The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Father Steadman rubbed his thumbs deep into the arms of his chair and shifted his weight uneasily.

He glanced up at the sleek, black robes of Caldor and then back down at the paperwork on his desk.

“Is it really so much more?” he asked. “This is a far greater sum than we had originally budgeted for - and now, what with this business of the witches and the Grand Harmonist, your request couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

“I’m afraid so Patrex,” Caldor replied. “Unfortunately, it seems the witches may even be part of the problem - our latest delivery of stone never arrived - we suspect it was attacked by the witches somewhere in transit. Also, all of the masons are reluctant to travel to our region for fear of the attacks - they say it isn’t safe, and we are having to pay them extra in order to persuade them to come and work for us here.”

Steadman gripped his fingers into the smoothed wood.

These were not the type of frustrating discussions he had envisaged when he agreed to become Patrex.

The bureaucratic concerns of the Church weighed heavily, but seemed so pointless these days - especially since the disaster of the Ceremony.

And what had he really done about it?

What practical steps had his role allowed him to implement?

Had he dug a defensive ditch?

Had he readied an army, or prepared for a siege?

Little wonder that sleep had proved harder to come by of late.

And now, here he was sitting in the comfort of his office, signing documents, while his flock was out there - unprotected, unsheltered - many left without homes against the chilly damp of autumn - and the harshness of winter would soon be upon them all.

Should he really be wasting money on this nonsense?

Surely it could be put to better use?

To fill the bellies of the needy?

Or to pay for more soldiers and weapons?

True, the witch attacks seemed to have dampened down - for the time being - but surely this was not the time for such extravagances?

“But very little progress seems to have been made with the gold that has already been paid,” he said.

“Was it not ever thus with builders, Patrex?” Caldor shrugged. “Most of the work so far has been structural supports and strengthening the foundations - it is all very necessary, but largely unseen. I’m afraid these old buildings don’t take care of themselves - there is always some problematical subsidence, and then the centuries of wear and tear - the walls may look solid, but they are only stone and mortar - and no matter how skilled the mason, or how tough the stone, weather is always stronger - although of course, neither are as strong as our own blessed faith.”

Steadman watched his opponent cautiously.

His rich, black robes swayed as he paced before the desk; a dark glint shone out from his eyes. The Senior Brother had never been a particularly welcome visitor to his office - had always been too fond of the sound of his own voice and never failed to take the opportunity to lecture - and as far as he could make out, the Church finances seemed to be getting worse.

But Caldor was the Treasurer after all - and he was only trying to do his job.

But it couldn’t be right to spend such a fortune now - not when it could be used to feed the poor or equip an army.

“Still, brother, I’m not sure we can afford to continue with such a grand project at this moment…”

“But we must preserve the Library and its scrolls, Patrex,” Caldor interjected. “After all, what is it we are fighting the witches for, if not to preserve our culture, our way of life? The cumulation of all our precious knowledge, spanning back through all the generations? All of this is held within the crumbling walls of our renowned Library - we must act now to preserve it.”

“But the money could be used…”

“We must give the people a symbol of hope, Patrex,” Caldor continued, “the great glory of the Church - of our faith in the Surrounder - to abandon the works now would give the impression that we are surrendering, that we accept defeat, that we will not resist the pestilence of these witches. Now is precisely the time to build - to inspire the masses.”

Steadman shifted in his chair again and rubbed his chin.

Perhaps Caldor was right?

Perhaps what the people needed was a signal of some sort - encouragement, a sign that the Church would fight and continue - a defiant flag to rally around?

But then again, if the findings of brother Lanqvist were right…

Wasn’t it all just meaningless anyway?

Was there no way for them to fight back?

No hope?This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

Caldor coughed lightly into his fist.

“I remind you again, Patrex, we really need to make the payment by this evening to stay on course.”

Steadman’s tired head buzzed with uncertainty.

Dealing with finances always brought about this confusion.

Surely the Treasurer knew his own job best?

He lent his reluctant weight forward to the desk and the document.

“Very well then,” he said.