XIII. Twilight of Blood

Soren’s legs ached as they ascended the stairwell of the dark stone corridor. They saw a light at the top, in the distance.

“I’d like to sit down somewhere,” said Cybele.

“If only,” said Soren.

Cybele sighed deeply. “Another one of Sophia’s great guiding moments to leave us with that dreaded Isabeau, too.”

“They surely did not know. I only wonder what they’re up to now.”

“Well, whatever they’re doing, ‘tis truly a miracle Telene found us when she did.”

A miracle indeed, thought Soren.

But was that ordained by His voice?

Soren looked upon Cybele, upon the blood staining his clothes and hands, the silver dagger at his side, and what was concealed beneath his skirt.

Soren’s expression hardened as he turned away.

“How are you feeling?”

Cybele looked up at him, then toward the light of the stairwell.

“I feel… confident, I suppose. Due in no small part to Gauvain’s dagger, cutting through those ghastly arms like they were hardly made of flesh and bone at all. But…”

He held Soren’s hand.

“I like being able to use a dagger when—when I need it. I always enjoyed the martial arts. But—I think I still like being a lady, too. There’s just so much, so much…”

He squeezed Soren’s hand.

“What about you? Are you ready to face your cloister?”

Soren recalled the metal blade, and now the letter.

So he thought, be it providence or not, he has been delivered here, yet standing and breathing, still. And if it was providence, Telene’s words were not insignificant.

There is doctrine, and there is chaos before that doctrine, and he is here. He recalled Sophia’s words very near the beginning of the procession:

‘Soon there won’t be an inch of darkness left up there.’

And he recalled the woman in white, in red and gold armor.

And he would keep his soul, his ‘darkness.’ It belonged to him, but also to his wife, to Cybele, the sick and infirm and injured in his country—

“Does God tell us a lady cannot be martially practiced? I would dispute that edict,” he said. “You are what you are; there is no undoing your past. Wherever you find yourself, I will defend it.”

Cybele squeezed his hand before releasing it.

“Nor is there a need to resolve it now. You yet have life to live after we escape this blasted place. And that will bring its own trials—whatever Elestie still looks like when we return. But we will face it together.”

Cybele remained silent while he nodded.

“As for your question, apologies, I think it doesn’t matter. I am—well-enough. The cloister will take me as I am, and I will face it.”

He felt his own words stirring a flame within him. Isabeau has taken her faith into her own hands, he thought. To know what is uncertain. So will I take my faith into my own hands, too, to know, and know, and stumble within the darkness.

And the unspeaking maw of God yawned before him. He began to tremble—

Yet he would not let go of that flame.

***

They walked through a cavernous space not unlike the Hall of Life and its windows, its bright pale light, twinkling dust motes in the air, yet devoid of its solemn portraits and any furniture. Soren’s body would glow white, turning him in the direction of the cloister. He surmised that Little One probably stopped his hands from breaking in that infernal abyss of the Cathedral, too.

But where, exactly, were they within the Cathedral? His body glowed white again. He supposed the time would come to know, eventually.

And they walked through an empty nave, lit by pale rather than amber light. Beyond the choir screen, an organ hung, resplendent and quiet.

And they walked through a dark hall where they thought they saw impish figures dancing just ahead of their light, and Cybele drew his dagger and clenched it tightly until they passed through.

And they walked across a bridge of stone, unending darkness beneath them, while above a pleasant white light emanated, and further up they may have seen one of Annabelle’s servants looking down upon them from a balcony, still missing its eyes.

And they walked past an insignia like that which they saw over the tombs in the crypt of Aelshire, at the end of a hall which was bright with pale light, emanating from the stone itself, then down a spiral stairwell into darkness.

And they found a plain wooden door.

“Should I… come with you?” Cybele spoke while rubbing his hands together, looking away from Soren.

“I wonder if this whole damned place is of Aelshire,” said Soren. “I think we would die of old age before mapping a quarter of the Cathedral.”

Cybele smiled slightly before he chuckled quietly.

“But yes,” Soren continued, “you may come. But I humbly request you do not speak.”

Cybele became serious of expression before nodding.

“You’ll know what to do when you enter it. The Sisters were right about that after all,” said Cybele.

Soren nodded in turn. He opened the door, felt a cool breeze escape against him, raising bumps upon his skin, and in one swift motion, stepped into the darkness.

***

Cybele’s light was no longer visible, nor was the light in Soren’s own hand.

There was only darkness around him.

Yet, he knew one thing—

He walked. And walked.

Quietly.

Absent the light he imagined an altar in front of him.

He knelt before it, and prayed.

And nothing came.

He felt panic, fear, shivering—

He thought of the headless woman, and her hand in his.

Upon this thought he pressed his consciousness against it, felt it crack, press back against him, and he shut his eyes to the point of tears—

Then there was light upon his eyelids.

He opened his eyes, shielding them from—

Sunlight. Through a small open window above him, from which a breeze wafted through, and smelt of rain just passed, of trees and lilies, of wild grass.

He stood up as his eyes adjusted. Next to him was a large hearth, quiet, recently burnt out. Behind him was a round oak table, adorned with a red tablecloth, with two stools arranged around it.

The walls here were of rubble stone, and the floor of stone flags. He walked through an entryway in front of him into the parlor-hall, where the walls became continuous, limewashed, and the brightness within forced him to shield his eyes again—

Before him now was a floor of wide wooden boards, a bench against the wall to his right, another oak table beside a small fireplace, two chairs beside it, two chests in a far corner of the room, a tall window next to a doorway leading outdoors—

In that doorway stood a woman, facing away from him. She held in one hand a sword—

Of a hilt painted dark red, which was fading. Of a thin gold embellishment rising through the center of the blade; a gift made by a blacksmith whose son Soren had saved near Leutere, which Soren, he remembered, almost did not accept for the expense required—

She wore a white gown which hugged her body, revealed the curve in her hips. Her skin was the color of cocoa, her hair descended in dark brown curls over her neck—

“Ranae.”

She neither moved nor responded to Soren. She leaned against the doorway with the other hand.

Soren made a step closer.

“Ranae? Have you heard the news? Perhaps not, it came from the clergymen I met within the halls of that dusty old chapel near the Queen’s palace.”

She did not respond. He heard the twittering of birds through the entrance.

“I’ve been given a new station! Rumor has it that even the Salorians have been stirred by my work—they note the ‘mercy’ shown to their soldiers.”

She remained silent, unmoving.

Soren laughed nervously. “The peasantry call me a ‘living saint.’ Fancy that! These are the alms of God as He has demanded we provide. I knew I hadn’t written that exegesis for nothing.”

She did not speak.

“Believe me, I’m not exactly comfortable sitting so close to the throne. I was called to the Holy See! They commend my astonishing abilities, truly miracles delivered by the grace of God.”

She did not speak.

“This war could finally come to an end. That’s all I want now—I could found a new hospital with the Church.”

She did not speak.

“How long has it been? Since before I was born! And for what? We were promised another crusade would not be waged, and yet here we are!”

She did not speak.

“Lord Constable Serville called me in, too. He wanted to see me in person despite—despite the letter. He… he wants…”

In a blink she fell yet leaned upon the sword. Her legs trembled.

“Ranae—”

He stepped forward once.

“But if I am correct, what graver a sin is there than slaughtering men in the name of God?”

He stepped forward.

“I—I’m not sure. I must muse—I do that a lot, don’t I?”

She stood tall, holding the sword in front of her.

“The conscription order. I know you intend to follow it—I know I cannot bear the thought of leaving you alone.”

She raised the sword above her head.

“No—can’t you see? Can’t you see? Our allegiance is to God and mercy—”

Her head fell from her shoulders.

All went silent.

Soren did not speak.

In a blink, she was gone. Where she had stood, where her head had fallen, there was but a white gown, tattered and stained with blood.

For some time, Soren did not move at all. It could have been hours, days, months, years—

He noticed a letter upon the table near the hearth.

You are hereby summoned for your failure to—

He set the letter down and went to the doorway and knelt before the tattered gown.

And he wept, and his weeping became of the silence around him.