Chương 90: Book 2, Chapter 29: Heavenly Bliss

On the dawn of Clara's eighth day of seclusion, after she had spent a full week 'purifying her soul through labor and contemplation', Mother Cornelia begrudgingly gave her an iron key necklace to replace the wooden one. This came alongside a relocation to a different, deeper section of the abbey, where Clara was given a room that was much less cramped. I guess I've passed whatever they were testing for, and now they're upgrading me in preparation for what's coming next.

After she settled into her new quarters, she again joined the group in communal prayers, despite her throat's objections. When that was done, she was led up a set of stairs into a chamber in one of the abbey's back towers. Inside was a small round table with two hard chairs. On one of them sat a man in priestly robes, with light hair and a wrinkled forehead, wearing a silver key around his neck. Clara recognized him immediately.

"Dame Clara. Or rather, you style it Dame Casewell, yes?" Father Anchieta rose and gave her a warm smile.

"Please, take a seat. Care for some coffee?"

"I didn't expect to see you here, Father. Whatever happened to being chaplain of the Esperança?"

"When we returned to Fontaineux, I asked Her Grace to allow me a brief period of absence from my duties aboard." He settled back down, took the tin pot from the middle of the table, and poured coffee for both of them.

"It's not every day that Mont Sainte-Michelle receives a Saintess-to-be and the recipient of a miracle, and I would be a poor priest if I passed on the chance to participate in your guidance." Clara tried the coffee and held back a frown at how bitter it was.

"So you're my instructor?"

"One of them. During my seminary years, I focused my research on the history of the Church, so I like to think I'm well suited to teach you and young Lady Helena about your predecessors. Fortunately, the higher-ups agreed." So he's supposed to teach me and Helena, yet his key is a lower tier than hers? I guess it could be because she's a Saintess-to-be.

"Well, I'm glad to have a familiar face around," said Clara.

"The sisters here aren't the most… sociable bunch." Father Anchieta chuckled.

"You must allow them their dignity. They've trained their whole lives to operate the heart of the Church, and they take it seriously. I think we could both stand to learn a thing or two from them."

"Fair enough." Pride earned through hard work was something Clara could respect.

"Shall we begin? I'll do my best not to make it overly dull." She nodded, and the lesson started. Clara had made her peace with the boredom of seclusion, but Anchieta turned out to be a great teacher. He spoke more like an uncle telling a story than a proper lecturer, and his enthusiasm for the material came through whenever his eyes twinkled as he talked. He began with the twelve original Saintesses—Elowen and her apostles—and the great miracles that came during their lifetimes.

If his story were to be believed, the very place on which Mont Sainte-Michelle was built was once the site of a massive hellfire caused by cataclysmic beasts. It was here that the Saintesses first appeared, called forth by the people's faith in the Goddess. Elowen drowned the beasts in a great tide of water, stopping the fires that threatened to consume all of Arcadia and creating the lake itself, and from that point onward, humanity was able to push back against evil. Not all miracles were that flashy, though.

Most seemed closer to those that existed back in Clara's world: stories about unnatural healing, or creating food to feed starving people, and so on. Still, she noticed the miracles thinning out. Eight hundred years ago, in the years immediately after the Cataclysm, they had been commonplace, with so many that Father Anchieta spent barely a single sentence on a dozen of them. Yet between now and four hundred years ago, only three had taken place at all.

"Father, why has the number of miracles decreased so much?" He took a slow sip of his coffee before answering.

"Frankly, we don't know—it's a hotly debated topic in the seminaries. Cypriana says the Goddess has grown tired of us, while Gregoria simply argues that times are more prosperous now, so divine intervention isn't required as often. You can imagine how pleased the Church is to have confirmation that the Goddess hasn't abandoned us."

"Her Holiness may have mentioned something along those lines," said Clara.

"Quite. If you don't mind my asking, Dame Casewell, what was it like to receive a miracle? How did Her voice sound? What did She say?" Clara closed her eyes and tried to recall the feeling.

"It was warm. Comfortable. A bit melancholic, if I'm being honest. But I didn't hear the Goddess's voice, if that's what you're asking." He narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean? She didn't speak to you?"

"No. All I experienced was some memories of… my past, which I'd forgotten. Good ones and bad ones. But I didn't hear a word from the Goddess. Was I supposed to have?"

"Well, yes, I reckon so. Our historical records show that the Goddess always spoke to those performing a miracle and those receiving it, and that Her voice carried overwhelming bliss. Are you sure you didn't hear from Her?"

"I'm sure, Father. I wouldn't call the sensation bliss, either."

"Huh. That's interesting." He sat in silence, turning his cup.

"Could Her Holiness have been wrong when she confirmed the miracle happened? What if it wasn't a miracle at all?" Clara asked.

"I wouldn't bet on that. Her Holiness's magical ability is unparalleled, and if she's sure she saw traces of the Goddess, then that must be the case. Not to mention that multiple witnesses, including four von Rhenias who would have little reason to lie for the Church, all attested that what they witnessed was a miracle. It makes me wonder if our records of past miracles could be wrong. After all, two hundred years is a long time." He set down the cup and looked straight at her.

"Well, all that aside, this makes the part that comes next rather awkward. Perhaps I ought to have stayed on the Esperança." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"What do you mean?" Clara asked.

"The Ecumenical Council has prepared an official statement. You'll inevitably be asked by curious faithful about your experience, both on the day of the ceremony and for the rest of your life after that, and they want to make sure your answer is reassuring to the masses."

"And what statement is that?" Anchieta took a piece of paper from his robes and cleared his throat." The Goddess's warmth descended upon me, and I was enveloped in pure bliss as I heard Her words of love and care for me and for the faithful." Clara frowned.

"That's not really accurate, though."

"It seems not, and I freely admit I am curious as to why." He folded his hands and gave a rueful smile.

"But I do see why the higher-ups want everything to be perfect. A shepherd's needs sometimes trump a scholar's curiosity, and the faithful have waited too long for a miracle. If they have any reason to doubt it, it could cause widespread unrest. It is a delicate situation."

"I don't know if I'm comfortable lying to people about something like that. Do I have to?" And more than that, does the Ecumenical Council even have the authority to make me? Arcadia isn't a theocracy, and I'm not part of the Church.

"I understand your hesitation. But I'm told the Cardinal Primate was very insistent on the wording. Hmm." Anchieta rose and walked to the back of the room, looking out the window.

"How about this: I'll write a petition to see if we can get some of the wording changed to be closer to your experience, and in the meantime, all I ask is that you give it some thought." She nodded. That was a reasonable approach, though she suspected the Ecumenical Council wasn't going to be very open to rewording. Yet if I refuse, I make an enemy of the Cardinal Primate, the head of the Sacred Ministry, after I already ruffled the feathers of the Inquisition.

It was probably unwise to be on the bad side of two out of three branches of a continent-spanning religion with underground enforcers, especially when trying to reform said continent's legal system. Clara sighed. Why does it feel like things are always getting more complicated? Anchieta returned to the table and refilled her coffee.

"There's no need to look so downcast, Dame Casewell. Don't let the joy of a miracle be sapped by bureaucracy—you are living proof of the Goddess's love. Take comfort in the knowledge that She decided to intercede in your favor, and that Lady Helena was there to serve as the conduit for it."

"Speaking of Lady Helena, you mentioned you've been teaching her, too," said Clara.

"There's something I'm curious about. I was told her hair went white during the miracle, and even now you can still see it at the tips. Is that something that happens to all Saintesses?" Anchieta shook his head.

"No. Our records clearly show that Saintess Elowen was brown-haired, for example. Whatever caused the change in Lady Helena's hair, it is not ubiquitous among her peers."

"I see. That aside, I also wanted to ask how she's doing. I've been… concerned about her. From what I've seen, she's pushing herself very hard."

"I have to agree. She's an excellent pupil, I have no qualms about that. Yet she's always asking me to continue our lessons for longer, or to give her extra materials to read so she's 'better prepared for her duty'. I, too, am worried, though I suppose the Goddess was bound to pick someone exceptional to wield Her power." The lessons with Father Anchieta went on for several days, and he was unusually energetic throughout, apparently confident that he'd win some wager he'd just placed.

They mostly talked of Church history and the meaning behind the liturgy, though he also instructed her on how to act during the ceremony itself. Yet just as she'd gotten used to the calmer days, Clara's name was put back into the task rotation. She spent a whole day cleaning dormitories and changing bedsheets, and halfway through it Mother Radegund appeared and chatted with her, spouting theories about secrets the Church was allegedly hiding.

Clara appreciated the company, even if the topics were on the stranger side—like claiming that the abbey's porridge contained secret herbs that made people shorter. She had no idea if there was any truth to Mother Radegund's ramblings, but at least the woman treated her like a person, and not a vessel. The next morning, the sisters woke Clara before dawn.

It was only an hour or two after she'd finally fallen asleep, because the damned owl still hooted every night, despite her hopes that her new room would have put her out of earshot. After a mercifully quick set of morning prayers, they directed her to the kitchens, which were large even by von Rhenia standards, taking up a string of rooms in the cavernous lower sections of the abbey. The one Clara was assigned to featured four wide hearths and long tables crowded with copper utensils.

Together with a dozen acolytes and Helena Rosewood, she was set to the task of chopping a mountain of vegetables, mostly zucchini, carrots, and sweet potatoes. And naturally, within the first hour, half of them had come down with pressing ailments like sore wrists and headaches, and Helena had smoothly absorbed their share of the work into her own. Clara had given up on trying to convince her not to do that. Instead, she stood beside Helena and sped up her own pace.

Clara wasn't even sure why she was doing that—there were good odds that the girl was involved in the conspiracy in some way, not to mention her whole quarrel with Iris and her suspicious actions during the trial at the High Court. But it just didn't sit right with Clara to let other people pile so much work onto a cheerful girl who was, ultimately, a teenager now expected to fill some very large shoes.

"Father Anchieta mentioned you've been asking for extra reading," said Clara.

"He's such a kind teacher, isn't he? I have to do my best to understand everything properly. There's so much I need to know if I'm going to be a Saintess."

"I'm sure you can take your time. The ceremony is still weeks away, and you don't have to know everything right now. You have your whole life ahead of you."

"Mm. You're very good with your hands, Clara," she said, glancing at the neat pile of carrots Clara had just diced.

"All that experience taking care of Lady Iris's hair must be paying off." Helena giggled.

"Lady Iris does have such beautiful hair." Yet for all her praise, the girl's knife moved at a steady rhythm, far faster than Clara's.

"I've always wanted to arrange someone's hair. When I was little, I didn't really have—" She paused for a second.

"Well, there weren't many girls my age around. But it wasn't lonely! My father and the Church took wonderful care of me, too, and there was always so much to do."

"You must be happy now that you have more friends, then. Like Lady Vivienne and His Highness." Helena smiled and told a story about Lochlann being unable to find the Claves greenhouse and refusing to ask for help because of his 'royal dignity'. Clara listened while working, and concluded that whatever mystery surrounded her, Helena talked about her friends like any other teenager would. After peeling half a dozen potatoes, Clara went to get more, and Helena's chopping board caught her eye. Is that…

There were red smears all over the carrots, and a dark trail of spatters leading back to Helena.

"Lady Helena. Your hand." A deep cut ran across Helena's left palm, going all the way to the sleeve of her robe. Blood seeped out of it steadily, trickling down the side of her hand and dripping onto the board.

"Oh?" Helena looked down. She observed the blood on her hand with a distant expression, without dropping her smile. Then she turned to the carrots, and her eyes widened.

"Oh no. No, no, no, no."

"Helena, you're hurt. We need—""They're ruined." Helena set the knife down and scooped up the bloodied carrots.

"I can wash them, can't I? If I rinse them very well. It's only a little, it's only—""Stop." Clara stood so fast she tipped over her stool.

"Look at me. You're hurt. We need to get you to a healer. The vegetables don't matter."

"Of course they matter!" Helena's voice cracked.

"The sisters counted them this morning. They belong to the Church and the Goddess. We need to—" What is wrong with this girl? Clara grabbed Helena's wrist. She needed to bandage it, at least. But Helena jerked at the touch, and in the brief struggle, the sleeve of her undershirt slid down her forearm. And that was when Clara saw them. Scars, pale and thin, layered over one another all across the girl's arm. Helena looked up at her, tear-streaked.

"Don't—" The cry was half a sob, half a shriek. And with it came a pulse of heavy air, a burst of pressure that sent Clara staggering to the floor and vegetables flying around the room. She pushed herself up just in time to see Helena running out of the kitchen.