Chapter 03
The Saint Stands Before the Tribunal
The carriage carrying Ninia traveled for days on end. Its windows were covered so she could not see outside, and the few times she was allowed to step out it was always night, in a dark forest where nothing could be seen.
Ninia no longer tried to speak to the priests escorting her. They, too, kept their silence, though they sometimes cast her curious glances when she busied herself with embroidery.
By the time she had finished embroidering every scrap of cloth she carried, the carriage finally reached its destination. Unlike at the start of the journey, the priests did not cover her with a leather hood. The moment she stepped down, she immediately knew where she was.
The Great Temple of Promaia.
Before her lay a lavish garden ringed with hundreds of flowers.
Some called this ever-blooming garden the embrace of the gods. At its center stood an even more magnificent temple, its dozens of white pillars so grand that one could almost believe divinity dwelled within.
The temple where Ninia had grown up possessed only symbolic splendor. The greatest and most magnificent temple in the empire stood here in Promaia, the golden capital. Ninia herself had visited it several times, most recently to bless the crown prince.
Her mouth went dry at the sight of the dazzling temple. The Grand Temple of Promaia was built for the noblest beings, but it served many purposes.
It was also the place where religious trials were held.
“This way, please.”
The priests who had ridden with her stood on either side to guide her forward. All around was an open field of flowers. Escape was impossible, yet even her docility in the carriage seemed to inspire no trust in them.
With a bitter smile she followed. The fragrant, breathtaking surroundings stirred no feeling in her.
Unlike the radiant garden that seemed to gather all life under the sun, the temple’s inner corridors were cold white marble. Each step echoed sharply, driving home her grim reality.
Those who face a religious trial…
Having long served the Kaner faith, Ninia knew well the fate of those who defied the god’s will. Few who stood trial ever returned to live as ordinary people.
Most failed to prove their innocence, suffered endless torture, and in the end confessed to crimes they had not committed. Execution was considered almost merciful. Such trials existed only to lend a veneer of legitimacy.
Her fingers tightened around the bundle hidden in her sleeve: the embroidered cloths she had worked on throughout the journey.
At the end of the corridor, the door already stood open, flooding the space beyond with dazzling light. Ninia involuntarily squinted.
…The tribunal.
The chamber she entered resembled a pure white colosseum. Beneath a ceiling hung with glittering chandeliers lay the central arena of judgment, encircled by tiered seating that rose like steps.
Her foreboding had been correct. Having failed to fulfill her duty as Saint, she now faced a religious trial. She was led to the center of the lowest level—the place for the accused.
Tilting her head back almost painfully, she looked up at the gathered hierarchy of the Kaner Church.
On the third tier sat the high priests of blessing, hymn, protection, and healing. Above them, the archpriests of wisdom and punishment, symbolized by two serpents, gazed down in solemn silence. Ninia quickly lowered her eyes. Her body trembled beneath the folds of her wide robe.
“Former Saint Ninia.”
From the highest seat—a place she dared not raise her eyes to—came the voice of Mitor Persoel, the thirty-ninth High Pontiff, resonating through the hall.
This was not a trial to determine whether she was still the Saint. With the Pontiff’s single declaration, Ninia already stood outside the embrace of Kaner.
Don’t tremble. Please…
It felt as though cold crystals formed at her fingertips as she clasped her arms to still their shaking. Only those who had faced death could know its true terror. To Ninia, the supreme servant of the goddess was a figure of dread.
The Pontiff was both her spiritual father and the absolute servant of the goddess.
Every action she took reached his ears under the watch of the Archpriest Altahef, the goddess’s “right-hand serpent,” and each month her conduct as Saint was formally reviewed.
“You have not offered enough sacrifice, Ninia.”
By “sacrifice,” he meant the worldly benefit she brought to the temple.
When her offerings fell short, she had to kneel before the Pontiff himself. Altahef, her instructor, would lash her until the cloth on her back was shredded and soaked in blood.
All while she looked directly into the Pontiff’s eyes.
“May you grasp the essence of life.”
After the punishment, a young acolyte would wash her wounds and help her change clothes. By then, the injuries on her back were already gone.
Her sacred power healed her flesh, leaving her skin as unmarked as ever within the goddess’s embrace.
But if the body remained whole, could the same be said of the soul? Only the goddess knew.
“Your sentence has been decided.”
The Pontiff raised his right hand, and the archpriests stood. Startled, Ninia nearly stepped back but forced herself to remain still.
The archpriests’ rising signified that judgment had already been passed. It was not the prolonged interrogation or torture she had expected.
Perhaps this is better.
She had always known she would be branded a sinner. Even admitting guilt would not end the ordeal. The beginning and the end were for the Pontiff alone to decide. As Ninia closed her eyes, bracing for death once more, Mitor’s pronouncement fell.
“The gaze of God turns to the North. Former Saint Ninia shall accompany the pilgrimage of Grand Duke Tarahan Piëcen Danteor, new master of the winter lands.”
…What?
Ninia barely managed to keep herself from blurting the question aloud, her years of training restraining her at the crucial moment.
Though briefly shaken, she gathered herself and wiped all expression from her face. The Pontiff’s eyes remained as cold as any judge’s.
“You will become Tarahan’s betrothed.”
The Pontiff’s words drove the point home. Though she had always been destined as an offering, Ninia had nonetheless lived as the goddess’s chosen Saint.
Those devoted to the deity were forbidden to marry. Some in high positions secretly kept illegitimate children or concubines, but such things were unthinkable for a Saint.
Tarahan Piëcen…
Ninia whispered the name of the man who bore the empire’s title.
She was both sacrifice and the temple’s public face. The Pontiff was aggressive in reshaping the religion’s image. Two centuries earlier, the order had been infamous for corruption; foreign interference had dragged its reputation to the ground.
Through years of effort, the Kaner faith now enjoyed wealth and prestige, bolstered by charity led by the Saint and involvement in the politics of many nations.
Ninia had attended countless parties, giving her at least a faint awareness of international affairs. The first time she heard of Tarahan was at a ball in the Piëcen imperial palace.
“The North seems poised to seize the advantage.”
“Indeed. And all because of him…”
The nobles whispered his name only with great caution, though a man who led armies to victory should have been hailed as a hero. She could not understand their fear.
The Piëcen Empire was mired in war with the Gilphurs Empire, which sought to reclaim the northern lands once taken from it. On the surface the region was a useless frozen wasteland, but it held the tomb of Gilphurs’ first emperor.
The conflict had begun over trade but quickly flared into a fierce battle of pride between the two empires.
Gilphurs demanded the return of the winter lands and cut off trade; Piëcen, almost eager for war, responded in kind.
Yet the campaign proved harder than they expected, and Piëcen soon found itself on the defensive. Just as the northern territory was about to fall into Gilphurs’ grasp, a man named Tarahan appeared.
“An illegitimate child of His Majesty and some barbarian woman?”
“What nonsense is that?”
The first noble to hear the rumor clutched his neck in disbelief, and those nearby wore equally horrified expressions.
