Bishop Maurice Saldur of Medford stared in awe at the ceiling of the grand chapel inside Grom Galimus. The overhead fresco had been painted by famed imperial artist Elijah Handel. The beauty, the depth, the vividness of color displayed in the image of Novron receiving the Rhelacan from Maribor was the very definition of mastery. Several of the paintings on the walls of the cathedral were also created by Handel, who had been commissioned by Bishop Venlin in the years that directly followed the fall of Percepliquis. Venlin was famously quoted as saying, “Novron spared you from the destruction of the capital, Elijah, so you could decorate the new one.” What wasn’t painted was carved in marble. Three of the greatest sculptors of all time had worked on the cathedral: Burke Thatcher, who in his youth studied at the Art Academy of Percepliquis; his son Alrick Thatcher, who surpassed his father; and the greatest of all, Marley Layton, who was best known for creating the massive statue of Novron that graced the plaza outside.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Tynewell said. The bishop mirrored Saldur’s upward stare. “This is the closest thing we have to a piece of Novron’s empire.”
“It’s magnificent,” Saldur agreed.
“And this is my home,” he said with a self-satisfied smile, the sort a man displays after making a pig of himself at a feast.
This was a source of irritation to Saldur that he knew full well was pure jealousy, but he couldn’t help himself. Who could? Grom Galimus was easily the most sacred place in Elan. Why the patriarch and archbishop chose to dwell in that remote remnant of a castle built by that impious barbarian, Glenmorgan, who literally destroyed the last vestiges of the imperium, was beyond Saldur. Even so, the Crown Tower was a blessed relic compared with Mares Cathedral. Saldur was relegated to a cheap imitation of Grom Galimus built by childish thugs in the cultural desert otherwise known as Melengar. His church had been hastily erected with all the artistry of a blind cow with paint on her tail, and manifested all the sanctity of a whitewashed brothel. This, Saldur thought with a sigh while looking up at the marble and gold, is what religion is all about.
Catching Tynewell grinning at him, Saldur scowled and said, “Will we be dining here, or should we go out?”
“Rochelle does, indeed, boast numerous cafés and public houses that are a delight.” Tynewell was grinding it in now, twisting the dagger, relishing Saldur’s envious drool. “But I took the liberty of having meat and bread brought to my office. I felt that in private we could speak more candidly.”
Maurice Saldur had hoped for a meal at the pretty coffeehouse across the plaza that he’d passed on the way in. They didn’t have such places in Medford, not even in Colnora, but in Rochelle they were everywhere. While he preferred a good brandy to dark coffee, it wasn’t seemly for a bishop to linger in a local tavern. Coffee shops were a different matter. In the cultured east, they were seen as sites of intellectual discourse where a learned bishop was a welcome visitor. While Saldur didn’t savor the idea of chewing stringy meat across a battered desk in a cramped closet, he nevertheless resigned himself to accept his host’s decision. He followed as Tynewell led the way through an intricately carved mahogany door into the Bishop of Alburn’s private office.
The moment the door opened, Saldur was dumbfounded. This was just an office the same way Grom Galimus was just a church.
Tynewell led him into a series of rooms every bit as opulent as the cathedral proper. More frescoes, very likely created by Handel, adorned a ceiling never meant to be seen by the general public. They walked right by Tynewell’s meticulously polished desk and into a separate suite with plush furniture arranged in a semicircle before a massive marble hearth where a trio of giant logs burned brightly. One wall was a towering stained-glass window; the other another fresco, this one of Novron laughing, with a silver flagon in hand. He was seated in a chair speaking with an elderly man in suspiciously modern church robes. The background was a perfect extension of the room they were in. The illusion was amazing, and Saldur felt he could walk right through and into that other space.
“Venlin.” Tynewell pointed at the older figure in the painting. “He had Handel put Our Lord in his office and him in the picture. This is the most candid image of Novron you’ll find. It borders on the obscene, but no one ever sees it except the bishops. The story goes that Venlin ordered its commission to show Novron’s human side, and that here, in the sanctity of this behind-the-scenes refuge, we, too, can relax and be human.” The bishop sniffed contemptuously. “Personally, I think Venlin was an egotistical narcissist. I’m told that in his old age he thought Novron actually spoke to him.” Tynewell stared at the painting that ran from floor to ceiling, making Venlin and Novron life-sized. “Can you imagine His Holiness, the self-proclaimed patriarch, sitting in this room and talking to himself while believing he was speaking to Novron? Astounding, don’t you think?” He gestured at the couch. “Please, have a seat.”
Only then did Saldur notice there was a banquet of venison and quail on the table before them.
“You live well,” Saldur said, sitting and digging in.
“Venlin lived well,” Tynewell corrected as he proceeded to close and lock the doors. “I benefit from his legacy.” The Bishop of Alburn took a seat across from Saldur, reclining back, crossing his legs, and throwing a long arm out over the cushions. “Did the patriarch send you?”
Saldur ripped the leg off a quail. “Yes, well, not directly, that is. I didn’t actually chat with the patriarch. I’ve never seen the man.” He gestured at the painting with the drumstick. “This is the closest I’ve come to meeting a patriarch of the church. I sometimes wonder if he exists. Maybe Nilnev died a decade ago and the archbishop hasn’t told anyone. Seems like something Galien would do, and who would be the wiser? But the archbishop did give me a message that he said came from Nilnev’s hand.” He pulled a sealed letter from a pocket of his robe and handed it to Tynewell.
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The Bishop of Alburn broke the seal, read the note, and smiled.
“Do you mind?” Saldur asked, holding out his hand.
Tynewell shook his head and gave him the letter.
Saldur skimmed the contents quickly. “Well, this is quite an honor. The patriarch has left the selection of the new king up to you. Makes sense. You know your kingdom and can best judge the candidates.” Saldur swallowed an excellent mouthful of well-seasoned quail, then reached for the jug of what he hoped would contain wine. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Saldur filled a goblet with what sadly turned out to be mead. He wasn’t a fan. He raised a greasy finger. “Just remember to pick someone who will be willing to relinquish power when the day comes.”
“Will that day come?” Tynewell asked.
Saldur raised his brows. Such a question was tantamount to heresy, but then so was the painting behind him, which was commissioned by the founder of the Church of Nyphron. This is why we have laws against such things. Exposure to temptation leads to mistakes.
“I certainly hope so,” Saldur said. “Otherwise I murdered an entire royal family and a dozen bureaucrats for nothing.”
Tynewell sat up. “The sinking of the Eternal Empire was your work?”
Saldur nodded.
“That’s not . . . wait . . . how could you possibly arrange for a storm?”
“There wasn’t one. That was just the story we circulated, and because we told everyone about a terrible storm several days before the Eternal Empire was due to arrive, no one thought it strange that she might have been lost in it.”
“So, how did the ship sink?”
“The Eternal Empire was an excellent vessel. Brand-new, top-of-the-line three-masted, four-decked frigate, even had a pretty figurehead of a woman with golden wings. Reinhold spared no expense. I couldn’t waste something the future empire might one day need.”
“It didn’t sink?”
“Right now, that ship is in Aquesta harbor being stripped of all identifying marks. We added pretty green pennants and renamed it the Emerald Storm. Poetic, don’t you think?”
“So, what happened to the royal family?”
“They were allowed to go free.” Saldur grinned as his statement produced the expected reaction of shock. Tynewell was so very smug with his grand home, but his majestic life was as precarious as anyone’s. Until the day the new empire was established, they were all little more than shadows hiding from the light.
“But . . . but . . .”
Saldur stopped Tynewell with the rise of another greasy hand. “They were out at sea, several miles away from land at the time . . . with their wrists tied.”
“Oh.”
Saldur found the bread and tore off a chunk. “So, who will you pick?”
“How’s that?” Tynewell asked, his eyes shifting, no doubt still imagining the scene of the royal family, their cousins, and all the royal administrators thrown overboard.
“Rumors say you’re going to hold a contest, is that so? I honestly think that isn’t a good idea.”
Isn’t a good idea was the understatement of the century. Of course, matters could be framed in such a way that the desired candidate would prove victorious, but what if something unexpected happened? Then you would have the wrong person ruling, and another accident would have to be arranged. Too many accidents would arouse suspicion. No, contests were too fraught with danger due to random chance.
Tynewell returned a wry smile.
Saldur wasn’t amused. “This isn’t a game. We don’t do this for our own entertainment.”
“You handle your succession your way, leave me to mine.”
This less-than-artful dig at Saldur’s failure in Melengar felt like a slap, one Saldur didn’t feel he deserved. He had aided Tynewell with the removal of Alburn’s monarchist king—always the hardest part—and his fellow bishop should be more appreciative of Saldur’s help. “Personally, I’d choose Armand Calder.”
“Calder? Are you serious? In Alburn’s family tree, he’s one of the smaller roots. Not very accomplished, and not well connected. Also, I hear he neglected to bring his family, as I so particularly instructed. I don’t care if his sons are sick with fevers. That was no reason to ignore my edict and leave behind his wife and daughter, not to mention his sons.”
Tynewell shook his head, but Saldur pressed on. “Armand is a lesser-known earl, but he also has a smaller ego, a trait that could prove most useful when . . .”
Saldur stopped talking; Tynewell wasn’t listening. He was looking at the painting of Venlin with a distant focus in his eyes.
“Are you going to eat any of this?” Saldur asked, waving a hand over the feast. “I feel like a glutton.”
“Huh? Oh, I’m not hungry.”
“Really? If I had food like this back in Medford, I’d be four hundred pounds by now.” His host still wasn’t paying attention. “Is there something wrong?”
“Hmm?” Tynewell looked up as if from a dream. “Oh, no. Nothing . . .”
“You aren’t considering Leopold Hargrave, are you? I mean, he’s pliable enough, but the man is a terrible administrator. Putting him in charge would no doubt create a fiscal disaster.”
Tynewell’s attention had finally returned to the conversation, and he nodded in agreement. “Leo is old-fashioned. His family descends from the Imperial Council. Rochelle is home to three of the most prominent families to survive the fall: the Hargraves, Calders, and Killians. Floret Killian even claims to be a direct descendant of Persephone’s brother. These families, along with Lord Darius Seret, built this province that later became a kingdom. Leo believes in the old codes, the virtues once practiced by the Teshlor Knights of the old imperium. We don’t need his kind of trouble.”
“Good point. Well, whoever you pick, best to keep in mind that they actually have to rule a kingdom, you know?”
Tynewell focused on Saldur, and he smiled. “Yes, yes, of course. That’s it exactly. This . . . this is such a big decision. I need to consider my choices carefully.”
“Yes, but also expeditiously. The feast is what, three days from now?”
He continued to nod. “You’re absolutely right. I just . . .”
“What?”
Tynewell bit his lower lip and hung onto it for a moment. “I want the patriarch to approve of my choice.”
Saldur raised his hands. “He’s given you the power, so I don’t see how he can complain with the results.”
Tynewell smiled. “Yes, that’s true. That’s very true. Maybe I will have something to eat after all.” He plucked a slice of bread and proceeded to cover it with meat, then paused as his eyes went back to the painting. “Don’t you think it’s odd?”
“What?”
“That Venlin is standing.”
Saldur turned and looked back at the fresco.
“Look at him. The patriarch is in the presence of Novron himself, but he doesn’t kneel, doesn’t prostrate himself in the slightest. If anything, he’s standing more upright. It’s as if he felt he was an equal to Our Lord. Where does confidence like that come from?”
“I would think ruling what was left of the empire would have something to do with it.”
“I think you might be right.”