* * *
Ursempyre was fretfully looking over the tall arched balcony of the Disciplinarium’s east tower. His gaze was deeply woven with sorrow and hurt. His soul felt empty and broken. Whatever he had been planning, was now nothing but a dream. The gale of the wind brought to his nostrils the smell of ash and cinder.
Fires had started in some parts of Pyr. Fires from the siege engines of the Army. Tyrpledge was leading them, a good man as far as he could remember, as far as he could judge a man. He believed he no longer had that privilege. Who was he to judge others? A consummate traitor, by any account. He was bereft of the things he valued most: Truth, honor, friendship.
He had lied, and he had deceived. He had lost his honor and sworn oaths that had filled his mouth with venom and choler. He had sacrificed everything, to save something. And now this. Within a single night he had been duped not once, but twice. He had been played like a puppet, and now his people would pay the price. All of his people, not just the kinsfolk, not only those that were prepared to pay some price. Everyone would now pay for his failure, his lack of wisdom and foresight. He had been arrogant, he could see that now.
He had believed himself capable of achieving the dream of countless generations, becoming the leader behind which the kinsfolk would spread like wildfire, uniting the people against a tyranny as old as stone and earth. He believed he could have liberated them all and usher a new era where every breath would smell of freedom instead of fear and oppression. He loathed him! That was what had blinded him. Loathing, unquenched passion and blinding wrath. The Patriarch was more than merely shrewd; he was a demon incarnate, laughing behind their backs, toying with their minds and souls. Every single thread of fate firmly in his hands like reins.
Only last night, he had thought that the worst fate could have in store for him was horrible and meaningless torture at the hands of the Patriarch. Now, he was in living hell unable to even scream in agony. There was no point, none would listen to him now. He had been crushed, mind and spirit, in one blow. He had been quite effectively made redundant, irrelevant, obsolete. He should not have given the Patriarch’s offer any thought. He should have denied him. Denied his immense powers, his demonic shell and form. He should have told him that his people were not afraid of death. That it did not matter to him if they perished in eldritch hellish flames, or bled their lives away one by one by sword and bow.
But that would have been a lie, and the Patriarch would have seen through it. There was no hope all along, Ursempyre thought. As fate had brought things together, and life had shaped him into the man he was, there was indeed nothing that could be done. He had lost this fight before it had even began. He could now do nothing but watch idly from afar, hoping his people would survive, that they would endure.
What would become of them then though? What had his mind devised? What end did the extravagant machinations serve. What reason lay behind this endless pulling of strings and turning of dials like the movement of wheels within wheels. They left them with a dizzying sensation meant to disorient and mesmerize, while right behind the shadows the real stage was being set, Lord Remis thought in silence.
The Patriarch’s purpose might have been unfathomable, but Ursempyre was only certain that it held nothing good in stock for the people. If there was one thing he might try as a last attempt at redemption, was to try and learn as much as possible from him. He somehow felt that was as if trying to squeeze water out of stone, an impossible task either way one might look at it.
Sooner or later Ursempyre thought, the army would find a way into the city. They had the men, the equipment, and the time to do so. And then the procrastinators would perhaps find a deserving end unable to put up a fight; under-equipped and overwhelmed by numbers they would lose the fight for Pyr. Even though the total strength of the procrastinators had been summoned, it would take days, perhaps weeks for them to arrive in time to stem the tide of Tyrpledge’s men.
Ursempyre tried to imagine what must be going through the General’s mind at such a time. Was he torn between his devotion to duty and his feelings for his fellow men? Or did he relish the prospect of exacting vengeance in the name of the rightful Castigator and the Pantheon? What lay in his heart? Was it furious anger? Was it righteous wrath? Blind dedication and dispassionate will, the markings of a professional soldier?
He rather hoped the General was dumbfounded, left vacant inside at the realization of this horror. Perhaps he regarded all this with deep-seated consternation, and was troubled at his every step haunted by images of the monstrous consequences his actions would have for all of them. Was he such a man? He could not know and was deadly afraid that he would not like that question to be answered.
Lord Remis was standing in front of a stone arch, the weight of his body supported by his hands touching the granite as if they had been attached to it for ages. Servants had offered to bring him food and water. He had waved them away, but he could hear the frailness of their voices, their disbelief and fear. He did not know what it was that they feared most: the coming battle, the Patriarch, or the sudden realization that the world had come upside down in a single night?
His guards outside the chamber had seemed equally perturbed. Though hand-selected from the ranks of the procrastinators, they were not as blind and unintelligent as their lesser comrades. He had seen the complexion on their faces turn into the color of ash, blood pumped away from their hearts lest it explode in shock when they saw him appointed Castigator, in the stark middle of the night with only the Patriarch and a few Disciplinarium officials to attend as witnesses. It all seemed wrong, even to simpletons such as these.
He did not question for one second though that should he try to act wildly, fear would overcome them and their instincts would not be reined; they would bring him down, as the Patriarch had ordered them to, ‘for his own good’.
On recollection it seemed to Ursempyre that the Patriarch was somehow swinging this whole affair, precariously navigating between duplicity and lawfulness, trying to rewrite the Law and everything it had stood for since the very founding of the Territories. It was as if he had no clear view of the future he wanted to create for them.
If, indeed, the Patriarch had been planning for any future at all. Ursempyre thought such a being incapable of planning anything else than their complete extermination. The total annihilation of the Outer Territories starting from Pyr, the seat of power and Law. That would not be beyond a hateful being of such power, malevolence, and intelligence. The only thing that such a path would lack, would be reason. But then again, Ursempyre thought as he smiled bitterly and shook his head, who said reason had any part in all this?
Ursempyre could see now the smoke from the fires rising, procrastinators running in the streets, forcing people to follow them and press-ganging them to be used as firemen, workers, craftsmen, and ultimately, fodder. The siege engines of the Army were starting their baleful song again, the thudding and creaking of huge catapults and trebuchets launching stone and lit barrels of tar against the city, indiscriminately, randomly. They were killing the same people they were meant to protect. How very much like something the Patriarch would have conjured in his ineffable mind and ultimate wisdom.
He sniggered bitterly despite himself. Then he heard a sparkling voice and could almost see the insipid smile behind the words of the Patriarch without needing to turn:
“Quite a plan, don’t you think?”
Ursempyre turned to face him, his eyes sizzling with hatred. He felt like lunging at him and ending this farce before he had to bear witness to the atrocities that would stain every street with blood and fire. But that would be cowardice, another treasonous step towards the hell that awaited men like him. No, he would try and make something out of this charade he had been forced to play in. So, he indulged the Patriarch’s cruel sociability and answered with a flat, stern voice:
“You take pride in such things? What are you really Patriarch, if nothing but a demon in robes?”
The Patriarch returned an
even wider smile, his teeth sharply white as if made from porcelain. He started to pace around the chamber, idly examining the various items in it as if he was genuinely curious.
“Calling me names, Castigator? How improper for a man of your rank and lineage. It has been my firm conviction ever since I can remember myself that the true nature of things certainly lies in their death. Only when something dies can anyone really understand what it’s true nature was. Trees wither into ghastly dried hulks of wood. Plants rot away and turn into dust, returning to the soil. Man is a beast and like most beasts, he is made of flesh and bone, and the maggots make good use of him when he is dead.”
The Patriarch very carefully intoned the last word with a certain nuance that made it sound hollow. Coming out of his mouth the word sounded like a wooden mallet brought down upon a plank. Ursempyre’s blood was coursing fast and hot through his body, but he kept his temper in check, trying to make good use of his aggravation at being forced to play with words:
“Is that what you are planning? To see all of us men dead and done for? Worm food, is that what you think of us? Have you had this idea in your mind for long, or is it a newly hatched fantasy of yours? What kind of cruel nature gave life to the likes of a creature like you, I cannot fathom. I only wish there are no others of your kind roaming free in this world.”
The Patriarch was looking at an exquisitely fashioned silver egg encrusted with gems. He looked as if he genuinely could not decide whether it was purely ornamental or served some functional purpose as well. He replied to Ursempyre with a nonchalant voice:
“Oh, no there are not. I can assure you of that. I killed them all long ago. But that is another story. You should not need to worry, I am not planning on telling you about it. At least not now. Perhaps, later. It will depend. I am a very moody person, I don’t know if you’ve noticed it. I tend to follow my whims. I feel one should follow his heart, don’t you?”
Ursempyre felt ashamed he was still conversing with the likes of the Patriarch. His blood was now boiling and he couldn’t help but explode:
“You mock everything around you with extravagant arrogance and cynical devotion to your own self! Would you have me tell you I do not expect for you to have any heart at all? Is this your only way to derive pleasure in yourself? By pretentious dialogue with your captive victims and human tools? Is that the best you can do, Patriarch? Toy with me while your plans come into fruition? Is this all you’ve come to expect in your life?”
The Patriarch’s tone changed abruptly. He now looked severe, tense, his voice sharp and threatening:
“Careful now, Castigator Ursempyre Remis. If you are trying to attract my ire with an amateurish attack on what you would call ’pride’, you are sorely mistaken and I can only feel genuinely sorry for your failure to truly understand. Though it would be more than a surprise if you did. I simply did not expect you to try and use cheap, underhanded tactics that only work with moronic politicians such as yourself. Though it seems idiocy is a useful trait in politics. It got you to the very top.”
The Patriarch summoned a sardonic smile that made Ursempyre feel queasy. He was relentlessly carving up his mind and soul to feast on at his leisure. His words infuriated him and tore him apart at the same time. The Patriarch noticed he was not going to reply and pressed on:
“What are you thinking now, Ursempyre? I told you I can’t read minds, not unaided. But I do take delight in toying with you, that much is certain. Why, you ask? Should it be beneath me? A being of my powers? You talk as if you could understand me fully, as you knew the extend of my abilities. You’ve made the same mistake as the men before you. Like Shan, especially like him. You think of me driven by the same desires and needs as you.
Do you really think this is about power? The ability to control others? That is nothing but a tool to wield. Power can be used to transform people, bend them, chastise them, shape them. Isn’t that much more fun than simply using a person? I could talk around it for hours Ursempyre, but you would still lack the acuity of spirit to grasp the notion in its fullness. How could I explain something so simple to a mind as occluded as yours?
Vying for a freedom you would fail to maintain. Unable to control yourself in the simplest of urges you would wish you’d be able to assert control over power itself, share it as if it were some pie. The weak-minded leading the blind over a sheer precipice. Would you take the plunge first of them all, Ursempyre? Would you lead by example, like a good ruler? Would you become their final, benevolent dictator? Would you ruin my game?
That’s what it feels like for me Ursempyre, a game where I can have it all if I want to but I choose to play by some rules. I set the scene and act my part, with you as unknown partners. What makes it so grandiose Lord Remis, is the fact that for the most part, you are willing partners. None of this foolishness you dream of, simple lust. Passion. Life exploding from every inch of your pathetic existence in contrast to your inane mewling.
This is life Ursempyre, and I’m living it. I’m living it as I please and there’s no one to make me stop, no one to make me hurt, no one to make me feel anything other than great about it. If you could ever aspire to something Ursempyre, it would be to a perception as clear and total as mine. You would not weep then; indeed the idea would bring tears of laughter to your eyes. You would see the true nature of things. Despair now, for you very well know you have nothing else left to do in this world.”
He felt inundated with anger and sorrow; he wanted to vent, spill this rueful cup of emotions he carried. He could not find the strength to do so. By all means, the Patriarch had managed to break him, force his will into nothingness and make him regret the day he thought about standing up against them and their tyranny.
He had not foreseen it had all stemmed from this man. That was his biggest failing, the breaking point when he had been canceled; when he had been turned into a shadow, a creeping thing that should cease to be. He felt like his very being was an affront to man. His dark thoughts had swallowed Ursempyre whole, and he lay there on the floor of his chambers upon a carpet with the embroidery of the Castigator, weeping for himself, mourning for the future that would not come, his people that would cease to be.
He had helped in that crime, he saw it again more fully now; he had been unable to do anything even now, with the root of the cause standing right in front of him. He was a lesser man, he knew then. There would be no turning back, for no one. Parts of his mind urged him to endure but his soul was crushed, the spirit gone. The Patriarch was right all along; he would despair, because nothing else was left for him to do.