Rewrite That Witch
CH266 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 266: Making Up Their Mind

“Your Majesty — do you know why there is no news from my older brother?”

The question caught Timothy off guard. He had not thought about it consciously, but Ed was right: it had been two months since he sent Lehman Hawes west. However far they had traveled, however deep into the Western Territory, they should have reported by now. Or returned.

One of Lehman’s assigned missions had been “seize as much of the Western Territory as possible,” but Timothy was clear-eyed about what that meant in practice. After fifteen hundred men had taken the pills, they became nearly useless for sustained occupation. The real objectives were Longsong Stronghold, the church’s pill stores, intelligence on the Duke’s defeat, and a strike against Border Town to bleed Roland’s strength. He had used the same tactic against Garcia. Even if a capture failed and the militia was destroyed in the attempt, most of the Knights would return safely. Then he would simply assemble another group and send them again.

But there was no news at all. Not a dispatch. Not a scout returning.

“Perhaps his return was delayed by the attack on Border Town,” Timothy said slowly. “Or he may already be on his way back.” He knew, even as he said it, that the reasoning was thin. He did not want to speak the more likely answer aloud to Lehman’s younger brother.

“Perhaps there will be a message waiting for me in King’s City.”

“Then when that time comes, Your Majesty — would you be willing to…”

“Tell you?” Timothy nodded. “Of course. I’ll send a messenger.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Timothy leaned against the railing and watched the occasional pale flickers within the mass of black cloud. Thunder arrived from somewhere over the water — not sharp, but low and resonant, felt as much as heard, as if it struck something inside the chest.

Ed’s question had drained most of the joy out of him.

Garcia’s rebellion had been foreseeable. Tilly’s disappearance had disappointed him. But Roland — Roland had been something else entirely. He had always assumed it unnecessary to spare more than passing attention on his incompetent youngest brother. Given enough time, Roland would grow bored of Border Town’s hardships and return to King’s City on his own. That had seemed obvious.

And then: surviving the Months of Demons. Defeating Duke Ryan. Seizing Longsong Stronghold. And now, the complete silence regarding Lehman and fifteen hundred militia.

How is any of this possible?

Timothy had no deep picture of his younger brother. In childhood, Garcia and Gerald had not loved playing with him. As adults they met only at palace banquets. The stories that filtered back were all of recklessness and frivolity — even their father had not favored him. Had he concealed his true nature from the beginning?

The idea surfaced and was rejected almost at once. Even if Roland were as sharp as Tilly, that would only affect his learning speed and his reflexes in a crisis. Tilly herself had been indistinguishable from any ordinary girl in childhood. No one was born knowing how to deceive and conceal. Something must have changed after he left for Border Town. Something had happened there.

Timothy shook his head and pushed the thought aside.

“What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”

“Nothing.” He drew a slow breath. “A storm is coming.”

The strategic picture had not changed regardless. Border Town was landlocked, backed by the barbaric wasteland with nowhere to retreat. With only a small population and an exposed position, Roland was already encircled by geography. He could defend his corner with everything he had, and Timothy would eventually wash over him. Sooner or later, Roland Wimbledon would kneel at his feet.

But even that was a side act in a much larger drama.

The Church’s movements were becoming clearer by the month. Its intentions less ambiguous. One day Graycastle and the Church would collide directly — that would be the real challenge, the one that actually mattered. The question of Roland was merely the curtain-raiser.

“Attend to your duties,” he said. “The faster you finish, the sooner you can return.”

“As you bid, Your Majesty.”

Ed took two steps, then turned back once more. “I almost forgot — how should I deal with those who took the pills and didn’t die on the battlefield? They’ve now taken a third dose.”

“Burn them with Port of Clear Water.”

The Knight acknowledged his orders and left.

Shortly after, Timothy felt a cold drop on the tip of his nose. The rain had begun — a few sparse drops that quickened steadily until the sea’s surface was covered in spreading rings.

At the peak of the Tower of Babel in the New Holy City of Hermes.

“Damn it — truly, goddamn it!” Tayfun slammed his fist against the table with enough force to shake the surface. “That whoreson! That blasphemy! She dares to turn her spear against the Church!”

Mayne had never before seen the old bishop lose control so completely. The veins at his temple stood out. His beard trembled. His expression was that of a man who wished to swallow the person responsible whole.

It was difficult to reconcile this with the man who could not exchange three words with Heather without quarreling the entire afternoon. But then Tayfun had seen the contents of the small jeweled box sent from the Queen of Clear Water — and the calm had broken.

The box had contained no pearl. Only a single cast-iron ring: the Bishop’s emblem, personally awarded by His Holiness. Still attached to a blood-darkened finger.

Mayne reached out and took the box. “Of course she dares,” he said quietly. “God only favors the victorious.”

The words seemed to land in Tayfun like stones into still water. The rage drained out of him. He sat back down heavily, breathing hard, before he managed to ask: “Then what do you intend to do?”

This was a situation the Church had not faced in a hundred years. No one had imagined Garcia would push all the way up from Graycastle into the Kingdom of Endless Winter, or that the Black Sail Fleet would then turn toward Hermes after seizing the Wolfsheart capital. Although the Wolfsheart Kingdom had been on its last breath before being taken, Mayne had not hesitated to order the God’s Punishment Army back to the Old Holy City. That city — even without walls — was the barrier defending the cave beneath Hermes. It could not be surrendered at any price.

They had repelled the offensive. The Black Sail Fleet had retreated back along the river toward King’s City of Endless Winter. Garcia’s intention was transparent: the moment the Church dispatched troops against the Wolfsheart Kingdom, the Fleet would attack the Old Holy City from the river. Meanwhile, the nobles of Endless Winter — long suppressed, suddenly ungoverned after the royal family’s collapse — would begin to move. Mayne believed that any promise to preserve their territories would be enough to bring them behind Garcia’s banner, and Garcia would have herself crowned Queen of Endless Winter before the snow fell.

A dilemma without a clean solution.

But the Church did not bow before difficult situations. Even before his elevation to Archbishop, Mayne had understood that the road ahead would be long and steep with thorns.

“First, the Holy City must announce a new Archbishop,” he said, speaking steadily. “We will prepare a list of candidates; the final selection is His Holiness’s to make.”

“And the enemy?” Tayfun exhaled through his nose.

“I will explain everything to His Holiness.” Mayne closed his eyes. “His Excellency will execute holy judgment on them.”

Discussion

Suggest a change