The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Caldor gripped the handle of the study door and closed it firmly. Dismay and anger bubbled up within him, but knew that this was neither the time nor the place; he fought to maintain a dignified silence and proceeded with his Brother clerics along the echoing stone corridors of Burisdon.

The meeting had not been an easy listen.

Who did this upstart Steadman think he was?

Calling for the Harmonist and pushing the majesty of the Church - his Church - toward such heathen nonsense?

The Auguries indeed! The very idea!

And how could he possibly expect the common peasants to respect him, and to make a lasting impression on their dull, illiterate minds, when he refused to dress in a manner befitting the dignity and authority of the Patrex and the Church?

And to address them in person! After all these centuries of ritual and tradition!

And yet, no doubt the witches were becoming a nuisance, and something must be done. It was difficult to understand why the Surrounder had allowed such attacks to occur; but then he, Caldor, was merely a man, and it was not for him to fathom the immutable ways of the Surrounder.

As they walked, the nervous ticks and twitches of the other two betrayed their keenness to unburden their troubled minds.Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

A warming satisfaction eased through his body - others too were still loyal to the old ways and to the glories of their great Mother Church.

“His leadership is weak,” Fencliffe blurted out.

“Yes, we all see it,” Odal agreed in low tones. “Our beloved Church has struggled these past years. Those in the ranks have felt themselves rudderless. Steadman has tried his best - but this recent scourge of witches proves that they too know of, and have felt, our failing strength.”

“For the sake of our Church, we must act now!” Fencliffe hissed. “While we are still able to act; while we still have it in our power!”

He stopped and looked Caldor full in the face. “Would it not be better if you were to become Patrex?” he asked.

“Hush! Do not talk of such things out loud!” Caldor replied. His eyes darted along the corridor and he continued his hurried steps. He reduced his voice to an angry whisper: “Look at where we are! These walls are no doubt crawling with his spies!”

His two fellow Brothers looked anxiously about them and quickened their pace a little, pulling their heavy cloaks about their shoulders against the cold, and any potential listeners, as they drew closer together and hunched their heads near.

“He trusts all our lives, and the fate of our very Church, to this… magikant!” said Fencliffe. “A preening upstart from Puristad, whose unnatural abilities and power are little better than those wielded by the witches themselves!”

“We must bide our time and act cautiously,” said Caldor; he was careful not to allow his voice to betray any of the pride he felt in this acknowledgement from his closest peers.

“Soon the others will also see how weak his leadership is,” he continued, “but during a crisis such as this, we must put any personal feelings aside for the sake of the Church - because if this ritual fails it could be the end of all of us - even the holy Church herself!”

He walked on, the other two close behind, with just the empty echo of their footsteps following them along the corridor to where their coaches were waiting in the damp courtyard beyond.