Chapter 42: My Specialty

"The Catalyst."

​

Father Friedrich's voice fades as you pull around the corner. Wiping the blood off from your ring, you try to loosen your hands. Keeping a steady pace, navigating back through the keep, and guiding Ray by your side is a sufficient distraction.

You're still fidgeting, toying with the band and heat. Before long you find you have navigated back to Sister Cardew's room.

Her stern tone greets you as she unbolts her door. "You can stop leaving the parchment. I know it's you. You're the only man in the building polite enough to bother."

"I did not wish to disturb you—"

"We had an appointment." She smiles, wrenching open the last lock, and peeking out into the hallway. "And you are both—" She nods to Ray, and back up to you. "—welcome any time. Come on in."

​ Stepping back into the Sister of Spirit's room, you find that the entire chamber is absent of flowers. She doesn't address the adjustment, leading you back over to the shawl-draped chairs at the far end of the room. The hearth has been lit, and beeswax candles have been put up around a colossal stack of loose-leaf parchment. The fresh ink smudged on their sides, the low lighting, and the way she's stretching her wrists suggests she set to writing as soon as you left.

Ray drops himself right next to the heat and light of the hearth, looking across the room to you earnestly. You sit across from Sister Cardew's chair, though it remains vacant while she fetches herself some tea. Smiling weakly at you, she calls, "I would offer you something, but, well!"

A nod is the best you manage, while she comes back over with a piping hot drink. The wooden cup looks worn. At least a decade old. She sets it down for the liquid to cool temporarily, fussing with stacks of papers, and ultimately setting your mutual business (literally) aside.

Music

It gives you an extra moment to appreciate the warmth of all the flame, and the steady pounding of sleet outside. The gentle billowing of white curtains is only a few feet away. Storm shutters are almost within arm's reach, shut fast. Plumes of building smoke filtering out from above. The last remnants of the scent of lilies are worked over with sweet wax, old books, and fresh herbs. It drifts through and around you, while you sink deeper into your cushioned chair, and try to relax.

There's still a current running up your spine, and far more verve than you're accustomed to.

Just how exhausted have I been?

"It really is wonderful to see you up."

Blinking once, twice, you honestly reply, "it is good to be up."

She's sipping on her own cup of tea. "Never a dull moment, hmm?"

"May I ask what is so amusing—?"

"You can't catch a break. Even on vacation. Not even holed up in a sick ward. It's unbearable." She's struggling to suppress her amusement, though it's pained, and she clearly sympathizes. "I am so sorry. You don't want to hear this." Nestling the steaming cup within her hands, fog gathers on her lenses. "Is there anything you wanted to discuss?"

"It is— I sincerely have wanted for nothing more than intellectual conversation."

Harriet straightens up, tight-lipped, and nods her head. "The feeling is mutual."

Looking about the room— to all of the white thread— you try to ask as politely as you're able, "did all of this come from the Church of Spirit?"

Her voice gets a good deal quieter. "Yes. I brought as much as I could with me. It's helped make the place feel more like home."

"Is all of the Church of Spirit, so...?" You trail off, legitimately curious.

After a thoughtful pause, Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses, looking up to you with surprise. "You really want to know?"

"Of course."

"You said the doors to the Church of Spirit used to be nonexistent. Isn't that right?"

Several hundred years of knowledge is difficult to parse, but some of Beltoro's memory came to you more clearly than others. "I could not be more certain."

"They're locked. All of them." She says it like this is normal. "I brought these from home." She nods towards the door, outfitted with a total of five pieces of secure metal. "Along with the cloth."

A little dread creeps onto you. "That does not— why, exactly—?"

"Everyone has their own interpretation."

"To know is to serve. The halls of the Church of Spirit— no matter who occupies them—"

Disdain is written all over her. "I suppose you think you know better than Father Sullivan?"

So much secrecy borders on blasphemy. "This is his idea of devotion, then?"

"Not everyone is as concerned with their neighbor's welfare as the Lord of Compassion." She frowns, leaning forward. "Though I strongly suspect they should be."

You remain silent, trying to not make too many assumptions.

She's clearly enjoying divulging any information regarding the situation at home. "You know what locks make a girl particularly good at?"

Remaining silent seems as safe a bet as any.

"Lock picking, Father. I didn't ruin my eyes running around outside." She adjusts her glasses again, smiling more pensively still. "The Church of Spirit's library could easily encompass this entire keep."

A long pause rests between you both. You're still trying to fathom a library not in possession of King or a demon that could be so impressive. Literacy is a rarity in Corcaea, for anyone outside of the Church. Books are a rare commodity still. The very thought of so much parchment in one place has your head spinning, and you notice Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses again.

"I gave your offer a good deal of consideration."

The jolt up your spine seems to intensify. "You know She would see fit to bless you. Your vision—"

"I would like to refuse."

"I— I see."

"I mean no disrespect."

Remaining more silent still, you let her elaborate.

"I like myself— my eyes— just as they are. My glasses aren't doing me any harm. I'm not in any pain. It's just as much a part of me as anything else. I hope you can understand. If this makes any sense..." She leans in a bit further, shyly stating, "it's a kind of battle scar. In a way."

Clasping your own scars together— pointing your hands towards Sister Cardew— you murmur, "I understand completely."

She smiles sweetly back, burying her face again in the steaming cup before her. "Thank you."

"I would be lying—" You can't help but lean forward slightly. "—if I said I was not curious."

"Oh?" Sister Cardew drinks so silently you wonder if she's even touching her tea.

"Yes. In regards to what you have read. My own father could have never hoped to teach me anything in the way of literacy— and for all of her worship, my mother could not have done much better. I would have never expected to see a book— let alone aid in penning one— prior to coming into the clergy. You are speaking of hundreds of tomes? Thousands?" Your enthusiasm is difficult to contain. "Enough to have left a lasting impression on you. I do not wish to lie to you, Sister Cardew. I am very curious."

The smirk is back on her, creeping around the sides of the cup in her hands. "You wouldn't believe me."

She pulls back, wiping some of the steam from her lenses, and grins. Repressing the urge to raise an eyebrow, or to lean further in, you simply remind the priestess, "you forget who you are speaking with."

You're beckoned a little closer. The priestess of Spirit drops her voice below a whisper. "Your field of study is the Catalyst, isn't it?"

Leaning forward in your chair is insufficient. While scooting the entire piece of furniture closer, you forget for a moment how to breathe.

"Yes."

"It's my specialty as well, Father. The Catalyst. Demons." There's a glint in her eye, and it's not coming from her glasses.

She's looking right at you.

"What, precisely—?" You are trying to not stutter or visibly twitch.

The crackle of the hearth is louder than she is, and for how much more rapidly she speaks, you have to lean in even closer to pick up every precious word. "Boundaries. Testing." Dread sinks into you. "Yes, there are miles of shelves. Yes, you could easily fill this keep with every ledger and tax document. There may be countless tomes on our history, and plenty more through the last age—" She has to take a breath, looking up to you fervently. "—there may be catacombs beneath the lowest levels, and an entrance back into the ruins, right under the very heart of the Church of Spirit... but the mind has been my study."

Another breath. She's fervent. "Our possession. Our curse."

She stops completely.

Something is halting the procession of information, and you're desperate. "Please."

She really can't help herself from divulging more, but she shifts away abruptly. "Father Sullivan is entirely aware of my study."

You aren't surprised, and try to quell your frustration. "His duty is to know, is it not?"

Both of you frown.

"He always has led me to believe that he cares," she tries.

"Even if he locks you away from such critical information—"

"He wants to protect us. All of us."

You're fidgeting hard, dying to get back to the subject you sincerely care about. "All of you...?"

"The Church of Spirit holds one hundred, maybe two hundred staff at any time. We're mostly family, and no one is permanently staffed without seniority or pertinent cause for research."

Nervous habits are coming out full force. Praying that the constant movement isn't distracting her, you pray for focus, and to keep your damn hands still.

"The rest of us are scattered throughout Corcaea. Our home may appear as deserted as the Church of Mercy—" She frowns. "—but there is always someone watching."

You're scowling, and your patience is at its limit, but you are still trying. "How did you manage...?"

"It's a small matter when you know where to look. Who to maneuver around. Friends from foes from folly..." She rattles this all off as if it was a tenet.

There is only so much restraint a man is capable of exhibiting. "There is no conceivable way to acquire information on the Catalyst with such ease. Not if Father Sullivan wished to protect it."

"He was eager to enable my research." She says it plainly, as if this is normal. "It's why I was tasked with this assignment, Father Anscham. With you."

You have to pause a moment. "Pardon me?"

"You heard me. I disagree with his methods—"

"You are— excuse me?"

"I find transparency to be infinitely more productive."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Father Sullivan has speculated— for a number of years— that you turned, back in the Church of Mercy." She sneers. "There is a good deal written in regards to your care."

Trying not to squirm is difficult.

The priestess looks to you, all devotion and apology. "His speculation seems unfounded. The documentation is thorough, but having met you, I can't say I agree in the slightest." A sneer cuts across her compassion. "I'd be more inclined to call anyone responsible a demon, long before pointing any accusations at you. Then again— after discussing your care with Father Friedrich, and having learned of your experiences in the ruins— I do have my concerns."

Looking back down to your scarred hands, unbearably thin wrists and prominent bone, you glance back up. Away from the way your robes hang from your high collar, the drape that poorly conceals just how your life of restraint and prayer has left you. Brow furrowed with your own concerns, you murmur, "how could I possibly be so adept like this?"

"You can invoke—"

"I can fight, and I can run. I survived for weeks— months— years on so little that I cannot help but voice my own concerns. I am curious, Sister Cardew. I have been for a very long time. What have you found? What is— what is this conjecture?"

"He doesn't have the full picture. You're right. It's speculation. Purely speculation." She glances to the several dozen sheets of parchment beside her, all written to your King. All detailing how ill-suited you are to visiting him.

Magnified eyes glance over your sleeves, the belt that doesn't quite sit right, and back up to your face. Resisting every urge to go for a drink, you endure the scrutiny, and let the answers finally come. "He thinks you're a demon. A demon of Mercy, with a Catalyst of faith. One with enough fractures in your vessel to channel all of the Gods. Based on his records, the theory seemed sound. I imagine— having seen first hand what you were subjected to— that it was the only way he could justify the mistreatment."

The mug and steam between Sister Cardew's hands is shaking. She steadies her anger, setting the cup on the table beside her, and folds her hands on her lap. Looking back up to you, she scrutinizes your form a little further. "I'm sorry. I know you must be uncomfortable."

Stilling your own tremor as best as you're able, you endure the last of her observation. With a hand to her chin, Harriet leans forward towards you. "A number of the men and women you saved were in far worse condition. Upon their return from the ruins, even they haven't come under so much fire." Her hands fold back on her lap. "Humans are more resilient than anyone gives us credit for. I don't doubt that you need additional care to mend your body—" A glance back to your face. "—but my primary concern has been of your mind, Father."

The moment she pauses, you lean in, imploring her. "Please. I need to know."

"That's exactly what I'm concerned about. Especially in regards to your use of Spirit."

Less than an hour ago, Father Friedrich was voicing the same concern about my use of Flesh.

The priestess' voice becomes perfectly level. Detached, even. "The retribution you experience when calling upon any deity— and if I understand correctly, your unprecedented connection to Mercy— is unusual. Very unusual. You're renown for voicing Her word. You speak of almost nothing but Them. It makes no sense. You shouldn't be able to. I may be enabling a good deal of it—"

Your grimace is so intense it cuts her off.

She leans back, trying to look apologetic. "You wanted my honesty."

"You said yourself that I am nothing short of pious."

"Yes. I stand by it."

"How could you call me a demon in the same breath?"

"That's the trouble. I'm not convinced. It makes no sense. I have heard you for hours at a time. It's not sorcerery. You are no liar. You're a man of the Gods."

"You disagree with Father Sullivan?"

"Not—" She's clearly struggling to voice her dissent. "Not necessarily. I trust his judgement."

"What might— what exactly would that be?"

"That your health should come before your duty. That your service within the Church of Mercy has hurt you. That your devotion has been your undoing. Yet, for him to sully your— I refuse to accept these sorts of accusations without further evidence. He may have found a way to justify you— well." She looks to the window, frowning. "Not seeing the light of day." A fervent glance back to you. "I won't be so easily placated. We have far more information now, than ever before."

The woman's reluctance to speak clearly is alarming. You want to interject, but she's all over another change in subject.

"You overcame your loss of restraint, didn't you?"

"Beyond any doubt—"

"You've managed to reconcile a complete loss of your connection to Mercy, isn't that right?"

Clutching your left hand more tightly still, there could not be any more pride in your voice as you simply state, "yes."

Your hand is still trembling.

This is no way to show Spirit any respect.

"Let me be perfectly clear." She stops looking you over. Her brown irises are catching on the candles beside you, wincing with apology as she meets your stare. "I do not think you are a demon. If you are, it would invalidate everything I have ever studied. Were your Catalyst to have taken effect— what, thirteen years ago?"

"A little less than twelve, by my best estimates."

"Right. And in that time, you have never inflicted any harm on another—"

"I have personally met several that would not hurt a soul."

"Yes, but you look fairly—" She pauses, looking for a kinder way to phrase it. "Normal."

"Please." You resist the urge to roll your eyes or groan.

I would rather have her interrupting me than insulting me.

"Honestly. Anyone would be concerned, but you are still unarguably human."

You both pause.

"Unarguably—?" There's hope.

"Father Sullivan's primary argument is for your mental state. Your absence of Spirit."

Grimacing seems very appropriate.

Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses, smiling sincerely. "But we both know that's a farce, isn't it?"

"Of course it is."

I have invoked Spirit and endured Her will more than almost any other. She knows my respect. My righteous devotion. She permitted me to endure the minds of more than humanity. She knows of my worship.

"You're completely capable of doing more than calling upon the Gods. You know full well how to serve them. More than most. It's almost innate, isn't it?"

There's a compulsion to fill your entire journal with tenets. You squash it down only for the moment. "Not— not necessarily—"

"I think that your devotion is uncanny, Father. It's commendable, at the very least. If being a pious man is demonic, well." She smirks. "You might as well add me to your hierarchy."

Fidgeting, shifting with discomfort on all levels (particularly the physical), you are entirely dissatisfied.

A research partner would make my job significantly easier. I want to trust her.

"This flies in the face of almost everything I know, Sister."

She leans in, more curious than ever. "Oh?"

"I— you know better than anyone, what I've experienced—"

"We filled an entire book, and I've easily penned half of another in the last few days. Yes."

"How? I still cannot understand— how is this— how am I meant to—?"

"Reconcile? I'm interrupting you again. I'm sorry."

So she is aware of it.

"It— it is fine."

"Go on."

"How am I meant to show my devotion to Spirit, or to any of the Gods, when I have such little understanding of Them?"

Sister Cardew leans back. "That's an excellent question. Why don't you tell me? How do you think you've managed it?"

"He could be afraid, or regret what he has done. I could very well just be an experiment that left their control. But no matter how diligently I wish to serve Them, Sister, I— I cannot trust him."

"Good."

"Excuse me?"

"You want to hear what I have to say, don't you?"

"Yes—"

"You know just how much thought I've put into this."

"I can only imagine."

She left Murgate in the middle of a conflict just to attend to my call, did she not?

"That's right. You know why that is?" The priestess leans forward, and though she has to stretch to do so, she manages to tap the side of your forehead with the end of her pen.

Twitching slightly, pulling back, you ask, "what was that for—"

"You're still in a cell."

She may have a point.

"I don't think you're a demon. I've said it three times in just a few minutes, just not as clearly." She folds her hands again on her lap, concealing the pen from view. "Let me make myself clear. Communication is a skill, isn't that right?"

"Y-yes—"

Leaning back again, the priestess glances to the closed window and her white curtains. "I'm here willingly. I accepted this assignment. I would have gone out of my way to come here, under any other circumstances. Father Sullivan seems to sincerely care for your well-being, and I strongly suspect he is one of the only people in this country who does."

"That is ridiculous."

"Do you think our war strategist and host wants you in fighting shape out of the kindness of his heart?"

"I asked him to train me. I traveled halfway across the country to do so—"

"On Father Wilhelm's urging."

It's hard to not sneer. "He is a good man. They both are."

"Who accepts word from other church leaders without hesitation. For the slightest opportunity to call upon their patrons." She's frowning. It looks painful. "Familiar, isn't it?"

You frown back.

She continues, "you can't sit still. You say you want to rest, but you can't help yourself. It would do you some good to take a proper vacation. Father Friedrich would have me put to a stockade for saying it—" She glances around almost comically. "—but it would do your health much better to take it easy while you still can." There's a glance to the colossal stack of papers, clearly an elaborate list of reasons to put off seeing your King. "You won't be able to hide from the world forever."

"I am not hiding."

"You're right." She's scowling, but still struggles to spit out, "you're running."

"Can you blame me—?"

You pause.

"Has it made you happy?" Sister Cardew looks like she could hit you, but her voice is wavering.

"Excuse me?"

"Only listening when it's convenient? Running whenever you can?"

"I have overextended myself— and ran into—"

"Ran into whatever trouble has fallen in your lap. While avoiding every other obligation that would actually appreciate your attention. You need to hear this." She picks up her chin, looking at you as earnestly and apologetically as she can. "I need to know that I can actually help you."

Sitting a little further upright, you try to swallow your pride, or what little of it you don't care for. "Say it, then."

There's no hesitation. "Have you never considered how much everyone is using you?"

"I fail to see how such a horrific accusation—"

"There is no conceivable way that those heathens you met in the ruins kept your company for any other reason. They wanted your protection, at bare minimum."

Drawing back, you clutch at your robes as if you have been lanced through your chest. "They followed me."

"To what end? Father Friedrich has every right to question it. If it's a matter of our country's security. That they took so much interest in accompanying you. Especially given what you put them through."

"This is business, Sister Cardew. Mind yourself."

"They weren't the only ones, were they? Didn't Remigius drop her hostility the moment you were mended? The moment you were hale enough to do her any harm? Isn't our host suspiciously accommodating? Isn't he a little too eager to house you while knowing full well of treason, or madness? Why do you think no one speaks to you candidly—"

Music

"Sister Cardew." You're sitting perfectly straight, unbent, and entirely unaffected.

She stops the procession of the obvious.

"Please." You lower your voice, and look to her earnestly. "Do not disservice Spirit to such an extreme degree. You are speaking to the Father of the Church of Mercy— and you are insulting my intelligence."

She remains silent. It doesn't escape your notice that she's still holding onto her pen, and not to write with. It's clutched in one hand, placed delicately beneath the opposite. It could very well be an instrument of defense.

She was scared to even say so much, wasn't she?

You stare straight at her hands. "My position may compromise my ability to form normal relationships. That is fine." Back up to Sister Cardew's face. She looks extremely apologetic, but you cut her off. "I never expected to form long-lasting friendships in the ruins. Neither will I expect anything from people on the surface."

"Father, I—"

"Do not interrupt me again."

She complies for long enough for you to actually speak your mind.

"Expectations lead to disappointment. Unfair demands of others. I have never been a nobleman. I have no intention of influencing anyone. I may have my share of issues, but let others think what they will. I can only strive to be better."

You look down your nose to the woman sitting silently before you. "To answer a higher calling. I cannot change other people's perception of myself. Present company included, my dear Sister."

She looks up, frowning hard enough to nudge the bottom of her glasses. "I told you that you'd be alright."

"Not every expectation leads to disappointment? Is that what you want to tell me?"

"No. I may have been wrong. Time will tell. Or, in your case, all of the Gods, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I've overstepped myself plenty since my arrival. I strongly suspect Father Friedrich will make my stay remarkably worse, if I complicate matters further."

"You have yet to tell me anything I do not already know."

With a sneer, she drawls, "fine. They'll kill them, you know."

"Who—?"

She glances to the stack of papers to your King. Sister Cardew shakes her head. "You can't keep track of it all. I can only imagine how many hands you had at the Church of Mercy. Had."

"I will not ask you again to show me due respect, Sister—"

"I digress, then. Your work here, Father Anscham. The demon of fear, and the patient that was being held captive? The former is too dangerous to be kept alive, and the latter should have already arrived in Murgate. Where we've had an external outbreak, and could not obtain proper reinforcements against for weeks."

Trying to ignore the jab at your inability to send any aid to Murgate while you were in the ruins, you murmur, "where is Jonathan Friedrich being kept?"

"The same guard tower Father Wilhelm was occupying. To the best of my knowledge, he was keeping it—" You frown at the pronoun. "—at rest during his stay. Seemed a bit distant, didn't he?"

"Yes." With a sneer, you move to stand. "What of these catacombs in Murgate, then?"

"For the dead. The Church of Spirit would never house a demon in our walls." She mutters, "utter stupidity—"

"Then where?"

"An external ward. Quarantine. Under guard by a few allies of the Church of Vengeance." She sounds resentful. "When they can spare a hand." Her voice and expression softens considerably. "Largely our own clergy. A few civilian hands. You have slept four days away out of this week, Father. He may already be dead."

A strong temptation to curse is on your tongue. Minding your tenets, you stifle the urge and try to stay seated a moment longer. Eyeing the stack of papers that Sister Cardew has painstakingly penned upon your request, you try to reconcile that she's possibly slandering the Father of her own church, defying a royal order, and that it's all on your request.

For all of my devotion to Vengeance, I need to calm down.

Sister Cardew remains silent, sitting patiently across from you. Hands folded, pen at rest, opposite more parchment than you know what to do with.

After several deep breaths, you call Ray over. Your dog is more than happy to sit alongside you, and permits you to pet him. His harness is dashing, his loyalty is unwavering, and his manners are impeccable. His subservience is even more deserving of praise. You pat his head, scratch behind his ears, and give yourself a full minute to compose yourself.

Levelly, you look up from your boy to the priestess across from you. For how disrespectful she's been, she looks unaffected. You gather all of your patience, and state the obvious. "I know you will not stay in the Church of Flesh indefinitely."

"I doubt you'll be able to sit still for much longer."

Pulling your hands back— restraining the urge to fidget— you stress every last syllable instead of your body. "You know precisely how it feels."

"You still want my help, don't you?"

Leaning forward, you mutter, "more than ever."

She smirks. "Not how I'd prefer to help you, then?"

You straighten back upright in an instant. "Do you wish to continue your research?"

"I would like to continue studying you, Father Anscham." The statement is made with so little emotion it makes you wonder for the priestess' own humanity, if only for a moment.

Pausing, checking yourself, you reply, "work with me, then. I will not rest when countless demons plague our home. I will not stop now. Aid me for our mutual research— for the Catalyst."

You extend the symbol of the Church of Mercy, an open hand.

Sister Cardew takes it into her own frigid fingers. Her slim digits are so delicate that your palm almost entirely encompasses her hand.

You both keep the contact for a long moment.

Harriet tenses, looking up to you with straight lips. "We'll come back to this."

Pulling back, it's easy enough to resist the temptation to shake more heat into your skin. Warmth returns in a matter of seconds with a grimace, as you move to stand. "I will return no later than this evening. Father Friedrich wished to see our report. If you wish to make any revisions..." Crossing the room and gesturing for Ray to come to your side, you don't bother looking back.

"You should have time to spare."

At the door to the priestess' room, you let yourself out.

She calls after you not as an afterthought, but as a warning.

"It's not a man!"

The door shuts.

You do what you do best.

You run.