Chapter 32: Caught in the Rain

"Suspicious is what it is."​

The complaints are immediate. "You can barely sit upright. It took half the day just to get here."

"Ray has escorted me through infinitely worse circumstances, Sister Cardew." Looking up at his name, your boy happily nudges you. He's not one to beg, but insists on being scratched behind his ears. You comply, reassuring everyone in your company, "I will be just fine."

Sister Cardew attempts to scowl, but she can't hold it for long. A slight laugh escapes from her at your attempts to stand unassisted. "Fine. Have it your way. I'm only helping you so long as you keep the story coming."

The room does not tilt as you stand. It's difficult to feel anything. There is no pressure. No sharp reminder of anything other than pleasant company. Everything seems to soften.

Harriet scribbles something onto a piece of parchment, stamping it, and takes the item in hand. "Have you seen—"

Sir Rainecourt reappears almost instantly with both of his daughters. They elegantly set to clearing the table. You're offered another complimentary drink, and politely refuse. Your host is all smiles, beaming to you both, "I do hope everything was to your standards this evening, Sister...?"

"Cardew. It was impeccable." The note is handed over promptly, which the gentleman scrutinizes for only a moment.

"Everything appears to be in order, then. May I be of any further assistance?"

"Some extra attention for any guests at the bottom of the stair, Sir."

This woman is a blessing. The last thing I need is any further scrutiny.

A bow, with a over-the-top flourish. "Of course. May your evening be as blessed as the company you keep."

"Likewise, Sir. Thank you."

There is a flurry as Sir Rainecourt and both of his daughters make quick work of returning to the bar. You're helped all the way to your feet, steady yourself, and wait a moment for the nobleman to descend back down the stair. The 'Reserved' sign goes with Delia, as his daughters trail behind.

There is a great deal of commotion from downstairs, while Sister Cardew gestures for you to hurry along.

As you both leave Hope behind— carefully, slowly descending the steps— you see a full house. There's a gaggle of drunken noblemen standing and sitting about A Prayer. You recognize a few faces in the crowd from the Church of Flesh— priests wearing plainclothes— attempting to get away from the keep for an evening out. They're all revelry and excitement, as Sir Rainecourt appears to have given out several bottles of extremely fine whiskey on the house. You hear, "compliments of the Church of Spirit," and "appropriate as always," mixed in with "can't get a fuckin' seat in this place," and "about damn time."

Keeping your head down, you head out of the building as quickly as you can. The small entry room is packed with waiting guests, none of who seem to care that you're leaving or pay any notice to the company you keep. It's likely that Ray's presence at the front of the pack is what's giving everyone such a wide berth from your procession, but you don't care. The front door is held open by a particularly well-mannered gentleman.

Slinking out of the last of the crowd, Sister Cardew practically pulls you from the inn back onto the street. A blast of freezing air practically sobers you. Amber storm clouds are overhead, moving swiftly thanks to the fast-moving wind on the air. The priestess pulls her shawls closer, and drags you a little harder while you both look to a deep-blue sky. "We had better get moving."

Nodding your head (thoroughly enjoying the warmth still coursing through you), you set back out to the city streets. There are smatterings of men and women going about their business, but significantly less than before. Thanks to the coming rain, almost every stall and vendor has boarded up. No hollering or bartering takes place in the street, but every tavern and inn looks to be packed.

The revelry follows you both as you pull away into the residential districts, and narrow, winding roads leading away from the heart of Beorward.

As you begin to fall into old routine— walking in the dark, enjoying the chill against the heat within you— Harriet knocks you lightly on the arm. She's so much shorter than you, it's as high as she can comfortably reach. "You still in there?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Cold air doing anything?"

"It is— this has been lovely."

"Haven't forgotten your promise, have you?"

"Of course not." It's a long trek back to the keep, if you remember correctly— and you have an impeccable memory. Ray is right by your legs, winding around you, and nudging you when necessary. It has you comfortable enough to permit a little distraction while walking, to let your mind wander. "It was easily a library's worth of information. Not in an age could every page have been read. Not without Her blessing."

The Sister of Spirit remains respectfully quiet. Her gaze is ahead, paying close attention to navigating along Cyril's route while you tell the tale.

"There was legend of a trade route that once ran north of Corcaea. Father Friedrich's maps align with the telling. Beyond our borders, past the Sunless Sea, lies a colossal desert. It spans the length of Godric, but there is even more beyond the sands. A civilization eclipsed in an eternal night, deeply nestled under a red moon."

"Didn't she...?"

"I never asked."

"I'm sorry."

"Idonea may have not hailed from Corcaea," you deflect. After a pause, you realize she may have simply forgotten, and elaborate. "Ostedholm's fall took place over seven hundred years ago, Sister Cardew."

"Ah. It's a little difficult to keep track of it all. Go on, though."

"Farther north still, in ages longer past, there was record of heresy." You look around, to the corridor beneath a great ruin you're currently passing through. Underfoot is a network of revamped irrigation, running all throughout the stone. A bridge spans the distance above. You're alone on all sides, as everyone is hiding from the coming storm.

Nevertheless, you drop your voice to a whisper. "I should not— it would be blasphemous to even speak of it—"

A groan. "You can't just say that. Go on. You know I won't hold it against you."

"Well." You resume walking behind her, and lean down. Your voice is almost inaudible. "Fantasy. Myths. A time when men determined their own fate. It was written that we predate not just the other races, but the very Gods themselves."

The priestess stops walking, and spins around to you. "That is blasphemous."

You put up both hands, taking a step back. "I did not write it. I am merely retelling the tale. Stories. Fiction, Sister Cardew."

"Alright." Worry knits the priestess' brow, but she pulls slightly on your sleeve, ushering you to keep walking. "Come on, then. What else?"

The warmth, relief and euphoria running through you is too much to linger on any concerns. "Aside from the deserts, darkness and blasphemy, there was a great deal written on the lands surrounding our own home. Far more than I would have suspected. Did you know that halfling civilization once worshiped Agriculture?"

"You're joking."

"No. Hundreds of warped deities, for every leaf, seed and grain. It was— is ridiculous."

"What of the land, then?"

"Folorast has protected us from a spoiled country to the south, it seems. Tainted by abuse of sorcery, through worship and attempted preservation of territories. I presume that the ruins there are untraversable."

"Fascinating. We've been pushing to the west. Was there anything on Cyno?"

"Nothing, but to the east—"

Sister Cardew turns her head back just for a moment, so curious that she can't help but take her eyes off of the road.

You grin, "more heresy."

She groans. "Out with it."

"It seems that our relations with elvenkind have been strained for ages, Sister."

"Not very surprising."

"No." Your grin fades.

She stops walking again, and looks to you to do the same. "You did everything you could to help her, didn't you?"

"Yes."

Ray trots ahead, nose in the air, trying to lead you on as a trickle of rain begins to fall.

"You said it yourself: you were fighting for your life. She's lucky to have had you." The priestess turns a bit whiter, realizes what she's said, and blinks a few times. With a frown, she continues, "it's not right." There might be an attempt to save face, as she sneers, "suspicious, is what it is."

"Suspicious?"

A great deal of conviction comes into the woman's voice. "The way you were treated. It sounded sterile, Father. It's not right. Something was wrong with those women." She turns back around, walking firmly ahead. In a murmur, you overhear, "I intend to find out what."

Bewildered, you pick your pace back up.

Emerging from the tunnel reveals a great deal of rain beginning to come down. You rush ahead, throw an arm over Sister Cardew, and panic sets in even through the drugs.

"No."

That harness was made overnight as a gift. It is not meant for travel—

"Ray. Here, boy—!"

The cloth harness about his body is absolutely not water-proof. Kneeling beside him, you extract your journal from the (pooch) pouch, and nestle it within your robes as best as you're able.

The rain is rapidly becoming sleet. It's all you can do to run back to the Church of Flesh.

Unfortunately, Harriet cannot keep your pace. Ray practically runs circles around you both as you help her along, having to constantly slow down. Your journal is safely nestled away, but every other inch of you gets soaked to the bone.

Between the exertion, the cold air, and the frigid rain, you sober up rapidly. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck, your robes are clinging, and there is a flush in your face.

The woman beside you is clad in at least five layers of fabric, but it's white, and leaves almost nothing to the imagination by the time you both arrive at the gates. It seems prudent to take Ray's harness, wrap it as best as you can around your journal, and sacrifice your black robes for the priestess beside you. Your shirt and trousers are modest enough for your needs.

Sister Cardew graciously accepts your offering while you walk up to the drawbridge. You're so much taller than her, your garment easily conceals her entire frame from view. "Thank you."

It's a little too difficult to reply, thanks to you both trying to avoid as much scrutiny as possible on your return. Thanks to the foul weather, almost everyone has returned to the confines or shelter of their respective posts, and are too busy going about business to comment on your appearance.

Clearing the battlements and towers, interior ward and courtyard, you arrive back in the exterior ward.

Wiping sleet off of your brow and slicking back your hair away from your forehead, there's a familiar heat through the strands of gold. Resenting the large meal is easy enough, as your clothes are sticking to you as well, but it's a small sacrifice. Having so many fewer scars along your hands is enormously reassuring, and you try to tell yourself that Father Friedrich's tutelage will pay further dividends in the coming weeks.

Steadying the woman in your company (who is trying to not slip on the stone), you both make your way to the exterior ward's hallways. Passing just outside your door, your heart drops. A weight heavier than your dinner sinks into the pit of your stomach, alongside the sight of a stupid blonde ponytail.

An uncovered, extremely muscular arm is waving. Cyril is in the exact same spot you left him in. In the same pose.

Sister Cardew's face drops, whispering, "he hasn't left...?"

"He hasn't moved," you murmur, dripping onto the stone.

The cheekiest smile you've ever seen is directed at you both.

There's no use resisting the temptation to ask Cyril, "have you been out here this entire time?"

Helping Sister Cardew along the steps, you continue walking past your guard. Making a very brief nod to him, darting your eyes to your door, you wordlessly make it as clear as possible that you'll be right back.

The smirk plastered across his face threatens to get wider. He gets it. "Yeah."

Harriet looks like she wants to sneer, but is too miserably sodden to comment.

"Didn't want to miss a thing." The smirk does get wider, as you both proceed past him. "I'll see you around. Never a dull moment, eh, Father?"

Smoothly, the priest sweeps up the various pieces of dishware and trash about his feet, and strolls back down the hall in the direction you came from. It's all you can do to shake your head.

The brunette by your side is quick to sigh. "He's a handful, isn't he?"

"He means well. Are you shivering?"

Arriving outside of Sister Cardew's quarters took only a matter of moments. Her shoulders are trembling, but she insists on taking off your robes and giving them back to you. You hand the woman back her purse as quickly as you're able, glancing down both ends of the hallway multiple times. The wing is completely empty, aside from the sick and wounded that are resting behind closed doors.

"Thank you, again, Father." She's fussing with her keys, and having a hard time due to the obvious cold that's coming down.

"Thank you. For everything."

The soaking fabric in your hands steadily drips onto the floor. More water still is trickling from your hair, your clothes, and the priestess standing before you. There's a chill in the garments you're holding, but you've always been hot-blooded. The blessing of a Goddess is in you like fire, in the Relic you carry, the band of gold about your ring finger, and the warmth coursing through your frame.

Maybe it also has to do with the tea.

Tonight has been more than a mercy.

For her sake, you try to stand behind the priestess. The white gown she's wearing beneath all of her shawls and gauze is clinging. A slender and devoted figure is demanding your attention, for all of your vows.

Clutching a little harder onto your holy vestments, you're all fire and devotion. There's a golden band around your ring finger, searing, as you look earnestly to the priestess before you. "Sister Cardew?"

She glances over her shoulder, having managed to work the lock before her open. Though her gaze is still swimming from liquor, she gives you a questioning glance with a straight face.

Your chasteness easily eclipses hers. "Thank you— again— for the wonderful evening. I hope we can keep in touch."

A slight, weary smirk looks up to you. "Father Sullivan wouldn't have it any other way." Her smirk becomes a lot more sincere. "It was wonderful, though." The priestess holds her purse a bit closer, for all of the precious vellum concealed within. "I have a great deal of work to do. I'll contact you as soon as I've gathered my findings."

"It is such a relief." You try to not let your composure slip, for how earnest the remark is.

Ray shakes himself off a little further down the hall.

Another questioning glance, and a raised eyebrow is directed at you by the priestess.

You say, "I can't tell you how nice it is, to— to have friends I can rely on."

Sister Cardew turns around fully, and takes you into a brief hug. A current runs up your spine. You're too shocked to return the gesture.

She pulls back, smiling fully, and straightens her robes. "You deserve— no, earned, is it?"

It's hard not to give a melancholy smile back. You can't deny it.

"You absolutely have earned some good in your life. Have a good night, Father."

Catching her with your voice, you ask, "Sister, before you go?"

She lingers in the door a moment longer.

You tap to your temples, right beside your eye. "My offer stands. Take as much time as you need to consider it."

With a nod of her head, the priestess offers you one more small smile. "Good night, Father Anscham."

"Good night."

The door is shut, and you hear the lock jingle for a moment as you call Ray to your side. Your boy is almost perfectly dry thanks to his efforts, and you can't help but feel a little jealous as you turn the corner.

Cyril is back with a flask, leaning against the wooden pillars of the exterior ward. Opposite the door to your room. In the same position as before.

You cross over to him, soggy, trying to not think too hard about how you must look. It's relatively easy to not dwell on anything, as there's still a great deal of heat in you.

After such a spectacular night, some gratitude is in order.

"Cyril."

His smirk is as smug as any man could possibly muster. "Father Anscham."

Standing a few steps away, you're surprised to hear the uncouth priest address you so formally.

He continues to surprise you, uncrossing his arms, and dropping the smirk. He pats you very firmly on the back. "You're too devout for your own good, aren't you?"

Sheepishly, you try to not fall over. Looking down to the slouch in his shoulders, the simple strand of string his wooden holy symbol is dangling from, you straighten upright. The needle is an easier sight than maintaining eye contact. "Thank you for the directions. 'Hope' was phenomenal. Everything— it was wonderful. I have no idea how I could make it up to you—"

"I have several ideas."

"Do you?"

Your earnestness must be showing. His smile is immediate. "Do I? Are you kidding me? I told you I'd find a way to get you out properly. Some hoity-toity hotspot is fine, sure, but—"

"Cyril." Straightening upright, you try your best to convey your gratitude without looking like a wet dog. "This was easily one of the best evenings I've had in ages. I would like to make it up to you."

Mischief flashes in Cyril's eyes. "You're busy tonight, I take it?"

"Somewhat. Father Friedrich intended to—"

"He won't be long, I'm sure. Not for where we're going."

"Pardon?"

The glint in his eye borders on demonic, for all its good intent. "The Rub and Grub Pub."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me!"

"This sounds indecent."

"It is!" His grin, impossibly, has widened further.

"This sounds like a terrible idea."

"You wanted to make it up to me?"

"You are insatiable. We spent the entire morning drinking and fishing."

"I'm a priest of Flesh, not Mercy." He seems quite proud to say it. "Besides, we don't have to go tonight."

"I— I see. That— you are a little more reasonable—" You're patted on the back again, very hard. "Would you please stop that—?"

"Fine, fine. Need me to get you some other robes?" He's wiping his hand on the side of his pants leg, getting the sleet off.

"No, thank you." You're already eager to slip back into your room, into something dry.

"Go on, then. I'm actually heading off."

"I thought—" You start, but the blonde is already peeling away, back down the hall. He waves with his back to you, whistling once again.

Shaking your head, you return to your quarters.