Chapter 25: Sister Harriet Cardew

"Shawls and string."​

You feel more than a little sick, and it's not from how much food you've forced down while trying to write.

The letter is folded up. You don't have any envelopes, but you have business to attend to with an incredibly influential leader. For the scarcity of literacy in Corcaea, most clergy are trained in reading and writing. Each Church leader is dependent on written word, and you know Father Friedrich will have the supplies you need.

Stashing the note on your person seems like a poor idea for all of the exercise you intend to do. You fold it up carefully, and place it inside of your journal. Ray is stunned by the extra attention and food you happily share with him, as you place the item back inside of his harness.

"Easy, Ray. You've been such a good boy, haven't you?"

A little madness takes you, for how badly you want to get back to your routine. Shoving down more of the dried meat and tea, you beam over to Ray. He looks at you quizzically until you make his favorite gesture. The words that follow have him back on his feet, panting and running to your side.

"Want to go for a run? Come on. Let's go."

The curtains are closed, your robes are changed, the room is tidied, and the doors to your quarters are firmly shut.

Working in some exercise on the way to Father Friedrich's office warrants no scrutiny in the Church of Flesh. In fact, it seems to garner an enormous amount of respect from virtually every priest and priestess that sees you. Ray keeps right by your side as you bolt down the halls of the keep, matching your pace with ease. You weave around a number of clergy, leap clear over a number of cleaning supplies, and make it out to the courtyard in a matter of seconds.

A few guards look up, grinning broadly.

Brother Duval breaks from a yawn to wave to you from Father Wilhelm's tower. You hail him quickly, before tearing back across the few golden flowers persisting.

In a few more moments, you're back to the interior ward, and nearly crash straight into a member of the Church of Spirit.

"Excuse me, but — " The priestess doesn't even raise her hands off the colossal book in her arms, despite all of the annoyance lacing her voice.

Her white robes remain untouched. You slip to the side, far from out of breath, and move straight past her totally covered form. It's a young, petite woman, though she sounds more mature than what her unmarred face indicates. Pale skin blanches even paler as she recognizes you.

"Father Anscham?"

The mousy young woman stops to adjust a strange item on her face. They look to be rounded pieces of glass, and are outfitted in front of her eyes with a leather harness. They make her dark brown irises much more prominent than they normally should be. It's terribly strange, and actually makes you pause, nearly skidding to a stop.

This church might as well literally be on fire for every problem I've had to put out.

The run becomes a skid, and ends in a full stop. You turn on a heel to look back to the Sister of Spirit.

She's all gauze, shawls, and holy vestments. Full bangs peek out over the large lenses over her magnified eyes, concealing more leather and barely framing her raised eyebrows. It's just about the only thing visible on the scholar, aside from her thin (unpainted) lips, the rest of her scruffy hair, and an oddball expression.

​

You're not one to judge appearances, and close the distance between you two as tactfully as you're able. Ray looks up as you extend a hand towards the priestess. It's a simple gesture of the Church of Mercy, and seems appropriate given your near collision. "My apologies, Sister. Are you alright?"

"Yes—" A raised eyebrow, and no hand extended in reply. "—are you? You were running like a man possessed."

Your hand goes back down as you sheepishly look to the hall ahead. "I have some business to attend to." Avoiding the wide stare is easy enough by keeping your eyes downcast. "It can wait."

"Don't let me keep you."

Mercy, this woman is curt.

"Were you coming from Father Friedrich's office, Sister...?"

"Yes. Cardew."

Not even a first name?

She's still staring. You might be fidgeting. There's no indication that she cares. "Harriet." There. That was not so difficult. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes." The reply comes a little too quickly.

The book in the woman's arms is closed so rapidly that you don't even catch the name on the spine. She tucks it under her arms carefully, walking a little closer. She whispers, "you're not."

You're uncomfortable. "Pardon me?"

"You were running."

You're also honest. "Yes." Exasperated, too. You pause, catching your breath in full. "May I be perfectly honest with you, Sister?"

She doesn't reply, inviting you to continue by further raising her eyebrows.

"I was expecting a fair amount of work here, but this—" You are seriously overwhelmed. "—has been significantly more, well..."

"Insolent," she offers, straight-faced.

"That is an— that is certainly an interesting way to view the situation."

"Do you disagree?" She's still whispering, visibly irritated.

It's difficult to not match her aggravation. "Insanity seems more befitting."

"Father Sullivan would have had this mess cleaned up long before it ever began." Your aggravation is becoming something of a contest. "I must confess, Father, that I am entirely displeased to have been called to such a madhouse when Murgate's borders have been compromised."

There is always something.

Your brows furrow deeper, though your voice softens. "I was informed just last night of reinforcements being sent— with all due haste—" Sister Cardew's shoulders visibly relax, but you still continue. "—no fewer than several dozen men, and I am certain there are more en route that I did not personally witness going to your home and family's aid."

Her brow unfurrows, however slightly.

You press your advantage, grimacing. "Your efforts here are sincerely appreciated."

Sister Cardew clutches the large tome back to her chest, looking up to you. "I have a full report for you, Father Anscham. When you have a moment to look it over."

Ray looks up to you, whining at your immediate distress.

Mercy, this is the last thing I need right now.

Your building panic is immediately addressed.

"If you like, I would be happy to give you a consolidated version. I know you're a busy man. I have extended only an abbreviated version to Father Friedrich— given the state of affairs here— but I suspected you would want the full picture." Her voice drops even further. You have to lean in to catch it. "I cannot overstate how relieved I am to see you." She doesn't look it, but you take her word for it. "This church needs Mercy now, more than ever."

Harriet pulls back, straight-faced, her wide eyes unreadable. "If you would prefer, I could disseminate the most important details of my findings to you." She extends a palm, removing it from her book for only a moment. "I defer entirely to your judgement."

There's an obsession at the forefront of your mind. An itch, a pull, and an overwhelming compulsion to indulge in temptation.

A very large and inviting book is right in front of you. Held in the arms of a Sister of the Church of Spirit.

I could learn everything in this volume in an instant.

It would be effortless.

I could see everything. Have Spirit in my eyes, my veins—

The tome is pulled in closer. A priestess is looking to you wide-eyed. There's no need for her to say anything.

She couldn't even imagine it, could she? What it's like, to be with Her. The Goddess of the Immaterial. Her blessing.

You hold out a trembling hand. A tilt comes into your voice. "Your diligence and devotion to Spirit is commendable, Sister Cardew."

The tension in your fingers and tone is shoved down.

You draw your hand back, restraining yourself with every last ounce of strength left in your tortured mind.

There are no demons here, save for the ones left in my thoughts.

Hasn't that always been the case?

I have to stop pushing myself so hard. I know I have better judgement than this.

There's probably still something unhinged in your eyes, but your voice levels out. "Your deduction was correct. I would appreciate seeing to the full report, now. I will have your work returned to you the moment I finish reviewing it."

She hesitates.

"You are speaking to the Father of the Church of Mercy. Share your honest thoughts with me, Sister."

"You're going straight to Father Friedrich."

"Yes."

The tome is extended to you. You take it as quickly as you can without appearing desperate. Your hands are shaking badly, and barely steady against the hard leather binding.

Both of Sister Cardew's hands are folded in front of her, steady and relaxed. Her face is immutable.

You glance away, back down to the pages tucked within. The promise of more knowledge. There is a small bookmark, comprised of only a single white string. You pluck it out of the pages, and extend an open palm once again to the priestess before you. "You would leave Her symbol with me?"

She still refuses to accept the gesture. "You need Her more than I do."

The constant, overwhelming stress that's plagued you since arriving in Beorward feels like it intensifies tenfold.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about. Take it. Call for me if you need Her services. I'm staying in a spare room in the exterior ward as well." Large brown eyes flicker down to the book in your hands. "Even if it's unrelated to the Church of Flesh, I'll be residing here until you bid my leave. Father Sullivan insisted."

What?

There's a flare of gauze and shawls, as Sister Cardew makes a perfect curtsy. "The immaterial must be known, Father Anscham."

The priestess leaves, as quickly as she's able, off to attend to her own duties.

You try to quell the Storm brewing in you. You're wanting for control, for some sort of power over this whole situation more desperately than anything, but you are a righteous man. An honest man.

Looking down to your dog, back to the hallway ahead, you resume walking in the opposite direction of Sister Cardew. "Come on, Ray."

The hulking mastiff is more than happy to get back to moving. You both cut a clear path through the remainder of the interior ward. Yet another banded door lies at the end of it.

Rapping on the planks and iron, you bark, "Father Friedrich, it is Father A—"

The door opens promptly. There are no fewer than fifteen men inside the office. It's more of a strategy room, with how many maps are splayed out on the large wooden table in the center of the chamber. The lack of chairs is pronounced, for everyone standing, and staring straight at you.

You don't recognize a soul around the table. About ten are clergymen of the Church of Flesh. Three more must be noblemen, for their finery, golden hair, and posture. The rest are dressed innocuously in leggings, tunics, and hats (still befitting of the upper class).

All of the myriad gifts are gone, replaced with haphazard piles of personal effects. Bloodied pieces of armor, neatly folded robes that were clearly worn by men before they perished, a stack of holy symbols smeared with soot, and countless weapons litter the edges of the the room.

Many of the men are dressed solely in black.

Father Friedrich— in his usual skin-tight garb— stands right in the doorway. The gray and white of his hair is extremely prominent against the morning light. The sun filters in from the few large, uncovered openings in the wooden and stone walls.

He whips his head from you, back to the meeting. "Fifteen minutes. Go stretch your legs. We'll reconvene then. Leave us. Now." Glancing up, the Father of Flesh mutters, "get out of the door."

You step aside, permitting over a dozen men to filter back out to the hallway. They're muttering as well. You can't catch anything in particular, as Father Friedrich grabs onto your sleeve and practically pulls you straight out of the hall.

Ray is snarling in an instant. You quiet him down, gesturing with a free hand, and keeping the other firmly on the tome that is now in your possession. "We will likely need more time, Father Friedrich, for everything I have had to attend to—"

Your sleeve is released promptly. You shrug off the motion. The priest responsible for accosting you firmly closes the door, and looks to you with bags under his eyes. "You don't know the half of it. You remember one of the first things I said to you? About what had to be done?"

"Of course." Your memory is impeccable. "That I have to get home safely, and set things right. I fully intend to do so."

"After that," he waves his hand, impatiently.

"That the entire country is in disarray? That—" You're grimacing. "That you need my help."

"Yes, Father Anscham. You've been asleep for two damn days. I've been sorting out everything you've helped me with." His fists are clenched. "I was hoping we could have a little friendly training, educate you on our tenets. Show you some thanks for aiding me with the outbreak." He's pacing, now, and keeping his eyes straight on you. "I would still like to, but Father Sullivan has been so far up my ass—"

"Father Friedrich." It's not often that you see fit to interrupt others, but there is the work of a representative of the Church of Spirit in your arms, and you are not about to squander it. "The situation here— regarding the sick and injured— required immediate attention. I could not sit idly by while lives were being lost. If I could have called upon the Church of Spirit sooner, I would have. I— I have a full report, right here—" You lift the large and increasingly weighty tome. "—and would like for you to look it over with me."

He's unamused, and stops pacing. "The report. I have only just finished speaking with the priestess you summoned."

"Did she recount any of its contents to you?"

"Briefly, and to be frank, Father Anscham, I did not see any further cause for concern."

"You did not get the full scope of your church's affairs?" You might be sneering.

"I trust in my men and women to attend to their duties."

"If we do not sort this out first, we are entirely at risk of another outbreak."

He is extremely unamused. The priest's sneer definitely matches your own.

Dropping your voice, you murmur, "I am not sure if I can weather it, as well."

The room feels a lot smaller, for how many items from the deceased are scattered throughout. The large table at the center of it all thuds as you set down the book in hand.

Father Friedrich silently moves next to you, with the swiftness of the Gods. "14 minutes. I know you like to read, Father Anscham. Make it fast."