The Unlikely
749 Words
The Unlikely~
Peder Griffith
Jorendon
“Then I will wait.” Peder folded his arms. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”
“Very well,” said the young man behind the desk. “I will let Minister Willoughby know you’re here.”
Jules Brunet disappeared inside his employer’s office. A few minutes later, Nigel emerged, ushering out a man Peder didn’t recognize, a heavyset fellow with the sleepy-eyed look of old-money Jorendon.
“I look forward to seeing you this evening,” Nigel called to his departing guest. “Bishop Griffith, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Is it?”
“Come. Tell me what brings you today.”
Nigel motioned him into his office. Peder followed, and the door closed with a solid click.
“That was Lord Holger, the new Remerton delegate,” said Nigel. “The latest shining example of Southall family inbreeding. At least this one’s too stupid to be a danger to anyone but himself.”
Nigel settled behind his desk and steepled his fingers.
“Cutting short that meeting means I must endure his mindless chatter at dinner tonight. Lucinda will not be pleased. We had planned to attend the theater.”
Peder couldn’t care less about the Willoughbys’ evening plans. He cut to the point.
“What do you know about Bishop Renwick’s change of heart?”
Nigel shrugged noncommittally. “I know he chose to keep certain information hidden.”
“You threatened him.”
“You’re developing a suspicious mind, Peder.”
Peder rubbed his temples and wondered how he’d become mired in such subterfuge. He felt like a fly caught in a web, and he didn’t understand why the spider hadn’t finished him off yet.
“You cannot interfere in this election,” he tried to explain. “The Blessed Fellowship must choose who leads the Church. It is our holy duty to choose as God wills.”
Despite all he’d done, he clung to his faith. The election belonged in God’s hands, not Nigel’s.
“Oh, don’t sound so pious. It doesn’t ring true.” Nigel waved off his protest. “I kept my hands out of the last election and look how you all mucked that one up.”
Peder floundered for a counterargument. He couldn’t muster one without implying God wanted Deighton to become Beacon. He refused to believe that.
“They’ve named me a candidate now! I have no business even being in the Blessed Fellowship anymore, much less Beacon. Now Deighton’s gone, I should resign, too.”
“Do you think Deighton was the only threat to your precious Da’Rhynns? The threat never goes away. The most we can do is keep it at bay.”
“I will not be Beacon.”
“That would be most obstinate of you, Peder, after all the effort that’s gone into ensuring you do. It’s what Rotherford intended.”
“He would never have intended a traitor lead the Church.”
“You cannot be that naive. Rotherford shouldn’t have kept you cloistered from the truth. Now it falls to me to open your eyes.”
Nigel pulled out his pocket watch. Peder took the hint. He had another appointment. If he did, he did not remark on it. He put the timepiece away.
“You’re the only candidate left. Moseley choked to death on a chicken bone in Abu Bakari’s restaurant half an hour ago. A most regrettable accident.”
Nigel’s expression held anything but regret.
“You had him murdered,” Peder choked out a whisper. “How could you?”
“Murder is so trite. It was the politically expedient removal of a threat to the greater good.”
Peder slumped into a chair. He was mired in this beyond any hope of redemption. His stomach turned at the realization.
“Peder, listen to me. On the day we met, you asked if I thought your sister was safe. My answer is no. Deighton is bruised but not defeated. He will not rest until you and all your Aurel brethren are wiped off the face of the earth.”
“He left in disgrace. How could he possibly—”
“When the Blessed Fellowship comes looking for their newly elected Beacon, they should not find you here,” said Nigel. “Leave and face up to what duty demands of you.”
“I cannot do this.”
“If I believed that, you wouldn’t be here,” said Nigel. “Now get up. Go take your seat as Beacon. Do your damnedest, every day you draw a breath, to protect your own.”
# # #
Peder stood at the window in the bedroom of his modest flat. The cold floor numbed his bare feet as he stared out over the rooftops of homes of hard-working Da’Rhynn laborers and shopkeepers.
A late winter snow was falling. A pristine blanket of white blanketed the muddy streets and aging buildings. As the snow transformed the city outside into an image of purity and innocence, it almost deluded him into believing good remained in the world.
He knew better.
Ugliness crawled beneath the blanket of purity. A father was drunk. A child was hungry. A mother was sick. Men cheated. Women lied. A merchant turned greedy. A soldier turned bully. A politician pocketed a bribe.
God was covering Jorendon in a blanket of white because he couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. Because tomorrow, the Beacon’s robe of white would cover the worst hypocrite in Innis.
Chapter 53
- Writer
