Chapter 31: Something for the Pain

"It's revolting."

​ You want to die.

Sir Rainecourt seems to have materialized on the stair, and is rapidly climbing the steps.

Turning your face away from the gentleman (how red must my eyes be?), you're immediately accosted.

"Father Anscham, I do hope that our accommodations—"

You could not be more dismissive, for how badly you want to be left in peace. "They have been excellent, Sir Rainecourt. Thank you."

He clears his throat. "Yes. Well. Mercy has set on Beorward—" The jab is not lost on you, and you're grimacing. "—but Dream is welcome here in Hope, in equal measure. Has the wine been to your liking?"

Sister Cardew saves you. "It was phenomenal. Sir, Father Anscham has been feeling a bit under the weather. If I may?"

"But of course, madam." A ridiculous bow follows.

This is a nightmare.

You go for your glass, still keeping your face to the side, and finish the bottle of likely priceless wine.

Harriet continues to honor your tenets. "Your hospitality is without compare, Sir. The Church of Spirit will be compensating you, in full. If it's not costing your business too dearly this evening, our seating arrangement...?"

At compensating, the man is already all smiles. He bows again, somehow more absurdly, and asks, "is there anything else I may see to, for you both?"

"A little more privacy would be remarkable," Harriet dead-pans.

Another swift bow, and your host is gone in a flash. A new bottle of liquor and two small glasses seem to have been left on the table in his wake.

"Sorcery." You're too impressed to not comment on it. It's not the display of Magic, but rather the new bottle. It's somehow finer than the last. Whiskey, black label, written in a script you don't even recognize.

Sister Cardew sets to opening it immediately, with remarkably less ability than you're capable of.

It seems she has a taste for drinks.

So do you. "Allow me, please." It's a simple matter. Your muscles have wasted, but you still possess more than enough dexterity to work open the item.

A smoky, caramel, herbal scent hits you the moment the cap comes off.

It is like a dream.

"Have you ever seen this font before?" The priestess is fascinated, looking to the bottle wide-eyed. Runes are practically swimming over the text on the exterior.

She gestures for the bottle from you, and the instant she can, begins to peel off the label.

You look around, legitimately concerned. "You are going to get us thrown out—"

"Ssshh!" Hurriedly, a strip of pale parchment is smeared with charcoal, and wrapped back around the bottle.

It looks absurd.

"This looks absurd."

"It might buy us a few more minutes."

"Sir Rainecourt!" You swiftly take the whiskey bottle, rip off the fake label, and crumple it in hand before Sister Cardew can protest. She begins to open her mouth— to balk at the destruction of her terrible ruse— and is defeated before she can begin to argue.

Your host materializes once again, right at the top of the stair. "Father Anscham." A bow. The corners of his lips twitch, as he sees the violated whiskey bottle. "What is the—"

"Your service is without compare, Sir." You keep the parchment in hand, which crinkles slightly under your tremor. "It would appear that your spirits are of impeccable quality. So much so, they warranted further study from a priestess of their very church."

She's trying to not smile.

Sir Rainecourt is still decidedly unamused, but tolerates your extreme attempt at covering the blunder. With a wave of your free hand, you murmur, "my health appears to have improved significantly, thanks to your hospitality and our esteemed company. I would hate to occupy more of your time or business—"

With the flourish of a fine apron and the swirl of a white towel, the bottle in question is disguised, then poured perfectly. The two forgotten glasses on the table are filled. With a glance between you, Harriet and Ray, your host bows once again. "It would be an honor to continue to serve all of our esteemed company, Father Anscham. How may I better serve you?"

"You have outdone yourself, Sir Rainecourt, by providing us with as much discretion as you already have—"

Another deep bow.

"Sister Cardew, if I may...?"

The year is 605, but you are a gentleman. She is unable to suppress her smile. "Of course."

"We would appreciate your continued company through the evening." A glance to Sir Rainecourt, praying your eyes aren't too red. "Dinner— and your continued service— would be excellent, Sir."

His nose is parallel to the floor. "Right away, Father. Of course."

A flurry of pomp and servility whisks the whiskey bottle (and Sister Cardew's utter failure at respectable behavior) away.

Your posture is too stiff to lean across the table, so you resist the urge, merely lowering your voice. "What were you thinking?"

Her smile is gone, her lips as straight as your back. "To study is to serve, Father." She still has the label in hand, with its floaty script. Eyes wide, she can't help but scrutinize it.

It's impossible to not comment on how strange her appearance is. "You mentioned your glasses on several occasions now—" The priestess goes to speak, realizes she's interrupting, and promptly closes her mouth. "—they are more than unusual. Do they have any special properties...?"

The woman across the table from you unfastens some latch at the back of her hair. Her glasses are unhooked, showing the lenses suspended between several bands of tanned hide. "You should see for yourself."

Sister Cardew immediately squints as the frame comes even an inch away from her eyes, but she's all smiles. Palms outstretched in the symbol of your church, the brunette holds out her glasses for you to try.

The immaterial must be known— but the material cannot be neglected either, can it? This couldn't hurt. Surely.

Curious, you take the harness, and simply hold the lenses before your face.

The world easily becomes twice as large. Your head swims for only a moment, as you immediately pull back, blinking several times to try and get the spots out of your eyes. The device gets held back out at arm's length. "Mercy, this— how can you possibly hope to see with such a device—"

She laughs lightly, taking the item back. "It has a few other properties, but it's mostly to help me see. Father Sullivan had it commissioned for me as a girl, but the lenses have had to be adjusted a few times over the years."

Blinking a few more times, you shake off the start of a headache by taking up the glass of whiskey before you. It's caramel in color, too, and so smoky that the scent hits you from arms length. "Other properties?"

"It can help me discern a few hidden inks. They are terribly uncommon. A kind of sorcery. It spares my eyes any further strain. I rarely get to give it any use. For all I know, the charm is gone."

"I see."

She snickers. It's difficult to keep eye contact, but you suspect there's something of a smile mixed in with her mild amusement.

You raise your glass to the Sister of Spirit. There's no need to say anything to show your appreciation.

She raises her glass in turn.

The drink is perfect. All of the herbs you caught from opening the bottle seems to be from a brewing method you're unfamiliar with, but the aftertaste is phenomenal. You're almost reminded of the scent of coals, and have the joy of lingering over the exotic luxury stolen away.

Sir Rainecourt re-materializes with his daughters in tow. Commanding Ray to come closer, you keep a hand to him as a veritable feast is laid out on the table. Harriet clears off all of her books as quickly as she's able, while you murmur a few words of reassurance to your boy.

The deer appears to have been spit-roasted, cut into chunks, and served alongside a number of local vegetables. The man of the house confirms this in elaborate detail, agonizing over every sauce used. You remain polite, letting him rattle off the list before another deep bow and his departure.

Bowing your head to begin a prayer to Agriculture, you're cut off.

"You really didn't have to, you know," Sister Cardew says.

"Pardon?"

A nod, to the table. She's still refastening her glasses. "The meal. You shouldn't hurt yourself. You've been through more than enough."

"I have been through worse, and this is for my betterment."

The priestess appointed to monitor your mental health seems unamused. For the way she's reached across the table to serve herself only from the dishes closest to you, you'd think she's ignoring your statement entirely.

"You do not believe me."

"I know you're being sincere, Father, but I have to disagree. The Church of Spirit isn't nearly as obsessed with the material as our current hosts."

"I have an appointment this evening with Father Friedrich. I intend to keep it, and to serve his church just as diligently as any other." An entire chunk of deer meat is skewered, which you serve to Ray with a frown. He licks your hand before the food, with more discipline than any priest you've ever met. "You are such a good boy. Sit, Ray."

He does so, and inhales the entire wedge, looking back up to you with delight. You serve him a few more pieces before attending to yourself.

Piling up vegetables, stews, sauces, and an adequate amount of meat to qualify for Father Friedrich's regimen, you start fishing for your flask.

Not even the finest dining in Corcaea can rival a demon of Agriculture.

Taking out Yech's gift gets you a sideways glance from Sister Cardew. She's already murmured a prayer to the Goddess of Bounty on your behalf, but looks nervous. "Father Anscham, is everything alright?"

"Something for the pain. Yes, Sister— Mercy this looks terrible—" You pull back from the flask. It's brimming with steam and one of the most bitter, earthy teas you've ever smelled.

The brunette across the table looks doubly concerned. "You said it was safe?"

"Let me see your glass." Her whiskey glass has already been emptied. Wiping out the interior with a napkin, you pour a fair quantity of the tea into clear crystal for further inspection.

It's cloudy, dark, and might as well be mud for how well you can make out any particles of whatever seeds constitute the blend. The aroma is intense, deep, and herbal. Sister Cardew immediately blanches. You hold it to the light, and can pick out a few seeds still intact. They're jet black, pin pricks, and seem to be unwashed.

Whatever this is, it's incredibly potent.

Taking a deep breath, you hold it, brace yourself, and knock back the tea as quickly as you can.

You wonder from the first instant it hits your tongue if it actually is poison. It's revolting, and easily one of the most acerbic brews you've had in your entire life. It tastes so earthy, you're reminded of having your face shoved into soil and mud. It's not even as hot as the steam trailing off it would indicate. Several whole seeds are still intact through the warm mush.

Sister Cardew looks moderately horrified, as you slam your glass back down and look for something to get rid of the taste.

Coughing through the tea, you try to choke down some of the deer. It's cooked perfectly, could not be more tender, and immediately makes up for the drink.

There's still pain. The carve into the back of your throat from what might as well be a knife is an immediate indication of the meal being prepared in Corcaea.

It eventually all goes down, and you try to defend your friend's honor. "Yech would never poison me." The cough and struggle is not convincing. You hope your devotion is. "I do not believe— not for a moment— that he would ever intentionally cause another person harm. Not when they could be helped. Certainly not a friend. Never through his work."

The human woman sitting across from you looks skeptical. "If you're sure."

"I am." A long pause, as you suffer through more of the meat. The cough doesn't abate, and neither does the sensation of shards of glass as you murmur, "Sister Cardew?"

"Yes?"

"I have been away for some time. It has been four months, now, since I left Eadric. News is difficult to come by."

"It's poor dinner conversation."

It's very difficult to come by. "I— I see—"

A priestess of information can't resist the temptation. "Our efforts in Baranfen are doing miserably. Father Friedrich has lost a good many men. I believe the outbreak here was initially caused by several demons of grief."

Swallowing more deer might be akin to eating shrapnel, but it feels easier to choke down than what you're hearing.

I must have arrived moments too late.

She continues, "the demon of fear—"

You interrupt her. "Jonathan." It's important to you. You saved at least one soul, for a time.

"Yes. Well. I strongly suspect that he was one of many demons that have complicated the affair. It's bad enough to war against Cyno's armies. To have our own— our defenses can only hold for so long. There was a recent victory, at the Crepuscule."

You try to not look too guilty. Your eavesdropping earlier in the day aligns completely with what you're being told, and you try to assume the rest of the information you hear is as credible.

"King Magnus has declared a week long celebration in Calunoth, and almost every road from here to Eadric has been temporarily shut down. Half of the country is in an uproar."

"That seems terribly excessive," you say.

"I presume he's trying to quell the unrest on his doorstep. Brother Algrith has been stirring the pot."

"Who...?"

A hard look is given to you. "He didn't tell you his name?"

You stare back, trying to swallow a little more tea.

"The man you saved. I assumed you were simply to upset to provide it. You did say he had red hair, didn't you...?"

You nearly spit out your drink at the realization. "My—" (congregation) "—from Ostedholm—"

"You were told that they went to Calunoth."

"The majority, but it— it's been a nightmare to get any information."

There is an incredibly warm feeling in the back of your head. You're not certain if it's Mercy or from the pain, but you continue, "I have heard a few rumors of the— of the blasphemy—"

Music

The sensation is becoming more pronounced by the second. You feel a little numb.

"Father?"

"Thank you, for bringing this to my attention."

It's not numbness. Pain is ever-present, but your mind is so far removed from the sensation, it might as well not be there.

"It's the tea, isn't it?"

There is something much better than the absence of agony, working up and through your relief. "I believe so."

"Yech was—"

"Is." I am paranoid, but not that paranoid.

"Is a demon of celebration, isn't he?"

The temperature seems to be increasing, along with your elation.

This is better than any liquor.

"He— he enjoys— confetti, and explosions, Sister. Agriculture. Plenty."

"He's right about one thing. Don't stand up until we get some more food in you."

"I do not intend to go anywhere." Pleasure is equalizing into an all-encompassing euphoria. If you weren't mistaken, your tremor has completely stopped.

Several minutes pass while you ride out the complete absence of pain. Setting the flask aside seems wise, so you do so, and find your voice. "I am terribly sorry about the situation in Murgate." It's been months since you last signed an official document. "It was brought to my attention, prior to my absence—"

"It's not your fault. These things happen."

Trying to keep your voice level is becoming easier by the second. "There are reinforcements coming."

"Father, I would prefer to not discuss it, if that's alright with you."

"Of course. What of—" You wave a hand, and pause. It feels incredible. There's no spasm. No twitching. A smile crosses your face as you ask, "general affairs?"

It's absolutely better than any liquor.

The steady warmth and relief has you reminded more of the embrace of a Goddess— compassion and divinity— than any mortal affair.

At some point you may have stopped listening.

"...has been all over the place." The brunette is possibly referring to the weather, for how disinterested she looks. "I hear Father Bennett—"

"Bennett?"

"Sorry. Barthalomew. It's hard to keep track of them all. I always forget he prefers his first name."

"You do not strike me as forgetful."

"Easier to remember what matters. Speaking of which, you stopped touching the meal."

There's something clouding your mind. You absolutely have forgotten what's right in front of you. "What would Father Sullivan say?"

"Oh?" She looks amused. A wide pair of eyes gets a little closer, as Sister Cardew slides around to your side of the table again.

"A priestess of Spirit, concerned with material affairs? A Father— the Father of Compassion— who barely knows how to show any to himself?" You're not too drugged to avoid self-deprecation, but it's made lightly.

While taking your knife and placing it delicately aside, said priestess sets up a smaller portion of food for you than what you originally served yourself, and begins watching you intently. "While we talk."

There's no reason to complain, for the relief and heat running through you. The knife being moved away isn't cause for concern. Ray is sitting politely next to you, keeping a close eye on you both, too well-behaved to beg.

Satisfied, you get back to eating. Your mind is elsewhere.

A few more answers follow. "You weren't listening. It's alright. Father Sullivan has had his hands full, trying to attend to the Spirit of a dying country. It's bad dinner conversation, but he wouldn't mind. He's never minded. I don't think he holds a thing against you, Father Anscham, but..."

You lift your hazy eyes from the candlelight and crystal.

Sister Cardew may not have anything from a demon in her, but she's certainly had too much to drink. The way she's trailed off demands finishing the mouthful of roasted game between you and starting a proper line of questioning. "Please, I— you said you wished to be honest with me."

"There's a lot of talk."

"Is it all valid?"

"No. No." She leans over the table just barely your way, and pushes a little more stew towards you. "I insist. While we talk. I'll give you answers, don't worry. We don't want any more issues tonight. The wine was already a bit much."

You want to frown— obliging her request— but it's impossible to remain dejected. Not even your Relic could make you feel so spectacular. The arms of Mercy may be warmer, and kinder, but this is a close second. There is no ache. No tear. No knife digging into the back of your throat or skull— save for the ones you hear.

"Father Sullivan is an ardent critic of your works, Father Anscham. Of you."

"Of course."

"You're high."

"Yes."

"Probably for the best." She laughs lightly, and murmurs, "to properly answer your question: he'd be terribly ashamed of both of us. It's alright. He's too stern for his own good. You're better off focusing on yourself right now."

There's a slight smile creeping across your face, for how much relief there is. "I have been through so much. I've never felt better. Yech— I really— I must find a way to thank him—"

Sister Cardew is giving you a look. It's endearing, but she's clearly worried, and still pressing more food at you.

She seems to actually care. This is as good of an opportunity as any.

"Sister." Your eyes lift.

"Yes."

"You—" Your gaze is back down to the glass, the table, to Ray, and anywhere but on the woman at your side. "—while we talk, is there anything you could tell me? Of yourself?"

A long silence follows. You try to finish the rest of the meal, but your head is swimming so hard that it's almost too difficult to sit upright.

It occurs to you that you haven't been fidgeting since the tea kicked in.

Glancing back up with disbelief and more relief, you're taken aback. The priestess at your side seems to have dropped her furrowed brow just to smirk back at you. "You're better at this than you think you are."

You pick at the last of the food with some effort, keep your voice low, and sheepishly grin, "that is not an answer to either question."

A proper reply finally comes as Sister Cardew gets herself the remainder of the whiskey. "I was born and raised in the Church. Five brothers, three sisters. Father Sullivan is actually my great uncle—" She frowns. "—and this is the first time I've been outside of Murgate. Always kept to home. Ruined my eyes spending so much time under too little candlelight, but it never mattered."

With absolute sincerity, you turn fully towards the priestess and look straight at her eyes. They brown irises are hazy and swimming with liquor, but you can recognize potential when you see it. "I could heal them."

She balks. "My eyes?"

"Yes."

"You shouldn't. I mean—"

"We could heal them. Mercy has never hurt me, Sister Cardew. It wouldn't—"

A finger goes up, wordlessly asking you to stop. "Thank you, Father Anscham. I need some Time. To think this over." Her finger lowers, her hands folded on her lap. "We can enjoy our evening with me and my glasses, right?"

"Of course." Shifting gears is effortless when there's not a shred of tremor or anxiety in your entire frame. It feels as if a God of relief is working through you. "What never mattered?"

"Stories suit me much better than the world we live in. I don't have much. Not in the way of hobbies. Nothing else of the sort."

This is perfect. "You should have seen the tomes and codexes within Ostedholm."

The bleary eyes before you light up. "How many stories did you say the building was?"

Looking up to the shallow eaves of Hope, you grin. "The peak of the city touched the top of the world." You glance back down to Sister Cardew, who is delighted. "Its deepest recesses scraped the edge of the abyss. It took hours to traverse its halls— to say nothing of its libraries."

"You said some of the books had to be destroyed?"

Tapping your temple, you murmur, "a blessing, then and now. It was nothing that Spirit has not seen fit to preserve."

Scooting forward in her chair, Sister Cardew asks, "what, exactly?"

"Stories of other lands. Other races. Old Kings, and Gods worshiped by blasphemers halfway across the world. Titans. Desolation."

The priestess of Spirit is absolutely riveted. "All of my study has pertained almost strictly to Corcaea. Not even Father Sullivan's archives are complete. Would you tell me of some of it?"

"Yes. While we head back." Your grin broadens. "I promise."