1568. A man in a red robe kneels in the highest sacristy in the world, and prays. “Braith. I do not know if you will hear me, or, if you hear me, whether you will listen, being as how I have devoted my life to the Church. However, I cannot think who else even might, at this point. It seems even the saints turn a blind eye.

“The current Pope seems to have gone mad. Possibly with power, possibly with age; I cannot be sure. I am from a small country. The people are devout, but very poor, despite our silver mines; I myself only ascended to my current position because a de Medici sponsored me.

“And yet the Pope, God’s representative on earth, takes no pity on our poverty, and continues to impose taxes for the support of Church property which nine-tenths of them will never see. The foreign abbots dine on meat and sugarbread whilst the people starve. I have asked and petitioned for relief; for caritas—good Christian aid and forgiveness, and am ignored.

“This situation is repeated the world around, especially in new lands, where people who would make good subjects are tortured and imprisoned because they possess new resources which the Pope desires for personal gain. The rest of the college of cardinals merely pander to the Pope, hoping he soon passes, or perhaps out of fear that they will be stripped of station and income and cast down—but he seems healthy, and surrounds himself with healers and doctors.

“I have tried everything in my power. I will be cast out if this becomes known, but I have to ask you for help. I know you and your fellow Osmund look upon us poorly, but on the part of thousands of starving and exploited, I have to ask—can you help me take down the Pope?”

The man descends the hundreds of steps to ground level, goes to his quarters, and flagellates himself for blasphemy. And yet, there is a small stirring of hope.

Far above, the sky weeps.