The Shepherd
769 Words
The Shepherd~
Amadeo Constans
Larad
From a sentinel tower off a stretch of secluded cliffs on Larad’s northern coastline, his Supreme Holiness braced unadorned hands against the weathered parapet. A crisp sea breeze pushed the brim of a shepherd’s hat down to shelter the serene brow of the embodiment of the righteousness and might of the Orthodoxy.
The salty air and shrilling gulls rekindled memories of a childhood stolen. It was another life, long ago and far away. Amadeo Constans had no use for the memories.
A schooner in full sail tacked towards the tower. Amadeo regarded its approach with indifference. The newly elected Beacon of the Church of Innis was arriving a half-hour later than arranged. He cataloged the observation for later consideration.
It took twenty-and-one minutes for the schooner to set anchor and another thirteen minutes for the Beacon to disembark, climb the stairs, and stride across the parapet to meet him. Amadeo had always had an uncanny perception of time. Time revealed much about a person. John Deighton’s surplus of guards and elegant travel attire confirmed the rest.
Neither of them extended a hand.
“Your Holiness,” Amadeo greeted him impassively.
“Father Amadeo,” Deighton replied with a regal dip of his head.
Amadeo was tempted to end the audience then. Using the pastoral address instead of reciprocating his honorific was a petty slight and evidenced more weakness than arrogance. In less than three minutes, Amadeo had gauged the man’s substance and found it lacking.
Disappointing. He’d held a grudging admiration for Deighton’s predecessor. Rotherford had been a worthy adversary and a man sincere in his faith. His straight-arrow ethics had been so obviously unassailable Amadeo had never bothered trying.
But this one…perhaps an opportunity.
“Peace be with you, my son,” said Amadeo, accepting the deference Deighton’s slight unintentionally offered. “Your request for a private audience comes without precedent, but I am a shepherd to any in need of absolution. You may confess what troubles your conscience.”
“I’m not here for absolution,” the Beacon said curtly. “My conscience is God’s alone to know. The prayerful seeking of His will led me here.”
Amadeo had heard enough confessions to fill an ocean and enough prayers to pin to every star in the heavens. He knew the music sincerity sang. Deighton’s piety rang hollow.
“You came to share His will with me.” Amadeo lifted a brow. “How curious. The Almighty needs an emissary.”
“He who has ears, let him hear.”
Amadeo was almost amused. He might have laughed if he remembered how. There’d been no time for laughter with those who stole his childhood. He learned what they taught. He prepared to serve their purpose. When they deemed him ready, they sent him to La Gracia as just another fledgling of the faith.
Control, discipline, and sacrifice made for mighty advantages. Now he served his own purpose.
Amadeo let the man talk.
“God’s patience wanes,” said Deighton. “We allowed weakness to masquerade as tolerance far too long. I intend to cleanse Innis of its pagan ways. The North will finally and truly surrender to the faith.”
“Aurels are a proud people. They make better allies than enemies,” said Amadeo. “Perhaps you misunderstood the Almighty’s message. Gaurennes are as devout as any in the Orthodoxy. Rhynns kneel at the altar of the Church of Innis.”
“And we are placated by their pretense. All the while, they hold to the old gods. They continue to tempt the Almighty’s wrath, and we allow it in the name of tolerance.” Deighton’s voice rose in self-righteousness anger. Amadeo caught his first glimpse of the fiery charisma behind the man’s climb to power. “His retribution will fall on us all. The waters rise for heathens and the holy alike.”
Water, not fire. A departure from the doctrine of either church. The Beacon might merit closer scrutiny.
“God is merciful,” said Amadeo. “To that end, the Orthodoxy’s resources are sometimes deployed to areas needing His more direct benevolence.”
“There is no greater need than in Rhynn. Sorcery is running rampant in the North.” A sneer curled Deighton’s lip. “I trust you have heard of the Awakening.”
Ah, that is what he fears. Winning Aurel souls was not Deighton’s aim.
“I have,” Amadeo said after a pause.
“Then you understand the urgency that brings me here. They cannot be allowed to grow stronger while we stand idly by.” Deighton was in full sail now, aglow with genocidal fervor. “As you have visited His judgment on the heathens in Tallu, He asks you to join me in bringing His might down upon the Rhynns.”
A well-hidden shard of Amadeo’s conscience stung at the mention of Tallu. Subjugating the Este didn’t advance his goals. Neither did exterminating the Aurels. Containment, though, and accessibility, those he could use.
“Somehow, I doubt you are inviting the Orthodoxy to send evangelists into Innis.”
“I would prefer to loosen its purse strings,” said Deighton.
“Such a commitment may require redirecting investments from other areas.”
“None of your investments can deliver what I offer.”
“Which is?”
“Returning the Church of Innis to the Orthodoxy’s fold.”
Chapter 37
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