Legend of the Storm Hawks

The Beacon

The Beacon~

Peder Griffith

Jorendon

Peder walked briskly down the Hall of Holiness. When he joined the Blessed Fellowship, the lofty names given to every place, every ritual, every aspect of the holy order made him feel consecrated, set apart as a man dedicated to seeing good win out over evil. Now those same names made a mockery of his faith.

The Hall of Holiness my arse. The least holy people he’d ever met walked this hall every day.

Peder slipped inside the Fellowship’s hall. Most of his fellow bishops were milling about, conversing and sipping tea from porcelain cups bearing the Beacon’s golden lion insignia. Conversations turned to hushed murmurs as the lion himself climbed the red velvet steps to his dais. His gilded chair’s arms and legs were carved in the likeness of lion paws. Gold and ivory brocade cushioned the seat, and a lion’s head roared atop its tall back.

Bishops moved to their assigned places at the crescent-shaped table before him. They waited for the holiest man in Innis to take his seat.

The Beacon lifted his arms to a peaceful blue sky painted on the domed ceiling.

“Bless the ears of the believers,” he intoned.

“Let us hear,” the bishops responded.

“Bless the eyes of the chosen.”

“Let us see.”

“Bless the tongues of the holy.”

“Let us speak the truth.”

John Deighton lowered himself into the golden chair for the first time as Beacon of the Church of Innis. It suited him. The man was charismatic and intimidating in equal measure. The slope of his nose, the angle of his chin, and the unnerving intensity of his gaze exuded the aura of nobility.

The Beacon motioned the bishops to take their seats. The bishops obeyed. He waited until the rustling of silk robes and clinking of jeweled rings faded to quiet.

“Beloved Brothers,” he began. “The Church of Innis grows mighty. Our overflowing coffers evidence God’s approval. He multiplies our churches, our followers, and our estates. We are entrusted with ensuring the kingdom’s literature and art honor His name. When we issue a treatise, it carries the authority of His holy voice in the People’s House and the royal court.”

The bishops clapped their palms on the table in approval. Peder joined them even as a chill crept up his back.

“Today, a new era dawns. The era of purity.”

Purity is a dangerous word. Peder rose to join the ovation.

Deighton called for the usual reports on revenue, mission work, and appointments requiring the Blessed Fellowship’s attention. He led the session as if he’d been Beacon for years. After the better part of the morning, he reached the end of the agenda and called for concerns from the table.

The portly Bishop Moseley of Remerton scraped back his chair and stood. The Beacon nodded permission to speak.

“Your Holiness and Beloved Brothers,” Moseley said in a twitter incongruous with his girth. “I bring a matter of great concern. Reports of women in the North making potions. Some say they’ve rediscovered ancient pagan healing spells. I say it’s heresy, even sorcery.”

Bishops from Rhynn provinces sprang to their feet and waited for the Beacon to recognize them. Bishop Gregor of Aleron clenched his fists. The thick-armed Rhynn could probably pinch Moseley in half.

“Bishop Gregor,” said Deighton.

“Your Holiness and Beloved Brothers,” Gregor began in his husky baritone. “Bishop Moseley challenges our faith with unfounded accusations. His claims are absurd.”

“Brothers open your eyes,” said Moseley. “These women are delving into the dark arts. They are leading your Rhynn flocks astray.”

“If sorcery were running rampant across the North, I believe we would know sooner than a man who never ventures north of the Abeldown,” said Gregor. “We request you apologize for spreading such inflammatory rumors.”

“You’ll get no apology from me, Gregor,” shrilled Moseley. “You’d turn a blind eye the wickedest heathenry if Adan Tavish asked it of you.”

“I recognized Bishop Gregor. Did I call for debate?” The Beacon reprimanded Moseley with an icy stare.

“No, Your Holiness.” Moseley flushed to the pate of his head and dropped to his chair like a gutted sheep. “Fervor overcame my decorum. Forgive me.”

Deighton motioned the Rhynns to be seated.

“Bishop Moseley, never again challenge a Beloved Brother without evidence in hand. Bring one of these women for the Blessed Fellowship to question or hold your tongue hence.”

Deighton spoke with calm authority, though his scorn was so thick Peder thought it might materialize as a hand to strike Moseley across his quivering face. But he stops short of commanding an apology.

“We have one last matter to address.” Deighton sighed. He seemed almost bored. “Attendant, bring in the accused.”

Accused? Peder straightened. The Blessed Fellowship judged none but their own.

A barefoot man with a thick red beard shuffled into the chamber wearing the coarse brown robe of a penitent. A hemp rope circled his waist and bound his hands before him.

Peder barely contained a cry. Danyl, my friend. What have you done?

“Danyl of Dobberton, you stand accused of evoking pagan gods. You performed the Aurel passage rite for Darius of Dobberton before witnesses. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Aye, I did it. For Darius, who married my mother thirty years past, a widow with a son. For Darius, who treated me like his own. On his dying bed, he asked me to say the old words. I said them.”

Whispers grew louder as Danyl’s friends grew bolder.

“Silence,” Deighton commanded. “By your own admission, I judge you guilty of heresy against the Church of Innis and our Almighty God. I sentence you to burn at the stake.”

Exclamations erupted across the chamber.

Peder rose, and the Beacon glanced his way. Beneath his polished veneer lurked a ruthlessness born of conceit. After a moment’s consideration, he recognized Peder with a nod.

“Your Holiness, execution by fire has been banned since the Falkender kings. Pastor Danyl is our brother. I beg mercy.”

Bishop Renwick of Gow, an unexpected ally, stood. A flicker of uncertainty swept Deighton’s face before he acknowledged Renwick.

“Your Holiness and Beloved Brothers,” said Renwick. “I agree with Bishop Griffith. Pastor Danyl’s guilt is undeniable, but the punishment is harsh.”

Deighton leaned forward. He curled his fingers over the golden lion’s paws.

“The Beacon before me was gentle. I am not.” He rose in menacing righteousness. “I am a servant of God, a warrior in His service. I cannot purify Innis with gentleness. I will purify it with fire.”

Chapter 9