The Cruel Princess
The carriage forged eastward, traveling upstream along the Sidbon River. The horses, famed for charging up steep mountain ridges on their powerful legs without hesitation, thundered across the flat plains as though it were as simple as swallowing cold porridge. Eventually they crossed a low mountain. Their next destination was Pass Valley, a village tucked neatly into a broad vale. They would spend that night in the small mountain estate.
From the following day onward, Tichite moved together with Desidero. To be precise, they sat in the same space, obliged to watch each other breathe or toy with the hair at their temples.
Tichite was not blessed with an affable personality, and it was clear that no warm banter could be expected from Desidero, who plainly resented uninvited company.
Spending long hours on a distant road steeped in awkward silence was a trade of bodily ease for mental torment. Could such an exchange truly be called rational?
Tichite felt the pressure. She sensed she must prove to Desidero how earnestly she approached her assigned duty. It would not do to appear as a physician who felt no curiosity whatsoever about her patient.
When she cautiously said she had something she wished to ask, Desidero granted her leave to question him.
You said it has been more than ten years since His Grace suffered the accident, correct?
That is so.
I hoped to obtain information that might assist in his treatment. I would like to know the exact circumstances of the moment he came into contact with the oil. May I ask? How much do you remember about the events of that day, Lord Desidero?
Hmm. That I know well. I know it exceedingly well.
Desidero, who had kept decorously silent the entire journey, opened his mouth at last as though he had stumbled upon a worthwhile topic. Leaning deeply into the carriage seat, he began his narration in a languid voice.
It happened two years before His Grace received his knighthood. He was fifteen years old, and His Grace had already taken part in the large and small battles occurring along the border. As you know, that was the time when the first signs of the Full Moon War were appearing. The full-scale fighting likely began when I was twelve…? So, calculating precisely, it would be fourteen years ago now. His Grace was seventeen. At the time he was still serving under Count Bellar, and though it shames me to admit it, the Bigland allied forces were little more than a rabble. The main axis of the allied army was commanded by Marquis Colword, and that man’s leadership was so abysmal that…
The young man recited the history of the thirteen-year holy war from its very beginning, reeling off dates and places as if reading from a dull chronicle.
Objectively it was a history of defeat for Tichite, yet listening to it did not wound her pride. In that era even members of the same ethnicity frequently formed and dissolved alliances, and besides, Tichite had grown up on an archipelago far from the mainland. She had developed completely detached from emotions such as patriotism, loyalty, or belonging.
Desidero, however, was different. He seemed thoroughly enamored of the glory of the holy war’s victory and of Duke Paeroa, who had achieved it.
…And from that time onward, he began leading the Iron Horse Knights independently. At the tender age of only twenty-five, His Grace, armed with the strategic insight inherited from the previous duke and his innate bravery…
In the end war was nothing but a contest among the powerful for land, so to a mere commoner who could only offer labor and allegiance to whichever side won, the entire tale went in one ear and out the other. Since the tedious epic of heroism showed no sign of mentioning the Sun God’s Oil, she could only wish he would hurry and reach the main point.
Tichite slipped in a quiet prompt the moment the man paused for breath.
You truly… hold Duke Paeroa in high regard, Lord Desidero.
She had nearly said “love” but swerved at the last instant to “regard.” Desidero looked faintly embarrassed by the words alone.
It is only natural. My brother is the savior of my life and a hero without peer.
Since Tichite had never heard any story of Desidero crossing the threshold between life and death, she could not avoid pulling him back to the scene of his torture as a prisoner of war.
Ah, yes. We were speaking of the oil, weren’t we? To explain that I must return to the time when His Grace was still under another’s command.
Desidero’s throat had grown dry from praising the duke’s exploits so tirelessly. He took a sip of water, then once more reduced Duke Paeroa to a seventeen-year-old novice.
Marquis Colword was a man who would never choose retreat. He recklessly committed the entire allied force to the siege. The knights may have been seasoned in open battle, yet they possessed no talent for building an encirclement and holding it. By contrast, the Tilamin royal family’s bonds of brotherhood and their communication network were remarkably tight. Their reinforcements raced a long distance and reached Lichfield. Marquis Colword’s defenses and responses, however, were sluggish. A major night raid took place, and every nobleman of sufficient value was captured alive. His Grace in particular possessed exceptional worth as a prisoner, and they knew it. Therefore he might have been released after an appropriate ransom. If only that idiotic Tilamin woman had not ruined everything…
The young man spoke the final words steeped in deep hatred and rancor. Even Tichite, who had been listening with half an ear until the desired subject appeared, flinched.
Tichite stared at him with wide eyes. Instead of answering her silent question, Desidero first confirmed her general knowledge.
Do you know Princess Isanta?
Tichite shook her head. She could guess it was the name of some Tilamin princess, but she had no reason to memorize the identities of countless rulers in detail.
Seeing this, Desidero waved his hand as if to say they would skip that part.
There are two women who ruined His Grace’s life. One of them is that Tilamin princess. Oh, Isanta. Isanta was utterly mad. She was cruel by nature. She enjoyed personally torturing and tormenting prisoners, so I heard she made a hobby of visiting the dungeons at every opportunity.
The young man frowned faintly. He was recalling Isanta’s now-faded face and the insane acts she had committed.
The problem was that the woman took one look at the handsome seventeen-year-old duke and fell for him on a whim! She proposed marriage on a whim and even tried to force the wedding through on a whim.
At that point Tichite’s ears pricked up for the first time. There were more than one or two details that stirred her interest, yet she kept silent and listened.
But that was impossible. Marrying a Tilamin woman? Being taken prisoner by the enemy was already miserable enough, but that would have been a greater humiliation than becoming an apostate and begging for one’s life. Naturally His Grace refused with absolute firmness.
A question rose in Tichite’s mind.
Was she a beauty? Or a hag?
Clearly she had not possessed the sort of beauty that could sway the duke’s heart.
Then again, perhaps the idea that a Tilamin woman could look beautiful to an Endel eye was as meaningless as a snake finding a baby bird adorable.
Since everyone except Isanta was sane, her wishes could not be fulfilled. When things refused to go her way, she poured the oil over His Grace. It was not torture or anything of the sort! It was merely a tantrum.
From head to toe?
From head to toe.
…What a truly horrific thing. Did His Grace faint immediately?
No. His Grace continued to resist fiercely for some time afterward. He retained at least enough strength to kill two adult men and sever a person’s leg. And before long he was overpowered, but…
Desidero’s face twisted as he spoke. The pain of someone who might have been present at the scene itself rose clearly to the surface.
And then? What happened after that?
Who are you asking about? Our duke? Or that woman? Well, it does not matter. The answer can explain both at once. They kindly dragged His Grace’s body—rather, the form they were utterly convinced would soon be a corpse—out of the prison. The duke who rose again from the pile of corpses… Ah, only the word resurrection could possibly describe that sight. The Moon Mother had breathed a miracle into His Grace’s flesh.