Chapter 15

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.

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."