no law forbidding priests or monks from earning money.
We left the ash-gray headwind at the temple’s stable and penned a brief letter for Azalea before stepping inside. …Even the stable charged a fee; perhaps the ornaments really were precious metals after all.
A young novice—or perhaps a seminary student still in training—who seemed to handle miscellaneous chores greeted us. I asked him to deliver the letter to the Saint.
If we had asked to see her without any letter, we might have been turned away on the spot.
The boy’s expression as he accepted the letter was indifferent. No doubt he had dealt with countless visitors demanding an audience with the Saint. He told us to wait and hurried inside.
We sat on elegantly carved marble chairs and waited in silence, entertaining unhealthy suspicions about whether the letter would actually reach her or if it had already been torn up.
A few minutes later, a brilliant, unnatural light—bright enough to sting the eyes and warm enough to feel—reflected off the bricks along one corridor wall.
I didn’t need to hear her voice or see her face to know who it was. Unless the God of Light Himself had descended, there was only one person who could be the source of such radiance.
“Kaira!!”
With that cry, Azalea appeared, clad in an ornate priestly robe that looked terribly uncomfortable, clutching the hem as she hurried around the corner with the boy in tow. I rose from my chair without thinking.
“I missed you, Kaira…!!”
I took a step back from Azalea as she lunged to embrace me.
“Huh…?”
Azalea looked slightly flustered when I evaded her outstretched arms.
“It’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you, Lady Azalea. I missed you too.”
I added one more line.
“…I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to be burned alive.”
“Ah.”
Azalea let out a soft gasp, apparently recalling the night in the forest when she had nearly set me ablaze.
I extended my hand for a handshake. Azalea hesitated, clearly worried she might hurt me, but eventually took it.
“…It doesn’t hurt.”
My impression of the handshake. The time that had passed must have dulled the rejection she once felt toward me in her heart.
…I had been anxious, truth be told. What if I was no longer the bakery daughter Kaira, nor the Korean researcher Lee Sun-hyeon? What if I was merely some alien shadow that had devoured their memories and convinced itself it was Kaira? If that were the case, Azalea’s touch would have ignited the moment it reached me. For now, at least, I could breathe easy.
Azalea squeezed my hand firmly and smiled.
“How could you write a letter like that? ‘From freshly baked ritual bread’—really, this is…”
She released my hand, confirmed it was unharmed, then pulled me into a tight embrace.
“Hehe, there’s no one else in the world who would sign a letter that way except you, Kaira.”
Still held in her arms, I smiled back.
“I’m glad you recognized it right away. I couldn’t use my real name in case someone else saw it.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. No matter what anyone says, I’ll protect you.”
Seeing the Saint’s smile washed away every trace of fatigue from our grueling journey.
“But what brings you here? Did you stop by while traveling?”
‘…Stopped by while traveling…’
Azalea knew better than anyone that I was in no position to travel so freely. She had phrased it gently to spare my feelings, but the real meaning behind her words was probably something like, ‘I can’t grant you asylum.’
“I have someone I’d like to introduce to you, Lady Azalea.”
“Someone to introduce? Ah… that child…?”
Only then did Azalea turn her attention to Pirel. The Saint’s curious gaze swept over her once.
“There’s something about her… She resembles you a little. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Azalea. Thanks to the God’s love, others have graciously bestowed upon me the title of Saint.”
I still wasn’t sure how to introduce her. I couldn’t ask Azalea to hide me, but if Pirel was family, Azalea wouldn’t refuse.
“Well, you see, this child is my younge—”
At that moment, Pirel gave me a gentle push and stepped between us. Before either Azalea or I could react, Pirel began to speak, offering a slight bow.
“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Azalea. I am Pirel, Kaira’s mother. Our Kaira has caused you no small amount of trouble over the years. Thank you for always being so understanding.”
Azalea’s eyes widened in utter bewilderment as she looked back and forth between Pirel and me—despite the head’s difference in height.
“Y-yes…?”