The knight-commander opened the door to Pius’ chambers with a full spirit, but as he walked in all color drained from his face. The archbishop sat at his desk, but unusually, there was a small child of perhaps 5 or 6 years of age sitting on his desk playing with his toys. Pius brandished a knife as he opened letters, and each time, he cut toward the child.

  “Gaspar,” Pius called out, his voice serene. “Finally, you’ve arrived. I thought I might give you a gift… for your fine work of late,” he said sarcastically.

  Gaspar shut the door and walked up to the desk. His face was a mix of wrath and fear. Pius’ guards, standing just behind, stepped forward. Among them was Cesare. The child looked around, confused, but stayed silent. He seemed remarkably well-mannered for his age.

  Pius tried to cut open another letter, but Gaspar seized the dagger opening from his hand.

  Pius leaned back in his chair. “You don’t look pleased. I thought you loved your son.”

  “Pius… I made a mistake. What happened… I didn’t do it out of malice. It was just a mistake.”

  “Should I care why it happened?” Pius dropped the facetious veil. “I only cared that it happened, not your reasoning. I expect results from you, and of late, you’ve not been giving them. Why, then, should I continue to extend my protection to your son?”

  “Anything you want,” Gaspar swore. “Anything. Just… just don’t. Please, Pius.”

  Pius stood up, walking around the desk to stand eye-to-eye with Gaspar. “Tomorrow, you’re going to testify in front of the royal diet. You’re going to say what I want you to say, when I want you to say it. After that, you’re going to do what I want you to do, when I want you to do it. Do you understand?” Pius asked, his face inches away from Gaspar’s.

  “I do,” Gaspar confirmed.

  Pius raised a finger toward Gaspar’s face. “No more, Gaspar. No more.” He waved. “Get out.”

  Gaspar gave one last longing look at his son, and then turned and walked out. When the door was shut, Pius turned back, where Cesare waited.

  “Class act,” Cesare praised.

  “I want you to assign some men to follow him,” Pius commanded.

  “I’ve got my hands busy with Albert’s work,” Cesare said.

  “Is he your father?” the archbishop asked pointedly.

  “Fortunately not, elsewise I might look like that ogre Randolph,” he joked with one of his men, and they laughed—most of Cesare’s men knew Randolph.

  “Follow him,” Pius repeated, sitting back down. “I’ll pay you for your time.”

  ***

  Cesare walked outside of the archbishop’s court with his men.

  “Do you want me to assign some guys to follow that knight-commander?” the man asked Cesare. “Considering he’s the knight-commander, we should probably get one of our best guys on that.”

  “Nah,” Cesare shook his head, pulling out a cigar. He lit it with a match. “Fact is, we’ve got more pay working with Albert in the past few weeks than I have working with my father my entire life. Pius hoards his coin like nothing else.” He looked up at the church. “His position is weakening, and he won’t be able to afford to pay us very much.”

  “He’s younger than Duke Albert,” the other man pointed out. “Better for steady pay. Albert’s ancient, could keel over at any minute.”

  “You saw how desperate Pius is,” Cesare pointed his cigar. “Threatening young children, losing control of his allies. Pius is on the edge, teetering. He might spend the rest of his youth in a cell. No… we’re better off with Albert. Forget about Gaspar. Come on.”

  His men followed after him. “You’re a ruthless bastard,” one commented.

  Cesare didn’t seem offended—rather, he smiled. “He taught me quite well. I like to think he’d be proud of me, but I know him. Someday, he can look down proudly from the heavens. Or the hells, as the case may be.”

  ***

  Isabella awoke hearing a scuffle. Considering how serene this estate had always been, it unnerved her. She immediately threw off her blanket and rose to her feet, moving to see what the disturbance was. She opened the door, cast out her familiar, and then shut it again, scouting ahead with the bird.

  Isabella flew down to the main hall, where she saw quite a surprising sight. Gaspar was standing off against Veronica, holding his hands up as she brandished a knife toward him.

  “..were true, why did you sneak in here?” she heard Veronica ask, coming in on the middle of the conversation.

  “Because I might have been being followed, and because I didn’t want to attract any attention.” Gaspar insisted. “Please. I need to speak to Isabella, or Valerio.”

  Isabella perched on a support in the roof. “What did you need to speak to me about?” she asked, her voice echoing through the hall.

  Gaspar looked around uncertainly. “Isabella…?”

  “Talk,” Isabella insisted.

  Gaspar lowered his hands. “I need help, and… don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

  Isabella jumped down from the rafters, soaring down to land between Gaspar and Veronica.

  “Help with what?” Isabella asked through her familiar, staring up at him.

  Gaspar looked perplexed to see her.

  ***

  “You learned how to use magic?” Gaspar asked of her.

  Isabella stood with her arms crossed alongside Valerio, Roderick, and his mother Veronica. Randolph stood behind them all, watching the outside.

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  “I daresay that’s hardly pertinent right now,” Isabella said. “What do you need help with so terribly that you would come to us?”

  Gaspar looked up. “Because my instinct tells me that you’re the one that’s responsible for all the trouble that Pius is facing. That I can rely on you, and that you can win.”

  Gaspar had talked about his instinct in her past life. He was a very shrewd judge of character, always. He had used that to sidestep innumerable reckless characters, and had remained a very prominent political schemer because of that.

  “I’m desperately tired of… living like this.” He shook his head. “Today, Pius brought my son to the capital. He’s threatening him to bring me in line.”

  “Son?” Isabella repeated, totally caught off guard.

  “Yes. Named after me,” Gaspar confirmed with a nod. “He’s six, nearly seven. Looks just like me.”

  “How old are you, boy?” Veronica asked.

  “Twenty this year.” He shook his head, then looked up. “Why does that matter?”

  Valerio raised a brow. “You had a child when you were barely a teenager?”

  Gaspar seemed to retreat within himself, looking at the wall. “Yes. With a nun, assigned to tutor me once the church thought I had promise. I didn’t even know the end result of what we were doing, until…” he sighed. “When it happened, I was threatened with all manner of things—burning alive, execution, castration. Pius stepped in, ‘saved’ me.” Gaspar rubbed his hands together, clearly distraught. “Of late, I’ve become more and more convinced that Pius orchestrated all of it.”

  Randolph snorted. “However did you figure that one out? He must be a master sleuth, ladies and gentlemen,” he said sarcastically.

  “Randolph,” Isabella said curtly, a little disturbed by Gaspar’s story.

  “Until now, he’s been ‘protecting’ my son.” Gaspar continued. “Keeping him secreted away—where, I’ve no idea. He doesn’t let me see him, barely tells me how he’s doing. It’s….”

  “What do you want from us?” Valerio asked.

  “All I want is my son,” Gaspar said, looking up. “I want to see him, teach him, hold him. If you can free him from Pius… I don’t care. I’ll do what you will—be your dog, if you wish it. But Pius is losing control quickly, and I fear my boy may become the subject of his anger.”

  Isabella saw only the very earnest pleadings of a desperate father. She had no idea that Gaspar had a son—he hid it very well, or… perhaps Pius had. That boded poorly. Perhaps the loss of his son had been his breaking point in her prior life. It may have been the incident that turned Gaspar from a relatively good-hearted young man into the cold-hearted political schemer that she knew.

  “Is it even possible?” Isabella looked to Valerio.

  “Getting a single child out from the archbishop’s court… certainly sounds quite difficult, yes,” Valerio said. “It’s guarded at all times, and by people well-paid to do so. I could do it easily, but not without getting caught.”

  “Pius has recently hired some very well-paid assassins to guard his court, suspecting insider leaks,” Roderick said. “It would be impossible.”

  A grimness fell over the room… consuming all but Isabella.

  “We don’t need to sneak in,” she said confidently. “We can merely employ similar methods to Pius.”

  “What, capturing Cesare?” Valerio asked.

  “No, no.” Isabella shook her head. “Tell me—what did Pius ask you to do, Gaspar?”

  “Testify at the royal diet tomorrow,” Gaspar said. “He wishes for me to vouch for his character in the strongest possible terms.”

  Isabella smiled, and then began to laugh. “By the gods… it all lines up.” She sighed, and then shook her head. “Will you trust me, Gaspar? It may be difficult to do so… but if you trust me, I believe there’s a way out of this.”

  Everyone looked at her, curious about her idea.

  ***

  “Knight-Commander Gaspar. Approach for questioning,” Duke Brett said.

  At that, Gaspar walked forth among the assembly of countless nobles from across the realm. The assembly chamber of the royal diet was a hall of sober dignity. Each noble’s seat was marked with their family’s crest, some carved into the wood centuries ago and weathered by generations of attendance. At the center sat Duke Brett, aged and stooped but unshakably composed, his voice carrying with the clarity of one long practiced in fairness.

  At the far end, half-shrouded in the gallery’s gloom and flanked by silent holy paladins, King Claude observed from an elevated throne-like chair—not seated in judgment, but as an observer. His presence, though silent, weighed on the room. One hand drummed faintly on the gold head of the armrest while his eyes flicked between barons, bishops, and burghers.

  “Your Grace,” Gaspar said, dipping his head to Duke Brett in deference.

  “You have been put forth by Archbishop Pius to speak to his merits, disputing all claims posited in Alistair’s thesis,” Duke Brett said. “He claimed to wish to set the tone for this adjudication.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the knight-commander answered.

  “Very well then. Speak to the assembled.” Duke Brett gestured behind Gaspar.

  The knight commander turned on his heel, facing the tremendous crowd of power mongers in the kingdom. He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. He had stood in judgment of tribunals such as these, but never endured the scrutiny of one. It was enough to make any man waver.

  “The archbishop…” Gaspar’s gaze met Pius’. He closed his eyes a second later, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Nobles watched curiously. “…does not deserve his title,” Gaspar declared loudly.

  There was immediate muttering among the nobility. People had expected many vague platitudes, not a condemnation of the very person that they had been sent forward to protect.

  “Pius has turned the church into a marketplace, where offices are sold to the highest bidder and justice is bartered for gold. Every decision serves his ambition rather than the gods’ will. No doctrine was sacred, no sacrament untainted—only power, hoarded and traded like any other commodity.”

  “What is the meaning of this?!” Pius shouted, rising to his feet in a fury.

  The diet immediately fell into chaos as countless observed what precisely was happening. Duke Brett’s gavel struck loud and hard, but it was insufficient to quiet it. The first person sent in Pius’ attack against Alistair turned out to be one of his most vocal opponents. Gaspar kept his eyes fixed on Pius.

  Gaspar’s thunderous commander’s voice silenced the hall. “Pius filled the ranks of the cardinals with sycophants and kin, and silenced dissent through fear and bribery. Beneath his rule the flock was milked dry for coin to fund his ambitions, his mistresses, and his bastard's rise. Let no one speak of divine right here—only the rot that festers when faith is used as a ladder by men who never once looked up to the heavens for guidance!”

  As the room exploded into chaotic shouting, the knight-commander kept his gaze fixed only on the archbishop. There was a depth of emotion that could scarcely be described. It wasn’t hate—it was something deeper, more complex. But above all, it was acknowledgement. Gaspar was employing the ruthless methods that Pius himself had taught. He’d been watching what Pius had done rather than what he said.

  What Gaspar said today was unthinkable to him only weeks ago. He recalled the conversation that had started all of this.

  ***

  “I believe that Pius is trying to involve us in the diet somehow,” Isabella said. “For that reason, he ensured that the scope of the diet could be extended as new evidence arose. Do you remember what Duke Brett said?”

  “The subjects of this diet may change as new evidence and circumstances arise.” Valerio nodded. “I remember.”

  “If we involve Pius directly, we’ll request that Pius be accompanied by holy paladins, as he may be a major flight risk. Then… you can put your own men at his side, twenty-four seven. He can’t well order the murder of a child if you have him under watch,” Isabella said.

  Gaspar’s grim face had regained some brightness. “Yet… it doesn’t solve the root problem.”

  “To truly free your son, all we need to do is make the people on Pius’ side defect—which, after you stab a knife into his heart, will come easily,” Isabella insisted. “We’ll stifle him as he stifled us with the Inquisition—then, deprive him of allies one by one.”