Read Online Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1) by Craig Schaefer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Schaefer
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nodded, his face grave.
“Dante Uccello,” Benignus mused. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.”
“The orator?” Amadeo asked. “Wasn’t he hanged for treason in Mirenze years ago?”
Benignus folded the letter back up, handing it to Rimiggiu. “Good work. Stay on it.”
Rimiggiu bowed deeply and trotted away. Benignus looked back to Amadeo and shook his head.
“Our enemies are playing strange games, my friend.”
“Can I help?” Amadeo said.
“No. That kind of work is…not for the honest of heart. Best leave it to a man like Rimiggiu. From you I must ask a far greater, far more important favor.”
Amadeo braced himself. He knew what was coming.
“I believe in my son,” Benignus said, “and I believe in you. Just as I believe that when I pass on from this world, my enemies will try to sway you, to claim your support for their own ambitions.”
“Bene—” Amadeo started to say, but he fell silent from a wave of Benignus’s frail hand.
“Swear to me,” Benignus said, “that you will support and serve my son, just as you serve me.”
“Is my simple word not sufficient?”
“Not for this. For anything else but this. My line must not end in shame. Carlo
must
be pope, and you must be his guide. Swear to me.”
Amadeo dug his fingernails into his palms. His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling limp and useless as a dead fish.
“Is it that important to you?” he managed to ask. The light in Benignus’s tired eyes, the hope etched on his withered face, was his only answer.
Amadeo walked to the edge of the flowerbed at Benignus’s side. A clay pot rested on the edge of the tub, filled with warm water for the plants. He held out his right hand, palm upturned, over a clump of wildflowers, and gripped the pot with his left.
“I swear, by the Gardener’s creations, that I will serve Carlo as I serve you. I swear it by the water that gives us life.”
He tilted the pot slowly. Water trickled down, splashing his palm, slipping between his fingers to spatter the flowers below.
“I swear it by the soil that grows our sustenance.”
He pressed his palm to the dirt, feeling the rich black loam squish against his fingers. An impression of his hand remained when he pulled it away and touched his fingers to his heart.
“And I swear it by this beating heart, may it ever thrive on truth.”
Benignus closed his eyes and smiled. He reached out, clumsily, and managed to take hold of Amadeo’s wrist.
“You have lifted a burden from my soul, old friend,” Benignus said. Amadeo just stood there with a thin smile frozen on his face.
Was the burden a thousand pounds and made of lead
?
Because I know where it went, Bene
.
“I should go,” Amadeo said, desperate for fresh air. “You have courtiers to indulge, and I have a sermon to write.”
Benignus looked serene as he released Amadeo’s wrist. “Yes, yes, of course. You have an entire flock to look after, and I am only one congregant. A terribly needy one at that. Thank you again, Amadeo. You are a good friend to me.”
Amadeo stepped back, bowed his head, and turned to leave as a small flock of supplicants swooped in on the ailing pope, flourishing their requests like children hoping for new toys.
* * *
Amadeo didn’t stop walking until he was back out in the garden courtyard feeling the sunlight against his skin. His stomach churned, and he took deep breaths, trying to calm it.
Bene, what have I done
?
Of all the things to ask of me, why that
?
He went back to the tree and sat down on the edge of a bench, resting his head in his hands as he tried to calm down. The sound of trilling laughter drifted across the courtyard and drew his eye.
Benignus had become a father late in his life. Carlo was thirty going on seventeen, and he eschewed priestly robes for a silken vest with slashed sleeves, looking like he was set for a night out on the town. He had his father’s coal-black hair—or at least, Amadeo’s memory of
“Dante Uccello,” Benignus mused. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.”
“The orator?” Amadeo asked. “Wasn’t he hanged for treason in Mirenze years ago?”
Benignus folded the letter back up, handing it to Rimiggiu. “Good work. Stay on it.”
Rimiggiu bowed deeply and trotted away. Benignus looked back to Amadeo and shook his head.
“Our enemies are playing strange games, my friend.”
“Can I help?” Amadeo said.
“No. That kind of work is…not for the honest of heart. Best leave it to a man like Rimiggiu. From you I must ask a far greater, far more important favor.”
Amadeo braced himself. He knew what was coming.
“I believe in my son,” Benignus said, “and I believe in you. Just as I believe that when I pass on from this world, my enemies will try to sway you, to claim your support for their own ambitions.”
“Bene—” Amadeo started to say, but he fell silent from a wave of Benignus’s frail hand.
“Swear to me,” Benignus said, “that you will support and serve my son, just as you serve me.”
“Is my simple word not sufficient?”
“Not for this. For anything else but this. My line must not end in shame. Carlo
must
be pope, and you must be his guide. Swear to me.”
Amadeo dug his fingernails into his palms. His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling limp and useless as a dead fish.
“Is it that important to you?” he managed to ask. The light in Benignus’s tired eyes, the hope etched on his withered face, was his only answer.
Amadeo walked to the edge of the flowerbed at Benignus’s side. A clay pot rested on the edge of the tub, filled with warm water for the plants. He held out his right hand, palm upturned, over a clump of wildflowers, and gripped the pot with his left.
“I swear, by the Gardener’s creations, that I will serve Carlo as I serve you. I swear it by the water that gives us life.”
He tilted the pot slowly. Water trickled down, splashing his palm, slipping between his fingers to spatter the flowers below.
“I swear it by the soil that grows our sustenance.”
He pressed his palm to the dirt, feeling the rich black loam squish against his fingers. An impression of his hand remained when he pulled it away and touched his fingers to his heart.
“And I swear it by this beating heart, may it ever thrive on truth.”
Benignus closed his eyes and smiled. He reached out, clumsily, and managed to take hold of Amadeo’s wrist.
“You have lifted a burden from my soul, old friend,” Benignus said. Amadeo just stood there with a thin smile frozen on his face.
Was the burden a thousand pounds and made of lead
?
Because I know where it went, Bene
.
“I should go,” Amadeo said, desperate for fresh air. “You have courtiers to indulge, and I have a sermon to write.”
Benignus looked serene as he released Amadeo’s wrist. “Yes, yes, of course. You have an entire flock to look after, and I am only one congregant. A terribly needy one at that. Thank you again, Amadeo. You are a good friend to me.”
Amadeo stepped back, bowed his head, and turned to leave as a small flock of supplicants swooped in on the ailing pope, flourishing their requests like children hoping for new toys.
* * *
Amadeo didn’t stop walking until he was back out in the garden courtyard feeling the sunlight against his skin. His stomach churned, and he took deep breaths, trying to calm it.
Bene, what have I done
?
Of all the things to ask of me, why that
?
He went back to the tree and sat down on the edge of a bench, resting his head in his hands as he tried to calm down. The sound of trilling laughter drifted across the courtyard and drew his eye.
Benignus had become a father late in his life. Carlo was thirty going on seventeen, and he eschewed priestly robes for a silken vest with slashed sleeves, looking like he was set for a night out on the town. He had his father’s coal-black hair—or at least, Amadeo’s memory of
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