‘On guard,’ said Gideon, his wooden sword smacking hard against the brushless broomstick.
It was a tournament of valor-less glory, and for the next generation to refine their skills against a seasoned campaigner. A regular feature among the royal chapel, every Tuesday saw them rearrange the seating into an octagon arena where Gideon pitted his swordsmanship against the spear-wielding talents of young nobility.
‘What is this nonsense?’ asked Venessa, whose scornful disapproval scattered the participants under bow-headed retreats while her muted shadows – Bishop Arcadius and his monks, the newly appointed servants of the cloth – accompanied her presence.
The monks were of the uneasy, silent variety, with cloth-bandaged eyes that concealed ink-like smudges from above their cheeks. Their implied impairment was none the imposition as they quickly went about rearranging the chapel seating, able to move in coordinated fashion without word or cue, restoring order to a house of tradition.
‘Hey, mole man,’ said Gideon as he lobbed his wooden sword to a blind monk.
The monk’s instinctual reflexes snatched it without even a tilt of his head to know it was coming. His actions spurred passive aggressive rage from the collective servants of the cloth as they looked up through bandaged eyes to give every sign that violent retaliations were not outside their repertoire.
‘Brother, do you understand what we sacrificed to get you here?’ queried Venessa in all guilt-trip pretentiousness, which she had to repeat, on account of Gideon’s deafness and wayward attention.
‘Huh. You could have fooled me for wanting the deaf, dumb and blind theme, or maybe I’m all three. Who’s counting?’ said Gideon, barely paying attention to lip-read his sister until her hands cupping his cheeks brought forceful redirection to his lackluster focus.
‘Listen, you are under the service of the bishop now. He will not tolerate these antics,’
‘No ill will or disrespect intended. It’s just that their fathers are fighting our wars. I’m making sure they’ll be able to lead their houses if they don’t return home.’
His words filtered through a lens of insincerity, from a sister having heard it plenty of times and who knew how contradictory his nature was from projected intent. She then firmly folded her hands around his, hoping to find an ounce of respectability that she could trust to hold true in her absence.
‘My lady, the day is young, and your journey is long,’ said Arcadius, able to pull influence over her with a gentle touch of the arm.
‘You’re leaving?’ Gideon asked his sister.
‘I’m off to do my pilgrimage to the holy city. Promise me,’ she said, her hands tugging until his eye felt the seriousness of her words. ‘Promise me you will stay out of trouble. And if all else, protect my daughter.’
‘So, I stay couped up in here alone?’
‘For your protection. We can’t afford anything to happen to you,’ said Arcadius with another slither of his index finger to direct Venessa to the door.
‘Be safe, brother.’ Her parting words were said with a sense of innocence not seen since her days of childhood naivety. Blind monks then surrounded her like a tethered subject bound by invisible chains, escorting her through the royal gardens.
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It was a sight not missed by Gideon, and with poised emotions through gritted teeth, he showed ignorance to any words of reassurance by the bishop, who positioned himself in front to enforce compliance of attention.
‘It doesn’t have to be a point of contention. Her departure creates possibilities that were once withheld,’ Arcadius said.
‘Like what?’ Gideon inquired.
‘The north would be better placed with your services. The new territories need moral guidance.’
‘Oh, she’s not even at the gates, and you’re trying to swindle me. This is a farce.’ Gideon shook his head as he gave a look akin to that of a skilled gambler to a cheat.
‘It is, but it’s what’s needed to make certain people feel safe … and comfortable. I do not see you as someone who needs to feel safe, rather unrestrained. So, escape this prison.’
‘And what of my brother’s assassins?’ Gideon queried.
‘I can’t speak for your brother’s intention, but you knew him more than I. Perhaps you’re better placed to make such judgements?’
‘I know your game. Give, take. Silver tongue your way into my nephew’s good graces. Then one by one, pluck away every independent voice able to question the church.’
‘You are talking about Davos, yaaaaas? He is of more natural tongue than I, but it does not mean I condone his actions. A young monarch can be a messy business. My role is merely to uphold the church’s standards of worship.’
‘What do you gain from me disappearing to the north?’
Arcadius smirked. ‘Standards. That is the most truth you’ll hear all day.’
‘Alright. How do we make this happen?’
‘With the queen’s permission, which Davos can easily arrange. And to bathe you in God’s blessing.’
Gideon chuckled. ‘Ha, that nonsense. Sure, baptize me, but make it quick.’
‘As you request. Your arm?’ said Arcadius.
It was a gesture Gideon begrudging followed, and he lethargically complied to the letter, feeling agitation at being told what to do.
The bishop then braced Gideon’s arm, before sprinkling water across his face. He then paused and loosened his grip, prompting Gideon to open his eyes.
Gideon sighed and said, ‘Is that all?’
‘Yassss.’
It was the most distraught Gideon had ever seen the dry, lifeless bishop, who, with questions of delusion, inspected his holy water by pouring its contents onto his hand, which appeared none the different, yet the result was not to plan.
The uncertainty cut confusion through the bishop, who hastily left Gideon to play mockery with the remaining blind monks.
The masterful bishop made the silent, self-absorbed journey to his private dwelling, the door slamming shut behind him as the locks snapped into place. His eyes scanned the small cottage décor for abnormalities, to which he found none.
‘How could it be?’ he said to himself. He then shuffled the furniture to make space around a desk-mounted mirror that reflected all but the bishop’s natural flesh – just robes and jewelery. With panicked impatience, he firmly placed his palm against the glass panel. His touch seeped poison into the mirror, infecting the transparent to matte black. His smoky eyes looked back at him from the mirror’s reflection, where a glowing red tinge outline appeared upon his reflected self.
‘He is deaf and imbecilic. Perhaps that causes immunity. Perhaps he is under unknown deviations?’ said Arcadius to the mirror’s depths.
The vibrations emanating from his touch created a line of communications that bridged the blacked mirror’s divide.
‘I am less concerned about the man than the flaws within our design. We’re impeccable, unstoppable, and yet not infallible,’ said Arcadius.
The vibrations replied with a long lecture of deposition that served only to insult the already enrage bishop.
Arcadius then pressed hard against the mirror glass, allowing the crack to slice his hand as he impressed up the transcendent being the veracity of his intentions. ‘This is mortality. The pain, the fragility, the futility of existence. Tell me. Do you feel? Do you know what mortality feels like? Knowing one little cut might not kill you, but one in a million can. I have no second chance, hence why these improbabilities are more than a nuisance. Like rat droppings preceding the plague.’ Bishop Arcadius’ bickering lasted long into the night …
And every word was heard through prepubescent ears and transferred through soft-soled steps to the darkest concealments of Vasier castle. Until they were ferried on parchment via cracks in the castle’s foundations to one lone quartermaster who was huddled close to an elongated firepit that was filled with the smoldering remains of the day’s parchment whispers.
They were to be read once and never again. Yet their contents lingered in Cestmir’s mind as he tried to untether the knot before it became a noose. As uncertainties accumulated with every day’s passing, and the time to act was nigh.