Money was not something that just accumulated. Its quality and nature could change from one moment to another. From an amount that could purchase a good to an amount that could purchase a person’s heart to one that could change a person’s destiny.
A holy relic was in that same company.
But Fran never took her gaze from Lawrence, and standing her ground, she played her final trump card. “In exchange, I’ll draw you a map of the northlands. Right away, if you like.”
A moment passed.
“… What?” he replied out of simple shock.
It was as though she felt it was entirely fair to offer a simple map in return for him fabricating a saint and undertaking the dangerous business of dealing in holy relics constructed from lies.
Fran looked at him evenly.
“Do you truly believe that’s a fair trade?” Lawrence could not help asking.
In that moment, Fran’s face was somehow charming. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, as though she might reply at any moment, “I do indeed!”
But unlike when Lawrence had told her about the villagers who had come to the cottage, something else poured into her expression, replacing her fading surprise.
That brown skin and those black eyes.
He would not have objected to someone calling her a sorceress. Fran spoke in a flat, low tone. “Are you saying you won’t risk danger to get your map of the northlands?”
Lawrence glanced over at Holo.
Holo was expressionless, staring at Fran, while Col was obviously distraught.
If it had only been about the danger, then of course he could have taken the risk. But to take Katerina, who had already endured being called a witch, and to now claim she was a saint and sell her off to some landlord was flatly impossible.
After doing such a thing, how could Lawrence then take Holo’s hand with a clean conscience?
“To falsely approach the landlord and then negotiate with him on the pretenses of selling a saint? I cannot do it.”
“I see,” said Fran and began to walk away.
Lawrence did not move. So smooth was her motion that after she passed by Lawrence, she held in her hand the map that he had previously tucked near his breast.
“Where are you going?” He knew it was a stupid question, but could not help asking.
Fran stopped as though mulling something over, then came slowly walking back. “You got Hugues to talk to you, so I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”
He thought back to how Hugues had endured Fran’s haughty treatment. His first, biggest priority was to have Fran create paintings of his homeland. And it was true, Lawrence had convinced Hugues to talk.
Fran continued. “I thought you were the same as me. But I was wrong.”
“What do you–” Mean, Lawrence was going to finish, but he did not have the chance.
“Do you think you’re going to get a map of the north with only that much resolve?”
“–!”
Lawrence felt as though he had been stabbed through the heart. Fran started walking again.
His feet refused to move; they felt sewn in place. He could not even think. He felt as though they had all been playing some kind of prank, and she had just dumped freezing water on them.
Why not just say it, plain and simple: To what lengths was he willing to go to find a map of the northlands? His resolve was insignificant.
He wanted to travel with Holo. It was a lukewarm promise they had made to each other, not to give up. Chasing after the wolf bones and tracking down a map of the northlands, these were not meaningless things. Taken individually, they could not be overlooked.
But as to what sort of foundation they made when taken as a whole – he understood that all too well. It was the simple, childish wish to simply stay with Holo. And only a very meager tower could be built upon such a foundation.
Lawrence knew that, but to have it so clearly pointed out made him feel deeply wretched.
He was standing there, nailed to the ground, when Holo took his hand. “She certainly hit you hard.”
He looked at her, and her eyes seemed almost relieved, like a girl whose mischief had been uncovered.
“But do you suppose she truly plans to sell that dried-out, old thing?”
Impossible, Lawrence immediately thought.
In which case, the course of events was obvious. Holo’s eyes said as much as they admonished Lawrence.
Holo’s righteous anger had been roused before, to say nothing of when it was for the sake of helpless villagers.
But he was not thinking to use Katerina for their own aims after she had died following a lifetime of abuse at the hands of the villagers and the landlord.
So many regrets remained. And yet he could not approve Fran’s proposal. In the worst-case scenario, he could end up killed to keep things quiet.
“We should run,” said Lawrence, and Holo nodded.
It was Col who raised his voice, having listened carefully to the conversation. “We’re going to leave Fran behind?”
Lawrence and Holo exchanged a look. There was no argument about Fran’s importance.
“Once we’ve escaped to a safer place, we can ask Holo or even Hugues for help. We’ll make sure she’s safe. There are many people who need Miss Fran, after all.”
No one was going to let her die pointlessly.
But Col seemed on the verge of tears. “No, I mean… are you giving up on the legend of the angel that Miss Fran was chasing?”
Lawrence was at a loss at how to honestly reply. The legend of the angel had been Fran’s own reason for coming and had nothing to do with Lawrence and his companions. But then he soon corrected himself.
Had Col not heard Fran’s goal? Had she not confided in him the reason why she was so determined to claim Katerina’s sainthood and deceive the landlord?
Lawrence was just about to explain how unreasonable it would be to take the risk of chasing the legend now – but bit the words back because of a book.
Col, nearly crying now, thrust a single volume at him. “I know I forced myself off on you and Miss Holo, Mr. Lawrence, but I just can’t abandon Miss Fran like this,” he said, and handing the book to Lawrence, he shouldered his pack and set off after her.
Lawrence never even had a chance to say anything.
Col was a kind, gentle boy. If Fran’s quest was a sincerely felt one, then once he heard her reason, he could not help but be moved by it, Lawrence assumed.
But his assumption was soon scattered to the wind.
The book Col had handed Lawrence – from the writing on its cover, he could tell that it was a book of scripture.
Lawrence’s face stiffened, but not because he had just had a holy book shoved at him. It was because the cover of the book was discolored by large bloodstains.
“What’s that?” Holo asked, bringing Lawrence back to his senses.
“Seems to be a book of scriptures…” Lawrence gently opened the book. The pages’ edges were torn here and there, and some were stuck together with blood. It didn’t seem like overstatement to say it had been through the hell of war.
Then Lawrence noticed there were several folded pieces of paper stuck between the pages of the book. He opened them and saw the terse notes there, written in needle-sharp handwriting.
“Dear Kira… vai… en… Kirjavainen Mercenary Troop?”
There, on a piece of paper between the pages of a bloodstained scripture book, was written the name of a mercenary band. Lawrence brushed the soot away and looked more closely, reading the writing there. Next to the band’s name, there was another name, the addressee of the letter.
“Fran… Vonely.”
It had come from the pack Col had carried in Fran’s place, so it was not surprising he had been carrying something that was addressed to her. Lawrence found himself murmuring her name, because in front of it was also written a title.
“Troop Chaplain, Fran Vonely.”
The moment he saw those wo
rds, Lawrence felt a great shock, as though he had been struck on the head with an iron rod. He did not even hear Holo trying to get his attention as he paged through the letter.
The characters were blurred in places and smeared with blood, soot, and grime, sometimes too badly to be read. But Lawrence could tell that it had been written by someone in the Kirjavainen mercenary troop – and by someone who was far away from Fran. At the top of the second page, the scribe had written, “May they reach your prayers from this far-off land,” followed by a simple list of facts, all in a peculiar hand.
“Decurion Martin Ghurkas killed in the battle of Lydion.”
“Betrayed on the Lavan plains. Pursued by the soldiers of Marquis Lizzo. Cursed by God. Lienne the sutler died that night of injuries. He went in his sleep and left no will.”
“Heimann Rosso, the centurion who’d been sheltered by the count, was betrayed and arrested. He passed in the dungeon in fine form and was always worried about you.”
And then, the last piece of paper.
“In the town of Miligua in the Nacculi diocese, in the month of Saint Rafenne, executed by hanging. A last message for you was ‘I’ll see the angel before you…’”
The last page was badly crumpled, and there was more written, but it was so thoroughly blurred that it was not legible.
Lawrence stood there silently, and when he finally spoke, it was a simple, low “Ah” of understanding.
Young but trusted by nobility. Used to hard physical labor. Bold and fearless as a mountain bandit. And for all that, still graceful and refined.
Kieman had said she was a silversmith born on the battlefield. Fran herself had told Hugues she had been a slave – and those two meanings now connected.
In her mercenary band, as arrows and swords rained down upon them, to protect her comrades-in-arms, Fran had raised the shield of faith against the fear and despair of death.
Given all that, Fran’s reason for seeking out the legend of the angel must have naturally changed. The last piece of paper was wrinkled, the writing blurred – and it pointed to one thing.
The dear friend of whom Fran had spoken had been the centurion that was hung.
He had only to recall the legend of the angel. The doors to the heavens were flung open, and the angel ascended.
He had been looking for a special meaning in those words, but all that was needed were the words themselves.
There were countless stories of the misery that was life in the latter days of a mercenary troop. For Fran to have lived through it meant she passed through that hell. The words “from this far-off land” betrayed that much.
And it was just as Hugues had said. Those with teeth and claws are the first to die.
The troop chaplain could do nothing but pray. And since prayers did nothing to stop a sword, they were spared participation in battle.
And so Fran had lived.
“Come, you.”
Holo’s words brought Lawrence out of his reverie, but she said nothing more.
“Sorry.”
She could probably guess what he was going to say next just by his expression. A wind blew from downriver, skimming along the surface of the waning flow, through the space between Lawrence and Holo and up into the forest, taking some snow with it as it went.
“Can we not help her?” Lawrence said simply.
Instead of replying, Holo held out her hand as if asking for the scripture book.
“So?” she said, looking up after she finished reading the letters and the scriptures.
She might not have worked out the details, but she probably understood the larger plan. After all, Col had expressed his own opinion for once and had gone chasing after Fran. That alone was not something they could ignore.
“I know all I’ve got is my cheap sympathy.”
“So why, then?”
Lawrence smiled in response, but not because he was trying to fake it. What he had to say was simply embarrassing.
Holo glared at him dubiously and grabbed his ear. But Lawrence’s smile remained. His thoughts were just that foolish.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice if the world were a gentler place.”
Holo did not let him go.
Lawrence’s eyes remained on her.
“I was thinking how lovely it would be if things would go just a little more smoothly. How nice it would be to get past reality and common sense. Something like that.”
Fran’s mercenary troop had been unable to avoid reality. Fran had lived on, and Lawrence could not imagine that she truly believed she could find the miracle that had so eluded her comrades.
A water mill would be constructed, and if her luck was bad, Fran would be killed. And even if things did not go that way, comparing those who had died to those who had lived still showed the truth of the world. Any child who had been beaten for misbehaving knew that much.
But Katerina had contented herself with being called a witch, with being reviled, abiding in that cottage with nothing but her faith, all to glimpse a legend that common sense dictated she would surely not see.
She concerned herself with neither cheap sympathy nor false miracles.
The world had its kinder moments. That was what she had believed.
“You truly are a fool.” Holo made a baffled face and sighed a deep sigh. She let go of his ear as though she could no longer stand to go along with such a fool. But with her other hand, she curled her little finger around Lawrence’s ring finger. “You know the world really isn’t that happy a place?”
Holo was a wisewolf. She could see right through the silly notions of her companion.
“I know. Still–”
“Still, what?”
If he answered wrongly, she might leave him right then and there – or so he would have thought until quite recently.
Lawrence took Holo’s hand and drew her close. “Don’t you want to help this stubborn girl, with her painful past and a goal she can’t give up?”
Holo bared her fangs. They were very white. “If you fail, I won’t forgive you.”
“Of course,” Lawrence said, lightly bumping Holo’s forehead with his own. “Of course,” he said again.
“But what exactly do you plan to do?” Holo finally gave in and asked as they made their way back to the cottage.
“Nothing too difficult. I’m just going to refer to Katerina as a saint.”
“… So you’ll sell her?”
“No. Not at all – all I have to say is that we’ve been employed for the service of confirming her application for canonization.”
That implied nothing less than that the powerful figures responsible for canonization decisions were paying attention to this region. If Lawrence and his companions met with an unnatural accident or if mysterious action was taken against the villagers, the landlord would immediately find himself in serious trouble.
“But even the most foolish lord would investigate the matter, especially if he’s a coward. Even if she is being considered for canonization, he’ll soon discover that we’ve nothing to do with that. So what would that possibly…?” Holo said but trailed off as she realized.
Her displeased expression was just as Lawrence predicted.
“I did say I needed your help, didn’t I?”
“… I thought you meant my knowledge,” grumbled Holo, her lips twisted in a sneer. But she said nothing further.
“In the legend of the angel, it’s said that there was the howl of a great beast. If you’ll lend your help, it’ll be simple to put on a show that will prove Katerina’s sainthood beyond any doubt.”
“Mm.”
“The truth is that Katerina’s canonization proceedings have stalled. So long as the Church doesn’t publicly confirm her sainthood, there will be no financial incentives in the form of valuable holy relics. And if there’s nothing of value, how could I sell it?”
“A rather makeshift plan, if you ask me,” Holo interjected, unamused.
“You could at least call i
t ‘cunning.’”
Holo sighed, as though to say they were one and the same.
“So all we need to do is tell the landlord as much. As money and faith are intertwined, if rumors start to spread, it won’t do him any good, we’ll say.”
For a landlord trapped between the Church and the pagans, this would constitute a strong argument indeed. He ought to stay as quiet as a well-trained hound.
Of course, there was no telling whether they would be able to hold the landlord off for long. But Lawrence was sure this would buy them enough time.
Enough for Fran to be able to give up on the angel legend, anyway.
“Well, I suppose it’s better than turning tail and running away,” said Holo, tossing another piece of firewood onto the cottage’s hearth.
Katerina Lucci was one step away from being publicly declared a saint by the Church.
Her diary was less a diary than it was a simple record of her daily activities. But that was more than enough to come to understand the person Katerina had been and the circumstances in which she had lived.
She had been consulted by an archbishop whose name was known even to Lawrence, as well as a noblewoman and a wealthy merchant. She spent her days replying to such correspondence, as well as studying topics of concern to the Church and translating the scriptures and copying important documents.
Those activities alone were evidence of a serene and pious life, but in her diary, Katerina had also recorded some of her innermost thoughts.
She had turned over her translation of the scriptures to a bishop upon receiving his request to do so, but when the lending period had ended, he had refused to return it. A book merchant had held her manuscript against her will in exchange for money. The Church council had deemed theology not a subject suitable for women to consider, and she had been forced to write under a false name.
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