He’s probably about to ask you to take her on as part of your party, or so you suspect. But she’s faster than he is. “…I’m going with you,” she says. She speaks softly, and yet you feel as if she shouted. She brushes away the diamond knight’s gauntlet with a slim hand, then looks him right in the eye and insists, “I absolutely will not be left behind…!” You and this girl don’t know each other all that well. You have no idea what road she and the Knight of Diamonds have walked together, what adventures they’ve been on. Just as he and she don’t know about you and your party’s adventures. You can see, however, the tears in the girl’s eyes, the way she grits her teeth, the force of will that causes her to insist on accompanying him. How could you miss them? “I’m your scout. No one else’s. That was my choice that I made by myself. For myself.” Doesn’t look like you can shake this one. You don’t have to say it—the Knight of Diamonds gives an awkward scratch of his cheek, then sighs, the gesture and the sound more eloquent than any other answer he could give. You grin in spite of yourself, and that’s when the silver-haired girl turns to you. This time she says, “There is someone I want you to take care of. The girl.” You nod, accepting her request. You had always intended to do everything you could. The silver-haired girl’s cheeks soften at your answer, then she gives you a sort of exasperated smile and says, “I knew it would be something like that.” “Spear, huh? That’s a tough one.” Down in the grimy hole that is the weapon shop is an old man so small, so curled into himself, that you could mistake him for a dwarf. He strokes his chin and shoots you an unenthused look. You were asking him about Female Warrior’s broken spear, but his answer doesn’t sound promising. “Most people who go down in the dungeon, they want a sword at their side, or a mace—or a staff.” He casts a glance around the shop; you follow suit and see that most of the merchandise is of those varieties. Broadswords, pulverizing hammers, padfoot killers, and mage slayers. Not much resembling a spear. When you do spot the rare polearm, it inspires a look on your face not much more pleased than that on the owner’s. “Mass-produced trinkets, all of ’em. Break after a few good hits. Not terrible products, but not what you’d call superior weaponry.” You cross your arms and mumble that you were afraid of this. They say an accomplished warrior can fight with any weapon, but that doesn’t mean they should. It doesn’t help that you’re not shopping for yourself, but for your comrade. You want something suited to her expertise, if you can find it. The man in black broke her last spear—so at the very least, she needs something stronger than that, or there may be no point at all. In which case, she will have to either acquire a new weapon outside the fortress city or get one smithed up here. “With things the way they are…,” the owner says, “it’s not impossible.” But it’s obvious that the chances of a successful roll are agonizingly small. There are times when it’s acceptable, even necessary, to stake your life on a roll of the dice—but now is not that time. So it’s difficult to find a superior spear in the fortress city at this moment? “I can try to look, and I will, but it won’t come cheap.” You would be grateful, even for that. If anything, you’d worry if it didn’t cost much. There’s one other thing… “That sword of yours?” Mm. You nod, taking your weapon, scabbard and all, from your hip. It’s nameless but sharp. Trustworthy. Though whether it can stand you in good stead against that red blade and the man in black who wields it, you don’t know. It’s gotten you this far, you suppose. When that red blade was in the hand of the young magic warrior, this sword was indeed a match for it. Perhaps, then, it can be counted upon in the next battle as well. “All right, I’ll take care of it,” the owner says. You pluck a gold coin from your purse, purchase a medley of consumables, and then squeeze your way out of the cramped den. The suffocating claustrophobia, however, doesn’t go away when you reach street level. The sensation, the feeling of the wind that blows through the crossroads among the close-packed stone buildings is different somehow. The square of sky overhead seems farther away than it did before, and the townspeople’s voices don’t reach your ears. Instead, all you can hear is the arguing of the adventurers and the refugees; all you can feel is the tension; all you can smell is the ever-present Death. For just a second, you even fancy that you’re down in the depths, exploring the dungeon. Will there come a day when the buildings of the four corners look like nothing more than wire frame to you? That will be the day you’re no different from those bushwhackers. With a faint chuckle, you are about to set off with your purchases when: “…It’s not easy being you, eh?” A familiar voice blows to you on the pleasant wind, and you stop. It’s her. A small woman crouches, smiling like a cat in the shadows of the buildings just at the edge of the street. Grinning from under her cloak, the informant trots toward you. Well, she’s right—times are tough. Whether they’re much tougher than usual, you’re not sure about. “Hmm?” For what you must do hasn’t changed, not one bit. When you tell her so, the informant goes quiet with an expression difficult to describe. She stares at you, her lips a single, taut line. You fold your arms and wait for a response. Each time she appears, it’s because she has something she wants to tell you. And what she tells you has always come in useful. She seems to change the very situation around you, as if sending up a signal flag. So today, you resolve to hear what she has to say. “…I don’t think things are going to just conveniently go your way,” she murmurs after a moment, sounding somehow tired. “People aren’t that smart, and the ones who think they’re smart just waste their time yammering. There might not even be any help, eh?” Yes, well, that’s about the long and short of it. You meet her probing gaze with unhesitating agreement. That’s the way people are. No big deal. But it’s not worthless, either. It just is what it is. One doesn’t blot out the other—much as many people are prone to flit between different extremes. Therefore, you tell her, you intend to do exactly what you can. If it proves futile, so it goes. You have no interest in placing blame on others, yet neither will it be your fault if the world is destroyed. Adventurers commuting between the first chamber and the surface like ash that comes from no fire; you yourself, bulling ahead, chasing a Death that might not even be there. There’s no big difference between the two. Perhaps only the sense of self-satisfaction in your respective hearts. You repeat with a shrug that this is the way things are—that’s enough. “” For a moment the informant stares at you, wide-eyed and seemingly speechless. She looks almost as awed as she does exasperated. Beneath the hood of her cloak, her lips curl into a smile like the bud of a flower, and she lets out a breath. “Well. Looks like there’s no stopping you.” So it seems. You agree easily, not thinking much of it. “In that case, take my advice and drop by the temple of the Trade God.” You echo: ‘The temple?’ “That’s right. The temple,” she replies. “I find that at moments like this, it never hurts to ask the gods for a friendly boost. You can never have too much help.” You realize you agree with her. Besides, you think maybe you should see that nun one more time. This might be the last. “…Yeah, maybe,” the informant says after a moment of silence. “Might be a good idea.” With that, she slips past you and starts off down the street. Two steps, three, almost as if she’s dancing; next, she turns back toward you with a swirl of her cloak. “The Trade God is the patron of meetings and travel! Take your time getting there!” Then she’s gone with the wind, leaving behind only a faint aroma. You look vacantly up at the sky over the fortress city. That cutout piece of air still looks far away—but a little closer than before. Has the sky come down a little closer to you, or have you climbed up toward it? Who can say? You entertain these silly thoughts as you amble in the direction of the temple. You don’t have much time, but then, you never do. It’s precisely at moments like this that you need to slow down and enjoy the walk. Nothing wrong with that. To live is freedom. You can do as you like until the moment you encounter the Death. The temple of the Trade God is the last bastion of justice in the fortress city. Refugees press in, as do those who have been robbed by refugees. The temple takes in all but spits back out those who, in the name of goodwill, seek protection and compassion at no price. Of course, compensation is sought from those who are accepted within the temple grounds: save others, as you have been saved. Do a bit of cleaning or cooking, be it ever so humble, and if you cannot do those things, do what you can. Like money, goodwill flows among people: a pleasant breeze. But even so, there are limits. Goodwill does not come from nothing. It is born of the heart. Something is always needed to fill the heart—and that thing is nearly gone now. Soon all will be in tatters. The clerics of the Trade God, however, bustle back and forth in a way that betrays none of this. They look like people at prayer, and they minister to believers. You take all this in as you climb the long staircase to the temple. Everything seems poised precariously, one step from the edge of a cliff. One large step, though the precipice looms. Only the relentless effort of those who have dug in their heels is maintaining Order at this moment. You climb silently past the line of supplicating refugees. When you look up, you see puffing smoke, although this is not some dragon’s mountain home. The molten earth under that mountain isn’t inexhaustible. One day, the cauldron will still, and the smoke will cease. At this moment, however, that’s your guidepost, and you expect it to be for some time. You climb the stairs. With each step you take, you hear the metallic click of sabbatons behind you. You continue forward. The sound comes again. You jump a stair. So does the sound. You stop, and the sound stops, too. Well. That certainly does make the sound seem very deliberate. Intentional. You think for a moment, and then ultimately without really thinking at all you offer: ‘Want to climb to the temple together?’ The click comes again, louder than before. You stop and wait. “……” In lieu of an answer, footsteps walk up beside you. You glance to the side and find hair as dark as a damp crow bobbing by your shoulder. ‘Weren’t you looking after the inn?’ You try your best not to make it sound like a rebuke, but she still flinches. You scratch your chin, wondering if you’ve made a mistake. As gently as possible, you ask if she told the others she was coming. “…Mm,” she responds with a bob of her head. You’re sure it was a nod, albeit a subtle one. She’s clutching the broken haft of her spear to her ample chest. To the uninformed observer, it might look like nothing more than a ruined weapon, but you, you understand what it means. With a word of encouragement, you start up the steps. Hesitantly, the sabbatons click out beside you. A couple instances, you pass adventurers coming down the stairs with vacant expressions. A couple more, adventurers rush up the stairs past you, a party member cradled in their arms. Some of the refugees waiting for food open their mouths to complain, then shut them again at the air of urgency. Adventurers who walk side by side with the Death are going to the temple. No one would dare get in their way. Whatever may be happening beyond the city walls, what goes on in the dungeon hasn’t changed. Not a bit. That includes us. “…?” The thought brings a smile to your face for some reason, and it’s only then that you notice Female Warrior watching you with a questioning look. You shake your head and tell her it’s nothing. You exhale. “…I thought so,” Female Warrior murmurs at that moment. “We’re going, aren’t we?” She doesn’t say where. She doesn’t need to: You’re both adventurers. Before you can answer, she comes to a halt and grabs your sleeve, tugging hard. The violet eyes you see just a step below you are damp, wavering; they look ready to overflow at any moment. “You know…we might…die down there.” You respond without hesitation that yes, you might. In fact, there seems a very good chance. “Then why—?!” People die. It is what they do. Every person, of every kind. You yourself. Those people over there. In this, you are all the same. A smart person would probably be able to come up with a host of reasons to avoid this fight. Then they would mock you, eager to show how much more intelligent they are than you. Just as you used to, when you looked with contempt at the adventurers who stayed on the first floor of the dungeon. That contempt, however, is now gone from your heart. Is it because every day, morning and evening, you have hardened yourself against the prospect of death, the knowledge that you might die today or tomorrow? It’s funny—it’s only now, when things have turned so serious, that your heart is calm, like a still lake. There’s no difference between those who wander the first level of the dungeon and those who seek to delve its darkest depths. You will challenge the Death. In that, there is no change at all. You fight, you kill, you win, you survive, you go on to the next thing. Or you “go to 14,” and end up dead as a coffin nail. That’s all there is. You are an unclouded blade. A keen weapon pointed at the enemy. You are a spark, burning brightly. Therefore, you tell her, you want her to come with you, but you will not—cannot—order her to do so. “…!” Female Warrior bites her lip. Her bleary eyes narrow in a glare. If you indeed ordered her to accompany you, she would probably offer a smart remark, but she would come. That was what she was hoping for, and you know that. You understand. But that isn’t right. Your reason comes from within yourself, not from within her. She was robbed of her name at birth, forced to adventure against her will. Her family and friends went into the dungeon, and so she went with them. To save her lost sisters, she sought out the Death. All that is meaningless now. She doesn’t have one single reason to risk her life adventuring. With the money she’s made to this point, it would be easy to buy her freedom. It’s impossible to resurrect her sisters. And in the deep depths of the dungeon, all that waits is the reeking Death. She has no reason to try herself against the dungeon. “E-everyone else…” They’re all going. Well, most likely—you laugh. You’re sure that Female Bishop, like you, will clutch her sword and scales and get to her feet. This has been her lifelong duty. She knows already why she lives and why she may die. She won’t abandon the fight against the Death, you suspect, if only to make sure her friends can rest in peace. She’s no different at all from when she was an identifier. Your cousin is the same. She might get on your nerves, the way she treats you like a little brother, but you know she’s coming from a good place. Now that you know the man in black is using magic for evil ends to spread the Death, that he used the source of the evil that afflicts this world—you now know you are the ones who can do something about it, who must do something about it. Or anyway, so you figure your cousin thinks. As for Half-Elf Scout: He’s lighthearted, cowardly, and facetious. But you also recognize that he’s always the one who risks himself against the treasure chests; that he fights a lonely fight for the party’s fate. He can rely on no one else to fight it, yet he keeps winning. He is a brave, strong adventurer. You’re sure he’s as good as his word: He’s in this dungeon to lop off the head of the Dungeon Master. Whether he wants fame, fortune, or whatever else from it, he risks his own life, and that makes him an adventurer. Then there’s Myrmidon Monk. What about him? He’s the most mysterious member of your party—or at least, you never quite seem to know what he’s thinking. But there’s also no doubt in your mind that he is a man to be relied upon. He may say he doesn’t care either way, but whenever there’s dangerous exploring to be done, he’s with you. You suspect he will be again. “I really don’t care either way,” he’ll clack, and then down he’ll go into the depths of the dungeon. You don’t know if it’s faith or some unique way of thinking that the myrmidons possess, but for you, that’s something that doesn’t matter either way. His resolution is always clear and firm. With all that in mind… ‘What will you do?’ “M-me…?” Female Warrior is unable to answer. She looks up at you, still clutching her spear, then drops her gaze to her feet. She’s a child about to be stranded on her own, told that if she doesn’t hurry up, she’ll be left behind. Just a little girl. True, she may very well decide to go down into the dungeon purely because everyone else is going, too. She’ll fight the monsters. Even gripped by the fear of slimes—no, gripped by the fear of the Death, she’ll fight. But that wouldn’t be right. It can’t be. When she finally died, if it happened like that, no one would be happy. Not her—and not you. “Not…you?” she asks. That’s right. You, as party leader, are entrusted with the lives of all your party’s members. You feel a responsibility if someone dies. It’s not something you can shrug off by saying These things happen. It doesn’t matter if it was just a bad roll on the dice of Fate and Chance; it will feel like your fault. And yet, despite that, death is the outcome. Your companions chose their own adventure, and this was the result. If you feel responsibility for that, that’s your problem. You have your own adventure. It doesn’t change the fact that your party member died at the end of theirs. Whatever the outcome of that adventure, all you can do is accept it. No one can fight it. But what if, instead… What if it wasn’t an adventure? What if it was someone who simply tagged along with you, who wouldn’t have died if you had only told her to stay home? That would not, in the end, be something you could accept. And so you say to her that if she is to journey into the dungeon, if she is to challenge the Death that lies in the deepest depths known to this world, then you want her to do it for her own sake, by her own volition, for the adventure. “M-me…?” Her shoulders are shaking. Her slim, elegant shoulders; the shoulders of a young woman. “What I want…” The violet eyes waver, droplets falling from them, running down her cheeks. The sabbatons step forward, hesitantly but at the same time full of volition. “I want…I want to be…with you!” With her next step, she veritably flings herself at you, collapsing into your chest, clasping you, pitching forward—it is the greatest step she can take. She weeps as if she has no other way to communicate that she doesn’t want you to die. “Is that…is that not enough?!” Some passersby stop and look on with interest, but you couldn’t care less. It’s all you can do to place a hand on the shoulder of the woman crying into your chest, to brush her hair. Never intended… To make her say anything like that. Lost between yes and no—but let us be clear, not frustrated by this—you gaze up at the sky. It looks strange—or, perhaps, ordinary. Blue and clear as far as the eye can see. Whatever may happen on the board, the blue of the sky never changes; the sun and the twin moons and the stars will continue in their rounds. No, no—even to say the sky is blue shows how narrow your vision is. The sky isn’t just blue. It turns red sometimes, or purple. And sometimes it’s dim. Black. A rich, velvety darkness. All those times when she visited you, when you chatted together—those times, the sky was ensconced in the curtain of night. It’s strange, to realize that the night sky seems a deep violet to you. Maybe it’s the lights of the town. It’s the color of her hair. You let out a breath. You can feel the small tremors of her body through your palms. Yes, the sky you look up at right now is blue, somehow congratulatory. The wind blows, making the windmill creak. You say: ‘How could it not be enough?’ How could anything not be enough? If that’s what she wishes, if that’s what she’s decided, then that is her adventure. You cannot, and would not, speak against it. At that, she continues to stare at the ground for a moment, then rubs her eyelids and looks up at you. “…Hmph. You!” she says softly. She manages to work a small smile onto her face. The violet eyes gaze at you. “Making a girl embarrass herself like that… You’re going to make it up to me, you hear?” There’s no more intimidating place to make a commitment like that than before the temple of the Trade God, patron of merchantry and promises. Your response evokes a whisper of “Dummy,” and a jab in your side. Then she takes your hand. She’s already looking pointedly away as her fingers intertwine with yours. You laugh out loud. You laugh, and then you start climbing the stairs. Slowly, surely, one step at a time. As you crest the top of the stairs, the long climb finally over, a shadow falls on you. “…And what exactly do you think you’re doing in front of my temple? Unbelievable.” It’s a devout believer running her hand through her hair—which is a mess, as if she ran to get here. “I’ve got a general idea of what’s going on, but insofar as I really had to rush, I hope you’ll remember to be grateful.” The nun who ushered you into the worship hall has stern words as she leads you to the altar. Perhaps this is her way of saying she shouldn’t have wasted her energy worrying about you. You decide not to ask. Even the temple of the Trade God can’t entirely escape the repercussions of the Chaos that presses in on the town. People are crouched here and there in the stone building, groaning from their wounds, crying from their hunger, or howling with lament for lost loved ones. A significant number of them have no doubt come here knowing that it is their last lifeline. Even adventurers fresh from the dungeon know better than to fight with the refugees here. No… Perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps it’s that all those who give alms and seek salvation are equal before the Trade God. It is a tremendous thing, you think, and fearsome. How many times has your own heart wavered during your adventures exploring the dungeon? The nun puffs out her well-formed chest proudly, as if to say her own heart of faith has never been shaken. “So. What brings you here today?” she asks. “The…the girls. My sisters.” You leave it to Female Warrior, beside you, to stumblingly form the words. These words are not for you to speak. Instead, you accept her squeeze of your hand, so hard it hurts. “I want you to…bury them.” “…” The nun blinks several times. “You’re quite sure?” “N-no, but…yes.” Female Warrior’s expression is unreadable; with her free hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—she brushes the haft of her spear. You find yourself remembering a haggard woman lying in a hut. She looks exactly as she always has, like she might get up and move at any moment, but there is no life in her. That makes her no different from any other object, and yet you’re sad to lose her from the world. It’s hard for you to admit that her loss will change not one single thing about the way the world works. In a few years, no trace of her worth speaking of will be left. Those are the facts. You don’t know whether it was right of you to bury your master. Was it the right choice to bury her, request services from the local temple, and then set out on your journey? Sometimes you wonder. As you wonder at this moment. “I’m not sure, but…I need…I need to say good-bye.” As for Female Warrior, perhaps she will regret this choice later, but for now, she has given her answer. She will part ways with her sisters, her former party members; she will stop looking back at the Death and the Life, and move forward. The nun accepts her gaze: weak, broken, but still facing forward. “…I see,” she says, her response mercilessly brief. She speaks in a tone of voice that could be taken in almost any way, but there’s a hint of warmth there, in her near-absolute-zero look… “You have a donation ready, yes? Then come this way, please,” she says. All right. Just imagining it, maybe. “…Yeah,” Female Warrior whispers, and then, not without regret, she lets go of your hand. The nun leads her deeper into the temple, and you watch her go. If she had held on to your hand, you would probably be going with her. But she didn’t. Instead, you mingle with the other adventurers in the worship hall and wait for her. There are times when you want someone to understand you, times when you want support—and there are times when you need to deal with something alone. At this moment, she has entrusted you with waiting for her, and it is not your place to reject her. You look up at the symbol of the Trade God raised high above the worship hall. Despite the considerable confusion within the hall, it somehow feels severe and silent. That makes you think: Until now, you’ve never spent much time here in the middle of the day. The longest stretch you’ve spent at this temple was the night when you yourself wandered on the border between life and death. You brush the scar on your neck unconsciously, your eyes fixed on the symbol of the Trade God, shaped like a windmill. Prayer is not a thing that you know. You think it’s very impure to pray in the hopes that your wish will come true. Yet you also think that if one were to pray, knowing such a prayer is impure, might the gods not acknowledge such a prayer as pure? If the gods could not heed such a prayer, they would be derided as useless, as evil, as villains. How small a thing you are! How selfish and prideful! Hence, you decide not to pray. Instead, you resolve to describe and report roughly where you have been and where you are going. Not forgetting to add that, if the gods are not too busy, perhaps they might lend you a hand. If you’re going to ask for help, why hide it? Why not just ask? To ask of the gods, to request of the deities—there can’t be any harm in doing it, just in case. You need all the help you can get. You close your eyes and think of all of it. Communicate all of it. Give it over to them. Then, slowly, you open your eyes. You find yourself still looking at the windmill symbol of the Trade God. Well, naturally enough. How many adventurers do you think there are in the Four-Cornered World praying to the Trade God, asking for help? You can hardly expect the god to focus on you alone. The best you can hope for is that perhaps, when you really need it, you might get some modicum of assistance of some kind you hadn’t imagined. You don’t forget to grab some coins from your wallet and offer them on the altar. This town has taught you well: No request is answered for free. “Well, aren’t you devout?” “…” It seems more time has passed than you realized. The nun has reappeared behind you and fixed you with her cold gaze. Female Warrior stands beside her, sniffling. She’s no longer holding her spear. ‘All good?’ “No, but…yes,” she whispers, much as she did before, and shakes her head. It sends a gentle ripple through her dark hair. She smiles and says, “I’m going to make something good of it.” Ah is all you say. However, things are not entirely problem free. “Wha…?” Female Warrior’s eyes widen with unease, and you point out in utter seriousness that she has no weapon. “Oh… Y-yeah. That. Sheesh.” She pouts a little—but this is a grave matter. She needs a weapon, one suited to her skills and fit for delving the dungeon’s deepest depths. You asked the guy at the weapon shop for one, but you doubt he’ll procure it in time. If push comes to shove, maybe you can have some old sword converted into a long-handled blade or what have you. “Tell me something,” the nun says with a discreet cough. She gives you a look of curiosity, as if this is no more than intriguing gossip to her. “May I take this to mean you’re going back down into the dungeon?” You speak the word yes as if nothing could be simpler. Now that you think about it, nothing could. Long ago, very long ago, you resolved to face the depths of the dungeon. It seems so obvious in this moment. When and why did you decide? Maybe you already knew from the day you came to the fortress city, or maybe your feelings have simply been numbed as you work your way through the dungeon. In any case, it’s not as if something has abruptly changed between yesterday and today—it just is what it is. Simple fact. There is a place unknown, a threat unknown, monsters unknown—and beyond them, the Dungeon Master. What you must do hasn’t changed. The nun listens to your answer, then closes her eyes and is silent for a moment. At length, she says, “So—you too, Miss?” “…Yes,” Female Warrior says, quiet but firm. The nun sighs defeatedly. “Then I think you should take this.” She offers something to Female Warrior: a long object wrapped in purple felt. Female Warrior reaches out, hesitant, and takes it. It appears light in her hands. “May I look at it…?” she asks. “Well, yes. I wouldn’t have given it to you otherwise.” Female Warrior pulls away the cloth, revealing… “A wooden…spear…?” That’s right: a spear. Polished and carved from tip to hilt, a wooden weapon that could almost be mistaken for the real thing. Yet it’s such a superlative weapon that Female Warrior unconsciously sighs to see it. “It’s a hardwood spear,” the nun informs her. “Made of oak and blessed.” “Is this the holy…?” “It’s modeled after the holy spear, the one the blind sage gave to the warrior who would harrow the dark fortress.” That makes sense. From that perspective, it certainly is appropriate for your party’s warrior. Knowing how faithful your bishop is, it wouldn’t surprise you if one day she’s hailed as a holy woman. “To be clear, this isn’t the real holy spear,” the nun says, looking at you. “But it was blessed by the hand of a sage just the same. I think it can help you.” ‘A sage?’ “That would be me. What of it?” You can’t help but smile at her laconic response. Ah, this must indeed be a wondrous and wonderworking weapon, then. Surely nothing compares. ‘How about it?’ “Give me a second…” There’s a thump—Female Warrior’s sabbatons striking the floor of the worship hall and launching her as they did many times before. The blade of the oak spear whistles through the air, cutting through the darkness, stabbing at empty space. It already looks comfortable in her hands; it responds to her movements like a living thing. The spear seems to leap on its own, it almost looks like it’s dancing with Female Warrior. The eyes of people in the worship hall begin to focus on Female Warrior; people who had hung their heads helplessly or had been lost in prayer. Female Warrior and the oak spear appear among them like a miracle. There could be few weapons more valuable, even those from the hand of a storied master. “It’s wonderful. I think it’s…wonderful,” she says as the dance ends. She holds the spear close to her ample chest with both hands. It’s just how she looked when you came to the temple, and yet different. That is, when you came to the temple moments ago—and long ago. You suddenly wonder when that was; you try to remember the first time you encountered her. Female Warrior’s movements were so light footed back then. Looking back, you realize it was born of a desire never to go backward. Completely different from how she moved just now. “The dead are not beside us, nor is the Death something to be despised,” the nun intones to you and to Female Warrior, who is holding the hardwood spear. Or rather, the nun is speaking to all those gathered here in the temple of the Trade God. She’s dispensing divine teaching. “Thoughts, feelings, life, death—all travel, all come and go.” So too pain, fortune, joy, sorrow. So too the thoughts of the dead. So too the prayers of the living. “Therefore the wind is by your side, and will be, so long as you journey.”
Chapter 24
30 min read