But she took a deep, shuddering breath and dismissed what she felt. Her arms hung at her sides, the strength gone from them. Yet there was strength enough in her voice. ‘I pay my debts,’ she said. ‘Summon the guards.’
“He gaped at her. If he had spoken, he would have protested that she had lost her wits. The Templemen would bind her over to the judica for certain and terrible death— after they had tortured her enough to sate them. But he was too astonished to reply at once. Mad—she was unquestionably mad.
“‘You will capture me,’ she continued. The look in her eyes was bleak and dire. ‘You will deliver me to the Templemen. That will ascertain your innocence. You will be freed.’
“Thinking her mad, Dom Peralt sought to reason with her. ‘It will not be believed. You are a witch. I have no means to capture you. The Templemen will suspect some trick. They will believe that we have agreed together to obtain my release—so that I may in turn contrive to rescue you. The fact that you came to me will damn us both.’
“For an instant, thought furrowed her brow. She glanced toward the keys which she had thrown to the floor. Then she shrugged. ‘You will slip the key-ring over my wrists. That will give you means. If I am held powerless, none will doubt that you have captured me.’ Her loathing for the touch of cold iron was evident, but she did not let it sway her. ‘My debt will be paid.’”
Ser Visal coughed, cleared his throat, drank. Sitting slumped in his chair, he resumed with a sigh, “Ah, the strange courage of witches. She put Dom Peralt to the test in a way which humbled Templeman Knarll’s threats. He saw at once that her plan would succeed. Some lie would be required to account for her presence in the cell, but the evidence of iron held about her wrists by his own hand would defeat all suspicion. He would be freed. And she—why, she would go to the doom which God demands of all witches. Though he was young and debauched, he understood that his soul hung in the balance here. If he captured her, he would be saved.
“It was not in him. He had purchased her freedom with a few coins. She meant to purchase his with her life. The simple injustice of it was more than he could stomach.
“‘No,’ he replied, though his head reeled with fear and his guts knotted sickly. ‘I will not. There is no debt. Do you hear me? I deny that there is any debt. I did not buy your freedom. You were evilly used—whatever the Temple teaches. With a few coins, I merely restored what was yours by birth and decency. And the blame of my plight does not fall to you. It is on my head. I was too drunk to do what any sane man would have done—to take you with me and release you only when you might better profit from your freedom. I will not accept the sacrifice of your life in so small a cause.’
“Thamala waited until he was done. Then she said, You are brave, Dom Sen Peralt.’ Her tone suggested both mockery and respect. ‘But no coin measures the value I place upon my life. How do you intend to prevent me?’
“For his pride—if for no other reason—he attempted to match her. ‘I need do nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing other than wait. When next the guards come to this cell, they will find us together—and then we will both be undone. He smiled wryly through his fear. ‘To avert that outcome—so that your life will be preserved, and I will be able to hope—you will depart before the guards come, relocking the door after you to protect my protestations of innocence. Of what worth is my life,’ he concluded, ‘if it may only be saved by your death?’
“The witch shook her head again. ‘You are mistaken,’ she said. ‘The world has need of such men.’ For no evident reason, her voice now seemed to come to him from a great distance. The candlelight blurred, as if his eyes were failing. ‘Therefore,’ she uttered ma tone which could not be refused, ‘it will be necessary for you to dream.’
“Then the flame of the candle shrank away, and the cell’s darkness closed over his head. He heard nothing beyond the promise she had made, at once fierce and gentle. ‘I pay my debts.’
“But in the dream— “Faugh!” spat Ser Visal. “Dream, indeed. Witchcraft.
With her wiles, she deprived him of will and choice. Faugh!” Hawking up phlegm, he grabbed for his flagon and drank. But he did not stop his tale. Despite his apparent indignation, he sounded weak and in some way frightened as he said, “I shudder for his soul. In the dream he was not himself.
“In the dream, he raised his voice and shouted lustily for the guards. He kicked the door so that it rang against the wail. He shouted again. Then he went to the key-ring.
“She held her hands behind her back for him, but they would not both fit through the ring. No matter—one sufficed. With iron closed about any part of her, she was caught.
“At that moment, he felt that he began to awaken. But still the dream persisted. He could not break free of it. He could only watch with the taste of horror in his mouth as guards came to the cell at a nm and he called out to them, saying, ‘Here is the witch Templeman Knarll seeks. She sought to seduce me to her foul ends, but I have captured her with iron,’ and Thamala made pretense of struggling against him while he clasped the ring over her wrist.
“He did not return to himself entirely until the Templemen had taken her from him, to bind her with surer fetters, and Templeman Knarll had grudgingly granted his release. Then he found that there were tears in his eyes, and they would not be stanched, for the deed was done, and he could not now afford to cry out in anger or protest.
“I must have more wine.”
The candles had begun to wane, a reminder that afternoon was on its way to evening and all of us were required by our God-fearing families—and by Temple curfew—to be in our homes before vespers rang. But none of us thought of such things. For a long moment, none of us thought to stamp our feet and produce money so that the keeper would bring more wine. We were held. All our attention was centered on Ser Visal. He appeared oddly shrunken in the fading candlelight, his eyes glazed by what he saw in his mind, his stubbled checks ashen and sagging from the bones of his skull. At another time—during another tale—we might have nudged each other and winked, thinking in silent laughter that the heat of the hearth made him melt, that his fat flesh was composed of nothing but tallow and wine, which he sweated away. But not now. We were held. And he seemed hardly to be aware of us.
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 K
ing 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 Templemen were properly plain to all. When High Templeman Crossus Hught had assumed his place—he and Templeman 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.
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