Side Colors III

by Isuna Hasekura

  And yet, he was often so courageous and bold. Such a troublesome fellow he was.

  Such thoughts chased themselves through her head as she drained her cup. She was unsure how many she’d had. The cup seemed to empty itself so quickly she wondered if it had a hole in the bottom, and she turned it over to check. She was shocked by the sudden appearance of someone’s foot in her vision. Evidently her senses had been somewhat dulled by the wine.

  She looked up and saw her delighted companion. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat.

  “Success!” He plopped himself down, his coin purse full to bursting. “Though some others caught on to what I was doing, so the profit dropped a bit. We all pulled just before we would’ve been ruined, though.”

  Having sat himself down in a chair, her companion ordered wine, and as soon as it came, he drained half the cup in a single go, then sighed a happy sigh.

  She could tell from the smell of his pride that he had done quite a bit of running around.

  “I’d say we should drink a toast, but you’re a bit too drunk for that,” he said with a wry smile.

  She was so overcome with the desire to show her displeasure that she brought her empty cup to her lips.

  “Let’s have some tastier wine tomorrow. We’ll pass tonight at an inn. Ah, it’s nice to make money,” said her companion happily, draining the remnants of his cup.

  No doubt he was sincerely happy. And faced with that smile of his, she could not help but smile herself.

  “We ought to retire for the evening. Can you walk?”

  She took the offered hand with a fondness as though it was the first offer in centuries, and all the hotter for her drunkenness. A warm sleepiness pervaded her as though soaking into her head.

  Though it was shameful of a wisewolf to do so, as her companion paid up, her sleepiness drove her to hang on him like a grumpy pup.

  “Steady now. We only have to go as far as the inn.”

  The more he told her to be steady or asked if she were all right, the more wobbly the ground beneath her seemed.

  She let herself be taken by the hand like a child, and they went out into the twilight town.

  Sound flooded her ears, and even with her eyes mostly closed, she could discern the town’s state: People talking, animals braying, things clattering against one another or scraping against the ground.

  And amid this cacophony, it was the sound of her companion’s heartbeat that was of special note.

  Or perhaps that was her own heart, she mused.

  The ambiguity was strangely comfortable. Her gait was light, and all she thought of was her companion’s hand as he led her along.

  If only this moment could last forever.

  She shook the thought away—absurd! And then at that very moment—

  “What do you mean you can’t buy these pelts?!” someone shouted, bringing her back to herself in a flash.

  “I mean we can’t buy them. We’ve gotten word from the guild that someone’s been going around using furs as part of some strange scheme. We can’t buy any more until we hear more.”

  “What nonsense is that?!”

  In a town as noisy as this one, no one had time to stop and take notice of a single shout. But her companion, who had just made such a fine profit on furs, certainly did.

  “That was close,” said her companion, looking at her and grinning.

  She could not help thinking that this was what happened as soon as things went well, but still she smiled at him, sharing the perverse pleasure of keeping his secret.

  But it seemed the merchants, who were now facing a crisis, would not endure this treatment. “Call out the guild chief!” one finally shouted, pounding on the counter.

  At this, people finally started to stop walking and peer in the direction of the commotion. Another merchant with a great pile of pelts on his back began to rage, but it seemed like an act. It was probably a ploy to raise enough of a fuss to force the purchase of his furs. Her companion had done the same thing himself not infrequently—merchants could be surprisingly adaptable.

  She watched, quite impressed with the display.

  “Let’s go.” Having gotten away with his scheme, her companion pulled on her hand. His face was tense; even as he made off with his gains, he could not bear to watch as others faced loss.

  He was a fool, but a kind fool at least. She started to walk as the thought occurred to her, pulled along by her companion. Then—

  “Look! They carry the seal of Dene Allbrook. What nonsense is this, that you can’t buy them?” said the merchant, taking a bundle of pelts out of his pile and brandishing it over his head. The merchant having such demands made of him looked troubled. No doubt the seal in question was proof of something.

  As she had come to understand while watching her companion work, humans often used a thing called “trust.” It was very common for them to buy and receive items from people they had never met, so such a thing was crucial. If that merchant had something that ought to have earned him trust and yet he was still being turned down, no wonder he was angry.

  Things seemed to be getting rowdy, she thought, and tried to see, but her companion hastily pulled her by her hand and stopped her, then froze in his tracks—but not out of sympathy for the merchant.

  The bundle of furs the man was holding up—there was something familiar affixed to the leather strap that held them together. It stood out amid the red-brown furs, a spot of dark silver.

  Her companion pulled on her hand even more firmly, but she resisted, looking back over her shoulder, then down at her own tail underneath her robe. Then she looked back up again at the enraged merchant and finally realized that the metal piece on his bundle and the one she’d put on her tail were one and the same.

  Worse, the pelts bundled and marked thus were fox furs of no great quality, the hair scruffy and dry.

  She could feel very distinctly the sweat that began to break out on her companion’s palm. In no time at all, the truth of their conversation on the wagon became very clear to her.

  Her companion had not been disturbed by how well the tail adornment she had found had suited her. It was because putting it on her tail marked her own fur as a fox pelt ready for sale.

  Could there be anything more foolish in the whole wide world than a wolf who attached a price tag to her own fur? And how much more of a fool had she been, to assume her companion’s fluster was because of how good it looked?

  But that was not the only thing that angered her.

  There was also her companion’s attitude then, and now, before her very eyes.

  He had obviously been trying to keep her from this, even as she had foolishly put a price tag on her own tail and been so delighted by it. Even now, he was still trying to protect her as he pulled on her hand. No doubt that was why he had not brought her along on his town errands and also why he had been so disturbed when he had looked at her from the driver’s seat of the wagon. He had probably been thinking the best way to avoid a shipwreck was not to rock the boat. And now that everything had been revealed, he simply stood there mutely. It was very clear.

  She knew perfectly well that he had not been silently laughing at her and that none of this had been done out of malice.

  And yet—and still, that a wisewolf should act such a fool!

  She did not know how many times she had found human cheeks to be troublesome things, but just this once she was grateful for them, for they hid her raging fangs. Or if not for that, for the convenience of being able to fake many other expressions.

  “Um, look—”

  But just as her companion wrung some tortured words from what little wisdom he possessed, she let go of his sweaty palm and clung tightly to his arm. Just as she had seen town girls do, she nuzzled her face against it, pressing her whole body against his.

  She could feel him freeze. He was surely remembering the times he had been attacked by wild dogs in the wilderness.

  But she was not a wild dog. She was Holo
the Wisewolf.

  She looked up at him. “So, then, how fine is the traveling merchant I’ve wrapped about my arm?” she said, a great smile on her face.

  “Wait, you—”

  “You earned a tidy sum, didn’t you? I cannot wait to see what wine you will treat me to in celebration!”

  If pressed on who was more at fault, it was probably she who bore the greater portion. But there were some things she could not pass up.

  Her companion seemed to find this more than a little unreasonable, but after gazing at her with a pained expression, he finally nodded.

  Some things could not be passed up. For example, the chance to hold hostage to her own selfishness a merchant so clever he had outsmarted this whole bustling town.

  It was absurd, she thought. And yet she could not stop.

  And anyway, as he heaved a sigh and began to trudge along, her companion’s profile did not look entirely displeased.

  She clung to his arm, as though to show the whole world that this wisewolf was the only one who understood his true worth.

  She knew it was foolish, but it felt only appropriate for someone like her, who would happily fix a price tag to her own tail. Yes—it was only appropriate.

  End.

  THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE BLACK KNIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  Just one hill away from the town, an unfamiliar landscape spread out before her.

  Unlike the hills and fields she knew so well that she could walk them with her eyes closed, this land led to another country.

  Looking up, she saw birds flying high overhead, and far behind her, she could see sheep and a shepherd.

  Though she had little fondness for it, now that she was finally leaving the place, a faint loneliness welled up within her.

  The wind blew softly, as though sighing its exasperation at her. She sighed herself and took a deep breath. Embarking on such a journey always inspired such misgivings.

  She shifted the pack on her shoulders and faced forward. The road stretched straight out ahead, and there was no need for hesitation. After all, she was not alone.

  Her faithful, black-furred knight looked up at her with his clear eyes. Her courageous, faithful companion was occasionally quite strict as befitted a proper knight. He gazed at her, seemingly able to see right through her to the worry she felt.

  Instead of telling him she was all right, she simply smiled at him, which her knight stood at—as though to say, “Now all we have to do is get moving.”

  Having taken the first step, the second came much more easily. The third and fourth were beneath notice.

  The more they walked, the more the scenery around them began to change.

  Their journey to seek a new world and a new life had begun.

  ONE

  The world turns on happenstance. I doubt many would raise any complaint with such a statement. I myself owe my continued existence entirely to lucky fate.

  I know not exactly how many days or months have passed since I was given life. I can say only that it has not been a short amount of time.

  More than once I have felt myself on the brink of surrender, wondering whether this was the end of my life, only to be saved by a coincidence I would’ve had no right to expect.

  There is another thing I must say—and that is in the whole of my life, I have served only two masters.

  My first master was a taciturn man, calm as a mountain, the very image of the concept of “master.” He trained me very strictly from the day my eyes came open, and it was he who gave me many skills I’ll doubtless rely upon until the day I die. While ours was a simple and quiet life, when I think upon those happy memories now, my chest tightens. I was fulfilled, wanted for nothing, and I quite naively believed those days could last forever.

  But owing to something I can only conceive of as simple fate, it all vanished like a popping bubble on the water.

  Go out into the wilderness, and you will find not only bears and wolves, but also men armed with iron weapons deadlier than any tooth or claw. Though my master and I had been very careful, sudden wind and rain had driven us to make camp where we shouldn’t have.

  Yet make camp we did. There was nothing inevitable about those men finding us there, and for both our camping and their attack, I find myself unable to give any explanation other than sheer coincidence. I could only think that our encounter with them that night was a testament to the mysterious power of happenstance.

  In any case, I fought my hardest. I fought with all my might to the brink of death.

  I know for certain that I unhesitatingly felt that the word warrior was made for me, and perhaps it would be most accurate to say that a crack appeared in my pride that day.

  We faced an overwhelming disadvantage; my master fell, and I was wounded.

  I can still remember all too clearly my master’s face in the driving storm, smeared with blood, muck, and rain, as he offered to me the staff that had been my very life.

  A servant must protect his master’s honor as much as his life.

  I took my master’s staff, and I ran. Desperately I ran.

  In that moment, the wind, rain, and gloom of the night became my allies. I ran mindlessly, and when I came to myself, dawn was breaking.

  Heedless of my own wounds, I had exhausted myself beyond the ability to take another step and fell against a large boulder, curling up right there.

  The night’s wind and rain vanished like they had never been there, and I will never forget the warmth that came with the sun as it rose over the horizon. Though it pains me to say so, with that warmth came the thought that here was the place where I would die.

  Had I protected my master’s honor, or had I failed?

  Before the staff that lay in front of me, the staff that had surely been a keepsake of his, I asked this of myself.

  I decided that when I reached heaven, I would ask my master. That was my sole comfort as I closed my eyes, certain that I would never again open them.

  Thus it was that when someone began to move me and I opened my eyes to see, I was sure that whatever I saw there would be heaven itself.

  But what greeted me was not a sight that befit heaven, I was certain.

  It was a girl, her face dirty, her body clothed in rags—an old tree by the side of the road would’ve been more elegant than she. She was shaking me with her chapped hands—not to warm them up, but to wake me.

  Sometimes when my master would get far enough into his cups to loosen his tongue, he would call me a knight. And though he only occasionally told me the tales of true knights, I nonetheless felt that the true spirit of a knight entered my heart.

  And thus was I helplessly party to a miracle.

  Even though she herself was near collapse, the girl desperately cried for me to stand, to return from the edge of death. And if I had not stood there, I could never again have been called a knight.

  I swallowed back my wounds, my exhaustion, and I stood.

  I will never forget the pride I felt in that moment.

  Despite being on the verge of death herself, she was possessed of such a kind heart that when she saw me stand, she smiled a smile of relief. Beset by cold and hunger, she could still care for another and could still smile. And in that moment, I knew that I had found my new master.

  Though both she and I then collapsed on that spot, we did not leave each other’s side. It must have been fate. After sleeping for a time, it was hunger that awoke us, and our eyes opened in the same moment.

  Yes, it was most certainly a fated encounter.

  I had gained a new master—a new master that despite being a bit unsteady was possessed of incomparable benevolence, and one whose worthiness of my utmost service was beyond question. Her name was Norah, and she was a girl young enough to still retain a certain childish innocence.

  My humble, unworthy self’s name is Enek. Thanks to my name being carved on the staff I presented to my new master, I was able to avoid the misfortune of changing my name. It seems that great turns
of fate summon smaller ones.

  Though we cannot speak to each other, our bond is all the stronger for that. I wonder if my human master would be angry at me, a mere dog, for thinking so. While she may be an excellent person in spite of herself, she would face no small danger without me at her side, so I shall forgive her that much.

  If you would know why, you have but to look.

  Without me at her side, peaceful sleep is difficult for her. While she may be a weak master, ours is a beautiful relationship, one in which each supports the other. Having determined as much, I sleep under the same blanket as my master. It’s warmer for both of us that way.

  The season is winter.

  Surely none can question such a decision.

  Morning comes early in winter. Not because the sun rises earlier, of course, but rather because the cold makes it impossible to remain asleep.

  We both awoke before dawn, looked up at the dark sky, and yawned great yawns. My master was the only one to subsequently sneeze, while I regarded her clumsiness with a certain forbearance.

  “My nose was just itchy…,” she gave as her excuse upon noticing my gaze. “Still.”

  Though she had held me close underneath the blanket, stubbornly unwilling to face the winter chill, my master had summoned her spirits and thrown it off. She continued speaking as she looked up at the few stars that still shone in the sky.

  “I’m still not used to not hearing the sheep bleating when I wake up.”

  Indeed. I myself felt quite the same way.

  “The shepherd’s life was hard, but…now that I don’t have to do it anymore, I do feel a bit lonely.”

  The shepherd’s life, with its constant tending of helpless sheep, leading them to pastures where they can eat their fill of grass, was an exhausting one. Left alone, the sheep would wander, and no matter how they were scolded, they never remembered the way. All the powerless things did was baa and baa, totally oblivious to the relationship between master and servant—how could the work of herding them be anything but arduous?