Patience
597 Words
Patience~
Amadeo Constans
La Gracia, Larad
Grenmoon, 4413
Amadeo inspected his garden. A pair of lemon-yellow lizards sunned on the red clay tiles of the rustic villa’s patio. A lone guard wiped sweat from his brow in the shade of the portico. Nestled in the countryside beyond La Gracia, the villa was Amadeo’s personal retreat, known to only a trusted few, and then only as the logistics of coming and going made knowing necessary.
He selected a long-stemmed ivory bud poised to bloom. A click of his snips severed it from the bush, and his gentle touch kept the thorns from pricking his fingers. The rose would reward his patience with its fragrance for days to come.
If only patience reaped such rewards in his other endeavors.
In the decade since Amadeo had seen Anne crowned Queen of Innis, his effort had yet to bear fruit. The Rhynns did not secede when he gave them the opportunity. John Deighton’s fires had flared too quickly and burned farther and hotter than Amadeo had anticipated.
It left him with an unexpected dilemma. He had a prophet to contain.
The shuffle of sandals announced Father Iago’s return. The old priest had been with him since his climb began, sacrificing his own ambitions to advance Amadeo’s. Iago’s breath came in short, raspy spurts, as if he had to remind himself to draw the next after the one before. His thick white hair grew in stubborn waves, and his little brown eyes peered out at the world in perpetually wrinkly disapproval.
Iago was the only living being Amadeo had ever come to trust. He waved the guard to leave them.
“God’s peace be with you,” he offered the blessing out of habit.
“And also with you, Your Holiness,” Iago hurried the rote reply. “It is confirmed,” he ended with a sardonic smile.
Amadeo didn’t bother questioning him on the details. Iago knew the importance of absolute certainty in the matter.
“Our prophet hides a dangerous secret,” said Iago. “What a shame he is no longer Beacon. A scandal such as this could bring Innis back to the Orthodoxy.”
“An opportunity lost. An opportunity gained,” Amadeo said with a shrug. “Reports are coming out of Rhynn and Gaurenne with regularity now. Harvest season is upon us, Iago.”
“Ripe fields attract crows. You are not the only one seeking to claim their mindgifts. Even the Firstborn traded jealousy for greed when tempted by King Brynmohr’s daughters.”
Amadeo had already considered as much. Deighton would not pay his debt if he were tempted to keep the spoils for himself.
“Expose Deighton for what he is,” said Iago. “Put the Church of Innis on the defensive. Turn the Aurels against the crows.”
“Exposing him would be of little use. Peder Griffith holds far more influence now, and Aurels are predisposed to trust their own. Griffith is cut from the same cloth as Beacon Rotherford was before him. Scandal will not sway him toward reunification.”
“I know you well, Your Holiness. There is an advantage to be gained. What are you planning?”
“God does not reward greed,” said Amadeo. “He gave us Deighton. We will be good stewards of His gift.”
“Sprinkling sugar on a lemon does not make it sweet,” said Iago.
“I have no intention of sweetening his options. The Prophet has no credibility beyond what I grant him. Tell the imposter that he will pay his debt, or Amadeo Constans will brand him a heretic. Let him wonder what it would feel like to burn in his own fires.”
Iago bowed his head and made the sign of the faith.
“Dear God, may I never suffer the displeasure of your most devoted servant.”
“Spare me the theatrics. Deliver the message.”
Iago opened one shrewd eye. “What shall I tell him might keep him from burning?”
“Tell him to bring me a mindrider.”
Chapter 8
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