The Wayward Godking by Brendan Carroll Page A

this method proposed by the Master.”
    “How so?” Edgard asked him gruffly.
    “First, because of what Madam Dambretti has pointed out, and secondly, because we have in our midst two expert… Dream Walkers.”
    A small ripple and twitter of voices ran through the assembly hall as everyone looked at everyone else in surprise and confusion.
    “Dream Walkers?” Edgard frowned and then chuckled. “That sounds like something the Native Americans would claim as part of their particular spiritual culture, I believe. Golden Eagle? Are you a Dream Walker?”
    Dambretti sat up straighter, and then narrowed his eyes before standing to answer the question. There was a decidedly uncharacteristic gleam in the Grand Master’s eyes.
    “Your Grace.” He nodded directly to the Master and a tiny smile played across his lips. “I would remind His Excellency, the Grand Master, I am Italian by birth, the son of Venetian Aristocracy, not Native American, though I have often referred to myself as Chief of the Dumbfuck Tribe, when Your Grace intentionally belittles me in the company of members and non-members of this Order. I would like to take this opportunity to challenge the reasoning capabilities of the Grand Master and move that a new Grand Master be elected with all due respect.”
    “Hold your tongue!” The Grand Master blurted.
    “If I do that, I will not be able to speak, and I believe the floor was open to suggestions, comments and questions, was it not?” Dambretti raised both eyebrows at the Seneschal, who was unable to speak momentarily. “I move for a chambered meeting and an immediate vote.”
    “A motion has been placed before the assembly,” Barry intoned the proper words even though he was still obviously shaken by Dambretti’s request. “Do we have a second?”
    Dead silence filled the intervening spaces between them.
    “No second?” Barry asked again and then shrugged. “The motion does not carry, Brother. There is no second.”
    Lucio smiled and shrugged. “It was just a thought. No, I am not a Dream Walker, nor am I a Native American, Your Grace,” he said lightly and resumed his seat as if nothing amiss had happened. Mark Andrew shot him a dark look.
    “Then who?” Edgard demanded and looked about the room at the blank faces staring at him. The Grand Master’s face glowed deep red with suppressed anger. Dambretti had gotten to him… again. “Lavon de Bleu! Who are these two experts as you call them? I have warned all of you against using black magick. If it does not come from the Wisdom of Solomon, it has no place in this Order. I know a few things about these so-called Dream Walkers, and I know they are associated with Shamanistic practices. Shamanism has no place in this Order. Neither does Wiccan or Wise Woman practices. I will not allow such to be practiced by my Knights, Sir! I will tell you this, if any of you are dabbling in the Black Arts again, I will see to it you are ex-communicated and exiled from the Order. Now, tell me who these…. Shamans are, Sir de Bleu!”
    Edgard’s anger deepened when de Bleu hesitated to answer his question. He glanced at Mark Andrew and found the Knight of Death perusing him coolly from under his dark brows. Lavon was Ramsay’s grandson. Mark had never spoken a harsh word he could remember to any of Edgard’s grandsons. At least, not since they had come of age and especially not since some of them had become accepted members of the Council as Knights or Apprentices.
    “I would rather not say, Your Grace,” Lavon told him shortly and sat down abruptly.
    “That is not an option,” the Master told him evenly. “You will answer my question or you will suffer the same sentence I have just pronounced.”
    Mark Andrew raised his hand and, again, a silence fell over the assembly even more profound than before.
    “Sir Mark Ramsay,” Barry’s voice carried just a hint of tremor as he called on the Knight of Death.
    “Your Grace, I would speak on behalf of