He looked around the small square office, finally managing to force the words in the missive out of his mind. It was so small – barely twenty–five feet across. He couldn't host a dinner for the ten bishops and deans of the realm, should they all decide to visit. He remembered the days when he hosted hundreds of his senior flock in the castle seminary with the King seated beside him. Their dinner tables groaning with the weight of the feast laid out before God and King. In those days, his word made men tremble and the King answered to God and only God. The word of God as interpreted by myself, he grinned.
Those days were gone. Today everyone openly scoffed his word. He heard castle staff chattering in the corners, speaking loud enough to be sure he could hear them, as they ridiculed the teachings of God and twisted their meanings to suit their weak arguments. And they dared to call me delusional! The Archbishop clenched his fists as anger rose to consume him. It was getting so hard to keep his face composed and calm in front of the internal inferno of rage that constantly threatened to overcome him.
How the Church has fallen, he thought, shaking his head. All because of that incompetent asshole, Bishop Bengold. As he often did, the Archbishop turned his memory to the images of Bengold doused in oils, being torched by the King himself. The sounds of that man screaming in agony were usually what let the Archbishop drift off to sleep at night with a smile spread across his face. Bengold got off lightly, he thought not for the first time. Far too lightly for the crimes he committed. He burned eternally now. His death had exposed him to the vast eternity he now faced in the deepest pits of Hell. That was a comforting thought.
His eyes returned to look upon the missive on his desk. His work was not yet done. The pursuit was not yet over. He thanked God that at least this one last thread had been revealed and he knew that the Sect would soon complete the task he had laid upon them so many years before. The Sect had screwed it up, he knew, but all was not lost. It was salvageable, provided he gave the correct guidance and incentives.
The Archbishop cocked an ear at a barely heard sound behind him and knew with some surprise that the appointed time had come. Time flew by so swiftly now. The Archbishop reached out with a shaking hand and grabbed the cane that rested against the corner of his desk. Using the cane and the desk, he struggled to rise up out of his chair. It was becoming harder to fight against the pain in his joints, but duty demanded he ignore them. He wasn't sure what was worse: the pain or the shaking. He finally managed to get mostly upright and leaned his weight on the cane. He glanced toward the door to his office and for once was thankful that the chamber was small so the door was not too far away. He methodically made his way over to the massive door and pushed a shoulder against it to force it closed. With well–oiled hinges, the door quietly shut. Only those with an eye for such things would have noticed that the door was well sealed to the frame. He slid the locking mechanism over and sighed, content that what transpired in this room could never be heard from any castle spies placed outside. He trusted no one.
After the revolution, the Lord Protector threw him out of the Church offices, claiming them for his own, and offered him any other chamber in the castle. In the end, it wasn't hard for him to decide upon this one from those available to him. It was rather unique in the castle and only the Archbishop and the King knew its secrets. The former King, he corrected himself and frowned. These days he seemed to forget that the King was dead.
What no one knew or suspected, was that this room had a secret exit: an exit that led to a narrow corridor that snaked inside and around the castle's outer walls. In places it allowed him to see outside to the ocean and the surrounding city. In one place, it even led to a small area directly behind the throne in the Throne Room; the throne arrogantly and permanently held by the Lord Protector.
The secret corridor also led down to a chamber directly below the dungeon, a chamber that was accessible only from this room and from a hidden entrance from outside the castle deep within a sea cave accessible only at low tide. Originally, it had been used by the King as a place for clandestine activities and alternatively, should the need arise, as an escape route for the Monarchy and his family. The Archbishop knew that clandestine activities were required to maintain the peace of the Kingdom by removing and interrogating malcontents. It had always been a necessary evil to keep the peace of the Kingdom intact.
After the revolution, all except for the Archbishop had forgotten the office and the lower chamber. When he had realised this, he seized the opportunity and took this office, claiming those secret areas for his own. And now it housed his secret society that he had created within the Church – a secret society that was run by the very man who now waited outside in the secret corridor.
With the door to his office closed and secured, the Archbishop hurried as best he could over to the fireplace. He lifted a needlepoint image of religious icons that draped over the right corner of the mantelpiece to expose a well–worn button. Once, he knew, this stone button was built flush within the stonework of the mantel and had been undetectable to a common glance. Now, after years and years of use, the button was smoothed down and fit loosely in the worn hole that housed it. For that reason, it was now covered with a simple cloth. Still, thought the Archbishop, you really have to know exactly where to look to discover it and even then you have to be standing to the right side of the fireplace near the wall.
The Archbishop braced himself and pushed hard on the button. It was getting harder to activate it and his strength was not what it used to be. Sweat broke out on his brow, but he pushed harder still and with relief felt a click vibrate through his pressed thumb when the internal lock disengaged. Shaking with the effort, the Archbishop used his cane to rap once against the wall beside the fireplace. A few seconds later, he thought he could hear a slight scraping sound but knew he only imagined it. He knew that the secret door had swung open completely silently behind the tapestry that hung on the wall.
The candles in the room sputtered and were pulled briefly toward the tapestry. If the Archbishop still retained the hearing of his youth, he might have heard the soft moaning from the wind that had been momentarily sucked under and around the heavy tapestry and into the opening beyond. As quickly as it had happened, the candles righted themselves and the Archbishop gazed expectantly toward the tapestry.
A moving bulge formed in the middle of the tapestry that grew and edged toward where the Archbishop stood. As it reached the edge, a hand was exposed. It grasped the edge of the tapestry and pushed it aside to allow the man behind the hand to emerge, blinking into the sudden brightness of the room. That the man found this dark room bright speaks to the complete darkness inside the corridor, thought the Archbishop with amusement. The man's eyes quickly adjusted and when he spied the Archbishop, he strode over quickly and sank down, kneeling while fervently reaching out to grasp the Archbishop's offered hand. He quickly kissed the Archbishop's ring of office and gave thanks to God. He waited until the Archbishop bade him to rise.
The Archbishop indicated the corner table in the room and they made their way over to sit in the two chairs that occupied it. The Archbishop beckoned to the golden wine urn that always rested on the table and the man grabbed it and carefully filled the gold goblet that lay beside it before pouring the fortified wine into a small wooden cup that he produced from a pocket in his tunic. The man held his cup untouched and watched him. The Archbishop sighed and a ghost of smile crossed his features. He took a small sip and the man eagerly started to drink his. This old ritual, he thought with a smile, has become so common and yet so satisfying over the years.
This man shared every secret the Archbishop held. He intimately knew what his goals were and to what length he would go to secure them. This man was the sword that God had provided to him to wreak his vengeance on the heathens that spewed forth the heresy of the Word. This man had already tortured and slain hundreds of the heathens on behalf of God, and now their goal was almost near completion. One loose thread remained that needed snip
ping and then they could begin in earnest to achieve the goal that so long awaited them.
The Archbishop waited until Seth Farlow had finished his first cup of wine and watched as he refilled it. The Archbishop could not stomach much wine any longer. It hit his stomach like burning embers and filled it with a pain that would persist for hours. Sometimes he would throw up blood after too much wine so he kept its intake to a minimum and only during these meetings. One cup would be enough and he moodily thought about the hours of pain that would follow as he took a small sip. The pain is such a small price to pay for doing God's work, he thought. He glanced over to Seth and smiled to himself as he sensed the devoted adoration that poured from his eyes toward him.
He was so blessed to have a man like Seth to deal with the darker and least understood needs of fulfilling God's plan. He cleansed the world of the evil that inhabited it and he was spectacularly good at his work. Only one person had escaped his reach, and that was a child of all things unholy. Seth still blamed himself over this failure and the Archbishop knew – and approved – of his daily flagellations. Soon, that failure would be cleared, and the Archbishop's goblet shook with the anger of how close they had come to finally reaching their goal only to fail due to the weakness of one man. Seth's chosen assassin had failed and died for it.
* * *
Seth relaxed as they sat in the comfortable silence. Seth was used to such silences, and waited patiently for His Holiness to speak. He shuddered in ecstasy at the thought of hearing him. The voice of God was in his voice and he always longed to hear it. The fact that the voice of the Archbishop was unspectacular itself did not faze him – it was knowing that God spoke through this man that excited him. Years of training kept his face and hands calm and steady as desire rippled through his diminutive frame. He was now forty-five-years-old – fifteen years younger than the Archbishop, but he had aged well. A regimen of physical exercise and a strict diet had kept him vibrant and strong. His muscles were wiry and thickly roped but were hidden intentionally behind loose fitting clothes. His head and face were always kept smoothly shaved except for a small patch of beard he sported below his lower lip; this was his only vanity.
Seth had watched the Archbishop age and become stooped before his eyes over the years and knew that the tests God gave him were the cause of his physical decline. The Archbishop bore the weight of the Church on his shoulders and fought daily for the rights and souls of those who still proclaimed their love of the Lord and it wore on him physically. Seth also was aware that he had an outlet for his rage while the Archbishop did not. The Archbishop kept his righteous anger locked up deep inside and knew that it consumed him.
Many times he had tried to convince the Archbishop to come down to his Chamber to assist in the purging and cleansing of the heathens, but he had always refused. He understood why; the Archbishop was answerable directly to God and could not soil himself with such menial tasks, but he knew that this outlet would be therapeutic to him and felt sorrow for him. He wanted the Archbishop to witness his acts for God.
Now, as he sat savouring his weekly cups of wine, Seth tried to read the Archbishop's mood. He knew that a missive had arrived – he always knew what was happening inside the Castle; rarely did anything escape his notice. Watching the small telltale signs from the Archbishop's face, Seth knew that whatever it contained it had both upset and somehow sparked an excitement within him. Only someone as close as he was to the Archbishop could have recognised the burning anger that lay within him, but it wasn't his eyes that gave it away. It was found in the slight tightening of the skin around his eyes and a shallower and quicker breathing than normal. Signs that Seth could read instinctively, learnt through years and years of lovingly applying his skill to those heathens in the Chamber. Whatever was in the missive was important. Important enough the Archbishop had summoned Seth to his office two days in advance of their normally scheduled meeting time.
Their meetings were always on a schedule. Nothing short of an emergency would alter that timing. When Seth had seen the indicator on the far wall of the Throne Room, he had hastened to wait outside the Archbishop's office. They always met at the same time every week, if only to share a cup of wine. Sometimes they wouldn't even speak except for the words of absolution that Seth always requested at the end. They had agreed many years ago that nothing should alter that timing. It would not do for the secret door to swing open when someone from the Lord Protector's guard stood in the office.
The door could be opened from the inside as well as the outside, but Seth was under orders to never open the door from his side and to always wait for the faint tap from the wall near the fireplace. From inside the corridor, nothing could be heard from in the soundproof room. The wall was the thinnest by the fireplace and it was here that Seth would wait for that faint tap in the complete darkness. Only then would he attempt to swing open the secret door by grasping the handle carved into the stone. He was always apprehensive about stepping clear of the tapestry. He was at his most vulnerable at this point – blinded by the sudden light and open to any attack.
For now he sat and waited.
* * *
The Archbishop stared back at Seth, the man who was the head of the Church Sect and had been since the Revolution. The Archbishop had created the organisation out of the ashes of the King's spies when the King had been imprisoned. It had started innocently enough. The Archbishop used the network to communicate with the King in the Tower and to try and recover the Throne quietly in the background. The Archbishop's powers had been stripped and he had almost perished in the riots. Seth had helped him survive. He had been sent by God, the Archbishop knew, and had once expressed that to Seth, much to his chagrin. Seth's reaction to that had been disturbing, and the image of Seth writhing on the ground in ecstasy with the front of his trousers darkening with wetness was hard to clear from his mind. The Archbishop mentally shook his head to clear that image. The Archbishop smiled thinly and rested his hands across his lap. His goblet sat on the table, barely touched and now forgotten.
"Seth," he began and pretended not to notice the shiver that seemed to pass through him when he spoke. "A letter has arrived from Jaipers."
He watched Seth for any sign of emotion and saw only the calm, seemingly detached expression on his face He wondered how he managed that despite the fact that he knew Seth had been waiting eagerly for this news for weeks.
"It is not good news, I'm afraid to say."
At this Seth did react. A slight flinch crossed his face but just as quickly it was gone. The Archbishop knew that no one would have caught that lapse except for someone waiting and looking for it.
The Archbishop beckoned over to the desk and the missive that clearly lay on top. "If you would...?"
Seth was at the desk in two strides and grabbed the missive before retreating back to his seat to read it. The Archbishop had it memorised and could see the writing in his mind. He recognised the writing right away. The pen strokes were hesitant from someone not used to writing and they were sloppy. Ink was spilt in spots and too much was used to write the letters. It was written in the Sect code but with practised years of reading it, the code could be quickly translated and he and Seth could read from messages as easily as they read plain text. The words were clear and concise. There could be no mistake. They angered him deeply.
"Coin not retrieved. Knife killed by local Reeve. Coin in possession of the Target. Confirmed: Target found. Pursuing."
* * *
For Seth, reading the missive was a gift from God. The word 'target' swam in front of his eyes. Could it be? Could the Target have been found after all these years? Wonder filled his thoughts and the potential for redemption leaped at him and seized all remaining thoughts. Yes! At long last the Target is revealed! I had known he still lived, known it!
The constant, welcoming ache of the lash marks on his back throbbed in a feeling that approached ecstasy. God has revealed the last heathen! My work can be completed and free the Church to resum
e its rightful position as the power over this Realm. His thoughts ran through his head in rapid sequence. They could be wrong about him being the Target, but that was highly unlikely and unimaginable. His agents knew better than to toy with that bit of news. No sect member was to ever mention the Target in missives unless they were absolutely certain that they had found him. The agents in Jaipers are young, that's true, mused Seth, but their devotion is strong and I had attached them to my best assassin; the man codenamed "Knife" for that very reason.
Seth had briefed Dennis 'Knife" Petard himself, along with Jeremy Lions, and Peter Custard down in the Chamber. Dennis was one of the original Church Sect members and could always be counted on to complete his mission goals. And now he is dead – my top assassin! – killed by some local law enforcement commoner. The chances of that happening were minute and yet, despite the odds, it had happened. That loss coupled with the loss of the novice coin was unacceptable.
Duilleog (A New Druids Series Book 1) Page 18