The furthest point of derelict decay within Vasier castle stood the broken windowpane of the church. It blended blindly into the outer wall, as though to conceal its existence underneath the rampart stairways. Even the cool autumn breeze would not dare fester in the foulness of the stagnant slum-born air. It was here where the esteemed Bishop Arcadius brought bread and wine to a packed precession of the disenchanted cross-worshipers.
His disciple conveyed passion and divinity among the church podia.
‘Fate is not punishment, nor are we forgotten. It is a test, a test of faith. For the golden gates shall open widest to those whose devotion withstands the harshness of life. Eternal salvation is within you, within all of us. Especially those of us not here today.
Aye, many have fallen this past year. Their valiant souls, we pray, reach those glistening arches among the clouds. For it should not be the kind-hearted believers of the One True God bearing these sacrifices. Yet, we’re treated like the pigs for the slaughter. We feel the devil’s thumbs pressed heavily upon us. His machinations manipulating the faithless, the corrupted, the heathenness. They try to hide these machinations, but we see. Yes, we do, we all do. It has taken our children. It blinds our beloved queen, and now it demands our charity to feed the source of this evil. Charity. Your squalor, YOUR labor, THEIR CHARITY.
‘Aye, this is a test. But for how much longer before it becomes one of survival. I fear not that you are worthy, but that we’ll be betrayed. And if we don’t question thy neighbor, are we not culpable for that betrayal? So, before we go. Let us rise and make our promise heard to the One True God. For our children, and in his name.’
The procession closed with a feverish ‘Amen’, and the room seemed to shrink from the collective fear and hate permeated behind their pacified civility. Yet the bishop’s warm, reassuring touch breathe new air into their lungs.
As they blessed the lord, they received charity from a blind monk who’s bandaged eyes couldn’t conceal the full extent of the black crusty flesh searing out as far as their shaved eyebrows.
Meanwhile, behind concentric walls demarking wealth and status, to the direct center upon the highest point, the royal palisade pierced the orange dusk sky. Draped in purple and gold, it both glistened for the festive northerners and overshadowed the early risers of the south. But in all cases, it reminded anyone who chanced a glance upwards, who was top dog and how far from royalty they presided. Which on this hazy autumn day, they found themselves partitioned by the white and red cross post throughout the inner walls, whose banner rested on either side, yet never higher than the royal purple.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The templar banners lined the walkways from the royal palisade to the grand cathedral. Where one former Prince Gideon paraded behind the head priest Davos, wearing his pearl-white gown with a shaved head and small zucchetto cap, before being rendered to the background beside the choir boys, where he could remain hidden in plain sight. It was an indignation upon the royal family that drew both the attendance and disdain of Venessa.
‘Where is the bishop?’ she whispered to her accompanying noble.
‘Addressing the people, Lady Venessa,’ said Sir Tristan with elegant grace, as though in awe of the skeptical.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I want this farce ended.’
‘It is the price of peace.’
‘Humiliated in victory is not how I perceive peace.’
‘I’ll see to it we establish a personal chapel in the palace for your brother to practice. Though, to give the allure of legitimacy, we’ll need Davos or Arcadius to oversee all processions. With the queen’s attendance. At least for the immediate future.’
‘Make it done,’ she said.
Sir Tristan, always the indispensable middleman, gave the discrete two-fingered salute to his stationed messenger boy, who with scroll in hand and upon Sir Tristan’s directions, sly-footed his way through the outer aisles. The moment created a whispered commotion that garnered a side-swipe stare between Davos’ precession and Venessa’s entourage.
‘Lady Venessa, word from Sir Castell,’ said the underling.
‘That damn Castell. Loyal to the tooth, yet disobeys when ordered to do nothing and recover,’ said Sir Tristan, smirking with each subtle jab at his incapacitated compatriot.
‘If you had an ounce of backbone in you, Sir Tristan, I’d expect the same,’ said Venessa before unravelling the small parchment, needing only a quick flick of her wrist and a sharp eye to ingest its contents.
‘I’m from the wealthiest landowner in Vasier. My backbone keeps the roads open, and the mouths fed.’
‘And would that include the Pragian calls for aid?’
‘Already sorted. Enough rations to see them through the winter, but not enough to forsake the hand that feeds them.’
‘So, how did you get my daughter’s blessing without my approval?’
‘I didn’t. I merely set the wheels in motion. The wagons are on their way. We just need to decide whose insignia is to go on the banner and whose name they need to thank. The queen or the queen’s mother.’