He can do no more. Dejected, he sits with his head bowed in the high keep. His eyes are sore from lack of sleep. His mind fogged by the hundred complaints of the kingdom weighing heavy on his thoughts. It is all slipping away, he thinks.
The people are drawn to forces unnatural. Things his most learned advisors do not dare to pretend they understand. Things that slither and chatter in night’s guise. Things that promise paradises he cannot provide. He thinks he hears them in the keep these days. He does not know who has fallen afoul of their grip.
Perhaps he was too harsh on his people. Perhaps all the heavy taxes and tortures and executions did not cow them but instead stirred in them a restless desire for more. And now they have turned to this witchery.
But what to do about it? Repent? Become soft?
No.
His hand brushes aside the piles of unanswered letters on his desk. He begins to pen his own, addressing the head of his church. An inquisition is in order, one more brutal than any that came before.
Paddy Dobson
29th July 2022