He did not remain a minor priest for long. Bernardo was not the most overtly aggressive player in the deadly internal politics of the Church of the One, but he had an intuitive grasp of something few did: he could quickly recognize the true organization of any group, where the power actually resided as opposed to ostensible ranks and titles. He identified those who were public figures and those who moved quietly in the background. Above all, he had a lethal instinct for when an opponent was vulnerable and no hesitation in taking advantage of that recognition.
He immediately understood that while the Council of the Episkopos was the governing body of the Church of the One, there was a handful of men within the Council who controlled every aspect of the Church. The Church priesthood had as many barriers and dead ends as the army had, and picking a path to power had given him a challenge, but surviving in the streets had proved a harsh yet enlightening education.
His natural skills and intuition meant he knew the right moment to act, and more than once he had managed to convince someone else to be responsible for the fall of one of his rivals. He merely suggested something and other people acted, and he made sure they believed it was their own brilliance that had led to the targeted rival’s downfall. Gang leader or powerful episkopos, he could apply his talents equally, discerning quickly who was truly loyal, or easily manipulated or even bought, who might become an ally, and who must be neutralized or even destroyed.
On the streets he had learned early which boys were bullies full of bluster. They came and went, often to an early grave or a slave gang, but the truly clever, the gifted, and thoughtful – they endured. Those were the ones he observed, and listened to, as he sought to survive.
Over the years Bernardo had also found it convenient to shape the truth of his past to suit the fluid politics of the Church of the One. Those who knew the inconvenient facts of his early life were either his closest supporters or dead. Ridding himself of potential enemies had sharpened his naturally keen intellect and driven patience into the very fibre of his being. He had waited months, even years, at times to see a rival dead. His imperturbability was almost legendary within the higher echelons of the Church in Brojues. He was now counted among the wisest of the rulers of the Church, and, by wide consensus, the most patient. Today, he was approaching the end of that patience.
More than once he’d come close to death either in the name of the One, or in establishing his place in the hierarchy of the Church, and right now he’d gladly return to those moments and embrace a quick death.
He sat silently in a large bedchamber in the castle of Lodavico, Most Holy Majesty of Sandura, ruler of the single greatest power on the twin continents of North and South Tembria. Getting Lodavico to sit motionless for hours had proved impossible, but Bernardo had managed to get him to sit for minutes at a time, a small but necessary step in Bernardo establishing complete control over the king and, through him, the Kingdom of Sandura.
The king sat as still as he could while a painter attempted to capture his magnificence on a treated board of cured wood. The artist was a captive from the city of Ithra, taken by one of Lodavico’s oathmen. He had managed to survive the destruction of Ithrace’s capital, avoiding death and slavery but not captivity. His name was Bantiago.
Bernardo watched closely as Bantiago deftly applied colour to the wood and through some artistic magic created a likeness of Lodavico that was flattering but not overtly false. Bernardo understood how the painter had survived the destruction of Ithrace. His superb talents had kept him from death.
Bantiago painted so well that he had been passed from one noble to another over the years, building a reputation and eventually living well by painting brilliant portraits of his captors. Despite still being considered a captive, Bantiago travelled with servants, most of whom were strikingly handsome young men, an apprentice, also handsome to the point of being pretty, and a token guard. It was a captivity to be envied by most citizens of Sandura, thought Bernardo.
These portraits were an Ithraci thing, a vanity that rather offended Lodavico, but gradually Bernardo had convinced him to sit for a portrait to commemorate his glory. Bernardo had studied Lodavico for more than a year before they met, and he had now been a member of the king’s court, his most trusted adviser, for a decade. He knew the monarch of Sandura had hated the way he looked his entire life.
The king knew he was often mocked for his appearance behind his back. His nose was slightly bent to the right, his left eye was marginally higher than the right, and his rare smile was noticeably lopsided. This asymmetrical visage, while not ugly, gave him an odd appearance that put people ill at ease for reasons they couldn’t quite fathom. Coupled with his gaunt frame, and a certain coiled energy that made it look as if he were on the verge of sudden violence, it meant few people were ever comfortable in his presence.
He had taken advantage of that discomfort his entire life, bullying his young siblings to the point of terror long before he took his father’s throne. All of them gladly accepted distant fiefs or convenient marriages to be as far from the court in Sandura as possible.
He had agreed to a portrait only at Bernardo’s quiet persistence. In all his life Lodavico had not met anyone he felt more at ease with than Bernardo. This had been achieved over years of Bernardo’s clever manipulation and the building of trust. There had been nights when Bernardo had simply wished to kill Lodavico, or possibly move to the other side of Garn, but in the end, he knew his persistence in winning Lodavico’s trust would win out. Now that trust was almost absolute.
Something about his manner, his solid presence, calmed Lodavico no matter how stressful the situation that faced him. He counted the episkopos’s counsel as vital, and after many years of having the cleric at his side in the king’s chamber, it was clear that Lodavico couldn’t imagine making important decisions without Bernardo’s advice.
For Bernardo, persuading Lodavico to sit for a portrait was just one more tedious tiny step into completely controlling the king, without him being aware of it. The episkopos knew that by the time this portrait hung in the great gallery of the castle, amid the banners and crests of Lodavico’s ancestors, the king would be convinced the portrait had been his idea, not Bernardo’s, which was exactly what Bernardo wanted.
Growing tired of posing, Lodavico said, ‘That’s enough.’ He stood and indicated for a servant to remove the heavy red cape with the ermine collar. He hated the vanity of the thing but had agreed with the artist that it made him look ‘regal’. Lodavico had finally relented and seemed to be growing fonder of the pomp, which was also in keeping with Bernardo’s plans.
Bernardo rose, feeling his joints protest slightly, reminding him that at his age, approximately fifty years (his exact date of birth was unknown), he needed to spend more time exercising. He had been lean and fit his entire life, adding muscle and sinew as a soldier, and had seen too many others of his rank let themselves run to fat. He would engage one of his retinue to spar with him early tomorrow morning; he was an episkopos, but he had been a soldier long enough to prefer duelling and wrestling to other forms of exercise. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and his dark hair was shot through with grey. He still looked as vital and energetic as a man half his age.
He wore the less formal clothing of his office, a black cassock with no trim, with black buttons down the front. His feet were clad in ankle-high boots of soft leather, and his only ornamentation was a silver circle brooch identifying him as a follower of the One, and a ring of office that adorned his left hand, another simple circle of silver, though set in the centre with a small ruby.
Vanity was not part of Bernardo’s nature, so his appearance was not designed to please himself, but to project an image he wished others to see. He wanted less to be noticed than to be a presence. More often than not it was a difficult feat.
He waited for servants to take away the heavy cloak Lodavico wore and for the king to move towards the door before falling in a half-step behind, on his left, a position of slight deference. Bernardo remind silent, for he could see the king’s mood was darker than usual for this time of the morning, even after one spent posing for his portrait.
Lodavico