Joseph managed to keep the contents of his stomach together long enough to reach his lodgings at the palace. But once he was behind the walls and the guards had escorted him to his room, there was nothing stopping him from releasing his pent up disgust over the balcony. Only now his disgust was also mingled with fear and rage in a terrible cocktail of regurgitated mutton and wine. A persistent knocking began at his heavy, oaken door.

            “Come in,” Joseph growled, his head sore and his stomach lurching. He turned and saw the Lord Saputo staring back at him, his guard behind him.

            “I see that you have succumbed to my servant’s poor cooking, my lord,” Saputo said, his frail voice returning. “Allow me to rectify this in the morrow.”

            “It is perfectly fine,” Joseph stood up straight and returned to proper posture. “I’m simply a Ceo of the country. The smells and sounds of the city have excited my nerves.”

            “Aw,” said Saputo, lifting his chin in feigned revelation. “Well, my good Irving, I shan’t keep you from your visitor any longer.”

            Saputo strode from the room and left before Joseph could give voice to his surprise. There, in the wake of where the Ceo had once stood was Joseph’s brother, Stewart. He stood tall and proud and his gait was not broken by the lumbering inconsistencies of old age, being a full decade younger than his brother. His hair was short and brushed more than thoroughly, his first spots of gray giving him a disciplined and wise look, though Joseph knew personally he was neither. His eyes looked down on all things large or small and his nose remained permanently raised in an aristocratic manner. His hooked nose and dark eyes gave his face the appearance of a fox, all he needed was slightly pricked ears. He perpetually wore a coat of mail and the finest ornamental armour in Acadia. It was completely useless in battle but to gleam in an opponent’s eyes and blind him. His mail and armour had been painted white. His breast plate had been embellished with the Irving coat of arms, three green thistles overlooked by a knight’s helmet. His plates had been polished to the point of making the steel as reflective as a mirror. The whiteness of his dress and the crosses that dotted across his arms made such a perfect contradiction to the black soul of their wearer.

            “Good evening, Stewart,” Joseph said, his voice as heavy as his heart.

            “From what I heard it was not so,” Stewart replied, shaking his head in faked disdain. “What a terrible practice, burning men, eh.” Stewart looked up at his brother expectantly, waiting for him to make a move.

            “If you think I will speak out against the papacy and let you take the throne you are surely mistaken, Stewart,” the last word came out like more a curse than name.

            Stewart pointed his arrogant, all-seeing eyes at Joseph and smiled, his glistening teeth sending back the few rays of the dawn to come. “You have such little faith in your servants, brother. Why, even right now I am in your service.”

            “And what service is that, Stewart. I would infinitely prefer to go to my bed at this hour.”

            Joseph turned around but Stewart moved forward and his voice grew more intent, “not before you hear what the Pontiff has to say.”

            Joseph gyrated and faced his brother. “The Pontiff would never confide in you.”

            Stewart smiled again, his awful, predatory smile. “No,” he admitted, closing his eyes for a second, “but I carry a message from his office none the less.” Stewart took a small, parchment scroll from one of his guards. It was held together by a red, velvet ribbon and the wax at the top was indeed squeezed down by the papal signet though the seal was broken. Joseph took the scroll in his hands and softly cradled it, wondering as to its significance.

            “What does it say?” Joseph asked.

            Stewart looked down at Joseph again, his gaze as condescending as ever. “Please, brother. It is not only a sin to read a private message from the Pontiff, but an offence that could send me to the same flames as your dear savages.”

            Joseph returned his brother’s gaze and with more than a hint of menace. “What does it say?”

            Relenting, Stewart answered, “the Pontiff has asked for your presence in a conference two months from now in Yorkae. Every great lord of the East has been called to it and the western clergy has been sent for as well.”

            “Then we best get packing,” Joseph knew what would happen to anyone who disobeyed papal ordnances. Stewart saluted and backed out of the room. Joseph stopped him before he could go. “Why exactly did you reduce yourself to a messenger, brother?”

            “I wanted to be of service,” Stewart replied, dipping his head in obeisance. He looked closer at Joseph’s sunken eyes and noticed his brother’s pain. “Are you in good health, Joseph?” he asked. Stewart’s sad eyes were so convincing that for a moment even Joseph, who had known the lying, conniving schemer for his entire life believed him.

            But the moment ended. “I’m fine, Stewart,” Joseph retorted. “I just hate the city with such veracity that it can upset my inner workings.” Joseph looked closely at Stewart and saw a red book poking out of a satchel strapped to his waist. He read the cover quickly before Stewart noticed and covered it with his cape. “Even after what they did to that Innu, you’re still going to carry that book with you in the open? How much of an idiot are you?”

            Stewart didn’t appear disquieted at all. “The Congri have never forbade me to read such a thing. Boucher himself suggested it.”

            Joseph’s nostrils began to flare with rage. “Oh and why not play with the little dirty, peasant boys and girls and live in an equal harmonious paradise? Why not open the gates to our castle and let all the poor starving men in the country take our gold! Why not publicly speak of ending the papacy and returning Church lands to the serfs?”

            Stewart shrugged his shoulders, “why not?”

            Joseph gripped his brother’s shoulders tightly and looked straight into his eyes, more tense than a matador fighting a demon bull. “Because they will burn you, Stewart. They will roast you alive and not one man will shed a single tear for thee.”

            Stewart crept to the doorway and then turned back for one final look. His mouth opened in a toothy grin. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to stay indoors, then. Why, Joseph, even you should know you can’t have a fire in the main hall.”

            With that, Stewart walked away leaving Joseph with his sorrow, all alone.