20: Patriarch
Phantasia wondered if, somehow, Bishop Wotan could also feel the dread presence moving ever closer, as the statue of a man she had been studying up until this point was now brushing the creases out of his outfit and breathing with quick, shallow gasps. As always, his thoughts and feelings were well guarded, his own aura as enshrouded as the body under those heavy robes.
Katrina was still hiding at the side of the podium, sitting curled up on the polished steps and playing with the settings on her camera, which Wotan had returned to her without explanation. Her memories were beginning to return, but it would be at least several days until she could piece them together. If it weren’t for the constant presence of Wotan, Phantasia would have sat down and told her everything.
The presence reached the doors at the far end of the audience chamber and Phantasia held her breath. She could feel the imposing figures standing beyond the wooden barriers, each one radiating the same malice that seeped through the walls of the manor, as if the true faith of Godhand had been condensed and made manifest. Even Wotan refrained from breathing, his lips pursed tight as his eyes narrowed on the doors, waiting.
At first a crack of light appeared in the wooden face, then the doors swung open to reveal the entourage standing before the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Four knights suited in breast plates that bore the scythed cross of Godhand marched into the chamber, followed by a figure in garish robes designed to make him resemble a giant. His staff clanked on red carpet like a third leg as he walked with long strides towards the throne and Wotan.
“Bishop Wotan, I find your lack of courtesy extremely disappointing,” he said, his voice booming around the large chamber, “I arrive here expecting a favourable welcome and instead I find scoundrels loose in the corridors, smoke billowing from terrorist attacks, and you, Bishop, residing in the bowels of your fortress accompanied by…” he glanced between Phantasia and Katrina with unfavourable eyes, “These two girls.”
“I was distracted, Patriarch Vates,” said Wotan, not betraying a thing with his statue-like expression. For a moment the two men stared one another down, until the Patriarch broke and strode up the steps to depose Wotan from this position of power.
“It is fortunate for our people that I have arrived to save them,” said the Patriarch, “Explain these girls. They are not ours. Why are they here?”
“They are guests,” said Wotan, refusing to back down the stairs and cower before his superior, “I was discussing town politics with them.”
The Patriarch sat down in the throne, his robes covering it like a blanket, and glanced at the two girls with distrustful eyes rimmed by deep lines. “They are children, Bishop,” he said, “I do not think they understand politics. And the white-haired one looks dubious. Tell me, girl, what is your name?”
Phantasia took inspiration from Wotan and stared the Patriarch down, but his eyes were filled with stinging malice. The longer she tried to fight him, the more he focused his emotions into those eyes, and the more pain stabbed at her body.
“Her name is Gwen,” said Wotan, taking the pressure off of Phantasia, “She comes from one of the wandering tribes, hence the physical mutations. She was chosen by her people to be an ambassador to Godhand…”
The malice swept away from her and the Patriarch returned his attention to Wotan. “Godhand does not do ‘diplomacy’, Bishop,” he said, “Is this a part of your dubious schemes to pander to the uninitiated?”
“I have no such scheme, my Lord,” said Wotan, almost – but not quite – edging forward as if to bow, “I merely believe that—“
“What you believe in is the Doctrine!” snapped the Patriarch, “Nothing else. Obedience is everything. There are only three types of people in this world: the faithful, the uninitiated and the heretics. Those who do not know the grace of God shall either understand and accept it, or be destroyed. That is what we believe.”
“Then,” began Wotan, watching his superior with a faint smile forming on his lips, “What would my Lord suggest we do?”
