HUI 06

The Person Who Hates Me

With the carriage broken beyond repair, there was no choice but to ride. Ninia now traveled on a horse lent to her by Jeronom Evans, Tarahan’s lieutenant, with the duke’s knights escorting them from behind.

Among the many accomplishments she had been trained in as a saintess, horseback riding was included. That was fortunate, yet galloping across a rough forest trail was nothing like cantering in a smooth, obstacle-free arena.

“Are you all right, Lady Ninia?”

Jeronom, astride a chestnut horse, drew level with her. Riding was one thing; managing a horse in the dark woods was another. He knew she wasn’t used to forcing a path through such terrain, and a night ride with almost no visibility was the worst of all.

He couldn’t very well seat his future master’s wife in front of him on his own saddle. Resting at night and traveling by daylight was the best they could do.

“You’re worried because I’m slowing everyone down, aren’t you?”

Ninia understood his concern. Even while they traveled, he kept asking whether she lacked anything or felt uncomfortable. She could still picture his startled expression when she had first told him she was no longer a saintess.

Perhaps unsure what to call her, Jeronom addressed her as “Lady Ninia” instead of the formal “Saintess.” It wasn’t quite “Lady Ninia-nim,” but it would do. She offered him a grateful smile.

“…Once we reach Piran Village, we should be able to find another carriage,” he said at last, slightly late in answering. The smile of the woman who had once embraced the entire continent had left him momentarily speechless. He, too, knew well of Saintess Ninia’s renown.

The Lily of the Kaner Church. Ninia, the Saintess of Compassion.

She had walked among the highest and the lowest alike. Nobles, royalty—even the emperor—had sought her blessing. As the public face of the Kaner faith, she had been a dazzling presence in the salons of the continent.

And when such a great saintess descended to the lowest places?
Ninia had willingly entered the reeking slums, laying her hands on suppurating wounds without hesitation, pouring out her holy power.

You never know what life holds, Jeronom thought. Even for a saintess.

The woman once revered by all had been cast down in an instant, and he looked at her with a complicated gaze.

The blame for the recent carriage attack lay squarely on Tarahan. Whether because of his birth or his nature, he had countless enemies. Nobles and commoners alike wanted him dead. Somehow the attackers must have heard that the route led to him and struck.

The temple is ruthless, Jeronom mused.

The Kaner temple had made a private agreement with Tarahan: they handed Ninia’s custody fully over to him, effectively washing their hands of her.

Had the carriage not been switched mid-journey, the attack might never have happened. No one dared touch a vehicle bearing the Kaner emblem. Without it, the raiders had freely targeted Ninia.

If the former saintess were killed, the temple could heap all blame on the duke, he thought grimly.

Though her retirement as saintess was public knowledge, it was a celebrated, not disgraceful, departure. Her image still carried weight. If she died now, outrage would inevitably turn northward.

Did she realize this? Perhaps it was better if she did not. Jeronom pitied her, knowing she would find little happiness in the north.

Ninia, unaware of his gaze, guided her gentle horse. Days of riding had made her comfortable enough to occupy her hands. She toyed with a pale-beige handkerchief embroidered with a laurel—the symbol of victory—at the corners and ash leaves along the edges.

I thought it would suit him, she reflected.

Laurel was common, but the ash leaves had been stitched for a reason: they were said to ward off misfortune. When she had first met him, covered head to toe in blood, he had seemed almost a demon. She’d added the leaves as a quiet prayer that no real demons cling to him.

…He’d probably laugh, she thought, slipping the handkerchief back into her bodice. She couldn’t give it to him, yet couldn’t throw it away either.

He… truly hates me.

The red eyes that met hers had held more than dislike—there had been a glint of pure hatred. Dislike she could understand. Hatred was harder.

If a future husband hates his wife… shouldn’t the wife be sad?

Ninia couldn’t tell if that was normal. She had devoted her entire being to the temple and had never imagined meeting a man she would marry.

A strange ache…

Placing a hand over her chest, she felt a cool sensation creep up her fingers.

Was it sadness? Misery? Ninia gave up trying to decide. Whatever the feeling, it was useless. She pressed down the churn of her heart with quiet resignation.

He said he paid a high price to bring me here, she recalled.

Many gained their desires by donating to the temple. Judging from Tarahan’s words, the temple had not forced Ninia upon him.

“We’re almost there,” Jeronom said, pointing to the cliff’s edge. Below lay a village of vivid red roofs and branching roads, the start of the path to the Danteor estate.

So this is the North.

Ninia nodded, the settlement below looking like an anthill from their height. A cold wind swept over her, and she hunched her shoulders.

It’s cold.

The chill itself seemed to declare they had crossed into the north. But wary of showing weakness, Ninia straightened her back. Fortunately, Jeronom appeared not to notice.

“To reach the keep we still have quite a way,” he said as they descended, “but with what you’re wearing, Lady Ninia, you can’t go farther. What was the temple thinking, sending you in such—”

He broke off, but she understood and merely smiled.

She wore a dark-blue dress of thin fabric, far from winter weight, the chill seeping easily through.

Yet Ninia bore no grudge against the temple; she had discarded such feelings long ago. Instead, she thanked Jeronom for his concern.

“Thank you for worrying about me.”

“…Let’s go,” he replied, his expression unreadable as he turned his back. He seemed almost overly careful around her.

He needn’t be, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud to someone showing such earnest care.

The village proved even livelier up close than it had from above. Piran Village, Jeronom explained, was among the busiest of the forty-eight settlements under Tarahan’s rule and had escaped heavy damage even during the war.

“Let’s buy you something warm,” he said.

He led her to a clothing shop and purchased a winter coat. Ninia accepted the garment—surprisingly heavy for a single piece.

“…Must I wear this much?”

The black-ox leather cloak weighed on her small frame, making her look almost like a dark sphere from afar.

“Yes. It’s winter, after all. Someone from the central provinces would freeze to death without proper gear.”

The north was always cold, but there was a period they called the “dark winter,” when the chill grew brutal.

“Still, once that ends, we get something like a central-province spring,” he added reassuringly. If she died of cold, it would be trouble for him as well, and tears over mere weather would make the journey far harder.

Yet contrary to his worries, the former saintess remained strangely calm, even in circumstances others would find unsettling.

“I see. Thank you for telling me.”

Jeronom fell silent. He had lost count of how many times she’d thanked him. Truly, this woman had a way of leaving people without words.

After a brief stop to rest and resupply, Jeronom led her through the Peria Forest. As they headed farther north, snow began to fall. The woods, blanketed in white, were utterly still.

Dark winter, Ninia murmured inwardly, watching the cold, mysterious crystals settle across the back of her hand.