God's Slave

Melanie set down the silver tray with a soft clink.

"The Alms Festival is about to begin, you know. The festivals held among the common folk always start earlier than the official ceremonies. That's why merchants gather from every corner around this time of year."

Cecilia called to mind the imperial geography she had been studying of late. The Weberdin territory sat at the southwestern tip of the continent. And as a strategic stronghold that had once stood near the Holy Land in ages past, one of its flanks was formed by a waterway—the sea itself.

For the Alms Festival, merchants poured in through those waterways chasing profit, while priests from every region flocked to attend the rites. The influx, she had been told, was enormous.

"It's a festival large enough to rival the one held in the capital, so it'll be beyond anything you can imagine."

"Really?"

A festival in another world.

Honestly, the word "festival" still conjured the morning after a campus party—the reek of alcohol and half-digested food hanging thick in the air. But this was a novel world of dreams and hope. Surely it would be different!

That budding expectation was promptly and mercilessly crushed.

"Since you must attend the Alms Festival, my lady, you'll need to prepare for all sorts of things. Unfortunately, that means you won't have time to go sightseeing."

Never mind that going out had become even harder after the recent incident—as a member of the Weberdin bloodline, she was expected to help prepare for the Alms Festival. There was no chance she would be given time to watch the commoners' festivities.

Unless some prince—blech, no—some accomplice were to sneak me out of here.

Wait.

Wasn't there someone perfectly suited to be an accomplice?

Cecilia easily pictured a certain robe-obsessed individual who would gladly take on her request and make an excellent helper. She resolved to go threaten—no, ask—him right away. And that was the moment.

As if sensing her mistress was about to spring from her seat, Melanie thrust forward a letter from the silver tray.

"This is…"

"A letter from the Temple, my lady."

An envelope so pure white it was almost unsettling. The sender was none other than the Pope.

She slowly read the neat, orderly script—handwriting as upright and warm as the man himself. The letter was so spare it did not even fill half the white page, and its core message was this:

In short: there was a great deal to prepare before the Alms Festival began, so she was to report to the Great Temple at once—enlist, basically. Report for duty.

I never even got a draft notice in twenty-first-century Korea, and I'm getting one here? Is this for real?

Far from swelling her chest with grandeur, the notice left her feeling distinctly petty. Cecilia forced herself through to the very end of the letter.

A sudden light flared in her eyes.

Yes—I can use this as an excuse to refuse the ceremony…!

But of course it was never going to be that easy.

The light in Cecilia's eyes snuffed out again. She asked, limp,

"When is the twentieth of the Month of Life, again?"

"Today, my lady."

"…"

Was she seriously allowed to swear about this?

Cecilia gazed at the flower vase with a faraway look. All things considered, smashing it over her own head was starting to seem like the better option.

Unfortunately, Cecilia failed to bring the vase down on her own head. She also failed to escape before the Temple's guests arrived. And so, a thoroughly defeated Cecilia composed herself into a grim, quiet calm and prepared to receive her visitors.

"Lady Cecilia, your guests have arrived."

"Show them in."

The moment permission was given, two tall men filed in behind Melanie. Both were so tall their faces appeared cleanly over the top of her head.

Huh?

One of those faces looked distinctly familiar.

"I present myself before the Saintess."

"It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

The first voice belonged to Sir Miguel. The second belonged to an unfamiliar priest.

Cecilia studied the priest carefully—a man whose presence was nearly as striking as Sir Miguel's.

He is a priest… right?

The man in the black clerical robes had wavy black hair that not only covered his forehead but stabbed at his eyes, and the shadows beneath those eyes looked as though he had gone three days and nights without sleep. His skin, meanwhile, was pale as someone who had never once felt the sun. And on top of all that, his gaze was strangely unfocused.

Perhaps he served some other god—Death, or Curses, for instance.

But the Temple badge gleaming at his breast was identical to Sir Miguel's. Cecilia straightened her narrowed eyes and returned the greeting.

"I am Cecilia Weberdin. Thank you for making the journey all the way to the estate."

That said, for people sent to help fit ceremonial vestments, this was a rather unexpected pair. Sir Miguel, who had come and gone from the Weberdin estate from time to time, was one thing—but no matter how she looked at him, that man did not look like a tailor.

In place of the man who seemed to have little interest in exchanging pleasantries, Miguel spoke up.

"This is the Arch— that is, a Priest of the Great Temple."

"I am God's slave, Kiar Luceteim. You may simply call me Kiar."

…Don't people usually say "God's servant"?

Rather than point out the unusual self-introduction, Cecilia asked Melanie to bring cool iced tea and a few simple desserts, then guided them to the sofa, which had recently been re-covered for summer.

Seated upright on the fabric—pleasantly rough and cool to the touch—Miguel carefully opened his mouth.

"Have you had any trouble with your health since then?"

"No. I wasn't injured to begin with."

"So Nox was not lying, after all."

Miguel's eyes creased faintly, as if he might smile. Just what had her father's son been spouting? She would have bet Charles's snacks that most of it had been nonsense.

"I'm a little afraid to ask what you heard."

Only after Melanie entered at just the right moment and set teacups before them did Cecilia get to the point.

"Incidentally, His Holiness the Pope told me he would be sending people to fit me for vestments…"

So why had a knight and a priest shown up instead of a tailor?

She asked it obliquely, and Sir Miguel shot a troubled sidelong glance at the man beside him. That man—Kiar—was sitting with his back and shoulders slumped, in stark contrast to Miguel's rigid posture. Only after several dozen seconds did he notice that both of them were looking at him, and he answered at a glacial pace.

"I am the tailor."

"Pardon? But you just said you were a priest."

"I am also a tailor. Though my skill is garbage."

"…Excuse me?"

Why would they send a tailor with garbage-level skill?

"You're thinking, 'Why did they send a priest with garbage-level skill,' aren't you?"

The pinpoint accuracy made her flinch, but she shook her head, doing her best not to show it.

"Not at all. His Holiness selected you personally, after all. I have no doubt your skill is excellent."

"No. I can guarantee it. I will absolutely ruin everything."

The man said it with total conviction. Whether he had confidence or none at all was impossible to tell.

And Cecilia was equally convinced of something else: this man was no ordinary tailor. He was a complete lunatic.

Her judgment was not wrong. Whatever fresh absurdity his head—clearly stuffed full of negative thoughts—had just cooked up, his already pale face went a shade whiter still.

"It seems I have already disturbed the Saintess's peace of mind. I knew I would ruin things before I even began."

"No, my peace of mind is perfectly fine."

"It is not. A halfwit like me has no business taking on important work. I ought to atone with my life."

Having reached the absolute peak of self-negation, the man rummaged through his sleeve. What emerged from the pitch-black clerical robes was a rope. A very sturdy-looking rope—perfect for hanging oneself.

What is he planning to do with that?

No—why was he carrying something like that around in the first place?

As he moved to loop the rope around his own neck, a startled Cecilia smacked the back of his hand.

There's a limit to how fast you can go from zero to sixty!

She had hit him hard enough that her own palm throbbed, so the back of his hand had to hurt as well. But Kiar neither cradled his hand with wide eyes nor snapped at her. He simply stared, blinking, at the rope that had tumbled to the floor.

"God was calling me…"

"No, He wasn't."

"…Ah."

Even faced with Cecilia's open disgust, Kiar answered with limp resignation. He glanced once at the high ceiling, once at the bright outdoors, and once at the shadow at his feet, then picked the rope back up in a desultory heap and stepped toward her.

Wh-what. He's not about to tie me up and beat me for hitting him, is he?

She clenched a cotton-soft fist behind her back—just as he stretched the rope into a straight line and held it against her arm. Then he began scrawling numbers into a notebook from his breast pocket.

It seemed to be the length of her arm.

That rope was a measuring tape substitute?

Looking closer, she saw marks scored into the rope at regular intervals. The sheer, staggering ingenuity of it left her momentarily speechless. The man himself, however, merely measured the length of her legs with an expression of pure inconvenience.

"Your arms and legs are shorter than they look. Hmm. I'll have to take the vestments in quite a bit."

Muttering things like that.

Maybe I should just strangle him with that rope.

Insulted to her face, Cecilia glared at him with open displeasure. The fact that there was no malice or ulterior motive behind it only made her angrier.

At that moment, Miguel, who had been watching the whole affair unfold, quietly added—