Camphorus Unus, Lord of the First Camphor Tree and Hereditary Steward to the Earls of Black Crag, was having a ghastly day.

The sort of ghastly day that he had once – oh, youthful innocence! – associated with watching typhoons wreck his forest, uprooting the young camphor laurels under his and his brothers’ protection.

The sort of ghastly day that began with his fretting over an emerging leaf-wilt epidemic, and that ended with soldiers threatening to murder his grove. Camphor, which had always been prized for its uses in medicines and perfumes and insect repellents, could only be extracted by brutally chopping the wood into chips and then steaming them and finally condensing the vapors to crystallize the substance. This forest of camphor laurels had been planted long, long ago at Imperial behest and placed under the Camphorus Brothers’ stewardship, and even after the Empire collapsed, they’d retained their position under the new petty monarchs.

Until the day that Black Crag forces overwhelmed the Camphorus Brothers’ mosquito spirit guards and surrounded their trees with axes raised. The Earl at the time (not the current one, who was his many-times-great-grandson) had spared the brothers’ lives after they surrendered. But he had evicted them from their grove, which was another form of death for tree spirits. Weakened by their exile, they had served in his household for a time, defending it against insects, both spirit and normal, and maintaining his castles. Over the centuries, his brothers had been gifted to or lured away by allied Houses one by one, until only Camphorus Unus remained.

It wasn’t a bad life for a tree spirit who’d been cut off from his own tree and his own land. The pain and homesickness had faded, like a cut that scabbed over with resin and wore down in the wind and the rain. He performed his job efficiently and loyally, and if, from time to time, a member of the Black Crag line threatened in a fit of rage to chop down his tree, none of them ever meant it seriously, not even the current Earl. Camphorus Unus had never again faced a threat to his immortal existence.

Until today.

This ghastly day, that began with his exterminating a termite colony in the rafters of His Grace’s Goldhill mansion, and that ended with the Queen’s favorite barging in unannounced, alongside a horse spirit, a bamboo viper spirit, and a Northern mage, to demand –

“The keys, Unus, the keys! My dear steward, I don’t have all day!”

Camphorus Unus was feeling distinctly put upon. “Of course, my lady. I am always happy to be of assistance. But as you can see, this mansion is no fit state for a visit from such an exalted personage as yourself.” Under his stewardship, it was, of course, fit to host the Queen herself on a moment’s notice, but Camphorus Unus was stalling for time.

The current Earl was young and headstrong and had landed himself in the political equivalent of a firestorm. (Camphorus Unus had warned him not to tangle with tree spirits, but been laughed out of the room.) In the aftermath, Queen Jullia, who was even younger and even more headstrong, had sent the Earl home to the Black Crag fief. It was only a matter of time before cooler heads prevailed upon the two to reconcile, though. Everyone knew that.

So why was his master’s niece’s pet raccoon dog spirit here, demanding that he turn over the keys to the mansion?

He had to tread carefully. On the one hand, he couldn’t disobey the monarch, but on the other, his master was in close physical proximity to his tree.

Spreading his hands in a calming gesture, like branches that shaded picnickers from the midsummer sun, he said, “If you might return a few days hence, I shall arrange for all the necessary preparations – ”

“Oh, none of that, Unus! I meant for this to be a surprise visit. ‘Twouldn’t be much of a surprise now, would it, if thou hadst three days to prepare?”

“Or to send word to your master and to barricade the grounds against us when we return?” interrupted the Northern mage in a most uncouth tone. Her speech suited her appearance: all calloused skin and coarse hair and crude attire. She even had a scrawny sparrow perched on her shoulder, like a mockery of her betters’ hunting falcons.

Painstakingly avoiding any acknowledgment of her existence, Camphorus Unus bowed to the raccoon dog spirit. “I beg your pardon, but if Her Majesty is confiscating His Grace’s property, may I see a writ with the royal seal first?”

“Confiscating! Whyever would you think that Her Majesty is confiscating this property?” The raccoon dog’s eyes went big and round with feigned shock. Then they narrowed with equally feigned suspicion, and she leaned in so close that her perfume clogged his nostrils. “Unless he – or thou – hast done something to deserve a royal confiscation?”

Her words were coy and breathy, but they struck him like a gale. “No! No, of course not, my lady!”

She straightened, shrugged, and held out one slender hand so she could inspect her perfectly painted nails. “Why, then if neither sedition nor treason is being plotted here, whyever would the Queen desire to confiscate this mansion from her beloved uncle?”

If Camphorus Unus could think of at least ten, then the Queen’s favorite could surely think of a hundred.

“Don’t worry!” The viper bared her fangs in a wide grin that was just as fake as Lady Anthea’s shock. “We’re jussst borrowing the mansssion! For a ssshort time! Jussst until, oh – actually – I’m not sssure when….”

So their actions hadn’t been sanctioned by the Queen after all. They were vultures, here to rip off pieces of the Earl’s domain while he was out of favor and defenseless.

Just like his tree.

As if the mage had read his mind, she left off playing with her sparrow and leveled a hard gaze at him. “If you’re worried about your tree, don’t be. The Queen has transferred stewardship of the camphor forest to the Earl of Yellow Flame as a reward for his loyal services.”

Well.

It certainly wasn’t in Camphorus Unus’ terms of service to defend the Black Crag domain. He was no fighter, as the Earl was fond of pointing out, merely an old tree spirit inherited from his forebears who took care of housekeeping.

Undoing the ring of keys from his belt, Camphorus Unus bowed low and presented them in both hands to Lady Anthea. “I beg your pardon most profoundly for the misunderstanding. If you so desire, it would be my honor to take you on a tour of the grounds.”

Finally! I had my own place again, which I could renovate to my own standards. What a relief!

One week after I commandeered the Earl of Black Crag’s Goldhill mansion, the basic remodeling was complete, and I moved in with Bobo, Floridiana, and Dusty. I did feel a little bad about abandoning Lodia in Anthea’s household – but not enough to stay there with her.

And anyway, she had her childhood friend. Anthea had been quite taken with Katu’s poems, especially the one entitled “To Anthea who may command him anything” (because of course she was), and had appointed him her personal poet (because of course she needed one). So long as Katu stopped swooning over the raccoon dog once in a while, he’d encourage Lodia when her lack of self-confidence took over.

And it wasn’t as if I didn’t see them every couple days anyway. Both were intimately involved in the establishment of the Temple to the Kitchen God. After all, my new High Priest would need ceremonial robes – just as soon as I found the right sap to play the role – and Lodia was going to design and make said costume for me. Also, I was organizing an annual festival dedicated to the Kitchen God, which I would use to extract an extra heap of offerings to him. Any festival worth its salt (or maybe camphor, haha) required songs of fulsome praise, the more nauseating, the better. Who better to compose them than Katu?

“But I don’t do religious themes,” he protested when I summoned him to commission the song cycle. “I’m a love poet.”

That is precisely the emotion I want you to tap into: love. Of the Kitchen God, who protects the home and watches over those on Earth.

“And who ssspies on us and reports on us to the Jade Emperor every year!” Bobo added helpfully (in her mind only).

As she prattled on about smearing the mouths of Kitchen God images with honey to sweeten his reports or to glue them shut so he couldn’t say anything at all, ideas began to come to me. Yeeeees…. Yeeeees…. The Kitchen God is a…loving god, but a stern one…who stands between the people on Earth and the Jade Emperor in Heaven. Like a – like an – an intercessor! Yes! That’s what he is! An intercessor!

“An inter-ssse-sssor?”

One who intercedes.

My explanation didn’t work.

Without tearing her eyes away from her heap of codices and scrolls, Floridiana muttered, “If it’s a god who stands between Heaven and Earth that you’re looking for, then it’s the God of Thieves you want. He Who Stands Midway in the Heavens.”

“That’s a cool title! There’s really a god of thieves?” Excited, Bobo slithered over to peer at open codex in front of Floridiana.

“He’s not in here,” the mage informed her. “He’s not nearly reputable enough to be mentioned in this kind of book.”

Oh? And what kind of book is this?

I hadn’t bothered to skim the titles of the books that Floridiana was copying out at home and in the royal library. Scholarly work was what I kept her around for.

“This book contains a discussion of the gods and what we know of them. In other words, it is the kind of book you should be researching if you want to forge all the folktales and oral traditions concerning the Kitchen God into a self-consistent theology.”

Eh, that was her job, not mine.

Then I’m glad you found it.

“Yes….” From her disgruntled tone, she was less convinced than I was. Maybe religious-text-writing wasn’t going as smoothly as she liked.

Meanwhile, Katu had been off center stage for too long. Waving his arms and flapping his sleeves, which were also too long, he wrested our attention away from the books. (In my case, it didn’t take much wresting.) “But that doesn’t solve my problem! I’m a love poet! Known for my love poems! If I start composing religious song cycles, that’s going to – to – ”

“Dilute your branding?” finished Floridiana in her most severe, headmistress-y tone.

“Yes! That!”

Since she looked entirely unimpressed by the magnitude of his woes, it fell to me to soothe the artiste. But you’re not diluting your branding. These ARE love poems – love poems on a whole different level! They profess your love, not for mortal humans or immortal spirits, but for the DIVINE! They capture the awesome, ineffable might of divine love for mortals and spirits alike! What greater love could exist in this world?!

“Umm….”

I didn’t give him time to think of counterarguments.

And think of the audience you will reach! Not just those philistines in Lychee Grove who are so far beneath you that they can’t even dream of comprehending your artistic vision! Not just these bored courtiers in Goldhill who jump on every passing trend and fad in hopes of relieving their eternal ennui, but – EVERYONE! Every single household, every single person on Earth who keeps an altar to the Kitchen God above their stove, who prays to him to protect their hearths and homes, who pleads with him to speak well of them – to intercede on their behalf – before the Jade Emperor at the New Year – every last one of them will hear your poems! Sing your songs! Borrow YOUR words to express THEIR devotion to the Divine Intercessor! What greater scope could you hope for? What greater audience could there BE?

Although Katu had started off scowling and plucking at his sleeves, he perked up more and more with every word, and at the end, he pumped a fist in the air. “Yeah! You’re right! I never saw it that way! How did I never see it that way before?”

Because he wasn’t me, of course.

Inspired by my speech as well, Floridiana had buried her head in her book. She was examining some minute detail to ensure that she gained a perfect understanding of the Kitchen God, I was sure.

As for Bobo, she bumped Katu’s arm with her head. “You’re going to be famous all over Ssserica!”

Katu drew himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest, and pressed a hand to his breast. “I shall be the one to give voice to the people’s mute and muddled yearning for the Kitchen God. I shall be the one to give voice to their ill-formed and inchoate reverence for the deity who watches over us all!”

Flinging back his head, he opened his arms wide and raised them towards Heaven (where, incidentally, the Kitchen God was not at this moment).

“I shall be – the VOICE of the Divine Intercessor!”

Well, it looked like I had just found my High Priest.