XXX. Let There Be Light

Soren awoke, and for the umpteenth time his eyes were momentarily overwhelmed by the light around him, exhausted, irritated but for something he could smell again: the recent passing of rain.

He saw he was upon a circular stone platform in the midst of—grass. Tended grass.

And the grass terminated at open arcades on all sides which formed a quadrangle with sides of equal length. There were walkways past each of the arcades.

He saw four trees in equidistant corners around the platform, forming a square.

And there were flowers of various, dazzling colors upon them.

And he knew this was a cloister, and, with a sudden surge of memory, knew it within the Elestie Cathedral.

And he saw Cybele lying on the stone, sprawled out against it, breathing quietly.

Soren knelt by his side.

“Are you—”

“I—I am,” said Cybele, who turned to look at Soren. “Are you?”

Soren sat back against the stone with a thud, sighing.

“I am.”

He saw the blood on Cybele’s hands, the daggers at his side. His eyes widened as he scanned the walkways frantically—

He recalled the sword. He sighed again.

“He—hello? Who is that? Who is there?”

Soren looked up and saw a man wearing round spectacles, dressed in ecclesiastical garments beyond one of the arcades. The horror and recoil upon the man’s face were palpable. Yet—

He knew him. Vicar Francois.

And Soren chuckled quietly to himself.

They were on an island in the midst of a vast, teeming ocean, he thought. And he knew that they would have no choice but to begin swimming.

***

“Come, come! Quickly. No one must see you two,” said Francois, whose aging face belied the swiftness with which he moved, hurrying them into his chamber which was along one of the walls of walkways.

Francois shut the door behind him, let out a deep sigh as he closed his eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” he said, leaning against the door. “Oh, dear…” His voice sounded warm, low, aged like yellowed pages of an old, well-kept book.

Soren and Cybele sat promptly upon the cushioned chairs in the study. A bookcase sat on the side against a wall, and the Vicar’s oak desk stood with various papers and books strewn across it. Behind the desk, an open window let in the sunlight of a late afternoon.

And Soren and Cybele waited patiently, with neutral expressions.

“By the power of God Himself,” Francois said. “I was… but a young man when I last saw arrivals from the dark world. And—”

He stared at Soren, still mildly horrified.

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Soren, with a gentle smile. Cybele looked downcast, twiddling his thumbs.

“I—I remember,” said Francois, as he walked around them to sit at his desk.

“That day. I… I could not bear to look.”

Soren became stern, plaintive. “I only appreciate that you did not immediately call for the guards,” he said.

“Oh, dear, I almost did,” he said, raising his brow in concern. “Almost. But I knew it was you only a moment afterward.”

“Forgive me, Vicar Francois,” said Cybele, whose expression became stern as well. “But… I must ask: how long has it been? I was… executed only days after Soren was.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Francois, looking up at the ceiling, pondering. “A little more than a year, I would say.”

Cybele clutched his chest, looked downcast again.

Soren held Cybele’s hand, squeezing it.

It was a long time, he thought, but not too much time.

“Then we should get down to affairs immediately,” said Soren. “The moment I step outside of here, they will almost certainly make me vanish. Cybele too.”

“Well,” began Francois, nervously adjusting his spectacles, “that depends on what you mean by ‘they.’ I… simply refused to believe the charge was real. I knew what was at stake. But… I looked, looked everywhere I could, and… the pieces began to come together. Neatly, I should say. I had to accept that you had truly committed the act.

“But then,” he went on, shuffling through the papers on the desk, “I came upon your exegesis, too. I am not in full agreement with it, mind you,” he said, smiling nervously, “but I… also had to believe your conviction was just.”

“I had always opposed another crusade,” replied Soren.

“Yes,” said Francois, reading over a paper in his hands. “I remembered that as well. On that matter we are completely aligned. By God, this wretched war…”

“It goes on?” asked Cybele.

“Oh, yes,” said Francois. “The attritional stalemate continues, only now I feel as if I am really beginning to see fewer young men walking around the capital. And, perhaps, young women as well.”

Francois breathed deep, folding his hands upon the desk. He cleared his throat.

“Now, I must say too, Soren, that I believed the war just at the outset, something even you were unsure of.”

Soren looked away but for a moment, meeting Francois’s weary, gentle brown eyes again.

“That… is an aside. A crusade it has nonetheless become,” replied Soren.

Francois sighed loudly. “Yes… yes, that, I cannot deny. And the people are clamoring for it to end. I hear rumors that even the great houses are divided on the issue now. And it seems like every week, a higher tax rate is imposed.”

Cybele flinched. He opened his mouth as if to speak, closing it, then opening it again,

“What of—of House Hautin?”

Francois peered at Cybele, holding his spectacles.

“That is… a rather interesting question for someone of your station,” said Francois.

Cybele looked downcast immediately.

“In any case, I’m not really one for gossip, though I suppose it does bear enough importance,” said Francois, as he stood and leaned next to the window as he gazed outside. “The Hautins have made their opposition to the Crown explicit. So I’ve heard from Willaine. That man talks too much.”

“Bishop Willaine?” asked Soren, eyes wide with excitement as a memory came to him.

Francois nodded with exasperation. “Yes. It is almost obscene how much he runs his mouth, though I have it on his word that he only blabbers as much as he does to me. Fancy the convenience of that.”

He turned toward Soren and Cybele, mildly shocked.

“But what are we doing? We must—”

And he sat back down, sinking slightly in his chair.

“Your arrival feels rather… like a blessing in a way, Soren. But I don’t know for what.”

Soren leaned forward.

“Is Willaine sympathetic?” Soren asked.

Francois stared at Soren, before nodding.

“We’ve discussed the matter. He too has seen your exegesis, of course. I would say he is sympathetic, but it is quite something else that you have actually returned. And,” said Francois, leaning over the desk.

“Armed. Both of you. Covered in dust and blood.”

“That is of no matter either,” said Soren, whose voice had risen just short of a yell. “If the Church remains divided, then we have a way of ending this war before it turns to bloody revolt and worse.”

Francois adjusted his spectacles again. His expression became severe.

“Be that as it may, you yet remain the ‘the living saint’ who deserted a just and holy—”

“That, too, was of a scheme!” Soren yelled

Francois jumped slightly, startled.

“Pl—please, you must keep quiet…”

“Serville sent me to the front lines deliberately. He knew… he knew I might break. Despite me being better disposed for medical work.”

Francois cleared his throat, glaring at Soren. A few minutes passed, before Francois relented, and sighed.

“That is a grievous accusation, but… those eyes are unmistakable. I could always tell when you were lying,” he said, smiling gently. “I can investigate—”

“A schism. That is what we need” said Soren.

Francois sat back against his chair, his expression unchanged. He looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling again.

“I am… but a vicar, Soren.”

“But you can help plant the seeds, can’t you? Of course there is no guarantee of success, but…”

Soren’s voice trailed away, as Francois continued to gaze at the ceiling.

He looked back down at Soren.

“Your suggestion alone is a damnable act,” said Francois. “But—yes, indeed, a revolt could stir up at any time now, and the Salorians would come pouring through the moment it starts.”

Francois gathered his papers.

“I will see what we can do. I only have Willaine’s eyes and ears near the throne.”

“That is very well,” said Soren, sighing with relief, unable to help his smiling. “Very well, Francois. That is all I ask.”

“The more pressing question now is where the two of you will stay, but… that, I can make arrangements for. A quiet chapel on the city’s outskirts. I can help see you two out without being spotted. You will care for the girl in the meantime? I have no idea what she went through, but one chapel in the countryside is all I can afford.”

Soren and Cybele looked at each other.

And Soren had never let go of Cybele’s hand.

They turned toward Francois and nodded.

Francois smiled.

“I know this is of little use at this time, but… welcome home, Soren.”