by Andy Sparrow
They went below, to the lowest level, where the captives already stood with chained wrists and ankles. His Lordship stopped eye to eye with the preacher who shook his head sadly as he spoke.
“Mother church, are you so frightened of your own children?”
His Lordship did not respond.
“Why have you taken these others?” asked the preacher, “is it now a crime even to listen?”
“Those without sin need have no fear,” said His Lordship.
“So have the Brothers of Redemption always said,” came the preacher's reply, “but do they not also say that none of us are without sin?”
“If these others are innocent then you have the power to release them,” said His Lordship, “you have only to tell me now who else conspires in heresy with you.”
No answer came. His Lordship turned to the soldiers.
“Take him to the Cloisters.”
The preacher was bundled away along the passage. As he went he turned and shouted back.
“And God drew forth a great mountain, a great mountain. What shape is the world priest? Tell me what shape is the world…” A blow to the stomach turned his shouts to gasping. His Lordship looked at the other prisoners who gazed back with terrified eyes.
“Release them,” he said to the officer.
“Eminence?”
“Or is it now a crime even to listen?” said His Lordship.
No answer came. The chains were removed and the prisoners were pushed roughly back through the doors into the plaza. They returned through the passage to the villa in silence, where His Lordship ordered at once that Graselle should be sent to him.
Even before the bell sounded marking the end of sleep a messenger was hammering on the door of the villa. His Lordship was summoned and a few urgent words were exchanged. It was shortly after that Torrin joined His Lordship in a carriage and they set off briskly. Their journey took them to a large, forbidding, building enclosed between high walls. Set within many alcoves above the only gate were rows of carved figures. Torrin could see the form of the nearer ones, figures penitent and ashamed, in agonies of remorse and torment.
“What is this place?” asked Torrin as they came within the walls chill shadow.
“The Cloisters of the Brothers of Redemption,” said His Lordship and he spoke as if the words had some bitter flavour even for him. The heavy timber door swung inwards to receive them and darkness lay beyond. They passed within and drew still, the gate boomed closed behind them and they waited in an arched tunnel lit by flickering torchlight. From somewhere a voice spoke. The tone was soft, enquiring, but filled with an awful suggestion of menace.
“Who would enter our Cloisters?”
“I am his Holy Eminence, Lord Vagis of Etoradom, Emissary of the Emperor High Priest, and Canon of the Sacred Order of the Lord's Servants. I am now charged by his Eminence and Emissary of the Holy Father, Cardinal Saloxe, to apprehend and deliver to you those guilty of heresy and blasphemy. I have been summoned here for reasons that may be known to you.”
A brooding silence was followed by the sound of another massive door grinding open and dim light lay ahead. They drove through into a courtyard and stopped within the shadow of high slit-windowed walls. Another coach had recently arrived, the horses still breathing hard and damp with sweat. His Lordship eyed the intricate crest painted upon its side.
“It would seem,” he said, “that events here have brought even Cardinal Saloxe down from his high tower.”
Cardinal Saloxe emerged from a doorway as he spoke, in the company of an aged an unsmiling man dressed in black robes. The old man gazed at them with eyes that were ice blue and ice cold as they stepped down from the carriage. He seemed to bear a look of martyrdom, like a great weight carried upon his unworthy shoulders, as if the burden of his duties in those grim Cloisters was a suffering greater than any inflicted upon heretics under torture.
“Lord Vagis,” he said solemnly, “welcome in God's name to our Cloisters.”
“God's blessings be upon you, Abbot. Can I see what has happened?”
“You will be shown. Cardinal Saloxe and myself will join you there shortly; we have matters to discuss first. Brother Ganus will escort you, it was he who found the prisoner at the time of waking.”
The monk was summoned and they were led into the frowning building. They followed echoing dim corridors lit by torchlight, past many rows of doors heavily bolted from the outside. Dark cowled figures in ones and twos shuffled past them silently. Brother Ganus stopped and placed his fingers upon a door.
“Here is the cell,” he said, “it was locked by key at the time of sleep. It could only have been opened by a key. You will see there is no damage to the mechanism. It was still locked when we came to fetch the prisoner in the hours before waking. This is what we found…”
They passed through into a stinking, dark, bare cell. A ragged chained figure slumped against the wall. Torrin realised, though recognition was not easy, that it was the preacher arrested by His Lordship. There were brand marks upon his bare chest, the cruel singed imprint of the circle and the triangle, and a single wound to the heart. A pool of blood was darkening and congealing around him.
“Whoever did this unlocked the door,” said the monk, “then killed the prisoner with a stab to the heart, then the door was locked again.”
“The prisoner had been questioned,” said His Lordship, “had he implicated any others?”
“He made a full confession. We doubted that he had anymore to tell us.”
“But the questioning was due to continue despite this?”
“Indeed, at some length.”
“Show us the other one.”
They left the cell and followed the corridor to a staircase and a higher level. There were more cells, almost identical, but without locks. Brother Ganus opened a door.
“This is how he was found when the messenger came to tell him of the killing of the prisoner.”
Within was a simple chamber, the walls adorned with a few religious artifacts, a lectern stood to one side with the Text of God open upon it. At their feet was a sleeping litter and strewn upon it another body. The black robes were shredded and the flesh beneath rent many times by slashing blows. There were stab wounds around the face, even the eyes had been skewered. His Lordship looked down at the mutilated body.
“This was the prisoner’s questioner?”
“It was, may God receive him. He was a devout servant of our brotherhood.”
“Brother, I thank you for your assistance. I would spend a little time in contemplation and prayer here before I leave.”
“As you wish, Lord Vagis.” The monk left them alone.
“Vasagi, tell me what you have seen here, and in the other cell.”
Torrin looked down at the corpse.
“Lord, this man was killed with anger and hatred. He has been slashed many times after he was already dead. The other one, the prisoner, was stabbed once only to the heart. He did not look to have struggled or resisted. It seems to me that was a killing not of hate or anger, but of mercy.”
“Vasagi, we are in the most guarded stronghold of the citadel. There is one gate only, and only the appointed or invited may pass. There are many cells and all are locked. The killer had a key, the killer knew which cell to go to, and who the questioner was…”
“Either, Lord, the killer is a master of stealth or...”
“Or, Vasagi, the killer is one from within these walls. One who could no longer stand to watch torment and torture, one whose anger and self doubt erupted in this room.”
“Aye, Lord. That would be an answer.”
“Which would mean, Vasagi, that the plague of heresy within the city has infected even this Brotherhood.”
The door opened and Cardinal Saloxe entered. He looked impassively at the stabbed and slashed body.
“Have you formed any opinions on these crimes?” he asked.
“Indeed, Cardinal,” said His Lordship, “the killings here
were the work of a heretical cult who have used disguise to enter the cloisters. They came here to murder one of their number out of fear that he would implicate those of the conspiracy. They murdered this brother first having obtained under duress the location of the prisoner and his key to the cells.”
“Did they then return to chain the key again to the brothers belt?” asked Saloxe reaching down and taking a blood stained key in his hand.
“Such details will be clarified when the heretics confess.”
They all three left the cell and returned along the brooding corridors. Torrin felt oppressed within these grim walls, stifled with an overwhelming sense of evil, an evil that was magnified by its self-justification, by its cold superior indifference. Cardinal Saloxe slowed his pace and looked at the passing cell doors.
“There is a confession to be witnessed before I return to the tower,” he said, pausing as if unsure of where to go. From some dungeon close by, came an awful lingering scream of pleading and despair.
“Ah, they seem to have started without me,” said the Cardinal, turning and walking off towards the awful sound. Torrin watched him go, his hand upon the sword hilt. His instinct was to draw his weapon and run screaming through the corridors, cutting down every cowled figure, throwing open every door, ending the torment of those within. But His Lordship laid a hand upon his own, looked him sternly in the eye and shook his head.
“If you would have my service Lord,” said Torrin, releasing the sword hilt, “I ask that you never bring me to this place again.”
“Let us hope that neither of us has reason to return here, Vasagi.”
Chapter 6
Fear not the darkness of night but only that which lies within your heart.
The book of Tarcen. Ch. 4 V. 13
For two moons life continued in its new pattern. His Lordship spent much of his time at the tower but on occasions they would walk the passages within the spoke walls. Sometimes there would be many soldiers waiting in the corridors, at others just one officer would conduct them to some peephole or window slit. His Lordship would watch the people beyond and those that suspicion had fallen upon would be pointed out. There was no more open preaching of heresy; only small groups that might huddle and talk in animated whispers with frequent glances around them. Invisible eyes observed them from within the walls; names were written down, lists were made.
Then, during the sleeping time, Torrin heard a commotion from the outer city. A messenger arrived and they were summoned to where a temple was burning. The proud marble exterior crumbled and fell as flame and smoke billowed from within. His Lordship stood among the gathered crowd of soldiers watching the inferno, with a grim look upon his face. Many people had emerged from their shuttered homes to witness the scene and some grinned at the soldiers. An angry officer spoke to His Lordship.
“Eminence, should we make arrests?”
“No. Order them to return to their homes.”
“But, Eminence, some are taunting us. Surely they must be punished.”
“We know them, we know their names. Arrest them now and more than one temple will burn.”
The soldiers withdrew through the many doorways into the spoke wall. As the doors slammed shut, shouts and stones thrown against the outer side could be heard.
“Now they go too far!” said the officer. “There are archers on the upper wall, Eminence…”
“Yes,” sighed His Lordship, “they are too bold. Give the order, but only those casting stones.”
Moments later came the sound of screams and the panicking crowd dispersing.
“You may arrest those remaining that are alive,” said His Lordship. He left shaking his head sadly, then glanced at Torrin who walked in silent thought beside him.
“Vasagi, why did God choose me for this task?”
“How can I say, Lordship? He is your God.”
It was the sleeping time. Orders had come from the tower that all guards and protectors should be especially vigilant, lest the heretical cult that had penetrated the Cloisters should seek another victim. Torrin paced the quiet house deep in thought. He doubted that these assassins existed except in the imagination of the priests. Fantasies of conspiracy were their delusion, their comfort even, for what was the reality that could not be countenanced? That the church was feared and hated by its own congregations? That the foundation of all, the ‘holy’ Text, was the product of another age, of a smaller world?
Then there was a creak of weight pressing gently upon the staircase. Torrin stood silent, listening with keen hunter's ears. Another sound came; unmistakably a creeping footfall. He stepped back into a shadow-filled doorway opposite His Lordship's chamber. In the gloom of the shuttered house he strained his eyes and began to see a shape moving in slow cautious steps towards the chamber door. He pressed himself back harder into the shadow and watched as the figure drew nearer. A hooded cloak concealed the person that stood before His Lordship's chamber, who fumbled gently within its folds to draw out a dagger.
The blade glimmered coldly in the dim light as the other hand reached for the door handle. Torrin took the few paces between him and the hooded figure and grasped the hand that held the knife while with his other arm circled the neck and squeezed tight. The wrist in his hand was thinner than a twig; a small body crumpled under his grip and could make no resistance. He pulled back the hood and found Graselle looking back at him with tearful eyes. Nothing was said; he took the knife and led her quickly away to his own tiny room. He sat her down and lit a candle, then looked at the knife, turning it over in his hands.
“What will you do with me?” she asked, head bowed.
“I do not know.”
“Will you tell him?”
“As his protector I should do so. For next time you might fare better.”
Torrin sighed shaking his head and spoke to her again.
“You would not do this if you had been where I have, if you had seen the Cloisters of the Brothers; that is where they would take you.”
“They would have taken me nowhere. I was going to kill myself, after him.”
“What an evil place this is,” said Torrin, “to take young maidens, to enslave them, violate them. I can understand your anger, why you would hate him.”
She looked at Torrin, showing surprise at his words, then began to speak.
“You understand less than you think…”
The door opened suddenly. His Lordship had evidently heard the sounds of struggle and then of voices. He looked at them both, and at the knife that Torrin held.
“Leave us,” he said and motioned Torrin away.
Torrin paced the corridor again and heard the mumbling of voices from within the room. The exchanges were quiet, conciliatory, and intimate. After a while His Lordship and Graselle emerged and went together to his bedchamber. Unusually, she stayed within for the whole time of sleeping, not emerging until the great bell had tolled. Torrin realised that he had indeed misunderstood Graselle’s motives. When His Lordship left for the tower he went to her as she walked alone in the garden.
“I thought I understood what you tried to do in the sleeping time,” he said, “but I was wrong.”
“You thought I hated him.”
“Aye, I thought that.”
“I love him.”
“And he loves you?”
“Loves me? That is not possible; priests may not love, it is forbidden. They have only a duty to take concubines and…and…” She faltered, eyes dewy, lips trembling. “To take concubines... and to put them with child, so there will be more priests… They took my baby…”
She cried wretchedly, tears streaming. She choked the words out again, distraught, crushed, heartbroken. A sense of loss so unbearable that it pierced Torrin like a cold blade.
“They took my baby… They took him, just when he began to walk...”
“His Lordship let this happen?”
“He had no way to stop it. It hurts him too. They will do it again and I can't stand it. I don'
t want to have another baby…”
“You are with child again?”
She nodded, tears falling upon her feet.
An uneasy calm settled upon the city over the next moon. Graselle spent most of the sleeping time in His Lordship's chamber but her melancholy seemed to grow with the swelling of her belly. Valhad worked enthusiastically in the garden and was warmly regarded by the other servants. Torrin too, seemed at last to find acceptance as the household came to understand that he was not like other protectors. Sometimes His Lordship would be summoned to council that extended into the resting time and he would not return until the great bell sounded its signal that sleep should begin. On one such occasion, Torrin walked into the city to fill some time. He passed the gate from the citadel, scrutinised as always by the vigilant guards, and walked with no particular destination through the meandering alleys. The traders’ stalls were closed, and few people passed by, as Torrin let the walkways guide his feet wherever they chose. Then he saw ahead three familiar figures; Alasam, Marasil and Valhad. Before he could call out to them they slipped into a side alley. He followed in time to see them take another turn and hurried after them.