XVIII. The Dagger

“I would say there’s no need for the shield, but… we know very well how much this place is given to surprise, don’t we,” said Cybele flatly.

Soren nodded. “Like the knight said: one can never be too careful.” A lesson I should have taken to heart earlier on, he thought.

He wondered about when it would be his time to enter a cloister, and what that would entail. Further still, he could not stop thinking about Cybele, about the last room and the next one they were now approaching. What is a young man to do when he has been raised as a young lady his entire life? The latter was nonetheless experienced as life. That cannot be undone.

And should it? Must someone ravage themselves in pursuit of a whole that was hitherto denied to them? The multiplicity of mankind is known to God, as it is, thought Soren, to myself. Along this vein of thought, Soren more clearly recalled some of his past patients. Variously, it was not always clear they were suffering a disorder of the mind, and why should a child of God be punished for something they did not choose?

And whatever else Cybele must show him, Soren would hold steadfast. Or, at least, he would try. And he was satisfied with this—at least, for now.

“There is no turning back, is there? No, no, there isn’t…” said Cybele.

No, indeed, thought Soren.

“We must both keep moving forward,” said Soren.

Cybele looked downcast, then raised his head again. He nodded lightly.

“Do the Sisters… do they know this about you?” Soren asked.

Cybele hesitated. “No. Much as I adore them, there was still too much I didn’t know. Their natural role I suppose, but you…”

He stopped just short of the second doorway, as did Soren.

“I wasn’t wrong—you are a good man, Soren.”

Soren furrowed his brow. There yet remains a cloister ahead of them, somewhere, he thought. But false modesty remains a sin as well, and an affront to myself.

He supposed, perhaps for the first time, that he was.

“The Sisters could have been watching. There’s no telling—”

“I know that,” interrupted Cybele. “But it was the feeling of my room that finally allowed me to…”

Cybele looked toward the doorway. His hand rested on the silver scabbard.

“Come what may, we must know everything.”

He walked into the room. Soren followed.

The room was similarly furnished, though more sparsely. Facing the room from the doorway, immediately to their east was a bed covered by plain off-white curtains from a canopy which hung over it, set against the wall closest to them. The storm outside continued through two windows on the northern wall, spaced apart; within that space a large oak desk sat with a plain wooden chair.

A banner depicting that coat of arms, now of a pair of silvery swords crossed beneath a pink rose, hung upon the wall over the desk. The coat was set within crimson borders in the shape of a shield, against an emerald-green background.

Soren heard a man breathing in the bed, peacefully.

“Wait,” said Cybele quietly, just short of a whisper. He strode to the desk, set the candle upon it before pulling out various drawers.

“Do you want to wake the man up? What are we doing here?” asked Soren, increasingly nervous. His nausea had abated slightly before entering, beginning to rise again. Soren thought, perhaps he threatened him, perhaps he inflicted a wound as a warning, perhaps he never used them, perhaps—

“I found some documents in here. About you. I remember…” said Cybele, rifling through various papers, some folded into each other, or within envelopes, or put together as small pamphlets.

At this, Soren’s mind stopped. And it was set ablaze again by the documents.

He put his shield away on his back and began reading through them with Cybele; nothing else existed while he did.

“I don’t see anything of importance here,” said Cybele. He scratched his head before kneeling upon the floor beneath the open space of the desk reserved for one’s legs.

“It was here, wasn’t it? Must have been…”

Soren continued reading every document, unbroken in his focus.

“Ah,” said Cybele, using a penknife he found within one of the drawers to pry a wooden plank out of the floor. He took out a small, plain wooden chest, sealed by a heavy, dull iron lock. Cybele managed to pull open the latch, gently, and remove the lock.

“The fool. It wasn’t fully latched. This was just like him,” he said, placing the chest upon the desk, opening it and looking through the documents found inside.

Was? Soren’s stomach sank but briefly, before his attention turned toward the chest with avidity. He needed to know—everything.

“Perhaps this is something. It’s dated for—today,” said Cybele, holding but one sheet of paper in his hand. His expression became more concerned as he went, before he clenched his teeth, raised a fist as if to slam it against the desk before stopping and letting his hands fall limp to his sides.

He looked downcast, his cropped mahogany hair cascading over his eyes. Soren gently reached for the paper in Cybele’s hand, took it, and began to read—

The clergymen in our ranks know him deeply. He cannot suffer the thought of killing—the man has written countless exegeses attesting to this position.

Still, it was prudent of you to point out the alternatives carry considerably more risk. Martyrdom might rally the people, but we cannot make a spectacle out of that. And he knows how to defend himself well, his wife has helped make certain of that; such as it is, a knife from the shadows risks her intervention and further compromises of confidence and containment of the whole dreadful affair.

But, one thing is certain. They cannot reject lawful orders to take up arms themselves on the battlefield. They, of course, would immediately understand this. The wife would readily abide, while the man would have no choice despite everything about him: kill, or be killed.

That is, destroy the very foundation upon which a man stands, and ruin follows naturally. There would be no need for blood, poison, or any such dastardly deed. The man might very well heal himself anyway!

If this can be agreed upon, the orders will go out. You will be responsible for managing social affairs in the aftermath, for the people cherish dearly the alms of House Hautin, this should be manageable for you, yes? Her Majesty certainly thinks so. And, soon enough, so would your fellow Elestiens, commoner or no.

I expect your response to be sent before the end of the day you receive this letter. Per usual, destroy it once you have done so.

Regards,
W. Serville

“This was him—this was my elder brother,” Cybele said as he sat in the chair and sank against it. “I’m not… entirely sure what they’re referring to, maybe you do, but, well, it is obviously about you, isn’t it? And they—they were trying to hurt you. Very badly, somehow. And I remember Serville, too; he worked under the jurisdiction of the crown.”

Cybele turned toward the bed, then toward Soren.

He yet stood, as if petrified, holding the letter in his hand.

“Soren?”

Soren broke his trance upon hearing Cybele’s high-pitched voice, and looked at him, and Soren saw his weariness, his open eyes searching for answers as desperately as Soren did.

Soren looked back at the letter, bit his lip, blinking softly before sighing deeply.

Not now, he thought. This is his cloister—not mine.

And despite all willingness to collapse, Soren yet stood, stalwart. God does not yet speak, but Cybele does. And so, Soren thought, do I.

And if God was indeed speaking, and Soren could simply not yet hear Him, He would not want him to falter now. Not anymore.

For there was a child of God to protect, and heal, and enjoy the fruits of fellowship with, as long as Soren yet breathed.

“We can discuss this later,” said Soren flatly, quietly, as he folded up the letter and set it upon the desk. “What is this about your brother?”

Cybele raised a brow inquisitively before furrowing it, staring out a window. Another flash of lightning lit up his face, revealing the hardened creases of his expression as thunder rumbled and shook the window panes.

That weight. Of one who has gone to war.

“This was him,” Cybele continued. “Our family sat among the houses vying for a closer position with the crown. We were in place for it. We would be better protected from peasant revolts, from shortages of food, from displacement in the aftermath of the worst that… that could still pass, as the war went on.”

Soren pored over the letter in his mind. He recalled the Queen. He could not make out what she looked like, but he may have had a personal audience with her at least once.

The Queen of Elestie. His homeland, above the Firmament—

“My brother… he was quite—quite devout, one could say. Others might say ‘zealot,’ or ‘fanatic.’ The war was Elestie and Elestie the war. And all of us, whether noble or commoner, were of Elestie, of a country under the auspices of—of God. It is by divine right of the Queen that we—”

Cybele halted suddenly. He turned toward the bed again, staring. One of his eyes twitched.

“He served Her Majesty first, our family second. He thought there was no reason we could not rise on Her tides, rather than be swept away like the weaklings and hypocrites around us. So that we would grow stronger, as Her Majesty’s queendom did. At—at all costs…”

Cybele rose. He began walking toward the bed.

Soren’s breath quickened. He began to sweat again, heart beating, beating faster, beating more furiously. He walked quickly to Cybele’s side.

“Cybele—”

“He would have done anything for me. He would have done anything for the Queen. He would have been cruel to me, he would have called that discipline, he would have embraced me and told me he loved me no matter who I was—”

Cybele’s voice trembled with fury and tears.

“He would…” began Cybele before his breathing became more swift and violent.

He drew the dagger from the silver scabbard, its blade the length of a forearm and the width of half a finger at its base before thinning to a sharp point, and suddenly went quiet. Soren’s eyes widened while Cybele faced away from him.

“He would have told them… everything. About me, about our family, the other houses who sheltered children like—like—”

And he paused, and in this moment it seemed to Soren as if all the world had paused with them. And Cybele pulled the curtain aside, and with a quiet and steady voice, he said,

“I knew… I knew for some time, it would come to this. But I tried. And tried, and...”

And on the side of the bed next to them lay a young man with short, ruffled, mahogany hair, and a thin button nose, and high cheekbones, breathing the rhythm of dreams.

And Cybele raised the dagger with both hands.

“No—” And Soren reached for the dagger and Cybele fiercely shoved him away and he fell upon the floor and Soren quickly rose again and saw Cybele’s face—

And in the soft glow of the candlelight, warm and engulfing and casting an embracing shadow, his button nose, his soft, round cheeks, were wet with tears. And he was calm.

The dagger fell, and Soren heard choking, saw grasping at his neck, heard gurgling, and the dagger was plunged deeper, harder, before it was pulled away, and Cybele stumbled backward, a spatter of blood upon his face, blood dripping from his hands, breath quickening again, eyes wide, and brow raised in sorrow that looked inevitable—

Then all was quiet.