Chapter 1:
Tried by Fire and found Pure
It
was no place for a god. But at the pinnacle of the ancient stairs, past the two
priests who stood like sentinels on the bottommost step, and still farther past
the point where blackness concealed all, hid just that, our god. Atop an
uncountable number of steps, Tsor watched us from the blackness with
penetrating eyes. Eyes that beheld centuries of mankind’s birthings and dyings,
now watched our quarrel unfold at the bottom of those long and darkened steps.
Eyes ever watching. Ears ever hearing. Mind ever judging.
Twenty-three
of us huddled at the bottom of the steps in the light of two solitary torches,
seven chairman, seven jugars, seven archpriests, Marcell’s wife, and myself,
the prentice.
Asiron stepped
to the front of the group with back to the stairs and the sentinel priests.
Asiron pushed the trial into motion, with flat tones. “Demos, please come
forward.”
I stepped from
the crowd. Without the safety of the others surrounding me, the cavernous empty
room unsettled me. I stepped into line with Asiron, trying to hide my tremors,
then turned to face the crowd I’d left. I felt the unrelenting eyes from the
top of those stairs searching my every part, seeking the truth.
Asiron
projected for the congregation and the deity to hear, his words repeated off
the walls. “Demos has served as Marcell’s prentice the past nineteen months and
was the first to observe the anomaly. Marcell has taken the jugar’s oath to
Tsor’s Code, therefore, judgment of his crime will be decided by Tsor himself.”
Asiron stepped
forward once, then turned to face me. “Demos, please explain to all here what
you have observed.”
Asiron joined
the crowd again, leaving me alone. Forty-eight mortal eyes now stared into me.
My eyes met Marcell’s. His were strong and unflinching, surprising for a man on
trial. I met Marcell’s wife’s gaze, reddened and watery. She blinked and a wash
of tears welled out, I turned away. I met Asiron’s eyes, brave and empowering.
I stayed focused on him through the duration, trying to forget the two amortal
eyes behind me in the dark of the stairs.
“I had been
working with Marcell for some time when I first noticed it.” My voice seemed
tiny in the cavernous room, mine didn’t echo in Tsor’s Hall as Asiron’s had. “I
think most people just overlook a man’s gyve and token. I think that’s why it
took so long to notice it.” I found myself unwittingly spinning my own token
inside my gyve. Clink. Clink. After every twirl, the clanging of the iron token
coming to a rest inside the gyve around my wrist drew the eyes of most of my
audience. Though it distracted them, it was far more beneficial for me as a
distraction from my own wandering thoughts. The token stopped another rotation,
with a flick of my finger I sent it spinning again. Clink. Clink.
“We were in the
jugar’s office. It was a slow afternoon, all we had done that day was
paperwork. The sun had hit Marcell’s token just right, something seemed off.
The iron in the token just wasn’t right, it didn’t look like something Tsor’s
smiths would have done. It looked amateur. I tried for a closer look when he
caught me staring. He became visibly upset, and sent me home for the day. Instead
of going home, I went to the Archpriest in Northern Shkhem.” I gestured to the
Archpriest of Northern who stood in the crowd, “Would you like to explain?”
The Archpriest
stepped out of the crowd one step. “Demos, wanted to check the census records
for a specific token number. At the time, he didn’t tell me where he had seen
that particular token number. So, I checked the number against the census
records, it didn’t belong to Marcell. The number on Marcell’s token belonged to
a man in Southern Shkhem, Eron.” The Archpriest waved a hand to gesture to
Eron, Asiron as I knew him. The Archpriest stepped back into the crowd.
Clink. Clink.
Clink. My token spinning resumed as I spoke. “When I left the Archpriest, I ran
to Southern Shkhem to find Eron. I asked to see his token, when he did I
confirmed that his number matched Marcell’s. I told Eron what I had found. Then
Eron called for this trial.” With awkward grace, I wedged back into the crowd.
The pressing of the other’s against me as we crammed together eased my tension,
somewhat.
Asiron
announced from his position in the crowd. “Marcell, please step forward and
present your case.”
Marcell stepped
forward from the crowd, his wife’s arm extended into the void his departure
from the crowd created. A sob or two from her gave way to streams of tears.
Marcell’s face was flat, resolute, and unremorseful as he took the attention of
all at the bottom of the stairs.
Marcell stood
in silent defiance. Feet planted like trees. Shoulders like sea cliffs. Eyes
like iron. The man seemed to take control of the room, despite the deity above.
“Marcell,”
Asiron called, “please present your case.” Asiron’s tone was professional and
calm, yet insistent.
“What case
would you have me present? How can I argue with numbers? Demos has said the
truth. Compare our tokens Eron, you’ll find the young man tells the truth.”
“Why do you
they match Marcell?” Asiron insisted.
“Am I a census
taker? Am I the record keeper? Am I one of Tsor’s smiths? Am I a forger of
tokens? Why is this my trial? Why aren’t the record-keepers, smiths, and you on
trial as well?”
“You will
present nothing in your defense then?”
“Check the
numbers if you must. The numbers are what they are. Let the god decide.” The
last of his words echoed in the subterranean temple, almost as if Tsor himself
was saying, “Let the god decide. Let the god decide. Let the god decide.” The
echoes played over the sound of his wife’s weeping. Marcell still unmoved, unafraid.
Asiron spoke
out again, “May I have the Archpriest of Northern and the Archpriest of
Southern step forward with the census records.”
Two archpriests
stepped out.
“Please present
for the audience your findings.”
One of the
priests spoke out, “We have compared our independent records, it would appear
as those Marcell has altered the census records of Northern and used his jugar
privileges to avoid the census. Had he not abused his jugar status, we would
have found the discrepancy during the census, and he would have not had access
to the census records to alter the data.”
Marcell
swallowed once. Then set his jaw.
Asiron stepped
from the crowd to stand next to Marcell. “Archpriests, if you wouldn’t mind,
please come compare our tokens. Tell us what you find.”
After only
moments of study, the Archpriests unanimously concluded, “Marcell’s token is a
forgery. This was not crafted by one of Tsor’s smiths. The quality is poor.
Whoever made this was not trained properly in the art of ironcraft.”
The Archpriests
moved to enter the crowd once again. Asiron stopped them at the last, “One more
thing, do you know who has Marcell’s original token?”
“No, we do
not.” The Archpriests joined the crowd.
“Marcell, for
the crimes of record alterations, crafting of Tsor’s sacred metal, and possibly
numerous other crimes related to this deception, you are being tried. As your
peers we will not judge you, but you have oathed yourself to Tsor and his Code.
As such, Tsor will weigh your actions.”
Silence
followed in anticipation of some sign from the dark, a burning signal to
indicate Marcell’s innocence as the god saw it. Marcell’s stance was as strong
as ever, but his face betrayed him with furrowed brow and quivering lips.
Silence
continued. Pops and crackles from the two burning torches were all that filled
the room, we all held our breath. His wife held her sobs.
Fire burst into
light at the top of the stairs. The ignition created a push of air through the
room I felt on my skin and in my ears. A swell of heat rushed past even at the
bottom of the steps. The group upturned their downcast faces to see what burn
above. White flame was all that could save Marcell, any other color would mean
Tsor had found Marcell guilty. In unison, all we mortals beheld the flames atop
the stairs, save for one man standing defiantly at the bottom of the stairs,
regarding his wife’s face.
His wife
charged through the crowd. Her arms embraced him, dissolving his strength. He
reduced to a heap there. The two held each other for moments, then it was as if
his strength were transferred to his wife during their embrace. Passion burned
in her. Hatred and anger stoked her fire. Her hands clenched. Her feet set hard
against the ground.
She abandoned the
man heaped there at the bottom of the steps. She rushed for the stairs, blowing
past the sentinel priests who made no movements as she stepped onto the
bottommost step, or any steps that followed. She held no weapons, but she
scaled the stairs ready to kill, her fists the only threat. In moments, she
disappeared into the black of the steps, rushing toward the blue-green flames
that sentenced her husband to death at the top of the steps.
Marcell, now on
his knees, spun to see his wife charging up the stairs. Marcell cried, “No! No!
Aida, no!”
All sight of
her was gone, but her labored breaths as she flew up the steps signaled her
progress up the mountain of stairs.
I regarded the
blue-green flames again, a shadow passed in front of the flames, an eclipse. A
god.
The patting of
her feet on the old stone steps told us she continued on her path. Then, her
footfalls silenced. Then, her breaths silenced as well. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of
softness hitting stone over and over again repeated after the thuds. The
muffled hits increased in speed as they came closer, sliding down the stairs.
Out of the
black, Aida’s body tumbled down the last stairs to come to rest directly before
Marcell.
A collective
sigh from the crowd.
An Archpriest came
to Marcell, and the body. The Archpriest removed a tool from his robes, then
took Marcell’s right arm in his hand. With the tool, the Archpriest pried open
Marcell’s gyve. It screeched open in a rusty cry, Marcell’s token toppled out
of the gyve and tinked to the stone floor, a tiny echo. The Archpriest gingerly
took Marcell’s wife’s arm, then opened the gyve shackle on her arm. Her token
tinked to the floor, an empty echo. The Archpriest bent to retrieve Marcell’s
forged token and Aida’s true token, others could use her token now. Corpses
needed no food rations or identification. The Archpriest pocketed both tokens. The
gyve opener swung in one hand, and two empty gyves swung in the other as he
walked for the exit behind us.
The two sentinel
priests abandoned their posts, to extinguish the two burning torches. The only
burning light was the blue-green flame of guilt at the top of those stone cold
stairs. The priests continued to usher our congregation through the exit.
Blue-green
light produced two shadows at the bottom of those ancient steps. Just before
the door to the cavernous room shut, I saw the fire atop those steps
extinguish. The two shadows at the bottom of the steps disappeared into utter
blackness.
In the lobby
outside of that dreadful room, as Marcell received his punishment
hand-delivered by a god, I steadied against the wall with the knowing weight
that that man’s blood was on me. My knees buckled.
Leaning against
the wall, a heavy hand came to rest on my shoulder. I turned to see a man
towering shoulders above me.
His long blond
beard that gathered into five groupings, each grouping weighed by a thick black
bear claw, left no doubt he was the jugar of Nabatene. He gave me a knowing nod
of support, no words were exchanged. Only nods and understanding eyes. His hand
lighted off my shoulder, along with it some of the weight Marcell’s blood
burdened me with. The bulky jugar from the North followed the others as they
exited the lobby.
One remained in
the lobby with me, Asiron. As the last of the others disappeared, Asiron
approached with hand outstretched. A moment passed before I took his hand to
shake. As I did, he pulled me from the wall, bringing me upright. Asiron’s free
hand slapped my upper arm forcefully, striking rigidity back into me.
“Look at me
Demos.”
I did so with
weak and wearied eyes.
“Don’t you feel
sorry for that man, not even for a breath. He knew the Code, he took the Oath.
That man is a traitor, worse than rebels and false prophets. He was an icon. He
has dashed the hopes of all who upheld him, he has betrayed them. He earned his
disgrace and his punishment. You have earned honor. You have done your land and
your god well. You were tested, you’ve passed. Tried by fire and found pure.”
I took a
breath, held it. Exhaled deep to feel weightless, strengthened.
“Thank
you, sir. That means a lot.”
“No,
thank you.” Asiron took our still clasped hands and shook them. Not the shake
of a man meeting the subordinate that I was, the shake of a man meeting someone
worthy of great honor. He broke hands, and Asiron left me in the lobby.
Asiron
turned the corner and I was alone in the lobby.
A
scream of pain ushered from the adjacent cavernous room.
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