XXII. The Scholar

The beating light in Soren’s free hand turned into a golden-white effulgent glow enveloping his hand.

Another flash of light in the darkness—

Two figures danced amidst shapes of long arms, one shorter and armed with a dagger, the other taller, with a sword, and pointed ears. They swung their blades round themselves and Soren saw the arms being cut in half.

Then all at once, in another flash, the tall figure leapt into the amber light of Isabeau.

“On me!”

It was a womanly voice.

And she wore studded leather armor which shone like silver in the light, and bore a knightly sword in one hand and a shortsword, made of glass or some crystal, in the other, which protruded from the palm of her hand.

She struck at Isabeau, who gestured with an open palm toward her and an arm shot out of the darkness, and the armored weapon cut it away with the swordsword while her knightly sword drew closer in an instant—

At sight of the swords Soren began to retch, shiver, with visions of blood, gore, illness of the mind—

Whether or not God had spoken, he thought, I must reply—

He approached Isabeau with the light in his hand, vis exsurdans maxima, and a deafening propulsion of air sent her backward dozens of feet.

Soren cried out at the sharp pain which now surged through his hand before the armored woman took hold of it in the darkness which now enveloped them.

“Don’t let go.”

And they ran, and Soren heard Cybele’s gasp beside him as the woman took hold of him too, and ran, and ran.

Soren looked behind him, saw the amber light receding. Isabeau may have been standing—

Do not forget the voice of God, for thou hast been forsaken.

Do not forget.

Isabeau’s voice rang in his mind as he turned away from the amber light, and in a time which felt like a blink, they fell through the darkness into the warm light of torches around them.

***

Soren and Cybele leaned against the smooth, beige stone of the passage they found themselves in. The passage was lined with lamps hanging from the arched ceiling above them.

Soren saw the armored woman touch a tall patch of darkness but a few feet away, perpendicular to where they sat. The darkness faded into a plain gray wall, beneath which there was an altar holding a thick, open tome.

“Chance meeting you two, isn’t it?” she said, with an alto voice.

She turned and knelt next to Cybele. Her blood-red hair was cut short, hardly extending beyond the crown and sides of her head, and her pointed ears protruded into points that looked unnaturally sharp. Both earlobes were pierced with small, silver rings, and she had a short, rounded nose and full lips.

Her eyes looked rather like a human’s, save the jagged edges of her irises, which occasionally sent a vein of dim, red light to the edge of the eyes.

“I happen to be fond of the dark, such as it is. Though I must say, I was not expecting to cross with that woman.”

Soren, still gripping his shield, let it loose, clanging against the ground. He flexed his fingers, thanked God they were not broken and merely strained. The hand from which he used the spell still pulsed with pain as if it had been burnt.

Cybele sheathed his dagger as he looked as if entranced by the strange woman.

“Cybele,” he said, still panting as he pointed at Soren. “Soren.”

“Soren and Cybele. Pleasant names. Mine is Telene. Pleasure,” she said, patting both their heads.

“You—you are not—human,” said Soren.

Telene laughed. “I appreciate the candor. No, I’m not. I’m what you lot might refer to as an ‘elf’.”

Soren vaguely recalled the name of such a creature, but had never known them to actually exist.

“You have… pretty eyes,” said Cybele, who turned away as he blushed.

Soren thought they looked somewhat grotesque, though oddly beautiful as well.

Telene smiled gently. “Thank you. They allow me to see in darkness.”

“Where are we?” asked Soren. He did not like being curt, but, so he thought, circumstance requires it.

“The Forty-Third Crypt, or the Crypt of Aelshire. Or the forty-second, I’d have to check again.”

She stretched in her silvery leather armor, which now looked dull.

“I can tell you’re in a rush; half of a phaeos is inside both of you. They are kind creatures though, even if a little mischievous. It will help guide you through your procession.”

“Then you’re already familiar with our sort of quagmire,” replied Soren, who stood with his shield before replacing it upon his back. He helped Cybele up.

“Well…” The smallsword in her right hand disintegrated into glittering dust while she sheathed her knightly sword. There was what looked like a wound in her right hand where the smallsword was, yet it quickly scarred over.

Soren did not look away while he felt his face twitching as if he were in pain. He clutched his stomach. He did not look away.

“Not quite your sort. Isabeau has long been a strange woman, but that was an unexpected sight,” said Telene.

“She looked quite frightening, didn’t she? I’ve never seen her do that to her ‘lambs’.”

Telene, who appeared to match Isabeau’s height, was almost tall enough to hit the ceiling while she stood, started down the hall.

Soren and Cybele followed.

The end of the hall opened into a wide room, ceiling divided into vaulted bays of equal size. Dozens of smooth pillars, equidistant from one another, held the ceiling aloft, which looked about two stories high. The stone was variably black and gray, weathered, with cracks here and there, while there were tombs inlaid within the walls on all sides of the room.

All the room was lit up by an irregular assortment of lanterns suspended from the pillars. Several were hung around the walls.

“If this looks like a crypt, that’s because it is,” said Telene, who looked back at the pair with a grin. “Older than even me. Aelshire had its moment in the proverbial sun, once.”

And within all the structures of the room, speckles of faint light were scattered throughout.

Telene sat at a desk in the far corner, lit by various candles upon it. There was a skeleton on the floor next to the desk.

“Forgive me. This one tried to attack me, probably another lost ‘lamb.’”

Soren tensed at sight of the corpse. Cybele stood closer to him.

Telene sat down upon a stool and, sighing, began to write upon parchment with a quill pen from its well.

“Please don’t be alarmed. You lot have already seen this whole place falling apart yourselves, yes?”

She continued writing, while Soren and Cybele stood, watching in silence.

“Well? Did you need anything else? The exit is over yonder, just pull the lever at the end of the hall,” she said, pointing at an open entryway to another hall several feet away from them.

“We seek another memory cloister,” said Soren. “For myself.”

Telene ceased writing, leaning against the desk as she turned to face them.

“Aelshire has one. I tend to visit it on occasion. It will require some travel, but not too much. That you need it also tells me you’re yet on your way, then. As I suspected,” she said, grinning again.

Cybele’s hand crept toward her dagger.

“Relax,” she said, summoning a red flame from her hand. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen human penitents. I had become unsure if the machinery was still working. Well, barely working as it is if you have a phaeos without an accompanying Sister.”

“A—apologies,” said Cybele, as both he and Soren stared at the dancing flame. Telene closed her hand, and the flame vanished.

“No need. And you are rather adept with that dagger, I must say. Aristocratic upbringing? You certainly don’t look like a soldier.”

Cybele looked away.

“Quite so, then,” said Telene. “And…”

She stood up, walking up to Cybele, who walked back a step.

Soren did not move, watching her.

“The blood on your hands. Whose is it?”

“We don’t have time for this,” said Soren. “We dearly appreciate your help—indeed, without you, we would not be here. But we must be moving—”

“Have you been through a cloister?” Telene looked intensely at Cybele, who nodded.

“At such a young age. The capacity to kill with decisiveness is terrifying, isn’t it? Such is my guess, at least, unless it was for self-defense.” Cybele, downcast, did not reply.

She stared at Soren.

“And you are not armed at all. I noticed your discomfort while you glared at my own arms. A martial veteran?” she asked, while her grin did not relent.

“Healer—both on the battlefield and off of it. I—I do not kill,” said Soren.

Telene crossed her arms.

“Now how does one exist on a battlefield without killing?”

“He’s a saint,” Cybele quickly replied. “He can heal the worst of wounds faster than anyone I’ve seen.”

“Interesting,” she said. “That was a mighty invocation in the Abyss, too. So normally, you push your foes away rather than strike them.”

Her strange, piercing eyes seemed to strike through Soren’s own as he felt a rising bout of fear. He breathed steadily, calming himself.

“And yet, here you are. Dead as any one of us.”

“Indeed. Here we are. Hence my haste in reaching that cloister,” said Soren, with confidence he did not quite inhabit, yet projected all the same. That would be enough for now.

“Let me be frank,” she continued. “I am a scholar of the soul. Your apparent experiences have piqued my interest. Might you two be able to tell me more about yourselves?”

“I’m afraid not. We really must be going,” said Soren.

Telene frowned.

“Very well, though given the scant opportunity to speak to anyone still hanging onto their flesh, I will say this: darkness is where the soul abides. Keep it close, continuous; blood, life, and all. Some would venture to take it from you, or ‘clean’ it. I say, strike down anyone who does. Get out of this place.”

And Telene turned, sat down upon her stool, and began writing again.

“Cybele.”

Cybele raised her head.

“If God be true to His word, then even you are redeemable. But you must continue to know yourself.”

She pointed at the skeleton next to the desk.

“He did not. And I sense no bloodthirst in you—something I am all too familiar with,” she said sternly, turning back toward her writing.

“What is your relation to God?” asked Soren.

A minute or so passed before she spoke again.

“This crypt,” she said. “All of it.”

And he looked around once more at the crypt. He noticed the coffins within the tombs were too long for human bodies. Insignia depicting various arms were carved into the wall above each of them, while a single skull rested atop all of coffins as well.

“Such is war,” she said, with a calm, flat expression. “And all that that entails. At least they rest with their souls intact—I would not have had them participate in the Sacrament.”

Soren understood something ineffable at this moment—that great terror, and the way Telene carried it with herself. His body fully relaxed.

“Farewell,” said Soren. “And may they continue resting in peace.”

She smiled gently, still writing, and nodded.

“The phaeos will guide you to the cloister. Take care of yourselves.”

And he turned on his heels toward the exit. Cybele, after a moment’s hesitation, followed.

As Soren pulled the lever at the end of the hall, Cybele stood close to him.

“Do you… is that true? About me, Soren?” he asked, just short of a whisper.

Soren summoned light at the dark stairwell before them.

“Yes,” he said. “And it always was.”

For even while God does not speak, he thought, I know the truth of my eyes and thoughts.

The wall closed behind them.