XIV. Of Hills and Stars

Soren, unable to help himself, heard Tennieson’s words in his mind, repeatedly. He struggled most with his assertion that there was “blood” he must step through.

This, he thought, does not necessarily mean anyone’s particular blood. Nor does it mean that it is I drawing the blood.

So… whose? Whose blood? What did the troll really know?

“I suppose it’s now you two who are getting married?” asked Sophia, ahead of Soren and Maria as they caught up on the descent.

Maria turned toward Soren with an exasperated expression, nodding her head before turning away with a smile. Soren, jolted out of his thoughts as they descended the creaking wooden stairs, looked toward Cybele, who was still downcast, then Sophia.

“I take it you are in a bad mood,” replied Soren.

Sophia turned back sharply, stopping in her tracks. Her eyes were opened wide.

“Oh? Do you?”

Soren nearly flinched before he held up his hands in mock resignation.

“You don’t scare me anymore, woman.”

Sophia held her fierce glare, before laughing loudly.

“The sullen healer-mage’s heart yet beats. Physicians tend to be so dry, after all,” said Sophia, before resuming her descent.

Quite, Soren thought.

He looked again at Cybele, who did not seem to react at all.

“Sophie is indeed fond of you, Soren, or she would have turned you to ash just now. Aren’t you, Sophie?” said Maria with a grin.

Soren chuckled before going quiet as he continued watching Cybele.

“As fond as I can be of a physician,” said Sophia dryly, with a sigh.

“Cybele,” Soren said. Cybele hesitated before turning to look at Soren as she continued dragging her leg down the stairs. He noticed she was beginning to bear weight upon it slightly, with more coordination, yet there was still time needed for it to fully heal.

And he saw the weight beneath Cybele’s eyes—the weight of someone who could have gone to war.

“Cybele? Are you all right?” asked Maria, worriment in her tone.

“She is fine. The girl has her own work to do here, and she will speak more about it when she’s ready. He—the man—has much to do of his own as well, and more that he has not yet done,” said Sophia, still facing the stairwell ahead.

“What is this about?” asked Soren sternly.

“You will see, since you will not allow us to help you as befits the procession,” replied Sophia.

At this, Soren spoke no more. They continued down the stairwell in silence, arriving at an open doorway, and through the doorway, Soren could not yet pause to ruminate on the flood of thoughts now coursing through him as he stepped into the room.

They found themselves standing upon a hill covered in knee-length grass. The walls were made of smooth, gray stone, ascending a few stories into pure, unbroken darkness. Across the grass, crystalline flowers shaped like sunflowers dotted the earth, twinkling and glittering in the faint light of a moon, or what seemed to be a moon.

And descending dozens of feet toward the center of the room, they saw a fountain, old, cracked, with patches of moss here and there. The center spout looked as if it were cut in half, yet water flowed through it, albeit in large, pathetic gobs down the spout, toward the round basin from which the spout sprang forth.

And a bright streak of apparent moonlight engulfed the fountain and the pale, tiled stone floor around it, which was being consumed by the grass a few feet from the edges of the basin. The light was not uncomfortably bright, yet it filled the whole room dimly. Beyond the fountain, the grass continued a few dozen feet toward another hill which was a little lower in height, obscuring the corner of the room beyond it.

And next to the fountain stood a figure in metal plate armor, splotched with rust, its head hidden beneath a frog-mouth helm, face concealed by a visor which was welded shut. The armor looked forged out of dark gray iron.

The figure’s scabbard at the waist contained a long blade.

“How did this one get here?” asked Maria, turning toward Sophia.

“However they did, we have a Sister to speak to about this,” replied Sophia sternly.

“To leave such a creature in its own memory cloister like this—intolerable.” Maria spoke with rising anger in her voice as she clenched her fists.

“All will be well, Sister. Rest assured.” Sophia began to descend the hill; Maria followed.

“Remain here, loves,” said Sophia.

All without explaining, thought Soren, what a “memory cloister” is, of course.

Cybele knelt down, slowly, steadily, to touch one of the flowers. She grimaced as her injured thigh was compressed. A petal soundlessly broke into shards which drifted gently in the air, and the shards looked like liquid.

“Cybele. Perhaps now would be a good time to check your bruises.”

Cybele looked entranced by the suspended shards of glass-liquid, which Soren indeed found remarkable, but then, so was the rest of the Cathedral, he thought. She turned toward him with those same, heavy eyes, darkened flesh beneath them, her countenance worn flat, empty.

For Soren’s part, he no longer felt tired, and he could not remember when he was last hungry or thirsty.

Yet, all the same, he felt immediately disarmed by such weight that a young lady should not have to bear. At least, not alone.

Cybele nodded.

She sat on the grass, stretching out her legs. As Soren gently lifted her skirt away, he noticed, again, how remarkably thin her legs were. There is a significant degree of variance in pubertal development, but even for someone of her age and height, for she was as tall as Sophia, who was, in turn, tall enough to stand up to Soren’s nose, he wasn’t sure if she might be malnourished.

“I don’t know how much you remember before… all of this,” said Soren, as he pressed four of his fingers against the bruises gently. She flinched.

“Apologies. I will make this as swift as possible.”

“Go on. I’m fixed on watching them,” she said, quietly.

Soren looked toward the Sisters below. Both were speaking to the armored figure, which did not appear to have moved its body at all.

Soren returned to the bruises, and continued. A soft, silvery light emanated from his fingers over the bruises, and they heard a low tone like a bell, though very faint and almost inaudible.

“Normally I would not pry but for my vocation, so if I may ask: did you eat well? Were you of decent means?”

Cybele swiftly, sharply turned toward Soren, who looked up at her in turn.

The heaviness remained, now furrowed by anger.

“Hurry up and finish.” She turned back toward the Sisters.

Soren resumed his focus on the bruises, albeit briefly shaken. Perhaps my questions were too direct, he thought. Further still, she did not otherwise appear gaunt, and her skin was supple; but, then again, she was rather muscular for a developing girl.

He decided he would not pry anymore, so long as she was otherwise healthy enough to move, and act.

He shifted then to her state of mind. But that, too, would have to come in time.

“It is done. You should be able to walk normally, but for now, do not run unless you have no other choice.”

She shoved her skirt back over her legs, and stood, gently stretching the leg. Then, downcast again, she quietly said,

“Thank you.”

She sat back down, touching another one of the petals, watching the crystalline fragments float in the air.

“You are very welcome.” Soren smiled lightly, as he watched the fragments with her.

He wished he had a pot of Alluvian tea to serve.

“I know you’re the greatest healer to ever live, so I have to ask—can’t you… heal a little more quickly?” asked Cybele. Her voice sounded mildly strained.

Soren still had to ask himself if that was true. He kept his gentle smile. “I could, but that risks additional injury and delayed recovery. We are not on a battlefield.”

“Aren’t we?”

Soren’s smile faded away. Her eyes weighed upon him like stone.

He turned toward the Sisters, and saw the armored figure’s hand on the handle of its sword.

And his stomach began to turn.