On the other side of the Capital, the stained glass of scattering yellows, blues, and greens lit the darkened halls as the afternoon sun dappled the white cobblestone.
The hymns of Zulla ricocheted off the dome of the cathedral as a stone-faced man peered down toward the communion.
High Priest Cunningham was in his late sixties many of the worshipers eyed the white-haired elderly man. 'A feeble man of the gods' could not be seen as his sharpened chin and high cheekbones were prominent, catching an afterimage of Queen Meredith’s beauty so few were allowed to admire. The old man’s hooded eyes unsheathed into a gentle breeze as he outstretched his arms keeping his hands aloft in the air.
As he gazed upon his communion.
“In these times of peace, we are fortunate enough to bask in Zulla’s light and good fortune. But the air of greed and destruction is upon us.” Priest Cunningham's voice projected through the enclosed space. Beckoning the communion’s attention in an instant. “The Monsoon that decimated the Periphery is a sign of unrest.”
Eyes of gleaming devotion as a few steeple-handed people bent their heads in prayer. “But in adversity, we must pull through.” Priest Cunningham’s tone hardened as if he were keeping shadowed demons at bay. “No matter how paltry the sum, the act of giving will pull us out of these trying times and ascended this fourth centennial as the mark of Zulla’s followers and their devoutness.”
Homely women lightly tapped their wooled handkerchiefs on their tear-stained cheeks as their male counterparts dug deep into their pockets.
The sight of bronze and silver coins entered the earthed clay bowl that traversed around the room. Not missing a beat, Priest Cunningham exited the main hall through the large holly wood doors. Priest Cunningham’s eyes returned back to their hooded state as he entered his lavish office.
The maroon velvet curtains to gem-encrusted iconography of Zulla herself, affixed on top of the Oak and mahogany desk. Few prolific paintings hung on his walls as a small fortune of antique cabinets and glass cases furnished the space.
A couch of goose feathers is placed in the middle as the room's centerpiece. Priest Cunningham settled in his chair as a knock on the door caused his eyebrows to knit together.
A mousy man with a hunched back scurried into the room not daring to look up.
“Lord Richter.” The cold daggers of Priest Cunningham caused the man to stammer over his words. “Queen Meredith—” Before the man could finish, Richter cut him off with a raised hand.
His fingers found his temple to passively massage the foreseeable migraine as the priest cursed the crotchety old man who sat on the throne.
Foreign emissaries, the impending return of the estranged Prince Gordon not to mention Grand Duke Devoncourt encroaching on the periphery orphanage along with Laymen Granderford’s disappearance. The last few weeks have been hectic, along with his granddaughter’s constant need to be coddled about Prince Alexander and his claim to the throne.
“With the Church and its efforts toward the Monsoon—” Priest Cunningham sighed. “I will be leaving the capital for a few days to visit Periphery villages.”
The mousy man jumped at the High Priest's sudden announcement.
“The Queen has sent her Royal maid.” Richter’s eye twitched as he sneered at the layman who pushed the unwanted conversation forward. “Word of Duke Gordon's return in a few months’ time. The Queen is anxious about the lack of influence Prince Alexander has amassed.” The reports of Duke Gordon and his success overseas were not unfounded.
The East Indies were kind to King Edwards bastard. Finding friends in high places and riches to match. Richter scoffed as he felt insulted.
The Church of Zulla possesses a steep influence not only over nobility but on a large portion of the middle-working class as well. The words of faith and salvation under Zulla's knowing eyes. Its rhetoric need not be coupled with anxiety. Richter scowled as he wondered where his granddaughter inherited such sheepish traits.
“A layman should not be trifled by secular disputes.” High Priest Cunningham straightened himself eyeing the brown-haired man.
“The future of the Kingdom should be in the hands of its rightful heir!” The mousey man's fervor gleamed in his eyes. The idea of a royal bastard ruling over these lands causes his skin to crawl.
“We, as the Church, have no business interfering with the crown,” Richter commented, waving away the man’s statement.
“The people are starting to feel unease.”
“It is the King who decides.” Priest Cunningham ground his teeth as he was forced to compliment the foolish old man. “And he has never steered the Kingdom wrong before.”
“The King's error was to allow the frivolities of Late King Edwards.” The slanderous words were laid bare as Richter stared at the fidgeting layman.
Richter seethed at the unfounded courage the layman possessed that he would dare continue to talk back. How can such a humble man develop courage?
The image of Queen Meredith flashed in Richter’s head as a low growl burst forth causing the layman to flinch. Anger rolled off of his body, it seemed that his walls had ears.
“The welfare of the continent takes precedence.” Priest Cunningham tempered his tone.
“My Lord—”
“ENOUGH! Layman Forbis!” The gruff of the elderly man echoed through the room as the homely man shrank away. Chilling the atmosphere, old Priest Richter lifted his body behind the desk to tower over the young man.
“Leave and tell the Queen Mother that I have left after communion.” Priest Cunningham peered into the old man's eyes. Daring him to rebuke his order. "Seeing as you are so concerned about the welfare of the Kingdom, a pilgrimage to the peaks of Zoldera will quill your worries." Layman Forbis' eyes widened.
The journey through Zoldera was treacherous. It was a pilgrimage of centering one's perspective. To endure the whims of nature and traverse Mount Zoldera's undiscovered dangers would allow the laymen to understand the gifts Zulla presented to her acolyte. Which were the gifts of prosperity and civility.
Youths took up the challenge but Laymen Forbis was well into his fifty-eighth year. Such a journey would mean certain death. Seeing the warning in the Head Preist's eyes, Laymen Forbis simply swallowed his words and shuffled out of sight.
With a huff, Richter put a finger to his temple.
The relationship between the Church and the Crown was strenuous at best. Since Vicon's inception, King Aleksander was a man of merit. Leading his people down Zoldera to conquer the plains. He believed in no god but in the will of man.
The anointment of the King was blasphemous as civility was brought about by the sword, not a god. A true meritocracy.
King Edwards and his reign catapulted the small Zulla Church into power.
Some say that was the reason why Queen Meredith and King Edwards never had a cordial relationship. Upon Queen Meredith's crowning day, it took place in the abbey of Zulla instead of the halls of the Palace.
High Priest Richter remembered the day as if it was yesterday. In the days prior to the anointment, the weather was grey and fridged. Cold and solemn.
When the Queen's carriage descended from the palace to the Church the skies cleared as not a single tuff of cloud could be spotted in the sky.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
On that day, Richter's status raised from a humble follower Zulla to her Highest Priest.
A position that could not be overlooked.
Richter's hands smoothed his uncouth hair as he found his mouth dry as his eyes narrowed at the current and most looming problem.
Richter scowled at the due diligence layman Granderford took when recording his wins and losses at his gambling den of choice. As it roughly lined up with the missing children that were under his care.
The debt he racked up at a few gambling dens was like a target placed on the church. The only thing that could quell the raging bill was a few good-looking children who caught the eyes of old men.
Richter’s expression was grim as he felt bile rise from his throat. The ledger was a binding and public record between Laymen Granderford and the Grambling den. Richter had no doubt that a similar ledger was in the Grand Duke’s hands, but it was odd.
The raid on the gambling den was weeks ago, but there was no sign of Laymen Granderford anywhere.
At first, Richter thought it was a stroke of luck as Granderford seemed to have gotten away. Priest Cunningham attempted to search for the laymen but there was no trace of him.
The Priest even searched the royal guard’s dungeon but not even a strand of hair was found. Richter was unsure whether he should feel relieved or worried about Granderford’s disappearance.
Sleepless nights passed as the name of Grand Duke Elias was on the capital’s lips.
Reports of the Grand Duke out late at high-end brothels were uninteresting until rumours about the seat of Grand Duchess being filled by none other than Young Lady De Costa.
The elderly priest leaned forward with his hand on the parchment as the sighting of the Devoncourt carriage left the De Costa estate on multiple occasions.
Within the span of a few weeks compared to last season, the interaction between the Devoncourts and the De Costas went up tenfold.
Richter pulled a sneer as he could see through Marquis De Costa’s plans. The actions of Marquis De Costa instantly spoiled the attempts to capture a good piece of meat.
It made sense that Arsenio would move as early as he did, with the common knowledge that King Richard would be incapable of wiping his own arse if the Marquis was not there handing the senile old man tissue.
What most surprised Richter was the King not considering Marquis De Costa’s influence.
For the past three centennials, the De Costa family has gone unchecked as their influence has expanded beyond one of a mere Marquis.
Richter surmised that if Arsenio wanted to overthrow the sovereign all the Marquis needed to do was send a missive to King Hector and an army would be at their backs in a matter of days.
The De Costa family was too much of a variable regardless of their young miss engaged before the debutante season. Not only Young Lady De Costa but the De Costa’s young heir.
Cypress Academy has tried to reign in the young stallion to the path of academia but it seems the blood of Southern savagery plagued the boy as he chose the way of the sword rather than the quill.
Under the guidance of General Reddick, Priest Cunningham could only assume that the young heir did not fashion a sword on his hip for the aesthetic. A cold chill blew through the priest as he pinpointed the origin as none other than the De Costa family.
Richter’s expression soured as he imagined Arsenio’s daughter claiming influence over the social sphere. The seat of Grand Duchess was not a position that could be treated lightly.
If anyone was a threat to Prince Alexander's throne it was none other than the Grand Duke. King Richard’s fanatic obsession with merit, the Grand Duke although deplorable in his bedside manner, is the King’s current guard dog.
His merits whether private or public could stack above his own great-grandson. Not to mention being the grandson of Princess Patricia, Elias had just as much claim to the throne as any of the other Princes.
Due to King Edward’s indiscretions, the water in Vicon has become murky and the Devoncourt name has been a household long loved by the people of Vicon. Richter wouldn’t be surprised if the public favored the Grand Duke as the next in line for the throne.
A deep sigh filled the space as he eyed the current movements of the Grand Duke, the irritation welled within the elderly man as the reports were sparse. Merely gossip of his late-night escapades.
Priest Cunningham carefully watched Elias for years as he saw the youth possess no interest in the throne, not a shred of desire toward the crown. It was odd for Richter, such a level-headed young man in his work ethic, that it was hard to believe that Elias had no higher aspirations.
Even Marquis De Costa saw the Grand Duke as harmless, seeing as Katarina’s engagement was more or less set in stone.
Priest Cunningham’s eyes narrowed at a family portrait of the De Costa household. The stone face of Marquis whose arm was held by the Marchioness. With not only a son but a flower-like daughter.
Zulla has given the De Costa’s an excessive amount of blessings. A smile riddled Richter’s lips as he thumbed the portrait. The priest’s eyes were cold, allowing his intentions to linger in the air before disappearing.
“Priest Cunningham, your carriage is waiting.” Said a muffled voice on the other side of the door. Priest Cunningham ruffled his long white robes, stuffing the stray pieces of parchment into his desk under lock and key before a benevolent smile broke his icy expression. As if the world was at peace and trepidation was not lurking around each corner.
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