Winds of Fate [Books IV-VI]

Interlude: Pasión (Part One)

March 12, 1699
The Past
Seville, Spain

They enter the Catedral from the northwest, through grand wooden doors peeped to a crack. The sacristy boy bows as the Arsobispo and Asistente Murillo walk inside the cold hallowed halls. A testimony of Christ's providence over España, the Catedral—dedicated to Santa María de la Sede—looms in the heart of the city, with her intricately embellished vaulted ceiling swallowing the heavens in her caverns, so high one's head would spin if they look at the silver points etched in each cavern for too long.

Then, there is her grand marble floors and layered Gothic pillars that hold up the whole Catedral. This decadent expanse stretches to the four directions, almost every passageway punctuated by capillas, tinier chapels, bound by black iron gates and filled with pews, and each is named after a certain saint or heavenly figure. Sevilla is more than a pious city; she is a city who lives both in fear and praise of the saints. It was a joke in court that perhaps this is why Don Juan Cristonal Del Santo was blessed to be Rey San Fernando's beloved, victorious soldier during the reconquest—the destiny of this land is foreshadowed in his name.

Now, the young Conde bites the inside of his cheek and vainly hopes this will be a short, formal meeting at best. For this is the very first time he'll speak with Arsobispo Jaime...

All by himself.

He was, of course, baptized in this very same church ovet a golden baptismal font, just as his parents were married before the grand altar, and his grandfather as well, and all their forefathers before that. However, it was Arsobispo Ignacio Spínola y Guzmán who officiated both events in their family's recent history, and all of his interactions with the current Arsobispo Jaime de Palafox y Cardona has been limited to their curt greetings on Sundays... and the condolences he gave upon Papa's death.

Now, the bespectacled, hunched priest who oversees one of the largest archdioceses in all of España—and possibly in all of Europe, save for Rome—walks a good two steps forward, barring any talk with him but gaily entertaining Asistente Murillo's useless questions and amazements toward the finery and grandeur of the Catedral. Her altars plated with gold. Her resplendent and detailed retablos that are found in each capilla, depicting the life of Jesus and his saints... with the grandest one being the panels found at the end of the nave.

He nearly rolls his eyes at that, for this are not—should not be— surprising especially if Murillo has been Seville as instructed by the King.

Anton stops himself at the last moment, remembering that Fraile de Salas, albeit quiet, is just one foot away at his left. No doubt keeping an eye on him, with those hands perpetually clasped and pressed to his stomach. They solemnly walk down the long, nave, soles clacking with tap tap on the polished marble floors—the bright sunshine filtering through from the intricate glass windows.

Andalusia is the true empire where the sun fears to lay down; even at seven in the evening, the sky is just like it was in the morning. Anton proudly beams.

"How was Triana, Señor Conde?"

He stiffens and turns to his left. Fraile de Salas tries to smile, an effort to be friendly or to catch him in a trap, Anton doesn't know. Oh, God forgive me. He closes his eyes. Not inside the Catedral.

"Quite an experience," Anton measuredly says, but allows himself to frown. "I cannot believe one of our barrios is in such a state."

"Triana has always had a mind of her own," Fraile de Salas says carelessly. "It is not our burden as sevillanos."

Not yours. It probably is mine. Anton nods, unwilling to pick a fight there. "It can be a good thing... but if they are beset in the consequences of their own choices, would it be not charity to offer a hand to them?"