Winter's Reach (The Revanche Cycle Book 1) by Craig Schaefer

Author:Craig Schaefer [Schaefer, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780990339373
Publisher: Demimonde Books
Published: 2014-11-10T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Five

By tradition, the College of Cardinals convened in the cavernous underhalls beneath the papal estate. Corridors hived off from the great council auditorium and led to smaller conference rooms, meeting nooks, and baths, all appointed in a gala of ivory, marble, and gold leaf.

Cardinal Accorsi commandeered one of the smaller, more intimate parlors, well off the beaten path. He’d been surprised when Amadeo came to him, requesting a meeting, but there was an urgency in the priest’s voice he couldn’t deny. Now, as they sat on two divans with a full pot of tea going cold on the table between them, Marcello knew he’d been right to hear him out.

“That’s a strong accusation to make,” Marcello said evenly. He sat back, keeping a watchful eye on his companion. Every irregular breath, every twitch at the corner of Amadeo’s eye, Marcello filed and cataloged with the skill of a lifetime spent reading people’s motives. So far, everything the priest had said came across as sincere.

“I’m not making an accusation,” Amadeo said, “just telling you what I’ve uncovered. If you have a rational explanation, believe me, I’d love to hear it. I’d be so happy to be wrong right now.”

The steel trap of Marcello’s mind turned slowly. Considering, weighing, discarding, and sorting every piece of evidence into neat little bins. Outside, leaden footsteps clunked on the marble as one of the visiting knights made his hourly patrol.

Suddenly, Marcello jumped to his feet and yanked open the parlor door. The knight—a younger man, towheaded and not quite filling out his armor—froze, startled.

“You there,” the cardinal said. “Settle a bet for us, would you?”

“We’re…not allowed to gamble, sir,” the knight said.

“No, no, nothing sinful, just a dispute between friends. One of your colleagues was telling us that a handful of you graduated together from the Seminary of the Scroll in Stourgardt, is that right?”

The knight started to nod, then caught himself. “It’s in Kohn, sir.”

Marcello slapped his forehead. “Of course! Sorry. You see, I was only there once, about four years ago on a speaking tour. We were just talking about good old Father Gruenewald. Did he ever stop wearing that terrible wig? The big fluffy one that didn’t even match his eyebrows?”

The knight relaxed, his expression mirroring Marcello’s friendly smile. “No, sir, still wearing it.”

“Ah, that poor man. I suppose nobody ever told him how it looked. Let’s hope you and I have better friends in our old age, eh?”

“Yes, sir!”

Marcello waved and shut the door. When he turned back to Amadeo, his smile had vanished.

“I knew Gruenewald,” he said. “Not intimately, but well enough to know he was a brother of the Eastern tradition. They cut their hair in a tonsure as a mark of their ordination. No wigs. Also, my first little slip about the location of the seminary: I mentioned Stourgardt since that’s where his alleged chapterhouse is. You would think he’d find that worthy of comment, if in fact he remembered where he was supposed to hail from.”

“You see?” Amadeo said.

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