XVII. A Noble Lady

Soren had again offered to heal Maria’s wounds, but she declined. He saw them already healing, yet scarring over. He next went to Cybele, who extended her injured leg as Soren performed the last bout of healing magic she would need. Cybele stood on her feet, and briefly smiled.

And Soren was happy to see her smile, if only briefly.

“Quite the convenience that your… home is located along our path here,” said Soren, as they all left the room into the corridor of grayish flat stone and the amber-lit chandeliers above. He looked toward the chandeliers and felt that same unease he did in the Nave, for the light did not seem to emanate from any apparatus of the chandeliers themselves. The dim light they cast across the corridor was like the shroud of some distant flames, toward which the light would not become any brighter, yet it would burn no less—of brimstone, of quiet flame immolating flesh and a well of agony all the same.

“Well, it kept me rather close to the Livias, as you can imagine,” said Sophia.

“The memory cloister nearby made for more efficient shepherding as well,” added Maria.

Reaching the first intersection of another corridor, Soren saw the chandeliers stretching endlessly in all three directions, fading into darkness at the terminus of his vision. Quiet flames, like quiet darkness and quiet light.

Sophia cleared her throat. “Our masterless knight yet occupies the first memory cloister that would have been yours and Cybele’s formal introduction to them. We will travel to another.”

“A chance to ruminate on the walk there, if one likes,” said Maria. Soren saw her gentle smile, her white eyes, and judged it sincere.

All the while, Cybele’s mood did not appear to change. The girl must eventually speak more, but not yet, or perhaps further still, not my place, either, thought Soren. They turned left into the new corridor, with the same set of chandeliers.

“What will we do if—if we find ‘Mother’ on our way there?” Cybele asked while she was downcast. Sophia was adjusting her coif, looking straight ahead as she spoke.

“You will not speak. You will not move. You will hardly think. Maria and I will assume all interaction with her, unless we order you to do otherwise or unexpected circumstances bid drastic self-preservation.”

Sophia looked at Soren.

“I trust you know what I mean by the last condition.”

Soren recalled the Nave. He shut his eyes, sighed, and, looking toward Sophia, nodded his head lightly.

“Mother Isabeau helped found this place. A great many saints, blessed by God, gathered with her for this, because of what use was Hell? Why such a torturous means of punishment rather than rehabilitation, or sleep, as necessary?” said Maria, now downcast.

Sleep. Annihilation. Soren recalled the masterless knight.

None spoke the rest of the way. Soren did not much find use in reflecting upon his newfound knowledge of the Cathedral’s origins, for presently, it did not matter. But, then again, upon whom does the Cathedral’s profaned state reflect after all?

For God did not speak to him, but man did, and cut off his head.

Contradiction—it must be resolved. It must. There is no order under the auspices of God without reason itself. So Soren thought as he reflected upon all that he has learned, has seen, has suspected, has nearly been driven mad by.

And he had faith that he was not the man they said he was. He had faith he would control and conquer the darkness, wherever it lay—

And he would learn what was meant by expungement from that woman’s voice upon the platform, before her sword fell upon him.

And he would remain standing on this battlefield, no matter the cost.

And—

Soren stopped this particular descent. The moment could not afford it.

Yet he recalled his wife, or, at least, as much as he could of her. That, he would never let go again.

They passed by other corridors with the same chandeliers, other doors made variously of wood, stone, and metal, some engraved with markings and designs no longer legible, others utterly featureless. He despised these halls, and desperately wanted to leave.

“We descend again, loves. Come hither,” said Sophia, dissolving a section of the wall into dust. Beyond the opening was another descending spiral stairwell. Sophia and Maria cast light in their hands, and down they went, Sophia sealing the wall behind them.

“There are many cloisters, some of which are hidden when privacy is most needed,” said Maria. Cybele looked toward Maria before turning downcast again as they walked.

“Rest assured, if you would like to traverse the cloister alone, we will allow you to do so,” said Sophia. “And who among you will go? The brooding physician or the young lady afflicted with melancholia?”

“I will,” said Cybele. “Unless… Soren…”

“By all means,” said Soren. “I will continue to brood, meanwhile.”

Maria grinned.

“Would you like to discuss metaphysics?” asked Sophia.

“I can’t talk for that long,” replied Soren.

“Then I can take her place,” said Maria.

They all chuckled together, while Cybele continued silently.

But a little longer, Soren thought. We will get through this.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell. A plain wooden door greeted them.

“This owes no explanation,” said Maria. “You will know what to do once you enter. The space becomes singularly yours while you inhabit it. Remember this.”

Cybele nodded. She opened the door, beyond which there was only darkness. A cold breeze flew out, and she shivered.

“What if—if I—can it… hurt me?”

“It can. It very well may. But I’m afraid there’s only one way forward,” said Sophia, darkly.

Soren found Sophia’s response rather cold, yet Cybele sighed, nodded, and all at once, walked through the door.

In almost a blink, it was as if Cybele had vanished.

“So… what now?” asked Soren, whose heart skipped a beat as he stared at the darkness.

“After some time, the cloister is given visible form to outsiders. Her soul and the cloister must first bind together completely for us bystanders. That is of no matter to the girl, of course,” said Sophia.

“I wonder about… Carelia. And Annabelle,” said Maria.

“Annabelle could hardly be defeated in a bout with a hundred men. She will be fine.”

Soren noted her silence on Carelia. But that did not matter now, either. He continued staring into the darkness.

“In any case, much as we are concerned for Cybele too, we have faith she will surmount herself,” said Maria.

“Indeed,” added Sophia. “Quite the spirit to just walk right in, too; that girl certainly has a curious hardiness—”

I may regret this, thought Soren. But now is not the time for us to be alone—either of us.

Soren readied his shield, heard the Sisters pause, and before they could speak, he stepped through the darkness.

***

Soren found himself upon a fine, polished wood floor as he proceeded down a hall in which the walls were made of large, dark-gray bricks sealed tightly together. Torches on the walls extended intermittently until ending a considerable distance ahead at a doorway on the left-hand wall, from which came flashes of lightning, rumbling thunder, and the patter of rain.

This was a noble’s corridor.

Immediately ahead of him, there was another doorway on the wall.

And behind him, there was only darkness.

Soren swallowed, and began to sweat, before breathing deep. He raised his shield and, out of some deep vein of mind and body woven together, summoned light to his hand; vis exsurdans.

He approached the room quietly enough, for having no shoes helped with this, and entered swiftly—

“I knew you would come. It’s all right.”

He saw Cybele sitting on a bed, made of fine linen sheets and woolen blankets upon a heavy oak bedstead; atop it was a canopy, supported by four ornate wooden supports. A coat of arms was carved upon each of them, the lines filled by silver, showing a pair of swords beneath a rose. The curtains were made of a white silken fabric, colorfully embroidered with various flowers, petals falling betwixt them. Next to the side of the bed where she sat, a large candle burned upon a nightstand.

The room was variously furnished with fine things like a rug in the center of the room, a mirror in one corner, a desk in the other with a cushioned chair, and a large dresser against the wall.

And upon the bed were two daggers: Gauvain’s, in its plain leather scabbard, and another he had not seen before, within a silver scabbard inlaid with gold carvings of that same coat of arms.

She looked downcast before raising her head. She looked the most tired Soren had ever seen her.

“Please,” she said, patting the bed beside her.

Soren went and sat down. For a little while neither of them spoke. He noticed that she must have been in the process of removing her light blue bodice, for her back was exposed. Soren turned away immediately.

“Forgive me for intruding. I can leave—”

“Never mind that. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

He heard the roar of thunder behind him out of a set of three tall windows on the wall across from him, saw another flash, then a roar again. Rain beat furiously against them.

“I quite missed my room. I wish I could sleep here, though I’m afraid you’d have to take the rug, forgive my lack of generosity but I am… a lady, after all…” Her voice trailed away.

“In fact, I would prefer that.” Soren chuckled. “I’ve slept upon worse than a noble’s rug.” He must have, anyway, he thought.

Cybele smiled before it quickly faded. She sighed.

“I was going to change garments but… why should I? I know what this place is for. I know…”

Soren felt the instinct to inquire, yet held his tongue, and waited.

“I tried to retreat, but the darkness led nowhere. In a blink I would be back at the door to my room. That was enough, I knew, I—”

Cybele’s hands gathered her silvery-gray skirt tightly on her thighs. She began to cry silently.

“I do suppose we are here for a reason, after all. In the Cathedral, in this world. God does not answer my prayers, but I am… here, nonetheless.”

Her voice began to shake before she reached for her back and tied the laces of her bodice together.

“Soren.” She turned toward him with soft, wet, green-hazel eyes, sunken with dark circles beneath them. His heart melted, and he was seized with a great feeling of both purpose and uselessness in this moment, for he knew he could not suddenly heal her eyes.

“I have to show you something.”

And she stood, faced Soren, and began to lift her skirt.

Soren was immediately incredulous, turning away.

“What are you doing? There is no need for—”

“Look. Please.”

And Soren thought, whatever his confusion, hers must be greater. He remained a physician. He did not only heal bodies.

He turned to look at her, and his mouth hung agape.

“You—you are—”

“I always was. Since before my—my adolescence,” said Cybele. “But… that was not to be so, to the fullest extent my family could afford. I was to be a lady from birth.”

For half of his sex, the seat of his fertility, was missing. And all at once, the strangeness of his body, his thinness, his relative muscularity—all made sense.

“By God, Cybele, I most deeply regret—”

“Can you heal it?”

The soft glow of the candle flickered against against Cybele’s expression in which Soren saw a desperation anchored as if by the earth itself, in every crease of his face, his eyes and mouth and tears.

Soren immediately knew the answer to this question, too. There is no healing without the original organ, and a transplantation would be obscene, aside from the fact the body would reject the new organ. He was not God.

Soren looked downcast. Cybele slowly lowered her skirt.

“I bid your forgiveness: no. I cannot.”

Cybele folded his hands, sat next to Soren again.

“I should—should not have asked… I knew that, too. I’m sorry.”

“No. Please, you do not have to apologize.”

Cybele smiled, and laughed just a bit.

“You don’t have to either, you know. You do everything you can… you always do.”

Soren knew this, yet could not salve his indignation. He knew this feeling—of when even he was at his limits.

“I’m… not even sure if that would be appropriate,” said Cybele. “I am male, but I am also a—a lady. Can’t someone be both? I don’t know…”

Soren looked toward Cybele.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to that question. Yet in scripture, we are all made in God’s image. Man is multiple in form. I would debate this issue with anyone.”

Cybele smiled again.

“I… suppose. Thank you.”

And Soren took one of Cybele’s slender hands and held it tightly, and he felt Cybele’s tears upon his hand.

“But,” Soren continued, “if I may ask: why?”

Cybele shifted nervously on the bed, still turned away from Soren.

“I once asked my father, who was quite candid: avoiding conscription. One of my brothers had already fallen in battle, and the other—”

Cybele gathered his free hand into a fist again.

“Well. You will see.”

Cybele took the daggers from the bed. He stood, tied them to his waist, took the candle as he walked to the doorway.

“There is something else I must show you,” he said, back turned toward Soren. He left the room.

The rain beat against the windows like a torrent but for a moment. Soren began to feel nauseous, yet he rose, shield in hand, and followed Cybele into the corridor.