Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 579: The Cure of Saintess (2)

"Cheery place," Erich murmured.

"At least it doesn’t smell like old ale," Lyan said.

They found the only inn easily. It was the biggest building in the village, with a sign showing a spring and a line of mountains behind it. A row of boots stood neatly outside the door.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with steam from cooking. Wooden tables filled most of the room. A long counter held clay jugs and chipped cups.

They took a table near a wall. Lyan sat with his back to the room out of habit, then forced himself to switch and face the door instead.

"Stop acting like someone will stab you in a saintess village," Erich muttered.

"People bring their problems here," Lyan said. "Where there are problems, there are men who want to profit from them."

"You’re impossible," Erich said, but he didn’t really argue.

A woman about Lyan’s age came to their table. She had strong arms and tired eyes, but her smile was genuine enough.

"Travelers?" she asked.

"Climbers," Lyan said.

"That’s travelers with bad knees," Erich added.

She snorted softly.

"We have stew and bread," she said. "And tea. And things that pretend to be meat if you squint."

"Stew and bread," Lyan said. "Tea."

"And something that pretends to be meat," Erich said quickly.

She nodded and left them.

When the bowls came, they were, thankfully, not an insult.

The stew actually had pieces in it. Root vegetables, some beans, something that might have been mountain goat if you were generous. The bread was dense but fresh.

Erich ate a spoonful and closed his eyes in dramatic relief.

"I could cry," he said.

"Please don’t," Lyan said. "We’ll drown the table."

Around them, the low buzz of conversation washed in and out.

People were not loud here. Even laughter seemed to come wrapped in wool.

"Oh, did you hear about Marta’s boy? He started walking again after the third visit..."

"...said the nightmares stopped. He slept all through the night for the first time in years..."

"...she told him his anger wasn’t a curse, just a habit. Can you imagine?"

The words drifted like steam over their table.

Lyan let them in without looking like he was listening.

"Miracles?" Erich muttered around a mouthful.

"Results," Lyan said. "People don’t keep climbing mountains for pretty speeches."

Their server came back with a pot of tea, set it down, and lingered a bit.

"You heading up today?" she asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Lyan said. "We wanted to ask about... rules."

Her mouth twitched.

"Simple enough," she said. "You climb on foot once you pass the shrine stones. No horses, no carts, no carrying litters. If you can’t walk, someone can support you, but no one drags you."

Erich nodded slowly.

"And when you get there," she went on, "you speak honestly. About what hurts. About what you’ve done to make it worse. She doesn’t take kindly to lies."

"What happens if someone lies?" Erich asked.

The woman hesitated.

"Depends," she said eventually. "Sometimes nothing. Sometimes they slip on a stone and go back down with a bruised tail. Sometimes..."

She glanced around, then leaned in a little.

"There was a man a few months back," she said in a lower voice. "Rich clothes, soft hands. Came up here to ’test’ her, he said, but he didn’t say that out loud. He pretended he was cursed. Made up symptoms. When she touched his hand, she went very quiet. Then she told him to drink. He did."

"And?" Erich asked.

"They carried him back here," she said. "He was healthy as a horse. But he couldn’t speak for three days. Every time he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Not even a sound. When it came back, the first thing he did was apologize to everyone in the room."

Erich stared at her.

"That’s..." he began.

"Effective," Lyan finished.

The woman shrugged.

"Mountain doesn’t like being mocked," she said. "Neither does she. Remember that when you go up."

She straightened.

"I’ll bring more bread," she said, and moved on.

Erich watched her go, then stared into his tea.

"No lying," he said under his breath. "Of course."

He took a sip of tea and nearly choked.

"What if I just... phrase things artfully?" he tried. "That’s not lying. That’s... diplomacy."

"If you start that with her," Lyan said, "she’ll cure you of your phrasing first."

Cynthia’s voice was soft.

(He is scared. That’s a good sign. Only fools climb without fear.)

Griselda crackled.

(If he can’t admit what hurts, nothing will fix it. He needs to bleed a little truth.)

Erich hunched over his bowl.

"I don’t know how to say it without sounding... ridiculous," he muttered.

"You already sound ridiculous," Lyan said kindly. "You might as well be honest about the topic too."

Erich kicked him under the table.

They finished the meal slowly. People came and went. A pilgrim with fresh bandages on his hands left a small pouch of coin on the counter without counting it and walked out with his shoulders straighter.

When they stepped back into the street, the air felt thinner. Not in a bad way. Just... clearer.

An older woman waited near the main shrine stone.

She wore simple grey, with a strip of blue cloth around her wrist. Her hair was white and braided down her back. She leaned on a staff that looked older than most of the houses.

Her eyes were sharp.

"You came for the waters," she said.

It was not a question, but it felt like one.

Lyan stopped a respectful distance away.

"For healing that isn’t in bottles," he said.

Her gaze moved over him like she was reading lines on a page. It paused on his chest, where most people didn’t see anything but cloth. She hummed softly, as if hearing something under his heartbeat, then shifted her attention to Erich.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t widen her eyes. But something in her face changed for a heartbeat, like a person seeing a familiar crest on a ring.

"First time climbing?" she asked him.

"Yes," Erich said.

His voice came out more formal than he meant it to.

She smiled a little.

"You stand like a man used to being taller than the room," she said. "Up there, the sky is taller than all of us. Remember that."

Erich flushed faintly.

"We were told the Saintess listens," Lyan said. "We wanted to understand how not to waste her time."

The old woman tapped her staff lightly on the ground.

"She listens to hearts," she said. "Not titles. Not purses. If you go up there thinking ’I am prince’ or ’I am warlord’ or ’I am saint,’ the mountain will listen to that instead of your wound. And it will send you back down the same."

Her eyes held Erich’s.

"Leave your rank down here," she said quietly. "Or the climb will be useless."

Erich swallowed.

"I’ll try," he said.

"Good," she said. "The ones who say that usually hear something worth the blisters."

She stepped aside.

"Rest tonight," she said. "Go at dawn. The mountain is kinder before the sun remembers it’s cruel."

Lyan inclined his head.

"Thank you," he said.

They found a small room at the inn, slept in real beds that felt almost too soft after the road, and woke before the light fully reached the windows.

They left the horses in a small paddock behind the village.

A boy with wind-reddened cheeks and a serious face took the reins.

"I’ll look after them," he said. "They’ll have water from the side stream, not the High Spring. That one’s not for animals."

Lyan put three coins in the boy’s hand.

"And if we don’t come back?" he asked lightly.

The boy shrugged.

"Someone always does," he said. "One way or another."

That was comforting.

They walked to the stone marker again.

The sky was pale, the sun just a smear behind thin clouds. The air had that cold that got into your fingers even through gloves.

Lyan touched the marker once more, then stepped onto the path.

It was steeper than it had looked from below.

The first stretch climbed through low scrub, the ground uneven and rocky. Some stones were carved into rough steps, but most were just what the mountain had put there.

Within ten minutes, his breath had shortened.

Erich lasted seven before he started complaining.

"Who built this," he panted, "and why do they hate knees."

"The mountain built it," Lyan said. "And the mountain doesn’t care about your knees."

They passed a pair of pilgrims resting on a flat rock. One was an old man with a face like dried fruit, leaning on a walking stick. The other was a woman with a bandage over her eyes, sitting still while someone younger held her hand.

They both nodded as Lyan and Erich passed.

Erich pressed his lips together and stopped complaining.

They climbed.

The path twisted between boulders, then cut across a slope of loose gravel, then squeezed through a gap where two rocks leaned together like old friends.