The True Trial

As the Saintess's personal handmaiden, Libitina had been involved in most matters concerning the Saintess's private life — though she could not claim responsibility for all of them.

For instance, there was the moment when the Saintess, having expended far too much holy power, began to suffer through her side effects. It was Aison, the priest who attended her, who took matters into his own hands then — a capable man, discreet as a grave, who had stood faithfully at the Saintess's side for many years.

If you had asked who among them would throw away their life for the Saintess, those who didn't know better would have named Libitina. In truth, it was Aison who would have stepped forward without a moment's hesitation. That was the kind of man he was.

"Why must it be a side effect like this, of all things?"

When had it been? Libitina was standing outside the bedchamber door like an automaton, waiting for the ragged gasping on the other side to subside, when the question surfaced in her mind. She hadn't meant it as anything more than a murmur — she wasn't actually looking for an answer — but Aison, waiting at her side, replied all the same.

"Because holy power is the power of God."

Holy power was God's power, and the human body was far, far too frail a vessel to wield it.

It was only natural that a Saintess who stood at the front of every battlefield, purifying the world, should suffer periodic side effects, and the Order spared no devotion in caring for her. Which meant, in essence, that whatever side effect the Saintess endured, the Church embraced it without compunction.

Even her becoming a shameless harlot, pouring pleasure into the bodies of men.

"Who covets the power of God most of all? The wicked demon, of course."

It was Aison who handled the business of supplying men capable of bearing the Saintess's carnal heat. From the moment he'd first been given this duty until now, his attitude had been unwaveringly earnest and solemn.

According to him, the service they provided was a work of great importance and holiness.

"The demon exists to drag mankind into ruin. Lust is the demon's temptation, the rope it uses to pull souls down into the mire. A daughter of Catwen like you should know that better than anyone. What she carries is the demon's curse laid upon the Saintess."

At Aison's resolute answer, Libitina asked nothing further. But apparently he found his own answer lacking, for a few days later he suddenly spoke first.

"Though sometimes I wonder if it may be a trial from God instead."

Unlike the days when he'd spoken with such certainty of the demon's curse, Aison seemed weighed down by some deep preoccupation that day.

"Perhaps God pours unending suffering upon the Saintess to test whether she is worthy of wielding His power. And those of us who serve her are tested in turn…."

It was certainly an ordeal, having to clean up after another woman's wanton affairs — but Libitina had never once thought of it as a trial. What he meant, rather, was that for Aison, seeking out the Saintess's bed partner again and again was his own trial to bear.

"We cannot presume to share the suffering the Saintess has been given to carry. All we can do is serve her with all our hearts."

Libitina knew exactly what a sin and a torment it was for a servant to harbor private feelings for the Saintess. That was why she never pretended to understand the sorrow weighing on him. She simply couldn't bring herself to agree with him.

Really — was what the Saintess carried truly suffering?

Unlike Aison, Libitina accompanied the Saintess through her entire daily life, and every so often the current side effect came up in conversation. And every time, the Saintess never once called it an ordeal. If anything, she spoke of it casually, almost as if it were a kind of reward. When the woman herself took that attitude, it was hardly surprising that a few of the younger maids had their heads turned, taking a scandalous interest in the matter of lying with men.

One curious soul had even volunteered to take over the bedchamber cleanup from Libitina. The Saintess hadn't permitted it, of course.

Come to think of it, Libitina had never been particularly tempted by the act itself. Perhaps it was because of the scenery of Catwen, which had filled her entire childhood — the brothels and gambling dens of every kind. Her homeland, that breeding ground of crime, had served as an antidote of sorts.

As for what she'd felt watching the Saintess endure her side effect, if she had to put it into words, Libitina would have called it a kind of fascination.

That a wretched beggar and a noble Saintess became, stripped bare, nothing more than ordinary human beings. That before pleasure, human dignity dissolved like a mirage, leaving nothing but bestial appetite.

Her wonder stopped precisely there. Afterward, Libitina always did as she always did — attended the Saintess's bath, tidied the soiled bedchamber with her own hands, and threw the windows wide open until the stale smell was gone.

"Libi."

Perhaps something about that fascinated the Saintess too, because one day she called Libitina to her. It was just as Libitina was gathering up the stripped bedsheets, about to carry them to the laundry.

"Yes, Saintess."

"You don't blush in the slightest, do you."

Having just bathed, the Saintess wore nothing but a long, gauzy robe over her bare skin. The mottled marks across her body betrayed, quite brazenly, what she had been doing only moments before. She showed no inclination whatsoever to cover herself, while the other maids in the room flushed scarlet and averted their eyes.

Only Libitina regarded her with a level expression. There wasn't a trace of embarrassment on her face.

"Ah — is it because you're from Catwen?"

Quite apart from any pride in her hometown — which had been neither honorable nor beloved — it was true that her origins had contributed to her composure. Libitina answered without hesitation. "I've never experienced it myself, but I've seen plenty."

"And those you've seen — do they look the same as me, when they do it?"

"Of course not. You are a noble and precious person, Saintess."

At the instant reply, the Saintess's eyes went round as she stared at Libitina. Then she burst into quiet laughter.

"You really are terrible at lying."

Naturally she was. Libitina had spent her whole life wearing a different face on the outside than the one inside. Whatever she thought in her heart, she'd long since mastered the art of showing nothing of it — and it was precisely that seasoned cunning that had earned her a place at the Saintess's side.

"No? Well, that's exactly why I'm so fond of you."

Even as she silently contradicted her in her head, Libitina quietly listened. The day after a night of rolling about with a man, the Saintess always seemed unusually pensive. There was no telling what went through her mind, but it generally made her turn cynical. Just as she was now.

Libitina, who had been quietly watching her, suddenly asked, "What would happen if you didn't lie with anyone?"

"If I didn't?"

The Saintess replied as though it were a matter of no consequence.

"How could a human body carry the power of God unharmed? If the heat doesn't leave me, it burns me from the inside out instead. I suppose my body might char black as coal."

Libitina, who possessed no holy power herself, had no way of knowing whether the heat the Saintess spoke of was a figure of speech or a force that would genuinely set her flesh ablaze. But one thing was certain: to wield the power of God, one had to stake one's very life as collateral.

"It really is a mercy, isn't it, that a man can release this heat. Anything feels better than pain — pleasure is the preferable bargain, don't you think?"

If Aison had been present, would he have heard those words and still insisted the Saintess was cursed by a demon? Or would those very words have confirmed it for him?

Libitina wiped the pointless question from her mind at once and turned her attention back to her work. It was none of her concern anyway. The Saintess, so preciously cherished by the Order, would never be consumed by some terrible heat and lose her life to it.

…Ah. Though five hundred years in the future, that might be a slightly different story.

"You're awake."

Consciousness returned, and every scene of the past vanished in an instant. Libitina blinked her gritty, sandpaper eyes, shaking off the afterimage the dream had left behind, and slowly rolled her gaze about. Her mouth tasted sour.

"You woke early. Fortunately your condition has improved, but as recently as an hour ago your fever had climbed to a dangerous level. Do you have some underlying ailment?"

At the blunt voice raining down on her the moment she opened her eyes, Libitina let out an involuntary, irritated sigh.

A sticky, clammy feeling clung to her whole body, and the heat still lingered faintly beneath her skin. Simply lying there was enough to make her skin crawl, and the stream of words that came pouring down the instant she opened her eyes — as if he'd been waiting for it — didn't register in her ears at all.

Perhaps he realized himself that this was rather lacking in consideration for someone who had just collapsed and woken, because Asselin belatedly shut his mouth and studied her complexion. Then, when she tried to push herself up, he helped support her shoulders and wordlessly offered her a cup of water.

Only after swallowing a mouthful did the tightly jammed dam inside her finally open. Libitina exhaled yet again and murmured, half to herself.

"Ten days, at the longest."

She handed the cup back to Asselin and raised both hands to scrub down her face.

"Maybe a fortnight. Or a month. Or longer, even…. Damn it all."

Libitina had no idea how long she could endure without resolving the side effect. Which meant, first and foremost, she needed to find a man—

"…Goddamn it all."

She wanted to tell Aison. That this situation she was in right now — this was what a true trial looked like.