The Fickle Winds of Autumn

7. The Pleiad

A hopeful fire blazed in the hearth of Father Steadman's apartments; its dull crackle broke the stunned roomful of silence which greeted his disclosure.

He stood, warming his back against the gathering chill, as he glanced around the wood-panelled chamber at his fellow members of the High Pleiad. They shifted uneasily against the comforts of his fine chairs, obviously uncertain of how to react to his disturbing news.

He felt himself young in their presence - in both age and knowledge - but the plain purity of his unadorned robes indicated that, despite his unusual past, he had indeed been duly elected as the Supreme Father of the Church - more than a decade ago now; but he reflected, never in that time had he been forced to confront a problem of this magnitude.

Several of his guests helped themselves to the fine dark wine, which as Patrex, he was always obliged to keep de-cantered ready for any such occasion; but although the fire and the smoothness of the vintage had un-thawed their ageing bodies from the autumn temperatures of the unheated Great Cathedral, their thoughts and voices had become frozen once more following his announcement.

His eyes were drawn towards Brother Caldor, the second most senior member of the Pleiad, who had always resisted his leadership; but the revelation seemed to have dulled even his barbed tongue.

Clearly, it would be up to him to continue the conversation. He was the leader, and these were his apartments.

"So you can all see how grave the situation is, gentlemen," he said, breaking through the tense atmosphere. "We must handle things very carefully, for we cannot allow our faithful to become unduly alarmed."

"Unduly alarmed?" said Brother Fencliffe. "You can speak of such things at a time like this? Why, if even half of what you've just said is true..."

The room shuddered into an uneasy silence once more. Brother Rowe's chair scraped on the floor as he coughed nervously and reached for his glass. But Steadman knew he must maintain a calm exterior, no matter how he felt inside, no matter how unsettling their situation.

"But I'm afraid it would seem to be so," he continued. "Brother Lanqvist, the greatest of our scholars, was researching ways of dealing with the witch attacks."

He indicated the white-haired man sitting in the corner, stooped against the cane which rested between his knees.

"It was our ever-diligent Librarian who first informed me of it," said Lanqvist in his rolling lowland tones: "but her findings were true enough. I have spent these last weeks reading and cross-checking - but all the scrolls point to the same conclusion."

The tense, sombre ambience engulfed the chambers again.

He must act; he must make them see the danger, while being careful not to provoke their dignity. They were his elders, even if below him in rank, and they still held a great deal of authority within their own communities. Their help would be critical if they were to avoid disaster.

"Yes gentlemen, I'm afraid it seems to be so - these witch attacks are no small matter, and no doubt troublesome and dangerous in themselves; but we must also accept the fact that their recent boldness might not just be a coincidence - it may be that they are testing our defences and readying themselves..."

"And you're serious in saying these attacks aren't just unfortunate and random? That they are somehow all connected to... the old stories?" said Fencliffe.

"Yes, I am." Steadman replied.

"Stuff and nonsense!" Caldor erupted from the far side of the chamber. "You dare to speak of such unfounded sacrilege? And here, of all places? Inside the very heart of our beloved Church?"