Though bewildered by the turn of events at first, Col quickly recalled what sort of booklets Jean had been distributing. They were, indeed, awfully written… “Oh gosh. Brother, what should I do?” Myuri, who was much sharper than him, had caught on to Jean’s curiosity quicker than he had. She put on obvious airs, tantalizing Jean. When she turned to look at Col, she winked, silently telling him to play along. If he did not handle this correctly, she would nag him relentlessly for days to come. “Mister Jean, we would be more than happy to tell you the tale of our world-shaking adventures…if you lend us your—no, if you tell us about yourself.” “Don’t you want to hear about ghost ships carrying human bones?” Myuri added. “We didn’t see the devil himself, but the rest of it is true!” Jean blinked, looking back and forth between Col and Myuri. A curious flame burned brightly in his eyes. Yet he drew his lips into a thin line, his face scrunching up as though he had bitten into a burnt piece of meat, and said, “…I don’t deal with books anymore.” Perhaps Col’s word choice had been wrong—Myuri’s cold stare frightened him. Jean dropped his head and gaze to the table, and clenched his fists so tightly they almost shuddered. “But maybe I can make an exception…for something as interesting as that…” Jean’s eyes were fixed on Myuri’s sword. All Col had to do was recall what the gaunt, defeated man wrote about in the books he had so widely distributed. They were terribly written stories of imaginary nobles achieving great feats in battle. “So then, you…,” Col scarcely began. Jean averted his gaze and raised his mug. It looked as though he was not only raising the flag of defeat, but also sending a sign asking for help. “Damn…Damn it,” he groaned, then turned to look at Myuri. “The tale of a very young lady knight…Damn it all, if that doesn’t sound interesting.” The people at the Reel, who were no more than beggars sleeping in rags, had spoken up, fearing for Jean’s safety. Their reasoning was simply because he performed songs for them at such a run-down tavern. But they did not have very high praises for his singing—it seemed the man had very little in the way of musical skill. But that alone was the key to solving the mystery of all the booklets at the papermakers’ workshop. Those stories were never meant to harass a noble, like Rhodes suggested, or be a secret signal to gather his fellow printers again, or be a part of a conspiracy with hidden political meaning. If they were products of pure passion, that could reasonably explain most of his odd acts—after all, Col had learned that not just from himself and Myuri, but from the Nordstone incident as well. Jean was simply following his passion. “I have no talent for poetry…” But he still wanted the world to acknowledge him. The story he began to weave was one of a man who spent half his life on that enthusiasm. It was said that in the beginning, most boys harbor a simple desire to one day pick up the sword and make a name for themselves on the battlefield. But Jean’s body was naturally scrawny, and no amount of training gave him the bulk he needed. Ultimately, just as he barely managed to qualify for the transport corps—the troops that brought supplies to the knights and the mercenaries—he was sent to battle. But along the way, he apparently came face-to-face with death just by walking. Even when he learned the realities of war and gave up on his dream of running around with a sword in hand, he only found his spirit more deeply enamored with the ferocity of battle. It was because he could not be a part of it that he thought long and hard about what he could do. Jean searched and searched for a way to get involved in battle, and at last realized that one did not need physical prowess to engage in the world of war through song. And when he knocked on the door of a workshop that dealt with books, which might teach him how to read and write, it turned out to be the very workshop that invented the technology Col and Canaan needed. The story from there was essentially the same as what Canaan and Le Roi had told them—the inquisitors’ and booksellers’ hunt, except from the view of the artisans. “That there, that thing you got in your hand? The reason I spread those books around was…woe.” “Woe?” Myuri listened to Jean’s story very intently. Though she repeated the word solemnly, she took a liking to it because it sounded odd to her. When the wild girl turned to look at Col, he gave a sigh and spelled the word for her with mutton grease on the table. “When I was at the workshop, I’d go to the homes of nobles, looking for household bards, give them my poetry, and sing for them. But they always threw me out with a grimace. I always cursed them for being idiots with terrible taste,” Jean said as he drank down his wine with alarming speed. “But it wasn’t long before the Curia came a knocking, so I ran. I wasn’t on good terms with the rest of them at the workshop—they called me the Bungling Bard—so I was lucky I didn’t have any deep relation to them. I finally ended up here, in this town, and I took a job at the papermakers’ because I didn’t know where else to go. But I couldn’t contain myself. I wanted others to hear my poems so bad, I used the tools I sneaked out of the workshop to make books.” It was not long after that Jean made his way to a tavern not too far away from town to find out how his poetry was doing. And when he heard the bards making fun of his work, his spirit shattered. Twice had he pursued a dream only for it to fall apart. So he threw away the technology and found himself at the bottle of an empty wine mug. “I’m sure all my poems are bad because I made all of it up…Just once…Just once, I want to see a spectacle in action for myself, one that will excite my very soul. I know that would be enough for everyone to want to hear my poems. I just hadn’t found the right story. But you…” By the time Jean was finished speaking, he was drunk out of his mind. The heavens were not pitying his state, yet once noon passed, a warm breeze began to blow from the south, and the sky grew dark. Since it seemed as though rain was on its way, Hollande and Rhodes took Jean to one of the rooms in the tavern’s upper floor to care for him while also keeping watch over him. Weariness hung heavy beneath the eaves, befitting the weather, and all those left languidly nursed what remained of their tepid drinks. “His eyes were like a candle on a stormy night,” Le Roi remarked. That brought back memories for Col: stumbling across an abandoned shack in the middle of his travels, watching his candle flicker in the wind as he tried to keep the wind out. It was a flame that struggled to stay lit, yet would burn brightly at the oddest moments. It was much like a candle whose wick had grown too short and was soon approaching its end. “Though God has determined our role in life, he has been given particularly trying trials. I sympathize with him,” Canaan said, his word choice making him sound much like a holy person, and sighed. “But there was a ray of hope for the both of us.” “Haum…A story that would stir his soul, right?” Myuri, who had failed to eat most of her meal due to the conversation, placed her slices of fried eel between two pieces of bread, lathered it in plenty of mustard, and bit into it as she spoke. Jean had faced numerous setbacks in his attempts to find a place in the world of battle that he so often dreamed of. He was physically too thin. His singing was so terrible that even the beggars at the Reel criticized it. And just as clear as it was from the booklets that served as their clue, he unfortunately had zero talent when it came to writing the stories themselves. Yet he had knocked on the door of the workshop and became a relatively competent artisan, so it was clear that Jean was not exactly talentless, but that he had strengths and weaknesses. He did not acknowledge that, however, and stubbornly insisted that he was simply yet to come across the right subject matter. Or perhaps he had indeed realized the truth, yet his pride was the very last bastion of his mind. “He was rather inebriated when he told us all that. Do we believe him?” Le Roi asked. Col recalled how Jean was slumped over the table, asleep, like his spine had been removed from his body. “One could say those words came from deep within his soul,” Canaan firmly argued. He and the other archivists needed Jean’s help to complete their project, after all. “And luckily, we have someone here who can fully satisfy his hopes.” At that, Col naturally turned to look at Le Roi, the extraordinary bookseller. Le Roi then turned to look at Canaan, who worked in the Curia’s labyrinthine archives. And Canaan turned an expectant eye to Col. Myuri was not a part of this circle—she proudly puffed out her chest. “It seems we all have our fair share of humility.” Le Roi burst out into belly-shaking laughter, and Myuri stared at him blankly. “I thought you might know of some valuable tales, Mister Le Roi,” Col said. “And I thought Archivist Canaan would have access to many more books that I would not,” Le Roi replied. “All those stories have questionable basis,” Canaan said. “But Master Col is indeed translating the scripture into the vernacular, and he is shaking the very foundation of the Church, which is an impossibly large organization. He most certainly should be written about in songs—has there ever been anything like this since the dawn of history?” All three of them glanced back and forth at the others. But when Col noticed Myuri, the only one not a part of the circle, was pouting, he quickly put his hand on her back. “Is this really the time to be quibbling over such a thing?” It was an unfamiliar voice that interjected—Canaan’s guard spoke up from his spot several paces away, where he stood on watch. “Some casualties cannot be helped. Archivist Canaan, have you forgotten what you told yourself when you left the archives?” Canaan’s guard spoke—he was more taciturn than Az, so his words lay heavy over them. Canaan always seemed to be taking things in stride, yet Col had gotten a vague idea of what he must have gone through to leave the Holy See. “Perhaps you should stop quibbling and make your decision.” “I…B-but Mister Jean learned these techniques for the sake of his dreams. And as a result of those dreams being shattered, he no longer wants to have anything to do with books. I am not sure if hurting him, tormenting his spirit in order to save others, is truly the correct thing to do.” Canaan’s guard remained unconvinced, but the way he shifted on his feet made it seem as though he was searching for a compromise, and silence fell over them again. Of course, there was no better solution than finding a way for Jean’s motivation to return, but when considering world peace was at stake here, there was an argument to be made that the suffering of one could easily be acceptable in the face of safety for everyone else. “It’s fine!” Myuri then said, getting to her feet. “Did you see how excited he was when he heard about me and my brother’s adventure?” It was as though she was telling them there was an obvious way to get Jean’s motivation back. But the conflict between the kingdom and the Church, one that could easily be said had the world split into two, was at stake. That meant whatever story they told him would have to be very carefully chosen. That said, it was still true that he had been very interested in her sword and crest. Myuri firmly believed that her adventure with Col was simply the best, yet he could talk her down through skills he had honed in theological debate. “We are not invalidating you. There are many paths up a mountain—we are simply discussing which one we should take.” Myuri sensed some sort of trickery and opened her mouth to speak, but Le Roi spoke up before she could. “In my experience, all people have their own preferences. Which means we should not narrow it down to one single thing and put all our hopes on that; we should allow everyone to tell him a tale they have full confidence in. Other’s preferences are surprisingly hard to pin down before speaking about them.” Le Roi traded in books—there was weight to his words. Myuri still looked like she wanted to say something, but she ultimately pursed her lips and sat back down in her chair. “Then we will wait for Mister Jean to awaken, and then we will tell him moving tales…Is that correct?” Canaan asked. “Yes,” Col replied. Canaan turned a thoughtful gaze into the distance. It was then that Col suddenly felt a chill on his cheek, and the rest of the remaining group turned their attention skyward. “It’s raining,” Canaan remarked. “We should return to the inn. Myuri, have them pack up the rest,” Col said. “But our story would make this easy,” she muttered as she shoved one last mouthful of food into her mouth, then called for the waitress. The room was dim with the window shutters closed. Yet when the candles were lit, it only made the shadows deeper, which darkened his mood further. “Good grief, how things have turned out…” Col had sort of assumed that once they found the artisan, all their problems would be solved. He could not deny, either, that he was optimistic, that if the artisan had refused to work with them, they could simply convince him. He had not once thought that the artisan was evading the skill he mastered as a result of his dreams being so thoroughly ruined. “I just need to tell him my story.” Myuri, with her ears and tail out, sat improperly on the bed, munching on the lamb ribs they had brought back from the tavern. “You may not tell him about Miss Ilenia or Mister Autumn.” It was said that once the Church found nonhumans, the nonhumans were immediately burned at the stake. Much like witches, those poor innocents who fell under suspicion were often needlessly killed, but in their case, it was all true. It would be terrible trouble for them if her story ended up being spread around on the off chance that Jean took a liking to it. “I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Then are you going to talk about Lord Nordstone?” Stories like that of the ghost ships transporting human bones, which she had indeed brought up, could go over very well with the drunks at the taverns. But dubious tales about living nobles would only cause trouble for the new Lord Stephan. But as Col reconsidered, Myuri, with a rib bone picked clean of meat still in her mouth, leaned forward to pull out a sheaf of papers from her bag, and she slapped them on the bed. “I thought about that, but I think this would be better,” she said. Col could not keep a straight face—she had suggested her fantasy knight tale, the one thing he thought most implausible. “…Why are you looking at me like that?” She glared at him, eyes damp. He did not want to scold her too much, but all their efforts would come to nothing if Jean grew frustrated with them through their thoughtless actions. Like a sheep picking its way through a pothole-littered ground, he chose his words carefully. “Well…that is a detailed rendition of your dreams, no? It is often said that we should not share the dreams we had the previous night with others.” When Myuri was of the age where she had to voice every little thing she saw and thought, he occasionally found himself unable to bear her ramblings. He tensed, certain she was going to be angry with him for bringing it up outright, but she only shrugged. “My goal wasn’t to show him this, specifically.” “What?” Unsure of what she meant, Col stared dumbfounded at her. A humid breeze blew in through the open window, causing the candlelight to dance. Myuri was the sort whose reactions came instantaneously, who could respond with intensity far beyond what was normally warranted; she reached to grip her toes, and her tail swished back and forth. The gloom on her face most certainly did not seem to be a reflection of the gloom in the sky beyond the open window. Col was at a loss; Myuri closed her eyes and gave a deep sigh. “These are dreams.” He thought he heard thunder rumbling in the distance, but a cart had only passed by the window. But the sky had grown dark enough that he knew it would begin raining any minute now, and it cast a dark cloud over Myuri’s expression. “Dreams that will never come true. You know that, don’t you?” She had been obsessed with her knight’s story since leaving Raponell. She said what happened when she faced off against the priest and all the common folk he commanded did not sit very well with her. An indomitable old noble clad in full armor and a silver wolf who has returned to true form, dashing through the woods. It was indeed the perfect material for a war epic, but Myuri was still not quite happy with it. That was because the person she wanted standing beside the wolf was someone else. “But…” The story in her hands was the manifestation of the best possible future she could imagine, solidified in words. He wanted to tell her this, but he faltered—Myuri stared at him, a wry smile on her face. “When I ran through the forest with that old man with a clear enemy in mind, I was so, so excited. It was so much fun.” She dropped her shoulders; her neck seemed so thin that Col wondered if she was always this skinny. “But when we stood at the edge of the forest and the old man drew his sword, I realized something.” “You did?” he asked. She nodded, drawing her shoulders back up as she did. When she was little, growing up in Nyohhira, she was full of mischief, and she spent all her time swinging around sticks, pretending they were swords. Though it was not a direct result of that, she now had the title of knight for herself and trained every day in swordsmanship. Her eyes squinted uncomfortably as she smiled at Col, as though she could not focus after just waking up. “You’d never let me wield a sword, Brother.” “……” Col, of course, had no right to be surprised by what she said. Because he was constantly admonishing her for being so tomboyish and telling her that she needed to act more ladylike. But he had a feeling what she was telling him went beyond that. “Well, maybe you would let me, but…I don’t know. I feel like we’d end up totally at odds.” She reached forward, squeezing her hand around the hilt of an imaginary sword. Her blade, the one she never let stray far from her person, the one decorated with the crest of the wolf, leaned against a nearby wall. “Because…try to imagine me with a sword in my hand and someone’s blood splattered all over my face. You’d be sadder than if I got hurt.” He could picture that so easily. The battlefield was no place for elegant nobility. When she stood beside Nordstone, the clever girl had finally seen for herself what it meant to wield a sword and what would come of it. “If I hurt someone with my sword, or even end up killing them, then…I don’t think we could ever have fun laughing or talking anymore like we used to. There wouldn’t be any point to any of this if that happened. So it’s just a dream. It won’t ever happen.” She pulled her knees in and hugged them, then began to lightly draw her finger over the paper of her story. “Doesn’t that make it the most fitting story to tell the artisan?” She tilted her head when she finished speaking, and her long hair slipped from her shoulders with a quiet rustle. She suddenly looked so grown-up. Though she was full of unbounded innocence, the bottom of her clear waters was littered with the sharp fragments of reality. Myuri stood her ground in the cold water, even though she knew that moving quickly would only tear open her skin and draw blood. “I know you and the others are only going to tell him happy stories.” She was supposed to be the most happy-go-lucky girl in the world; she slowly turned her eyes to gaze out the open window. Luckily, the weather did not turn into a spring storm, but a misty rain soon covered the town. “Salty meat goes best with sweet bread. I think it’d be perfect if I told him a sad story.” She got up from the bed and closed the window. It almost seemed as though a great, important door was now closed to them. “The bards told me that the livelier songs are the popular ones. But the ones that make the most money are the pensive ones.” When she turned around again, her mischievous smile was back on her face. “Father told me that.” “Myuri…” “Well, that’s the gist of it.” Her eyes dropped. She bashfully drew up her shoulders before taking the sheaf of papers on the bed in hand and tapping them on the blanket to straighten them out. “You should buy me a treat if I manage to convince the artisan to work with us,” she said. “……” “Full plate armor for me. And I mean that!” There was no reason to hamper the movements of someone so nimble as Myuri with plate armor. But she had learned what it meant to wield a sword in battle and understood that such a thing would never happen. Which meant the only place she could exude knightliness was the ceremonial knight’s festivals—jousting tournaments. How he should respond to her, Col did not know. As much as he wanted to discourage her from her wild behavior, she had come to understand those limits long before he noticed. As he stood there, upset, she stepped lightly toward the door. He hurriedly called to her: “Wh-where are you going?” She was reaching for the door. When she turned to look at him, she shrugged. “Don’t make that face. I’m fine. I’m not running away or anything.” Back in the bathhouse in Nyohhira, when she was much younger and had an even harder time understanding what was going on, she would often run into the mountains after being scolded. “Someone’s been loitering outside in the hallway. I think I need to share you. You’re so popular.” Another mischievous smile crossed her face as she hid her ears and tail. No matter who it was waiting for them, she did not want to stay in the room when it felt like this. “Mother would be drinking mug after mug of wine right now.” “You may n—” —Not, is what he was going to say, but the smile on her face told him she was happy to be scolded that way. “Instead, I’m going to ask Mister Le Roi for more really good food.” Col was shocked—she had eaten so much not long ago—but he understood this was her way of telling him not to worry about her. She was always so angry when he treated her like a child, and now he saw that she was indeed growing up. She smiled—it was not a forced one, nor was it filled with joy—and with a little wave, she left the room. When she cried and laughed and whined and ate, all he could ever see was a big puppy. The terrible feeling of emptiness that hung in the room was not from being left alone. It was because she was climbing the steps toward adulthood with nary a sound, and it suddenly felt like Col was the one being left behind. Though he knew he should be glad she was growing up, he was astonished. To think he would feel so sad about it, too. But things did not always go the way he wanted. No—perhaps he, too, was inexperienced. Though it was far too late for him to do anything about it, he noticed that despite all she said, Myuri still had taken her knight’s sword with her. She had seen reality yet did not forget to play within her dreams. Perhaps it was in the mundane that Col stood no hope of matching Myuri. And so, as the dust settled onto the floor in the room, his heart eased. The shift in air had perhaps extended beyond the door—there came a polite knock. Col had a general guess of who it might be from the way Myuri had spoken; when he opened the door, he found Canaan. Canaan stepped into the room. Though Col doubted he had been listening in on the conversation, he was certainly sharp enough to be able to tell from the atmosphere that something had happened between him and Myuri. He would not carelessly ask, of course, but he still stood uneasily and idly in place. “Oh, please, don’t stand. Take a seat.” It was not a very fancy inn—Col offered a chair that would likely splinter to pieces if Le Roi sat on it, but after taking a glance at it, Canaan slowly shook his head. “I actually came because I have a request.” Canaan did not ask to talk, which felt foreboding. And since Canaan elected to remain standing, Col found himself unsure of what to do with himself. So when he took the initiative to sit on the edge of the bed, Canaan gave in and sat on the chair offered to him. “You have a request?” “Yes,” Canaan said. “Perhaps more an offer to form a united front, to be more precise.” It was an odd word choice, but Canaan continued. “With regards to swaying Mister Jean onto our side, I would like your help with my story, Master Col.” “……” Col had thought that he, Canaan, and Le Roi each had stories to tell Jean that would be perfectly suited to persuade him, in their own way. He had a feeling Canaan had mentioned the story of the Twilight Cardinal being most fitting. But he was not sure what sort of help he could give. It did not seem as though Canaan was here to ask for more specific details that rumor of him on the street gave. “Do you…want to craft a story together, or something of the sort?” Though Col did not outright call it a “fabrication,” that was the sense he got from Canaan. Canaan closed his mouth, dropped his gaze, then chose his words carefully. “Crafting a story would be an apt descriptor, yes.” Col did not think he would say that, because Canaan did not strike him as the sort of person who would want to do that. But the first thing that came to mind was Canaan’s guard, how he pressured Canaan in forcing Jean to use the technology. Canaan and the other archivists were a minority within the Church, and their insistence on pursuing just ideals certainly earned the ire of the majority. To bring the project to the kingdom amid such a situation doubtlessly came with trouble and danger beyond imagining. “But it would not be a fabrication. Not exactly.” Canaan took a deep breath before settling his gaze squarely on Col. “I believe this opportunity is divine guidance. I feel God has sent me here so that I may have this very conversation with you here and now.” Were anyone else to say that, Col would think the statement overblown. But this boy hailed from a pure family intimately tied to the Church, to the point that there were popes in his family tree. And the faith that burned in his eyes was befitting his lineage. Canaan said: “Master Col. You should be canonized.” “…I’m sorry?” Col wondered if there was a bit of a smile on his face. “You should be canonized, Master Col—no, Twilight Cardinal.” Canaan leaned forward in his chair, his knees slipping to the floor in a kneel, and he gazed up at Col. “Become a saint.” It did not sound like a joke. But Col could not think of it as anything but. “Oh, um, I…” He thought he felt himself black out for a few moments. Canaan was practically clinging to Col’s knees, so Col pushed back on his shoulders. “Please calm down,” he said in a fluster. “I don’t—ah, I don’t understand.” Canaan’s brows lifted, as though he was stung by Col’s words. He wondered if he had misheard him for a brief second, but no—Canaan had indeed asked him to become a saint. “I would not bring this up as a joke,” Canaan said, still on his knees, speaking as though praying to the god beyond the altar. “The idea itself has remained in my head ever since I spoke about it with Sir Rhodes.” That was an unexpected name. “With…Rhodes?” “Yes. With Sir Rhodes, an admirable knight of Saint Kruza, though young he is. I was dazed by the depth of his love for you,” Canaan said with a bit of a chuckle. “But let us discuss the concrete steps.” Canaan, a bit calmer after making his joke, rose to his feet and spoke like a young theologian at the lectern. “Right now, the Kingdom of Winfiel’s division of the Knights of Saint Kruza have tasked themselves with righting the wrongs of the churches within the kingdom. Sir Rhodes and the other knights are, of course, fervently faithful. And they are more well versed in the study of canon law than the average member of the clergy. Thus, those corrupt churches who have wrongfully accumulated wealth through whatever means are successfully being denounced.” And with both physical strength and the love of the people on their side, the knights had nothing to fear. “However,” Canaan continued, “there are some who do not accept the principle of the law. That makes them barbarians who refuse to obey God’s true teachings.” That reminded Col of what Rhodes said. In rural churches, where the seat of the bishop is hereditary or where illiterate priests who had never read a word of the scripture were in charge, the authority of the Knights of Saint Kruza held no power. “What does sway them, however, is your name, Master Col.” Even if these priests were uneducated shams, they were still sensitive to social trends. They learned how things were changing out there in the wider world through the merchants and citizens they dealt with daily, which meant they had a general grasp on current events. And that meant even those who opposed Rhodes and the other knights’ denouncements, who likened the Knights of Saint Kruza to brigands and splashed them with water, could often be swayed when they heard the Twilight Cardinal’s name. That was because… “That is the sort of prestige your name holds now, Master Col.” At this point, Col understood that any lamentation or insistence that he was not that remarkable held little meaning. He had indeed left Nyohhira, joined the fight at Hyland’s side, and begun to push the boulder down the mountain with his own hands. He had no choice but to accept that this was the outcome. “What Sir Rhodes said could also apply to our project.” Col had a feeling he was starting to see what Canaan was saying. “Many may question if the vernacular scripture is the real scripture. No—I can easily see this happening, and I believe there will be strong resistance in this regard on the mainland, since the Church’s influence is much stronger there.” A translation was ultimately a translation and not the original. “The populace, who will not know what is correct, will believe their local priests if it comes down to it—they hold authority in the villages, after all. But with your name on it, Master Col, I believe things will be different.” Attributing correctness based on who was speaking held a surprising amount of sway in the world. Canaan speaking of contradictions in faith versus Myuri speaking on the same topic held vastly different shades of meaning. “B-but wait. Many already know I’m involved with the vernacular translation of the scripture, yes. But to use my name yet again when distributing the translated copies changes things. That may only intensify the conflict between the kingdom and the Church, and it would instead earn us the animosity of those associated with the Church on the mainland.” This was not humility stemming from his lack of self-confidence, which Myuri was always frustrated with. It was a series of events he could easily imagine happening, and one he knew they had to avoid. And Canaan, who could read a thick copy of an annotated version of the scripture once and have it memorized, had already thoroughly considered those ideas, and that was why he was here to speak with Col. “That is where canonization comes in.” “……” “If you were to be an officially recognized saint, you could wield the authority of the Church yourself.” “……” Col was dumbstruck, but he could not look away from Canaan. His earnest eyes were brimming with clear resolve and intelligence. “Many of our problems could be solved if you were to become an officially recognized saint. If that came to pass, you could even redefine the boundary lines in the conflict between the Church and the kingdom. That is because you would become the very embodiment of the Church’s authority, Master Col!” Col felt like it all made sense, but he found himself unable to comprehend all of it because the only thing he could picture in his mind was the ouroboros. “What is even more important is that there may be many members of the Church who sympathize with your ideas, but the ties of obligation prevent them from openly supporting you. But if you were an official saint, they would be able to boldly offer their support without hesitation. Please try to picture it. The circumstances could change the world!” It would be like watching a scene of winter transform into spring in the blink of an eye. “But…official sainthood?” “Do you believe you are not up to it?” The way Canaan smiled was rigid, that of a boy standing at the edge of a sheer cliff—it was as though he understood how utterly ridiculous his own actions were. “We administer the Curia’s archives. All texts come to us, and all texts come from us.” Since the dawn of history, there had been famous priests all over the world. As the Church spread its teachings, it needed to strengthen the union of all its believers in order to contend with the pagans. One way they managed to accomplish that back in the day was celebrating famous priests as saints. But canonizing, the act of officially recognizing someone as a saint, did not mean God would one day descend from the heavens and his angels would blow on their trumpets to proclaim the person’s ascension to sainthood. It was a bureaucratic process where mortal hands filled out documents. And so it was well known that there was a never-ending line of people who saved money to make their local priests into saints, putting the dignity of their region on the line, which meant the application process itself was a major business for the Church. Canaan was very familiar with this sort of corrupt flow of money. Documents written in ink made of melted corrupt gold found their way to his hands, after all, and were put on the shelves to be subsequently cared for by him and his cohort. He was intimately familiar with the bizarre and complex process, and he was also thoroughly knowledgeable about the relationships of power within the Curia, which were often likened to a spider’s web. No matter how much a great noble might boast, it was only God or the pope himself who could give even more credibility to this story than Canaan and the archivists. “And every application for canonization requires the saint’s biography.” A prospect that seemed almost like climbing a ladder that stretched infinitely upward now felt more like hopping over a puddle. Col immediately understood what Canaan wanted to say. “You want Mister Jean to print it?” Canaan nodded slowly. The mist of rain outside slowly seeped into the ground. “Yes. Though we’ve seen that he has no talent for poetry, he understands how to construct a sentence, and I believe in that overly proper style of writing, even if it is ill-placed in the songs of bards.” When Col saw Jean’s booklets at the papermakers’, he felt the word choice was far too rigid, and it felt too eager. But what if it was not for an ode or an epic, but instead for a stern biography? That eager and stiff writing was perfect for official documents that caused the reader to sit up straighter. “He is a writer to whom no one has paid attention. How can one not be deeply roused knowing his pen could give birth to a saint and change the world?” Canaan clenched his fists as he spoke. Col was not as certain when it came to Jean’s interests, but Canaan, just as he inspired himself, genuinely believed in what he was saying from the bottom of his heart. “God has put everything precisely where it needs to be. I cannot believe that you and I are here right now for any other reason besides his command.” Regardless of how Canaan truly felt, Col knew this decision was not one to be made with haste. He could not immediately find reasons to turn down Canaan’s offer. But whether he could agree to go forward with it was a different matter entirely. “But…to be a saint?” Nothing about that felt realistic. And if Col really were suited to being a saint, then he believed Canaan was as good a candidate as he. Even Rhodes and Clark, too. “I know how you feel.” Canaan stepped closer and took Col’s hand. “Because anyone who believes themselves to be suitable for sainthood would not be suitable for sainthood.” And perhaps that was why most who were canonized were already deceased. This strangely calm thought passed through Col’s confounded mind. “And if you were to be canonized,” Canaan said as he let go of Col’s hand; perhaps he did so to keep something from getting through to Col, “it would solve the monetary problems that plague Heir Hyland. It would also be a great help to her acquaintance’s monastery. You know quite a lot about the world of faith, Master Col. You understand what I mean.” Canaan’s sad smile, worn down from admitting defeat to the way of the world, only made the truth of his words that much more evident, whether or not he liked it. Because a saint was an embodiment of a miracle. Pilgrims swarmed their graves; they lay at the places the saint was said to practice their faith and prayed for miracles. Shreds of their clothing, pages of their personal copies of the scripture, parts of their quills, the pillars of their homes, benches upon which they sat on their travels—they all became relics and were sold for eye-blistering prices. One could not dress a dead saint in new clothes, but that could be done for a living saint. A new relic would be created every time they move, which essentially meant one could create and sell an infinite amount of treasure. Much like how one ancient king was said to have been able to turn everything he touched into gold, they would be able to transform Sharon and Clark’s struggling monastery into a great pilgrimage site. “I…cannot force you, of course,” Canaan said, his head hanging listlessly. If Canaan were the type to do everything in his power to accomplish something, they would have Jean on a cart with a bag over his head on their way back to Rausbourne right about now. But if he were sharp enough to do that, then he would have never come to the kingdom. He would have used his position within the Church to make himself an obscene amount of money and come up with a plan to drag down the Twilight Cardinal, who was a clear hindrance to his business. Canaan was here. That fact alone served as the root of his unbelievable plan. “It is but one possibility, Master Col.” But it was a big possibility, one with tremendous might behind it. Col found himself frozen before its greatness, and he could not even move, entranced by Canaan’s eyes. “…It’s gotten chilly.” Col remained unmoving, so it was Canaan who dropped his gaze first and changed the subject. He turned to look at the closed window, beyond which came the dripping sound of the rain. “Miss Myuri said she will be going with Mister Le Roi and the others to drink at the establishment across the street,” Canaan said with a smile. It did not look like a forced one. “Join us when you can.” I have given you the treasure map. Now it is up to you to plan our voyage. Whether Canaan was actually thinking that was unclear; he gave a short bow and left the room. “A…saint…” Even when Col said the words himself, they did not feel real. Not even the knight tales Myuri wrote had a turn of events this unbelievable. But reality’s stepping stones continued on into the darkness. And Canaan’s map showed him that at the end of all his hops and leaps was the key to solving all their problems. How long had Col sat alone in the room, lost in thought? It was only when the candle flame flickered out that he snapped back to his senses. He lifted his head to see it was still raining outside. It was no longer a mist—it was now raining in earnest. The Kingdom of Winfiel was known for its sheep, which meant the land was lush with the grasses needed to support the sheep. The inland parts of the country were wet and rainy. While it snowed plenty during the winter in Nyohhira, there was surprisingly little rain. Fog was a more familiar sight to him. As he cracked open the window and gazed up at the sky, he felt a little strange knowing it had been so bright and sunny earlier that day. The thick clouds now blotted out the sun. But when he dropped his attention to the tavern across the way, its lights, music, and laughter filled the streets. Though he could not see the future, he could at least take charge of the day and decide to enjoy it. He moved to close the window as those familiar words rolled around in his mind, when a girl, mug in hand, peeked out from under the eaves of the tavern with listless movements. When she nonchalantly turned her head upward, she noticed Col and immediately beamed. It seemed she had sense enough not to yell at him, but she did give him a large wave, telling him to come over quickly. Col waved back in acknowledgment. She was right. He would not get any good ideas by staying in the room. Well, he was not waiting for ideas, exactly. He had to make a decision. If they were able to secure Jean’s cooperation, they would not have to worry about hiring an unbelievable number of scribes. But making copies of a book as thick as the scripture would still cost a pretty penny. It was unclear whether Jean alone could manage the printing process entirely by himself, which meant they would need to pay a hefty sum for assistants and the creation of the printing tools. And every last coin was to be borne by Hyland. But if they were unable to get Jean’s help, the enormous, unparalleled monetary burden would likely stop them in their tracks. Which meant Canaan’s idea was not simply to restore Jean’s motivation. If Col were indeed successfully canonized, that would give them a means to solve the monetary problems that would doubtlessly come up in the future. Not only that, but if he really were awarded the title of saint, it would also solve the problem of the shaky authority of the vernacular translation itself, which was something he had not considered until Canaan brought it up. As Rhodes said, there were plenty of priests who could not read, nor who had ever come in contact with God’s teachings. They needed to use the name of a famous, powerful figure as a weapon to get the copies of the translated scripture into those people’s hands. The title of saint was powerful in that regard. Of course, given how those people were considered to be the bearers of miracles, many saints were only canonized posthumously. Many historical popes must have given the title to living people in the past, only to later get in trouble when they were scrutinized for inappropriate behavior. Canaan was attempting to use history’s teachings against them. Of course, Col questioned whether he could actually go through with it. But if he did not, they would lose their path forward. If all went well, the results could indeed change everything. Or perhaps the reason he hesitated so was because he had been picked up by a traveling merchant as a child. It was under that merchant’s hand that he learned to weigh every factor upon the scales before making a decision. If he did become a saint, what would rest on the scales opposite him? What would he ultimately have to give up? He could not even imagine his heart alone would be good enough. But the reason he could not brush off Canaan’s project as foolish was not simply because the massive potential profits they stood to gain. If he were to accept, there was a good chance it would light a fire within Jean. What aspiring poet could possibly resist a tale as outlandish as this? And if they managed to get Jean on their side with this ridiculous drivel, then Myuri would not have to share that tragic story with him. Perhaps speaking of one’s own dreams that would never come true to another in the depths of despair was the right thing to do, in the sense that it created a sense of closeness. But Col wanted Myuri to keep her bright smile, to approach things positively. He did not want her to smile sadly and share her broken dreams with another. She wanted her to use it as her way of complaining about him, as her own selfishness, like she always did. If he were to become a saint, he had a feeling both Jean and Myuri would lift their heads from their bundles of paper and look to him instead. Myuri’s eyes may glitter, astonished that her straitlaced brother could pull off something so grand. No matter what hardships may come after, nothing could be greater than Myuri’s smile. Canaan’s idea was ridiculous. It was, but Col was starting to think he should send a letter to Hyland and have an earnest talk with her. He did not know how long it would take to get Jean motivated, but judging from his behavior, he also did not seem to have any intention of suddenly running away. Col likely had time to speak with Hyland about how feasible the idea of becoming canonized might be. But then, it was not clear if it was a good thing if he had the time to do so. This was not something Hyland could easily call good or bad, and even if she did say it was a good thing, that did not ultimately change the reality that Col had to make the decision himself. To have extra time meant he had that much more room to overthink, and his time spent suffering would only be drawn out longer. Perhaps, in that case, he should speak with Myuri and make his decision sooner than later. If Myuri found it interesting, that alone would be enough to spur him onward. Once he made up his mind, he fixed the window, which he had not closed properly, checked that the candle was indeed out, and exited the room. The inn was dark, owing to the clouds and the rain, and since the majority of guests were either still on the way or out working in town, it was quiet inside. The dining hall on the first floor, where Myuri had eaten a big serving of eel the night before, was closed, and the kitchen was still. It was dark and rainy outside, making it seem even more deserted—the empty feeling tugged at him, so he quickly walked past. The chairs, hanging upside down off the edge of the tables to allow for cleaning, looked like dead trees in winter. He was passing through the dining hall, set on reaching the lively establishment on the opposite side of the street, when he heard something fall in the far back of the kitchen. It was likely a mouse searching for food, or a cat trying to catch said mouse. Normally, Col would have not paid any mind to it, but considering the wind and the rain, he reckoned he may as well close the windows. He slipped back toward the kitchen, as though drawn in by the stillness, and peered inside. There were no signs of heat; as he thought, it was quiet and empty. The back entrance never had a door to speak of, so he could see through to the inner courtyard. It was then that he spotted, on the packed earth at his feet that served as the floor, traces of something being dragged across the ground. The tracks led past his feet and into what looked like the pantry, ahead of him and to the right. Perhaps the cook staff had decided to follow up on the big eel from the night before and order a large catfish—maybe the catfish was in its tank, making a ruckus. What a problem it would cause if it were to escape, and Myuri would certainly find the story interesting if he told her. As he poked his head into the pantry, the smile on his face froze. “Wha…?” There he found the innkeeper, bound tightly with rope. In the second that followed, he thought he felt shadows move on either side of him, only for his vision to suddenly be enshrouded in darkness. By the time he realized some sort of sack had been pulled over his head, a powerful blow struck his solar plexus. He fell to his knees, unable to breathe, and he felt rope curl around his entire body. He was astounded with himself when, in his panic and bewilderment, he began picturing the preparation process for cured meat. I need to yell, he desperately thought. He tried to open his mouth, but all that bubbled from the pit of his stomach was a sob and a bitter liquid. He could not breathe. Feeling quickly left his limbs. A reddish darkness overtook his vision, not only from the sack but because he could not breathe. “” Myuri, he thought as he called for his knight. But perhaps it was simply a vision dreamed in the moments before unconsciousness.
Chapter 95
45 min read