The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Father Steadman turned to warm his back before the crackle of the fire. Perhaps if his legs could enjoy a little heat, he would be better able to think of a solution?

Or at least it would buy him some time in front of the others while he thought.

He gripped his fingers behind his back and inhaled the brief fragrant respite of rich beeswax polish which clung to his chambers.

The other members of the Pleiad muttered amongst themselves as they sat around the room - the comfort of his chairs had not been matched by the pleasantness of the conversation, and they remained locked in stubborn congress, unable to agree a way forward.

The hard frustration bit into him - surely it would be easier just to clash their heads together, or force them to accept the rule of his rank?

But the Church did not function like the militia of his younger days, and he had often been forced into compromise against his better judgement. Such was the price of leadership.

The politics of the Church were vexatious enough - but then these infuriating witches!

But at least reports of their attacks seemed to have eased off recently, following the death of the Grand Harmonist.

What were they planning?

Was this some cunning feint?

It was difficult to discern any tactic or strategy in their movements.

And how could he convince Caldor and his clique to accept his decisions, when he could not even be certain of them himself?

At least the people still placed their faith in him - he saw it in their greetings and expressions every day.

He must not to let them down.

But how could he give them the protection they deserved against these attacks - or worse, against the threat yet to come?

And without the help of the Harmonist?

Were his abilities really so rare that no-one had been discovered who was strong enough to succeed him?

A Church without a Grand Harmonist was a weak church - and a weak Church was vulnerable to attacks from outside - and from within.

His eyes flickered toward Caldor.Content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

The dark-robed priest caught his gaze and shuffled in his chair.

Yes, he must take control of the situation and wrest the initiative away from his second in command.

Now was not the time to betray any sign of weakness.

Steadman opened his mouth; a flurry of hurried footsteps approached his study door and disrupted his chance to speak.

Brother Simeon knocked and entered.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, your eminence,” he bowed, “but Talmadge has just arrived at the gates, and insists on seeing you.”

A disturbing ripple of unease hushed across the others in the room.

“Talmadge? Here?” Steadman replied. The furrows spread and deepened across his brow.

“But we have not heard word back that any of our messengers succeeded in finding him.”

The awkward legs of Odal’s chair scraped on the floor.

“No matter,” Steadman continued, “it seems one of them must have got through. Show him in at once - and please bring him directly to me.”

The apostle bowed again and retreated.

Lanqvist pressed his staff to the floor and sat up in his chair.

Caldor shivered and took a sip of wine.

Perhaps the fire and luxury of the panelled apartment were not enough to protect against the advances of winter?

“Well gentlemen,” Steadman announced, “perhaps our luck is changing - evidently one of the messengers we sent has finally completed their task and brought our old friend to us.”

“Or perhaps he’s here on other business?” ventured Fencliffe.

“It’s too much of a co-incidence for that,” said Lanqvist.

“The Great Surrounder has brought him to us,” said Rowe.

“Or He has decided to curse us with this interfering presence,” Caldor added.

“In any case,” said Steadman, as he stepped toward the centre of the room once more, “events have conspired to bring him to us in our hour of need - we should not waste this opportunity.”

Only the bright snap and sputter of the fire broke the tense apprehension which silenced the room again.

“You know,” said Fencliffe, “I think I will have that drink after all. Mind if I help myself?”

“It must be ten years since I last saw him,” said Byram.

“More than that - nearer to fifteen, if I’m any kind of judge,” said Odal.

“We always got on well - but obviously we parted on … less amicable terms,” Lanqvist pondered.

“He always was a queer fish,” Fencliffe said. “Going off in his own directions - who ever knows what these magikants are really up to? You weren’t the only one he fell out with.”

“Yes, I am often glad that we have the strength of our faith to guide us,” said Rowe, “rather than be left to deal with the magik.”

“For all their apparent power, it is never clear to me whether they wield the magik, or it wields them,” said Odal.

“We should not be so naive as to trust their loyalty or true motives,” Caldor nodded.

Steadman paced the woven rug between his desk and the fireplace and observed his colleagues.

His memories prickled uneasily across his tense shoulders.

It was true that there were some unfortunate events surrounding Talmadge’s departure from the Church.

Perhaps he could have handled it better?

But it was his first task as newly-elected Patrex - he was in a weak position, and had to demonstrate his authority.

Surely all that was forgotten now?

So many years had passed.

Why else would the old man have agreed to return?

And yet - there was something in what the others were saying.

The stifling silence gripped the room again.

Rowe coughed and sipped at his wine.

“We should handle this very carefully,” Caldor began, “and only let him know what he needs to.”

“No, I disagree,” said Byram. “We must be open and honest and tell him everything, so that he has a full understanding of what is at stake and how best to help us.”

“He should certainly be made aware of the dangers of our situation,” said Rowe.

“If he hasn’t already discovered it for himself,” Lanqivst added.

“Gentlemen, we must tell him all,” Steadman declared decisively, “so that he can best decide for himself how to proceed in these matters. As you have already pointed out, this stuff of witches and magik are beyond our own knowledge and understanding - we are men of faith. Besides, he deserves to know everything, especially after what happened…”

The sharp echo of footsteps in the corridor reverberated into the study.

Steadman clenched his fingers and took a steadying breath as a crisp knock rattled the door.