Read Online Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1) by Craig Schaefer - Free Book Online
Authors: Craig Schaefer
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Simon waved him over toward the ship’s railing, in the shadowy gloom between the dangling lanterns.
“If you lean far enough over—” Simon started to say, pointing down toward the water, but he was cut short by Iona’s booming voice.
“Brother!” the captain called out. “Been looking everywhere for you! I picked up a bottle of Itrescan brandy in port, and it’s demanding to be shared. Far too good for the likes of my mouth alone. Bring your friend Werner, if he’s not still puking his guts up in the cargo hold.”
Felix smiled and patted Simon’s shoulder.
“Sounds like a command I can’t refuse,” he said with a laugh. “I’d better go. Thanks, though! Maybe tomorrow.”
Simon watched him go. He smiled with gritted teeth at Felix’s back.
“Right,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
Amadeo sat on a marble bench in the shade of an iron tree, watching his friend slowly die.
Pope Benignus sat beside him, looking up at the elaborate sculpture. Sunlight filtered through the tree’s black boughs and glistened off leaves sharper than knives. Benignus wore robes of ermine shot through with gold thread, in contrast to Amadeo’s plain brown cassock. The amulets at their throats were the same, though, simple imitations of the great dark tree dangling from silver chains.
“I never liked it,” Benignus said. The elderly man’s eyes seemed hazy, as if he couldn’t quite focus.
“Sir?” Amadeo asked, startled out of his thoughts. They’d been sitting in silence for a good ten minutes, just taking in the sun in the garden courtyard. The sandstone walls and ornate archways of the papal manse rose up around them, fencing them in under the noonday sky.
“The tree,” Benignus said. “It was my father’s idea. He wanted something…strong. Something to show the Gardener’s power. A tree that could never blow down, or be chopped down, or grow sick and die. A tree of iron.”
The tree was the centerpiece of the gardens. Flowers in every color of the rainbow bloomed around it in spiraling patterns, lifting their faces to the sun. A rustling caught Amadeo’s attention. He glanced over to see a squirrel dart into the bushes.
“He forgot,” Benignus said, “that a tree of iron can’t bloom. Amadeo, would you do something for me?”
The pope stood slowly, and Amadeo quickly rose to help him to his feet.
“I cannot disrespect my father’s wishes,” Benignus said. “But when I’m gone? Tear that damned thing down. Plant a real tree here. One that bears fruit.”
Benignus turned his face from the tree and took Amadeo’s arm. They walked together along a pebbled path.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Amadeo said. “Not anytime soon.”
Benignus laughed, then doubled over as his hoarse chuckle turned into a coughing fit. Amadeo handed him a handkerchief, helping him to press it against his lips. When the fit passed and the pope stood straight once more, Amadeo took the handkerchief back. Blood spattered the white silk. He folded it and tucked it away.
“You are my confessor and aide, Amadeo, not my surgeon. My surgeon has a grimmer outlook and, I hate to say it, a bit more experience than you in these matters.”
“I have faith,” Amadeo said.
“And faith can move mountains,” Benignus said with a gentle smile, “but it usually doesn’t grow new lungs for an eighty-year-old man. I’ve had a good run, but you and I both know my curtain is falling. Best to prepare for it, with as much dignity as I can still muster, than to shake my tiny fist at the heavens.”
“Is that why you wanted to walk in the garden? To talk of loss and grief?”
“More practical than that. There have been rumblings in the College of Cardinals.”
Amadeo nodded. “I have heard them. There is talk of mounting a succession challenge questioning your son’s…moral fitness.”
“My beloved friend, you have a talent for putting a pretty face on disasters. I have heard everything they say about
“If you lean far enough over—” Simon started to say, pointing down toward the water, but he was cut short by Iona’s booming voice.
“Brother!” the captain called out. “Been looking everywhere for you! I picked up a bottle of Itrescan brandy in port, and it’s demanding to be shared. Far too good for the likes of my mouth alone. Bring your friend Werner, if he’s not still puking his guts up in the cargo hold.”
Felix smiled and patted Simon’s shoulder.
“Sounds like a command I can’t refuse,” he said with a laugh. “I’d better go. Thanks, though! Maybe tomorrow.”
Simon watched him go. He smiled with gritted teeth at Felix’s back.
“Right,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
Amadeo sat on a marble bench in the shade of an iron tree, watching his friend slowly die.
Pope Benignus sat beside him, looking up at the elaborate sculpture. Sunlight filtered through the tree’s black boughs and glistened off leaves sharper than knives. Benignus wore robes of ermine shot through with gold thread, in contrast to Amadeo’s plain brown cassock. The amulets at their throats were the same, though, simple imitations of the great dark tree dangling from silver chains.
“I never liked it,” Benignus said. The elderly man’s eyes seemed hazy, as if he couldn’t quite focus.
“Sir?” Amadeo asked, startled out of his thoughts. They’d been sitting in silence for a good ten minutes, just taking in the sun in the garden courtyard. The sandstone walls and ornate archways of the papal manse rose up around them, fencing them in under the noonday sky.
“The tree,” Benignus said. “It was my father’s idea. He wanted something…strong. Something to show the Gardener’s power. A tree that could never blow down, or be chopped down, or grow sick and die. A tree of iron.”
The tree was the centerpiece of the gardens. Flowers in every color of the rainbow bloomed around it in spiraling patterns, lifting their faces to the sun. A rustling caught Amadeo’s attention. He glanced over to see a squirrel dart into the bushes.
“He forgot,” Benignus said, “that a tree of iron can’t bloom. Amadeo, would you do something for me?”
The pope stood slowly, and Amadeo quickly rose to help him to his feet.
“I cannot disrespect my father’s wishes,” Benignus said. “But when I’m gone? Tear that damned thing down. Plant a real tree here. One that bears fruit.”
Benignus turned his face from the tree and took Amadeo’s arm. They walked together along a pebbled path.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Amadeo said. “Not anytime soon.”
Benignus laughed, then doubled over as his hoarse chuckle turned into a coughing fit. Amadeo handed him a handkerchief, helping him to press it against his lips. When the fit passed and the pope stood straight once more, Amadeo took the handkerchief back. Blood spattered the white silk. He folded it and tucked it away.
“You are my confessor and aide, Amadeo, not my surgeon. My surgeon has a grimmer outlook and, I hate to say it, a bit more experience than you in these matters.”
“I have faith,” Amadeo said.
“And faith can move mountains,” Benignus said with a gentle smile, “but it usually doesn’t grow new lungs for an eighty-year-old man. I’ve had a good run, but you and I both know my curtain is falling. Best to prepare for it, with as much dignity as I can still muster, than to shake my tiny fist at the heavens.”
“Is that why you wanted to walk in the garden? To talk of loss and grief?”
“More practical than that. There have been rumblings in the College of Cardinals.”
Amadeo nodded. “I have heard them. There is talk of mounting a succession challenge questioning your son’s…moral fitness.”
“My beloved friend, you have a talent for putting a pretty face on disasters. I have heard everything they say about
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