Daughter of Regals (50 page)

There was one thought in
all our minds.
He is afraid. This tale is dangerous, and he fears to tell
it.

Nevertheless, he soon
restored a sense of our duties. Without forewarning, he crashed his flagon down
upon the tabletop and bellowed, “Are you deaf? I must have more wine!”—a mere
croak of his normal roar, but enough to startle us from our stupefaction.
Hastily, we labored the boards with our boots. From our purses, we dredged up
coin for another cask. The keeper responded without interest or hurry, as if
when he had lost his hearing all other questions had been answered for him.
Upon this occasion, he produced a cask of liquid which only a Templeman who
did not drink would have called wine. It smelled of cattle and tasted as if it
had been fermented by wringing the moisture from Ser Visal’s sodden robe. Yet
we made no protest—we cared only that he should finish his tale. And he showed
his disfavor only by frowning as he tossed two measures of the vile stuff past
his avid lips and began on a third.

Despite its faults,
however, the drink amended his appearance somewhat. In his piggish eyes, a
dull smoldering glower hinted at angers he did not choose to explain. Yet he
smiled, and his voice took on its particular quaver of piety as he resumed.

“In an age of remarkable
institutions,” he said, “and outstanding men, when the Temple of God gives us
order, morality, and slavery, and a figure such as High Templeman Crossus
Hught aids in the management of the kingdom, the judica is especially worthy
of note. Founded upon the highest principles, for the highest purpose—to defend
the innocent and the honorable from evils which would otherwise deprive them of
Heaven—the judica has prosecuted the sinners haled before it—primarily
witches—with unflagging rigor. For lesser crimes, men and women are sold into
slavery, their property confiscated, their homes burned. But for witchcraft
and all its abominations, only one punishment is deemed just—the cauldron.

“You have not seen that
black pot, or the chamber which holds it. None who do not belong are admitted
there. And I wager that your fathers have not spoken of it, just as they have
not told you the outcome of Thamala’s judgment. Such things are too holy and
severe to be discussed lightly.

“It is a high chamber,
and round, housed in the same Temporal Office where malefactors are imprisoned.
From tiered seats circling the walls, Templemen and judges look down on two
doors—one heavily barred and timbered to prevent escape to the outside, the
other opening to the guards and passages of the Temporal Office—and on the
cauldron itself.

“It resembles an immense
stewpot in which three or four men—or I alone—might stand comfortably. But its
victims find little comfort there. Somewhat precariously balanced, I fear, upon
its bricks, it sits over a kiln in the floor, in which the fire is never
permitted to fade, and it is full to its middle with bubbling iron, melted for
the doom of witches. The pot itself does not melt only because its sides have
been hardened with alloys. The heat is tremendous’ Its victims feel its force
as they arc questioned and judged, and it causes them to sweat in terror.

“From the floor to the
rim on one side rises a ramp of masonry. There the evil are led when they have
been judged. For a moment or two, they are suspended over the cauldron, so that
they may have opportunity to repent and pray, perhaps—or to name those who
consort with them. Then, when they have screamed enough, they are let drop.”

Ser Visal drank again,
urgently, and refilled his flagon. But almost at once he continued, “As is
right and fitting, the judica is led by Templemen. The spiritual welfare of the
kingdom is in their care. But to that august body also belongs each Dom and Ser
of the region, every man of station. It is they who pronounce the judgment when
the Templemen have produced the evidence and searched the witnesses. And these
men of station do not—I may say,
dare
not—fail of attendance. The
calling of their duty is too high. And the consequences of failure may not be
contemplated calmly.

“The more so in the present
case. The matter of Thamala was of unusual importance, offering especially
bold evidence of witchery—so bold as to make all virtuous souls tremble—and
touching as it did upon the honor of a high family. That was rare. In all the
years that I have attended the judica, I do not remember a similar case. It is
generally true that those who consort with witches come from among the poor and
unenlightened. For that reason, as I am sure you have heard, High Templeman
Crossus Hught himself elected to preside over Thamala’s judgment.

“It is rumored—I know
not why—that Templeman Knarll made a special appeal for the presence of good
King Traktus’ counselor. That is of no importance. The judica was delayed
several days to permit the High Templeman to settle his affairs and make the
journey—also a matter of no importance. The point I wish you to grasp is that
this judica transcended all others in authority and significance.

“Do you understand me,
puppies? Are your minds clear enough for thought?
This
judica was one
which Dom Per-alt was required to attend. By virtue of his new station— and of
the High Templeman’s presence—he had no choice. The woman who had purchased his
life with her own  would be consigned to the cauldron, and he was required  to
assist in the judgment.

“This, of course, he
understood. Perhaps he understood it from the moment when Thamala first
proposed to save his life with hers.” Ser Visal’s sanctimony had  given way to
muffled sarcasm. “He was young and gallant, and he had something of a reputation
for boldness, which he prized. And yet a woman whom he had not known for the
total of an hour repaid a debt which had cost him nothing by sacrificing
everything. When at last Templeman Knarll released him from the Temporal
Office, Dom Peralt went back to his estates in mortal shame to await the
sitting of the judica.

“In shame? you ask. Why
in shame?” Ser Visal glared around at us. It became increasingly difficult to
distinguish between his piety and his sarcasm. “For no good reason. The woman
was a
witch,
offensive to God and Temple. If she chose to do one
honorable thing before she died, perhaps her soul would be the better for it.
And I repeat that he had not known her for the total of an hour. He knew
nothing about her at all, except her power.

“Yet he
was
shamed.
His skin burned with it, and his heart ached. Every twist of his thoughts
squeezed sweat from his brow. It was a cauldron more subtle than iron, but no
less compulsory. Hiding himself within the walls of his manor, he drank wine by
the barrel to slake the fire—but it only burned higher. All about him were reminders
of his father, that strong and just man who had filled his life with care for
those dependent upon him— memories which gave young Sen no ease. In
desperation. he turned from strong wine to clear water and became sober, hoping
that cold reason would succeed where besottedness failed. But the flame did
not subside. He consulted those who still named themselves his friends—not
young Beau Frane and Serson Lew, I assure you, but older heads and wiser—and
obtained no relief. He attempted every solace but one, the strict comfort of
the Temple. All failed him, as all things human and prone to sin must fail. His
shame would not be quenched. One thought tormented him.
It was not just.
He
had purchased Thamala with a few coins—his father’s earnings, not his own. It
was not just.

“In due time, word was
brought to him that the High Templeman had arrived, and that therefore the
judica would meet upon the morrow. According to custom, the sitting would
commence promptly at the third hour, so that the remainder of the day would be
purified by its labors. Again he searched his conscience and consulted his
friends. Then he returned a somewhat terse message to Templeman Knarll, saying
that he would surely attend the judica, as God and duty required of him.

“That night”—Ser Visal
had turned his glower to the tabletop, avoiding our rapt eyes—”the slaver Growt
was put out of work with two broken legs. And the next morning, Dom Sen Peralt
was among the first to enter the chamber of the judica after the ringing of the
time.

“He and your fathers
engaged in no idle conversation upon such a solemn occasion. In silence, they
entered the chamber and took their proper seats—Dom Peralt and those of like
station around the middle tiers, men of lesser rank above them, near the walls.
In silence, they awaited the coming of the Templemen. Dom Peralt bore himself
gravely, his eyes downcast with a humility new to him. But the cauldron’s heat
flushed his face. This was not a place in which any man sat at ease. The sound
of the fire was loud in the stillness, as was the closing of the bolts as the
outer door was sealed, so that no rescue of the witch might be attempted.

“There was some small
delay. Then the inner doors were opened, and the Templemen entered.

“All were clad in the
black cassocks which signalized the dark work they meant to do, the wrestling
with evil-black contrasted only by the scarlet ropes knotted at their waists
and the strict pallor of their faces. All appeared as dour as the day of God’s
doom. Half a score of those who served under Templeman Knarll’s jurisdiction
took their seats around the lowest tier. After them came Templeman Knarll
himself, bearing in his hands the iron crozier of his office—and looking more
than ever like a creature born in a swamp. And when he had assumed his place,
he was followed by High Templeman Crossus Hught.

Though he was similarly
black-clad, the High Templeman did not need the golden miter which he carried
in the crook of his arm to distinguish him from the other servants of the Temple.
He was tall, strong despite his years, and commanding. Much of his authority
was in his eyes, which seemed to have no color at all. Indeed, at first glance
his face itself appeared to have no color. His thin, close-cropped hair was
white—his skin, pale with the translucence of old age. Upon nearer inspection,
however, a faint red hue could be seen, for every blood vessel was visible
beneath the skin, as distinct as madness—I mean, of course, that purity of mind
which the sinful world might term madness, but which is in truth the most
exalted devotion to God. Seeing him, it was at last possible to understand his
importance to good King Traktus. He was not a man who would be easily refused.

“As he entered, the
Templemen began to chant the appropriate orisons against evil. But no special
homage was demanded by the High Templeman. Here judgment was in the hands of
the men of station, not of the Temple—though the guidance and authority of the
Temple-men were properly plain to all. When High Templeman Crossus Hught had
assumed his place—he and Temple-man Knarll stood opposite each other on either
side of the ramp leading up to the lip of the cauldron—he joined the chanting,
his colorless gaze fixed upon Heaven. ‘God damn all witches. Punish all
presumption. Preserve the purity of the Temple.’ If I were able, I would recite
each prayer for your edification. It is a fault of mine—which I rue daily—that
I have no memory for such holy things.

“During the chants, Dom
Peralt bore himself as a man who had sworn a great oath that he would not
fidget. Rather, he watched the door as we all did, awaiting the arrival of the
prisoners.

“Did I say prisoners? Well,
we had assumed that the witch would not be brought to judgment without company.
The Templemen had had several days in which to question her—and it was a rare
woman who could not be persuaded by righteous interrogation to name consorts or
other witches. But when the prayers were ended, and Templeman Knarll called for
Thamala to be brought into the chamber, she was alone.

“Two guards bore her
between them, supporting her because she was hardly able to stand. They took
her to the foot of the ramp and left her there, withdrawing from the chamber
and closing the doors after them. Somehow, she remained on her feet. Iron
manacles still clasped her wrists behind her. The guards had positioned her
with her back to the cauldron—perhaps deliberately—so that she faced Dom
Peralt. But she did not meet his brief glance. Weakly she turned so that her
doom was directly before her, as though she wished to see it for what it was
and prepare herself to meet it.

“But Dom Peralt did not
need a long look to see what the Templemen had done to her. Her hair was torn
and ragged, leaving bloody patches upon her scalp and giving her a frenzied
aspect. One eye was closed with swelling— the other, raw and aggrieved. Indeed,
all her face had been beaten to a new shape. Dirt and hunger outlined the
bruises. Her clothing had been torn in various places—

some of them
indecent—and through the rents showed wounds and welts. Blood crusted her
fetters. Plainly, her evil was stronger than her flesh, for how else was it possible
for her to keep her feet—or to gaze upon the cauldron without terror?

“Yet she had given no
other name to her questioners. The Templemen had not succeeded at wringing the
answers they desired from her. As he looked at the place. where blood caked
her clothing to her back, Dom Peralt began to smile—the same smile with which
he had faced Growt’s bullying.

“At once, High Templeman
Crossus Hught snapped,
‘You.’
His voice struck cauldron’s heat and the
silence. All eyes sprang to him. With his long arm, he pointed his miter
straight at Dom Peralt’s face. ‘Why do you smile?’

“‘That is Dom Sen
Peralt,’ whispered Templeman Knarll to his temporal lord. ‘The same who bought
and freed the witch.’

“The High Templeman
ignored Templeman Knarll. He seemed to know by Divine inspiration whom he addressed.
His miter did not waver. ‘Are you,’ he demanded, ‘amused by the plight of
wickedness in the hands of the Temple of God?’