Ten days passed.
For Einar, these ten days were a period of torment. He stayed in the Jarl's town, living in a simple hut arranged for him, and did not go anywhere. His only task every day was to wait.
He was waiting for the Jarl's son to die.
This sounded cruel, but it was a necessity. His entire plan was built upon the premise that smallpox was incurable in this era. If by some miracle the Jarl's son survived, then all his efforts would be in vain. The Storm Acolytes would declare it a triumph of their prayers, and he, Einar, would become a deceitful charlatan in everyone's eyes.
Fortunately, the god of probability stood on his side.
On the morning of the eleventh day, a guard from the Jarl came to summon him. The expression on the guard's face was complex—a mixture of grief and awe.
Einar knew the result. He straightened his clothes and walked calmly towards the Jarl's hall.
Jarl Bernard stood alone in the center of the vast hall, his broad back facing the entrance. He seemed to have aged even more in the past ten days, his fiery red hair now streaked with gray.
"He is dead," the Jarl said, his voice low and raspy, without turning around.
"My condolences, my Lord," Einar replied softly.
The Jarl finally turned, his eyes bloodshot. But there was no anger or blame in them. Instead, there was a deep sense of exhaustion and a surprising calmness. "You were right. The 'purification' method you spoke of... it worked."
His son had died, but the disease had not spread. Not a single other person in the town had shown symptoms. To the Jarl, who had been prepared for a devastating plague to sweep through his domain, this was nothing short of a miracle. He had lost a son, but he had saved his people.
"It was not my power, my Lord," Einar said, lowering his head respectfully. "It was the mercy of the gods."
He knew he had to attribute all credit to the gods. In this era, claiming such power for oneself was suicidal.
"The gods..." Jarl Bernard murmured, looking at Einar with a newfound respect. "They indeed favor you. The Storm Acolytes have failed, but you have conveyed the true will of the gods."
He walked down from the high seat and stood before Einar. For the first time, he looked at this young vassal lord, who was neither tall nor particularly strong, as an equal.
"You have saved my clan, Einar of Coldwater," the Jarl declared, his voice resonating with sincerity. "I am a man who repays his debts. Name your reward."
Einar's heart leaped, but he maintained his composure. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
He did not ask for gold or land. He knew that such things were temporary. What he wanted was something far more valuable.
"My Lord, I do not seek personal reward," he said. "I only wish for the prosperity of my village. Coldwater is barren, and my people struggle to survive. I request your permission to allow my people to build our own ships and to conduct trade freely along the river."
Jarl Bernard was taken aback. According to the laws of the river valley, all trade and shipbuilding were under his direct control. It was a primary source of his wealth and power. Granting this request was equivalent to giving up a portion of his monopoly.
However, he looked at the calm and determined young man before him, and thought of his dead son, and the plague that had been averted. He let out a long sigh. "I grant you this right," he said. "From this day forward, Coldwater Village is exempt from the trade tax. You may build your own ships and sail wherever you wish."
He then added, "Furthermore, I will gift you ten kilograms of silver and fifty strong slaves as a reward for your service."
Einar bowed deeply. "Thank you, my Lord Jarl."
He had achieved his goal. The right to free trade and shipbuilding was the key to his village's rise. The silver and slaves were a welcome bonus. But most importantly, he had planted a seed.
A seed of prestige and influence. He had publicly challenged the authority of the Storm Acolytes and won. From now on, his name would be associated not with incompetence, but with divine favor and mysterious power.
As he walked out of the Jarl's hall, the sunlight felt exceptionally bright. He saw Willan waiting for him at a distance, the old priest having been released from the isolation hut. The old man looked at him with an expression of pure reverence, as if looking at a prophet.
Einar knew his life, and the fate of Coldwater Village, had been irrevocably changed. The first cog in his grand machine had begun to turn.