Friend or foe
The corridors of the Disciplinarium were enigmatically silent. Lord Ursempyre Remis was being escorted by a pair of procrastinators at the behest of the Patriarch himself, he had been told. The mere thought of that man made him uneasy, and now he had been summoned personally. His mind raced with conjecture and the possible reasons: none seemed even remotely harmless.
As his steps echoed in the stone floor of the hallways that never seemed to end, he thought he had a pretty good idea of the Patriarch’s intentions. He thought that perhaps the Patriarch knew something, but he had to learn that for himself.
See it in my eyes, Ursempyre thought. He would maintain the facade of the ignorant noble to whatever end might await him. This was a critical point. Everything hung in a precarious balance, and this was the push that could tip things over either way. He calmed himself, emptied his mind and held to just one conviction:
‘I am Lord Ursempyre Remis, Noble Representative, Duke of the Fief of Wir and Prefect of Urfall. I serve the Law and the Pantheon, I abide to the rulings of the Council’. That would be the only thought coursing in his mind, and he would make-believe if he had to. And if things came to that, he had prepared for other contingencies: his people had been given instructions. He merely hoped there was time enough, that things would not be rushed before time was due.
They passed through many hallways, some of them exquisitely decorated with hand-woven tapestries of a beautiful, delicate, and quite extravagant nature. Others were bleak, strictly functional and indifferent to the eye, not destined to impress or provoke awe. Probably hardly ever seen or used.
There was a nagging feeling that he was being treated as if he had not been summoned here officially. Indeed, the procrastinators had seemed eager enough to take him by force had he resisted. Would the Patriarch be so rash? Would he suddenly arrest him without good reason? Certainly he had the power to do so, but was it to his best interest? How could he ever succeed in finding out what drove the Patriarch? Nothing useful was to be found in Ursempyre’s bag of thoughts.
The man was a terrifying mystery, an uncanny wildfire people tried to steer away from. The kind of fire that only consumed and never warmed or lit. He was probably the most dangerous man Ursempyre could indeed face; even more dangerous than the Castigator, who was a tyrant and a heartless man, a man that cared for naught but power and its exertion over men. But the Castigator was still a man.
His motives could be understood, some of his actions anticipated. Perhaps he could be reasoned to the extent that it would seem to him to be in his best interests, offering him a deal he could not refuse. But the Patriarch was a blank, as if he were totally heedless of the circumstances, the dynamics of power play, and indeed the workings of the world around him.
It felt like he had an agenda no one could hope to fathom, plans within plans that he had no intention of altering or suspending. He was relentless in whatever pursuit he was involved in, and once one laid his eyes on him, he looked back uncannily. It was an eerie feeling, him knowing you were watching. It made one think that this man could read your mind with a glance, know your fears, your weaknesses; the things that made you cry and the things that made you laugh. It was as if the Patriarch were a chilling, unnatural force that could bore right into your soul and leave you empty; a walking husk with your mind and soul gone forever, his own for the taking at nothing but a whim of his.
Ursempyre shuddered at these thoughts visibly. One of the procrastinators noticed and sniggered scornfully. Ursempyre turned to look at what could easily be a common thug in the streets of Pyr, and stared at him intently with a hint of suppressed wrath in his gaze. The procrastinator lost his grin almost instantly and stared away, averting his eyes.
Night had only just fallen outside and servants could be seen running about the Disciplinarium, lighting up braziers and chandeliers wherever appropriate. Halls, corridors, and chambers were being lit up one by one, staff and officials grinding on at the work that needed to be done during these times of war preparations; work that would probably keep them up all night.
They went past the administrative areas, through small warehouses and store rooms. Lighting was at a premium in these parts of the Disciplinarium with only a few torches spread thin, darkness and light exchanging places with one another at uneven intervals. One of the procrastinators paused and unhitched a torch from its post to carry along with him.
They were descending deep down in the lower levels of the Disciplinarium, places that Ursempyre had always been loathe to visit for he was aware of the acts usually being performed in those chambers.
Kept hidden from prying eyes, this was the place where the enemies of the state, the sinners and the ones who were considered dangerous, unruly, and frivolous with the La were brought to be chastised and enlightened. His face grimaced at the thought of the euphemism.
Chastisement and enlightenment came at the price of torn fingernails, pried tongues, flogged backs, and broken bones. And then there were those who were made to utterly disappear; the dungeons of the Disciplinarium their last murky, cold abode. He knew now what was coming.
He would be thoroughly interrogated by the Patriarch himself. The die was cast, it seemed. There was nothing more he could do. He hoped he would be able to escape with his life, but if it came to that, he had made arrangements. Everything would be put in motion if the hours passed without him emerging. It was all planned and primed, ready for what was in the end only inevitable and long ago decided.
The uprising would begin. He would try and beguile the Patriarch, a task that genuinely seemed desperate, but he would. If and when he failed at that, he would endure as long as he could, until his body failed him; until his mind and soul were utterly crushed. He had no misgivings, no fantasies of standing up against the Patriarch for too long.
He knew not what tools of torture the Patriarch used, but he knew that none of those that were made the focus of his unbridled attention had been left unbroken. Those that he touched, they all gave up in the end. They all talked, they all begged for their lives like lesser men, like cornered animals, their instincts having them make a last attempt at salvation. But there was no mercy to be had, no humanity in his work. If he could not outsmart him or outplay him in a game of his own devising, then his life was forfeit.
Perhaps later rather than sooner, but he would be done for in the end. All that mattered was that the uprising had to succeed, that it should indeed take them by surprise somehow. Even if he knew, stalling him might make the difference. Even if the Patriarch knew, that did not necessarily mean all hope was lost. They would fight as the should. If he himself perished during the hours that would follow, it mattered not. His memory would live on, his legacy and story told as part of the Liberation of the Territories. That would be good enough an ending for House Remis, and good enough for him as well.
They would be free, again. Free to live their own lives as they saw fit. Damn the Patriarch and the Castigator and all their cronies, henchmen, thugs, and devils; damn those men that willingly gave up their souls in exchange for a whip, a quill, or a sword. Damn them all, they would be free and let those tyrants think otherwise.
Having lost himself in thought, he hadn’t been aware they had descended unusually deep. Instead of stone masonry and man-made walls, they were now walking amidst tunnels wide enough for two men to walk side by side, dug in the rock and granite of the Disciplinarium hill. These were old, older than the Disciplinarium, carved in a time lost from memory that no annal had recorded.
Though he was privy to most of the workings of the Disciplinarium, he had not known the dungeons extended to such a depth. He was surprised. He felt wary of the other surprises that lay in stock for him.
Soon they reached a grated gate, sentry guards posted in both sides of the gate. Where the far side lay, there was little or no light from torches or any other kind of lighting. No candles either. Simply darkness, eerie and silent, like ink was blotting out his sense of sight.
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One of the procrastinators nodded to the sentries to leave their posts. They would be taking over. The sentries looked at each other knowingly and without protest, question or remark; one of them opened the gate, handed their heavy cast iron keys to the procrastinators and quietly and without further ado left in an organized fashion forming a single file.
One of them looked back and cast a passing gaze at Ursempyre and an expression of surprised recognition formed in his face and then it was gone; it was replaced by a fearful crease of terrible knowledge on his forehead. Ursempyre thought with bitterness that even the guards around this place realized the importance of what would follow. The Noble Representative would be tortured, questioned, and killed by the Patriarch himself. An ill omen, but who would challenge the will of the Law and the Patriarch, Reverent and Beloved of the Gods, the Holy Avatar? Not a lowly guard, that much was certain.
One of the men that had led him into the caves spoke with a restrained voice, somewhat confused about whether he should refer to Ursempyre as a Lord or as just another lost soul at the non-existing mercy of the Patriarch. He chose the latter, fearful of the walls having ears:
“On you go, in there. To your left. His Holiness awaits.”
He was then mildly but forcibly pushed, as if he had to be reminded that they were there to ensure his concordance and cooperation, or club him unconscious and fetch him themselves in front of the Patriarch, if the need arose.
Ursempyre’s steps were measured and slow, but steady and unwavering. He steeled himself for the confrontation, muscles tensing and relaxing in quick succession. He was as ready as he could be, he thought.
The cave seemed to be hollowed out artificially, swaths of incandescent light pouring out from the large orifice he was instructed the Patriarch was awaiting his presence.
As he entered the chamber the intense light made him squint reflexively, but his eyes adjusted. It seemed as if the light was pouring out of some strange, tall, glass columns that extended beyond the floor and ceiling of the chamber, as if they were actually grown out of the rock itself.
Ursempyre’s interest was at once piqued by what he was seeing all around him: Four large glass columns like huge rods brimming with light, seemingly supporting the tall, wide rocky chamber. The Patriarch was standing with his back turned to Ursempyre right amid the four columns, his bald scalp glistening under the blueish-white light of the columns, gossamer shadows of himself cast in the shape of a cross across the rough and uneven, rocky floor. Small wet brown lime stone indentations and juts dotted the ground. A faint humming noise echoed faintly throughout the chamber, which was otherwise deafeningly silent.
Ursempyre was drawn into the scenery, taken by surprise but not overwhelmed. He felt curious. So much more as to what the intentions of the Patriarch were. He had been expecting a torture chamber with a multitude of tools and instruments. Instead, he was being shown something very few people, if ever, became privy to. He thought then that perhaps the folk tales about the ancients and the curator’s ramblings were not all for naught. But then again, what reason did the Patriarch have to reveal such a place to him?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sly, surreptitious voice of the Patriarch, which broke the silence of the chamber sounding as if it resonated with the columns and the rock walls, both adding to its effect:
“These are plasma conductors. Part of the energy grid of the Disciplinarium. Basically I barely use most of the amenities involved. I consider myself adjusted to my surroundings by now. I find the use of manservants most to my liking.”
Ursempyre frowned quizzically at the Patriarch’s words. He could neither understand exactly what he was telling him, or more importantly why. As always, scripture in High Helican decorated its hem discreetly. Strangely enough, he didn’t look resplendent or intimidating. The Patriarch turned to face Ursempyre with hands neatly hidden inside the folds of his robes, simple and utilitarian yet finely crafted from quality cloth. It was as if he sounded sincere for the first time when he spoke again:
“I see that you are taking all this in your stride. I’d expected as much. It will make things easier, I suppose,” indicating with his eyes the glass-like columns of light he had called ‘plasma conductors’.
Ursempyre was still looking at the mysterious columns when he asked the Patriarch in a straightforward manner, one that almost demanded an answer even though he knew he was in no position to make any real demands:
“Why am I here? I am the Noble Representative. I demand that you extend some courtesy and respect to such a person of significant office.”
Ursempyre’s tone of voice was authoritative and steadfast, even though a trained ear could feel it frail at the edges. Only because of evidently great determination did his voice hold together barely at the seams. The Patriarch sounded amused when he replied:
“Would you keep on performing on a stage when all the viewers had left? I could admire you for your dedication, but I generally hold fools in low esteem. I suggest you, ahm, revise your way of thinking, Lord Remis. While you still can.”
“Is this some sort of threat? I came here of my own free will. I have nothing to hide, your Reverence. I insist you make your intentions clear before long. Whatever they may be, I will be a faithful servant and abide by the Law.”
Ursempyre’s voice had deep, grave undertones etched in it. He meant to come across as serious and truthful, yet not just another lackey or one of their goons to be simply expected to obey unquestioningly. He wanted the Patriarch to know that he wasn’t terrified of him. Even though in his gut he knew that was nothing but a lie.
The Patriarch stifled a laugh in mere disbelief. A terrible smile had formed on his lips:
“Is that so, Lord Ursempyre Remis? It almost always has to be that way, hasn’t it? Please, have a seat,” the Holy Avatar said and before he could finish his sentence an ornate chair appeared out of thin air, as if it had always been there, simply invisible to the eye.
It was supremely decorated with fine leather and silky surfaces, girdles of gold and silver on its armrests. In concert, an even more ornate and large chair with a large backside plush with red velvet and green granite girders appeared behind the Patriarch, in pair with a similarly decorated desk; its surface though a hard green-veined black marble.
What was unfolding in front of Ursempyre felt preposterous to him, but it looked like as if even more extravagant events were about to take place. Ursempyre would let the Patriarch put on his own show, and he would go on with his theatricals as far as it was possible.
The logical part of his brain cried out in anguish at the impossibilities unraveling all around him, and wanted to stop and cry out for someone that could explain even the smallest iota of these tricks. ‘They have to be tricks,’ he thought, ‘some sort of show to cow and bewilder me.’
The other part of his mind, the determined one, just ignored what was thrown at him and focused at one thing: Making it out of that place alive, for starters. And then, he believed, he could work something out of the rest.
The Patriarch realized Ursempyre had frozen in place, his mind stung by the sudden impossible appearance of the furniture, and beckoned him once more to seat himself:
“Please, Lord Remis. You seem to be woolgathering. Does not our conversation appeal to your standards? Perhaps some refreshment is in order?”
With that last phrase, a plain wooden jug of wine appeared on the Patriarch’s desk alongside two cups, one slightly chipped on its rim; the other one was visibly older, its wood stained and discolored. The Patriarch added while waving one hand dismissively:
“You’ll hopefully excuse the quality of the cups. I try to dispense with pomp and luxury wherever applicable. In essence, I am quite a simple man. If only you could see that.”
Ursempyre was still looking at the Patriarch dumbfounded, not as much because of the Patriarch’s ability to instantly and at will seemingly conjure whatever items he pleased, but more so because of what he was saying, or
trying to imply. The Patriarch was not in any way, a simple man. He was being flippant, mocking Ursempyre in the process. The noble man managed to speak though, as if a spell forced upon him had been broken:
“This ability of yours, it does not scare me, Patriarch. The Holy Avatar must indeed have the blessings of the Gods, why not shouldn’t it possess some of their power?”
“Yes, that does make sense doesn’t it? Bloody brilliant on my part, I would say.”
The Patriarch looked almost gleeful. He continued unabated and asked Ursempyre:
“What does scare you, Ursempyre? What is it you really fear, if not me? After all you’ve heard or seen, you know what I’m capable of. Would you like me to become unpleasant, Lord Remis? Would you force my hand?”
“I have nothing of which to be accused of, Patriarch. I am a faithful..”
“You are a constant reminder of my failings and nothing more!”, said the Patriarch as he burst into a fit of rage, sending the jug of wine crashing against a glass pillar. Red wine spilled all over the floor, running down the glass columns. The cups were still lying on the desk, one of them rolling on its side back and forth.
Ursempyre knew now he had been exposed as the leader of the kinsfolk from the beginning, it was the niceties that had simply evaporated. He steeled himself mentally, closed his eyes and tried to think of happier, earlier times. His muscles relaxed. He was waiting for a hammering blow. Nothing happened any time soon. He opened his eyes to see the Patriarch draw his chair, and sag in it, as if he were exhausted from a copious effort. He sighed, and then spoke in a raspy, tired voice, more suited to a broken old man rather than the Patriarch, the Holy Avatar of the Gods:
“I’m tired of being reminded of my failings, tired of games I guess. But I’m not willing to lose, not after all the time I’ve spent. Do you understand that, Lord Ursempyre Remis, Noble Representative? Can you, really? Even if I showed you, could you fathom? Or would your lesser, weak mind break down from hopelessness and despair? Could you indeed ride on the wave of apocalypse that would follow, Ursempyre? I have to pity, hate, and envy you at the same time Ursempyre, you and your people. But this has to end as well.”
Ursempyre was even more mystified at what the Patriarch was saying. Again he noticed, it wasn’t the trick show and the flashiness or the strangeness of what was happening. It was the Patriarch himself that was doing it; his words seemed to twist reality and violate normalcy.
He was acting out of character, for one thing. It was as if he was trying to make some point, but was having real difficulty in doing so, like there was a great barrier between them, as if the Patriarch were unable to make himself understood in human terms. He was somehow circumnavigating the point in question, never directly touching it, uttering generalities and giving cryptic hints, as if his annotations alone sufficed to make himself understood.
Ursempyre hated that quality in a person: evasiveness, mucking about rather than doing or saying what one had in mind. ‘Just tell me what you really want to, you raving old wolf,’ he thought to himself before asking the Patriarch directly:
“What do you mean? Do you mean the rebellion? The kinsfolk will rise and cast you down, rightfully claim the right of the people to freedom. And if we shall fail, we will give our lives willingly. I will be the first one to do so, if needs be. Strike me down if you must, if that’s the reason I’m here for. Spare me the theatricals, and the mirror show as well.”
Hilderich’s words came out sharp and proud. He managed to even surprise himself with his clarity and his aboveboard voice and manner. His face was taut; he felt the veins in his throat throb with every pulse. He felt relieved his mask was finally cast off, feeling primed and ready for everything that the Patriarch would throw at him.
He wasn’t thinking clearly now, he knew, but he imagined he could go for his throat and neck, possibly try to snap it or even strangle him with his bare hands. His determination had walked him through from an innocent noble Lord to a hot-blooded rebel in mere moments. The Patriarch’s answer stunned him with its simple ruthlessness and unprecedented audacity:
“Do you wish to become the Castigator of the Outer Territories?”, he said, idly checking his fingernails for blemishes and dirt in a blantant show of genuine indifference.
Ursempyre frowned instinctively as if his hearing had failed him, and blinked a few times before feeling a complete idiot for being unable to constrain his physical reactions. He managed to ask the Patriarch, his voice rippling with waves of incredulity and disbelief:
“Become.. The Castigator?”, Ursempyre said and broke down in laughter, his hands behind his head as if failing to grasp the joke behind the Patriarch’s words, but still finding it funny enough.
The Patriarch reached out for a small goblet of wine, its contents sloshing as if it had just been poured. In fact, it had just appeared on his desk. He sipped some wine while Lord Remis tried to calm himself down; his laughter was stilled by the Patriarch’s lack of an answer, physical or verbal. After seeming to savor the wine properly at length like a man who found meaning in the tasteful little joys of life would, he said with more authority, gravity weighing his words down heavily, the rocky chamber echoing them and magnifying the effect:
“I know you do not take me for a fool, Ursempyre. You must know I do not either. I simply find that you are ultimately, nothing else but a man of your time. Unimpressively enough though, you’re not a man quite ahead of it. Nevertheless, as things stand I offer you the sovereignty of the Outer Territories and the divine office of Castigator.”
The Patriarch had risen from his seat with hands behind his back, and was very slowly pacing around the columns, his form every once in a while disappearing behind a blaze of blue and white light, each time a sliver of his figure and face appearing grotesque and malformed behind the glass column, as if it had the ability to reveal what lay behind the facade of the Patriarch. Ursempyre felt suddenly naked, as if he had been bared against his will, but he did not protest. He felt ashamed, for not erupting in anger. What really must have bothered him though was finding out that, in the end, he seemed completely transparent.
The Patriarch then continued, a wide grin showing his immaculate teeth:
”I know how your mind works, Ursempyre. What’s troubling you most is whether or not I had known about your people and their organization right from the start. Whether or not I know about your rebellious plans, the killing hour. I’ll indulge your inquisitiveness, for the sake of argument. Perhaps, you’ll rarely hear me admit it, I do love to revel in my superiority. It’s an obnoxious trait, being such a snob. If you knew me better you’d have found out I couldn’t help being otherwise. But I digress.”
The Patriarch paused and put a hand to his chin, stroking his beard lightly holding a finger to his lips as if he were searching for his next words, engrossed in thought. Ursempyre was transfixed, staring at him with his mind locked in the astounding proposition he had made. He thought he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be even listening to this devil. His heart told him to try and rip this human-shaped terror apart, for everyone’s sake. His mind though told him to stay his wrath, and listen. He was being told things he would never have known otherwise. Things he might be able to use if he came out of this alive, if indeed they were as they felt to be, the truthful ramblings of the malefic despot. The Patriarch resumed what was beginning to look like a monologue, or rather his explanation of things:
“You’ll have to excuse my earlier outburst. These are trying times, even for me. I have already admitted to two things I consider weaknesses, dear Lord Remis. You should do well to think that this is not only a rare occurrence, but rather unique. As you have already considered, I might be lying indeed, but what difference would that make to you?”
He had made a full round of the columns, and he was now standing in front of Ursempyre with the desk behind his back. All this time Ursempyre had not moved from the place where he had been left standing, swiftly taken by the turn of events. T
he Patriarch motioned with a slight nod of his head that he should be seated but Ursempyre declined in kind with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, his gaze intently fixed at the Patriarch at all times.
“Very well, if you insist,” said the Patriarch and the chair blinked away in the same logic defying manner that it had manifested in the first place. The Patriarch went on:
“This is a unique offer. For reasons you will come to understand in due time, I’m offering you the rule of these lands. Of course, it will be mostly in name only. As is the case, you will mostly be a figurehead of sorts, a legitimised leader, as had been the case with your precursors.
As always, I will be the real Law and effective ruler of these lands, and you will be acting as my near-invisible proxy in setting policy. Of course, in all the lesser matters, like economy, judicious activities, trade and the like, you will be left alone to your devices.
My immediate concern though lies elsewhere: This rebellion you’re planning, is happening at an opportune time. I do have some matters of urgency to attend to, and you appear to have set up quite a formidable and perhaps effective as well as skilled fighting force. I know there are quite a lot of veterans of the Zaelin campaign among your people, and they were fierce back in the day, I can remember.
I really cannot be bothered to lose precious little time over suppressing what will be in the end, a failed rebellion. It would be most prudent and cost-effective if we avoided all the unnecessary bloodshed and came to some sort of agreement between me and you, the newly appointed Castigator. You could even present it as your own political victory. That’d be a nice touch to it, I can imagine.”
Ursempyre tried to take in the Patriarch’s words, but he felt unable to. It was an overwhelming thought. There were so many questions and possibilities going through his mind. Would he actually consider such a proposal? Did it have any merit? Would the Patriarch keep true to his word? What chance would he stand against the Patriarch once he felt like he had served his purpose? If he was so powerful, why did he need him? Why shouldn’t he crush the rebellion altogether? Why did he need him? What were the limitations of his strange powers, and where did those powers stem from? Demons?
Like the Gods, he believed that no such things existed either but their evil foul stench was real. Should he accept the vacant role it would probably be a bloodless uprising, but to what a future would it lead? This rotten system would not go away. The Patriarch, and the Council, and all their tyranny would still be around and he would be part of it, unable to do anything to change all that. He felt dirty, almost soiled that he had even began to consider such an offer, that he actually tried to put it on a scale and weigh their future against the parody of one. He had decided. He would not become a willing pawn.
That last temptation was the easy way out, the bloodless shadow of a victory, a postponed defeat and utterly, nothing else than treason. He had not thought himself as a fanatic or a zealot up until now. He had always thought that he was, as ever, the pragmatist.
That was the quality in him which had led him to believe that change should occur, even if it meant full-scale rebellion and ultimately war; quite possibly the annihilation of those who would carry the weight of the change, but a change that was worth dying for.
He had studied as much of history as was possible and he had seen behind the veil of religious propaganda and dogma. He had weighed and balanced everything and he believed he could prove, by way of reasoning, hard facts and certain numbers, that their world was in a stagnant situation. A situation where nothing new and worthwhile would ever arise, a steady circle of people giving birth, and dying, too busy and occupied with the endless toils of life and too frightened of losing what little breath of life they had been spared.
Too frightened to lose the smell of cinnamon bread-pies and the laughter of the young and innocent children, before they too became in essence obedient slaves, aspiring to nothing more than a long life of toil and harsh, bitter pain and misery as if it was the only right thing to do.
And people like him, the Noble families, would praise the Gods and their luck for been born a step above the simpletons that tilled their fields, worked their mines and brought them their wine to the table.
Fear. Fear ruled them first and foremost above all. Fear misguided them and made them wake up from their dreamless sleep, and be happy they’d just live for another day. It had sickened him, when he realized it in his mind for the first time.
They were prisoners of fear, all of them; from the nobles to the scum in the streets of Pyr. Every last one of them, all they knew their whole lives was fear. It was time they learned something more of life, go a little further down the road.
He was curious to see what they could accomplish once they were free of fear. All of them, free to think, act, hope, and dream. He had a sudden flash of recollection right at that hour.
He remembered a time when he had gone fishing with his grandfather, near a lake in the late summer when he was still a boy curling up in his mother’s bosom to sleep at night. His grandfather had showed him how to hook the bait on his line but when he had tried it himself, he had gotten stung. He had cried in anguish, pain, and fear, but his grandfather had laughed out with all his heart and had said to him, quite unperturbed by his discomfort:
“It’s only a sting, Urse. It’s not going to kill you. Unless you’re a fish.”
He wasn’t a fish, and he wasn’t just going to give up now. He was Lord Ursempyre Remis and he was about to change everything, even if he ultimately failed. But first he had to go through this immediate predicament, and the smartest way to do that was to let the Patriarch think he had won, that despair had claimed him.
Even if he succeeded in killing him right then and there, he doubted he could make it out alive. Thinking about bait and fish, he was determined to see the Patriarch outwitted and outmatched in his own game: Deception.
“You seem to be thinking hard into the matter, Lord Remis. As I had anticipated, you are taking this seriously and weighing your, very few I should remind you, options. So, what will it be Ursempyre Remis? Will you vainly turn brother against brother and father against son? Will you have all that blood in your hands? End it now, before it even starts.”
Ursempyre’s reverie was broken, and upon hearing the Patriarch he responded with a burst, his words spat from his mouth rather than spoken:
“Lies! Deceit! You would have me believe all that just so you can bring the Kinsfolk out onto the light and finish us in one sweep. Still, if you wouldn’t do that, if you only care for things to remain as they are, what will you do once I am named Castigator? Will you change the Law? Will there be reform? Will the people achieve some measure of freedom, of independence? Will your Gods show mercy for a change? Inspire prosperity and progress? Will the people enjoy better lives? Or will you squeeze and squeeze until not an iota of their strength or resolve remains? Will you see the error of your ways and let the people be free? Or will you keep making the same offer to other men as well, again, and again, and again?”
The Patriarch remained calm, and seemed uninhibited in his efforts to force Ursempyre’s submission or his hand:
“I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions. This is not a political bargain. Indeed any bargain of sorts. It is merely a possibility I am willing to entertain, because it suits me. Perhaps I haven’t been too clear, and at the same time I have misjudged your intelligence and powers of reasoning and extrapolation. I am not sharing power, or recognizing my decisions and rule as mistaken. You will not be handed any real measure of authority and yes, the people will continue to be oppressed as you put it, until I deem otherwise. You have no real lever against me, apart from certain time constraints that I must keep in mind. In other words, I am offering you a much more civilized way out, because I haven’t got the time to grind your puny rebellious followers into oblivion. Is that much understood now? Am I coming across? Can you reestablish the true position you are in now? Can you fathom that in my greater sc
heme of things you and your ’people’ are a nuisance I want to deal with efficiently and move on? Or are you that infatuated with your pet idea of a free world that you have been completely cut off from reality? Perhaps you might be thinking it will all sort itself out in the end, aren’t you? How preposterous a notion! I can only find it natural to nurture such gross misconceptions since you are little more than infants, barely able to stand on their own two feet. How could you possible know the truth of the cosmos? You still think of the stars as prickles of light, some of them falling down as they die. You would know real fear and awe when you saw the death of a star, I can assure you of that. But you still would not believe me. As you do not believe me now, thinking I am playing you like the fool you are, tightening and loosening an invisible line, as if you were a fish caught on my lure.”
Ursempyre involuntarily flinched at the uncanny remark and was terrified at the thought the Patriarch was actually reading his mind. If that were true, he had been a fool from the start, all his hopes now laid to waste. He tried to compose himself, not allow any more of his fear to show itself. The Patriarch was grinning malevolently when he said:
“I am not reading your mind. I could, but then I would have to have you killed and that would not expedite my goals. I have already devoted enough of my time in this affair; what should have been a simple case of a ’yes’ or ’no’ has evolved into a time-consuming situation that only serves to further aggravate me as well as stall me, as you might be thinking is in your best interest. I might also be giving away details and information you would never even have dreamt of, but it will matter little because if you live, you’ll have become my new Castigator, and if you die, well, dead men can’t talk. Not that the rumors have hurt me much over the years. It seems that people will only believe what they are willing to. Suspension of disbelief can be a powerful weapon indeed. But I digress. You make me so restless I cannot help myself. Come now, seriously, what will it be? My patience is at an end. Whatever you want to happen next, tell me now.”
Ursempyre’s face was stern, contorted from the anxiety. He realized perspiration had been running down his temples for some time. He had to make a leap of faith, and trust in himself like never before. Still, he knew he was walking in a territory far more dangerous than he could have imagined from beforehand. The Castigator was another pawn. These weird abilities of the Patriarch. Like the stories of Old, before the Pantheon. Folk tales they had seemed, but now they were inescapably real, made manifest before his eyes. He did not know their true nature, and was loathe to find out. Still, why was he being offered this now? Should he not refuse? What made the Patriarch so certain of his superiority? What was the true extent of his power? Why had he not crushed them at their inception while they were still a handful; weak, their organization still a dream, a footnote of history and legend brought back from oblivion, nothing but a speck against the power the Council held over all? He had to find out before he plunged in a path that may well damn him and all those who believed in him. So he asked him directly:
“Why should I accept your offer? What makes you certain, what can you do to us that you have not done already? Haven’t you stifled growth, education, trade, economy? Isn’t almost everything under your control, in one form or another? Except perhaps the air we breath. Even the earth and the water, so indispensable to life itself, has become a commodity, something to be sold and acquired, according to your sick whims and desires. Even though that has held true for generations, we are willing to give our lives to stop this. Believe me, we will; unquestioningly, unflinchingly. How will you break that resolve, I ask you? Since you are the one that has caused this, its your Law and your rule that has brought things too far. What good will the vanishing tricks do? Will you just vanish when the crowds of free men will be running after you, demanding nothing less than your head? Or will you put on another light show like the one around me, hoping that the people you consider animals will be dazed and so sublimed that they’ll beg you for forgiveness for their sins? Tell me, oh Holy Avatar, why should we capitulate without even a fight?”
“I never thought you were capable of such blandishment, dear Ursempyre. Yes, it is marvelous the way you people have been ground down to little more than mere animals. I must admit I sometimes feel a certain measure of pride at what I have achieved here. As for your other question, I believe that you should be careful not to confuse what you have seen here with the true extend of my powers. This is not a show I put on for you specifically, Lord Remis. It is merely an extension of courtesy, in good faith. I simply meant to cast off my regular mask, to create an honest, conversational atmosphere in which I could nurture a more direct relationship with you, vis-a-vis. I simply showed you that I am not the man you might have thought I was but I am far more resourceful and much more dangerous than what you think. Tell me, Ursempyre, have you heard of Shan the Traitor? The terrible Betrayer? And the Day of Redemption?”
Ursempyre did not expect such a reference at such a time. The last thing he expected right at that time was a lesson in history and tales. But he indulged the Patriarch, who seemed to be trying to veer him off course nevertheless:
“I have. It is supposed to be a part of history that has been wiped clean. I believe it is a myth, an insidious lie spread purposefully to dishearten and discourage any who would even think about opposing you; a story to suppress their anger with fear and awe, with a promise of terrible retribution and divine wrath. An angel of the Gods who would come down from above and wipe us all in one sweep, one fell blow? Is that what you would have me believe? That you have that kind of power? That you will pray to your Gods and they will crush us like ants? Is your purpose to turn me, Patriarch, or is it to make me laugh?”
“Yes, it would stand to reason to think of it as a mere lie, a fabricated tale or another piece of propaganda, but the truth is much more simple. I do possess that kind of power.”
The Patriarch took a step back, and extended his arms. He took on a solemn expression, as if praying or concentrating deeply. A strange smell assaulted Ursempyre’s nostrils. It seemed to emanate from the Patriarch as far as Ursempyre could tell. A smell that reminded him of metal against metal, the smell of a blacksmith’s shop but all he could see was that the Patriarch was now a bit taller than before. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘he is not taller’. ‘Something’s wrong here,’ his mind voiced with concern. He noticed the Patriarch’s feet were no longer touching the ground. Faint bluish crackles of light like tiny lightnings and sparks of light coursed through the Patriarch, his bald scalp having taken on an eerie sheen as if it had suddenly transformed into a shiny metal mirror. The Patriarch grinned and uttered in High Helican:
“Behold, the Holy Avatar.”
With that, the Patriarch tensed and a bright shiny aura began to emanate from within him. His robes were drawn in, tightened around his body as if they had instantly shrunk. They visibly outlined his figure, and Ursempyre was surprised once more to see that such a body did not belong to an old man. It was immaculate, perfectly carved as if it were a statue; the penultimate monument to the human body, its musculature detailed beyond any artisan’s capabilities and talent. It was the body of a demi-God, exuding awe by sight alone. The Patriarch’s face began to twist and reshape itself as if it was made of water or mercury; all his facial characteristics were turning into a pool engulfed in bright light, as if fire was about to scorch it. And all the while Remis could see the grin of the Patriarch, even though his face was no longer there. His mind reeled from the sight before him. It was true then; this was a monster beyond comparison. The stories and legends were true. And the Day of Redemption had happened. And it was him who had made it happen. It was him all along. Even before, all those years past. It had always been him. The realization left him wide-eyed struggling for breath. The robes around the Patriarch were absorbed into his flesh, which was now a rippling pool of molten metal, incandescent with a fiery aura around it. He was levitating a few feet above the ground, resplendent and regal in h
is unique and terrible form. The figure spoke at him, with no visible source for its voice:
“I hate to show off but you forced my hand. I would really hate to raze the City just to convince you, Ursempyre. I believe you would hate to be the reason of such a slaughter. Do I have your attention now?”
Ursempyre could not know whether he was hearing the voice through his ears or simply in his mind. How little it mattered now, he thought. He only managed to nod, still staring at the majestic being in front of him.
“Please say it Ursempyre. Do you capitulate? Will you become my Castigator?”, said the perfect, floating fiery figure of the transformed Patriarch.
Ursempyre felt shocked, minuscule, and unimportant. They were up against a being of unimaginable power, not based solely on its manipulations, schemes, and outright terror practices. This was something else entirely; the Patriarch was the wielder of terrible force. A demon that left one mesmerized in awe. ‘Why couldn’t this be a mere show?’, he thought. How could he have lived so long ago? How could he have brought such destruction by himself alone? How did he know he wasn’t just lying, as was his usual practice? Such thoughts pained him with their inability to be answered.
He knew. When he saw him change into that thing, he saw. He felt its corruption overwhelm him and its malevolence flow around him, its power beaming right through him. It was true. He didn’t know how exactly it was possible, but it was true. He could wipe them out if he needed too, if he wanted to. He did not believe that thing could be hurt, not in any real sense. He did not know whether the Patriarch himself was still vulnerable, but he now believed this was his true form, and the old man a mere charade he found more practical. Perhaps it was another one of his whims. It didn’t matter, this was inescapable. He had no options now. All he had been planning was for naught. He would play along. But he would not give up. No, he knew they were at a disadvantage, but that was now a blessing. Had they went on with their plan, they would have been culled like sheep. It was almost as if he was trying to give them a warning, a second chance.
Ursempyre decided he would capitulate; he would accept, but only for a while. Only until he knew what was going on this world of his and what was the truth behind all this. Until he found out who was this being that had ruled over them for untold years with iron and steel, whip and truncheon. He’d do what he could, and perhaps find a way to bring him down. The others, though, who had not seen what he had seen, would they believe him? Or would they just curse him as the traitor he would seem to have become? He could do little about that. He only hoped they’d forgive him before his end. That somehow this would work out. He turned to face the fiery figure, and looking at where its eyes should have been, managed to utter levelly:
“I will. I only do this because I now believe you when you say lives will be lost to no avail. Always remember that. Always remember that I only do this as the lesser evil, and nothing more. I will only serve my people, not you; ever. If I find a way to turn against you, I will do so, without hesitation.”
“Yes, indeed. I’m sure you will. Now that we finally settled this matter, I’ll issue the relevant orders and perform the Ceremony of Kyryksis. Naturally, once you ascend to office you will also issue a statement for your men to stand down and reconcile their grievances, as reforms are sure to be made and an arrangement has been agreed upon for a gradual transition into a free society. I believe the majority will accept such a turn of events with relief. No one likes dying. Except for a few fools that will probably follow your plan to the end anyway. Nothing important that my people will not be able to handle. Congratulations on a well-informed decision, Lord Remis.”
The Patriarch returned to his human form in mere moments, the transition this time a lot quicker and much less dramatic. He offered his hand grinning profusely, but Ursempyre did not accept it. He rather looked at the Patriarch’s hand with boiling contempt and disgust. The Patriarch insisted, the hand still extended for a handshake, and said:
“Please, Lord Remis. I only rarely bite people. It is a simple handshake. Once you become the Castigator, you will be required to kiss my hand; for the sake of appearances, naturally.”
Ursempyre’s face was tense, as if carved of stone. His equally hard glare at the Patriarch with eyes like fiery pinpricks of unyielding light, indicated that he was expending huge amounts of patience and self-restrain in order for him not to lunge at the Patriarch right then and there. But he would bide his time. With obvious reluctance and slow, deliberate motions that brought to mind a man in pain, he managed to shake hands with the Patriarch. He felt like he now carried a stain he could never wash off. He paused in thought and asked the Patriarch who was about to call out to the guards:
“Tell me one more thing. Why didn’t you make me do it? Why didn’t you force me, with some of those bewildering powers of yours?”
The Patriarch paused in his step, turned to look at Ursempyre and smiled brightly before replying:
“Oh, my dear Castigator Remis; that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?”