HUI 18

The Banquet

That day, Ninia returned safely to the castle.
As soon as she entered her room, she skipped dinner and fell into a deep sleep.
Her body and mind, startled and tense all day, had finally collapsed in exhaustion.

The temple had always worked her hard, but that was different—there she had only moved like a game piece in the goddess’s name.
This was the first time she had ever threatened someone of her own will.

Even Ninia didn’t believe her judgment had been perfect.
She had gambled on a single clue, and it just happened to work on the count.

How did it turn out…?

It had been half a month since her return to the castle.
No news had come, so she couldn’t know whether the count had truly handed over what he promised to Tarahan.

She had done her best, yet anxiety remained.
To calm herself, Ninia embroidered.
Her northern life unfolded once more—a blank, white existence that would drive her mad unless her hands stayed busy.

She had been stitching for some time when Rosa entered, perhaps because it was noon.
But the tray Rosa set on the table was unusual.

Cookies?

On the plate lay only two small cookies, no bigger than a finger. Not oatmeal—actual cookies.
When Ninia looked at her in puzzlement, Rosa spoke.

“Tonight the lord has invited you, the grand duchess, to a formal banquet. You must begin preparations right away.”

Me?
Ninia’s face questioned her, though inwardly she thought, So it’s finally come.

On banquet days it was customary to skip or eat only a little at lunch.
Ninia nodded in understanding and did not touch the cookies.

“I’ll help with your hair and makeup,” Rosa added.

Clearing the plate, Rosa moved beside her to assist with her attire.

“Please remove your dress first.”

Before touching Ninia’s hair, Rosa began to undo her gown—then stopped midway.
The normally brisk maid, who always hurried to finish and be away from Ninia, had suddenly grown hesitant.

“…This is…”

Ah.
Ninia remembered what might have startled her.

Several long scars crossed her back, remnants from days after she had submitted a request to leave the temple.

They were the final punishment from Altahaf, one of the goddess’s two serpents and Ninia’s own teacher.

“I told you to abandon your self. All things are decided by the goddess.”

He had taught Ninia to erase her ego, to preserve body and mind through sacrifice and purity.

The marks on her back were from that day’s whipping, when she had stood bare-skinned.
With her divine power already drained, the wounds had scarred for the first time.
She had forgotten them entirely.

“…The goddess’s servants sometimes seek enlightenment through self-mortification,” Ninia said, embarrassed, but preferring that vague explanation to admitting she’d been punished.

Rosa’s eyes widened briefly, then her face returned to blankness.
Her gaze held a quiet of course as if she’d rationalized it.

“You’ll wear this.”

She brought a dress for the banquet—a pale violet gown with a white shawl that bared half the neck.

Her curiosity about the scars faded; after all, they were nothing more than marks that looked worse than they were.

Ninia herself forgot about them again, her thoughts caught instead by the slightly extravagant dress.

Was this once worn by one of the count’s women?

The gown had been in the fortress, so it surely had a former owner.
The count had once sneered at her as less than a mistress when he saw her in borrowed clothes, but Ninia didn’t really care who had worn it.

Countess or mistress—it doesn’t matter.

Why should the source of a discarded garment matter?
If it had been worn by one of Tarahan’s lovers, she might feel a flicker of unease—but only barely.

The count’s words that day had been nearly a curse.
He had spat that even the goddess had abandoned her, and so would the barbarian.

Someday, perhaps he’ll be right, Ninia thought, accepting it calmly, because she already knew the truth.

Anything useless is always cast aside.

She was something thrown away, picked up only because someone needed her for a while.

If she were used and then shoved aside again, she would slowly die—neither living nor dead.
If she lay still long enough, maybe someone would take her up again.

I want to live.

Ninia wanted life.
For her, living meant being of use to someone else.

She was desperate, and every plea she had made to Tarahan was utterly sincere.

She was like a wind-up doll: moving as long as someone turned the key, helpless without a keeper.

A life where uselessness meant death—so she had to find a master who could use her.

“All done,” Rosa said, lifting her hands from Ninia’s hair.

In the mirror stood Ninia, fully adorned.

The same as ever.

Blue eyes.
Golden hair once praised for its brilliance, now pale at the tips, but her outer shell remained unchanged no matter whose hands touched it.
Relieved, Ninia rose, steadying her heart.

Following Rosa’s lead, she descended to the banquet hall.
She had always eaten in her room; this was her first time there.

At the turn of the corridor was the entrance.
At the head of the long vertical table already sat Tarahan.
Meeting his eyes, Ninia startled and halted, remembering his usually fierce gaze.
She lowered her head and followed behind Rosa.

“Please sit here,” Rosa said.

The place was set for two, but the chair Rosa pulled out stood at the middle of the table, the seat of an invited guest, not of a grand duchess.
Still, Ninia found nothing odd—she had never expected to dine with Tarahan at all.

As soon as she sat, servants brought dishes.
Aside from the opening soup, most were meats—bird, rabbit, reindeer—served in order of the animal’s size.

Ninia ate only a few spoonfuls of soup and some bird meat.

Instead of eating, she kept stealing glances at Tarahan as he sliced his steak.
The white plate reddened with blood.
The meat was barely cooked, but he ate without hesitation.

Though known as a former mercenary, his handling of the knife was strikingly noble, only slightly rough, which somehow suited him.

Who taught him?

Ninia knew only surface facts about him and found herself curious.
He expressed his fierceness without restraint, yet seemed generous with what he possessed.
Most people leaned either to reason or to passion.

What kind of man was he?
She recalled the rebuilding village she’d seen on her way to meet the count.

“The Count of Troid has yielded his lands,” Tarahan said suddenly.

Startled, Ninia’s eyes widened.
Moments ago she had only been sneaking glances, but now she was openly staring.
Realizing it only after their eyes met, she quickly lowered her gaze.

Right. That’s why I was called here.

She remembered—this dinner was about the count.
It amazed her she had forgotten.
At last she spoke.

“…That’s a relief.”

Brief words, but heartfelt.
She felt genuine relief that her threat had worked.
Tarahan studied her with a curious look.

What possessed you to go that far?

Even when she nodded at his command to secure the count’s land, Tarahan had not believed her.

He had only meant to frighten her a little, to see how the temple doll would squirm like a worm underfoot.

He had expected her to return begging off, yet instead she sent the count a letter, bold as could be.

Ninia’s letter passed through Tarahan’s hands: her promise to bestow a blessing made him scoff.
The count, more central than northern now, might as well have been a city noble.

Did she plan to flee south with him?
Annoyed, Tarahan crushed the letter.
Even crumpled, the elegant script remained refined.
He hid his irritation and burned it.

Soon after, he summoned a literate maid to compose a new letter pretending to be from the grand duchess.

The reply was ridiculous.

It read like a love letter, and Tarahan’s brow had furrowed deep.
The count seemed ready to welcome Ninia with open arms, even to carry her off himself.
He almost suspected they already shared some bond.

We’ll see about that.

He burned the count’s reply as well and ordered Ninia prepared.
She wasn’t entirely without sense, so she must have realized she was heading to the count.

Tarahan had decided to watch with his own eyes whatever schemes she and the count might attempt.

But Ninia stayed only briefly at the count’s manor and came straight back.
He had half-expected her to refuse to return, yet she went directly to her room and fell into a death-like sleep.

Tarahan stood over her bed, watching her breathe.
She slept so deeply she never sensed him near.
She didn’t seem to have shared a bed with the count—only looked exhausted.

Her face was paler than usual.
After a long moment, Tarahan summoned his aide.

“Go to the Count of Troid. Hear exactly what he’s panting about and report back.”

Though he grimaced at the word panting, the aide obeyed.

The next day, the aide returned with the Troid lands, six mines, and the full amount of the promised war reparations.