Deep Echoes

  ~~

  Chain was amongst the last to enter the Space. Memories of Wasp mixed with the image of an enormous creature sitting on the Cathedral to inspire a particular dread in Chain, but she entered the room proudly, tall, her back straight. She would not allow the past to cow her.

  Not now that Sol had fully forgiven her.

  Around her, the crowd voiced idle gossip and whispered fears. On rows of chairs raised so all could see, Councillors, Lords, Contegons, and all manner of people waited. Wasp was not among them: apparently, no one had been able to contact him and his house had fallen silent. Some other Merchant took his place at this trial no doubt.

  Chain's wounds itched at the thought. The worst of which was her left cheek, which had been pierced with shrapnel when the Disciple's gun had exploded. It had taken a Doctor two hours to extract each tiny shard of metal, and the cuts had fiercely aggravated her since.

  Her role in the Hereticum placed her with the involved Councillors and Lords. Chain's seat was one of nine in a rough circle at the centre of the Space, two huddles of four with the Guardian's throne at the crest. A wide space sat between. That was where the Heretic would be, where she would face the Hereticum... where she would face her punishment.

  Chain approached her chair and sat down. It felt more comfortable than any seat she'd ever sat in. The noise level in the room rose by at least a quarter. Chain ignored it.

  Instead, she concentrated. Chain was still troubled that the concept of Acolytes might be folded into the Solaric faith and hoped to see Sol's true will enacted by the Lords through the Hereticum. This process would decide whether Acolytes were dogma or not. Given how the Acolytes had failed, it must be Sol's will that the Heretic is proven as such, so that this Acolyte idea can be forgotten. And to ensure that the Heretic pays for her Heresy, for insulting Sol so. For hurting Chain.

  The other key seats slowly filled. The Lord Councillor – aged and wispy, his long beard woven into the fabric of his blue robes – was opposite her. The Artificer Councillor sat beside him, examining the crowd over her glass eyes. Other Councillors appeared, of the Shields and the Doctors, and then came Councillor White.

  “Good morning, Contegon Justicar,” Councillor White said, taking the seat to Chain's right.

  “Good morning, sire. I trust this morning finds you well?”

  “It does. And I trust you are well too?”

  Chain stiffened. Many Contegons disapproved of her conduct towards the Heretic, but Chain still felt justified, even if she didn't fully remember the rage she'd flown into. Sol was clearly acting through her, had chosen Chain to display his anger. However, the Guardian had sworn her to keep her peace, keep calm, during the Hereticum. So she would do so. That too was Sol's will, so it would be done.

  “I'm fine, Councillor.”

  “Good. She'll be coming in soon.”

  'She'll?' Councillor White didn't refer to her as the Heretic... Perhaps she was still undecided, wanted to believe Sol could give the kinds of powers the Heretic had displayed. In fact, the concept of Acolytes had originally been driven by Councillor White, hadn't it? Her uncertainty was thus understandable but disappointing to see in a Councillor. Chain had hoped she would have learned from her presumption at the Cathedral.

  A trumpet sounded. All eyes turned as the enormous main door cracked open like the eyelid of a waking monster. There a Cleric holding a trumpet walked through, peeling off a hymn that announced the Guardian in echoing, holy notes. Chain hummed along, knowing every word to 'Sol Expects Your Glory.'

  The song stopped when the Cleric lowered the instrument. His last note reverberated and died, bringing silence. “Gathered sires, may I present... the Guardian.”

  The heavy door was pulled open to reveal the Guardian. He wore full regalia – blessed silver armour beneath black silk robes with a thick cowl – and carried the long, golden Sceptre of Sol. In his other hand was a simple cane, which he leant heavily against. Everyone stood, applauding. Many cheered, unaware of the gravity of what they would witness. Chain applauded and bowed, did not acquiesce: at a Hereticum, you stood until the Guardian told you otherwise.

  Slowly, gracefully as he could, the Guardian entered the Space. He looked ill. Rumour suggested he had come down with something serious under the strain of the invasion, but he had a purpose, a role, and would fulfil it no matter what. Though he almost stumbled and had to rely on his dark cane often, he crossed the circled seats to his throne. Applause still rolled around the room when he sat, spreading his fur-lined robes.

  Relief etched itself on his drawn face when he no longer had to support himself. After a breath for strength, he raised the sceptre of Sol. The applause stopped, echoed, and died. The most powerful people in Geos watched that solid-gold rod, engraved and glorious, in anticipation.

  “Sit,” the Guardian commanded.

  As one, they sat.

  The Guardian lowered the sceptre. “We are here today for a Hereticum, here to discuss...” He coughed, then shook his head. “To discuss the Heretic Maya, the former trainee of the Academy, the so-called 'Acolyte.' Evidence shall be considered, opinions sought, and I shall render Sol's verdict. My word is final and binding, as is my prerogative as the Guardian of Geos.”

  He sat back, almost crumpled, into his throne. “Bring her in.”

  The door opened again, and a crowd of Doctors and Contegons entered, pushing a bed-like apparatus on wheels. Silence reigned. No one dared speak. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation, fear, and hope. This apparatus was, she had been told, actually the Hereticum: a structure that a Heretic could be secured to whilst Sol's anger burned away at them. Literally.

  Chain smiled when Servants carrying burning coals in brass braziers and flammable oils came into sight. Just above the Hereticum's back wheels was a hanging metal bowl, into which the coals and oils would go. During the Hereticum procedure, more and more oil would be added until... Well, until justice was served.

  At this thought, Chain's looked to the form held in the Hereticum. Tied down, eyes closed, there was the Heretic. Chain couldn't bear to look at her for long, so she concentrated on other things. Footsteps, the squeak of wheels, the smell of a hundred bodies, the taste of her rage, the seat holding her back straight: Chain took this all in and tried not to launch herself at the Heretic.

  And a Heretic she was. This was her trial. Forbidden from mentioning either Sol or Lun, unfit to reference the first and too dangerous to be allowed to mention the second, a Heretic must defend themselves by referring to scripture, arguing, refuting evidence presented by prosecutors and answering questions. All whilst oil is added to the fire that burns beneath them. Either the Heretic died from the process, or the Guardian would intercede, damning or redeeming her. And the Hereticum would choose the right option. Chain, as a prosecutor, would ensure that.

  When they reached the centre, the Doctors span the Hereticum, so the Heretic's feet faced the Guardian. Kneeling, two Doctors pulled levers and the Hereticum tilted so she faced the Guardian directly. With her eyes still closed, she had not seen Chain and positioned like this she wouldn't until it was Chain's turn to speak.

  Chain liked that she'd be able to spring such a surprise.

  The Guardian cleared his throat. “Maya, the 'Heretic', the 'Acolyte?'”

  The Heretic's eyes opened. She fixed them on the Guardian. “Yes, sire?”

  And so it began. Chain gripped her robes, bit her lip. No trick and no false humility would let the Heretic escape Sol's punishment. Nothing would pervert justice.

  “You have been brought here, to the first Hereticum for quite some time, because you fled your Station as a Contegon, leaving Aureu and the Academy in turmoil. During your flight, you fought guards and the poor of Outer Aureu, injuring many. You even murdered a known Gang Lord. What do you say to these charges?”

  She didn't answer for a moment, looking away and considering what the Guardian had charged her with. Chain was surprised at the charges: she hadn't heard that
the Heretic had gone into that den of villainy. Such a place suited her.

  “The charges are accurate,” the Heretic said, looking down at her feet. “I acted without... faith, without morals, and did all those things. I wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm not: not only have I made my apologies, but those actions led me to the path I now walk.”

  The Heretic looked back up at the Guardian. “I would like to expand upon that, but I've been informed that mentioning certain things will confirm me as guilty.”

  Chain cursed silently, hating that the Heretic had danced across that fine rope, but hadn't fallen. And to start with contrition, to admit guilt and state she had already been absolved? Very clever. A fine opening. She shouldn't have expected anything less from a former Contegon.

  Chain smiled without humour: another battle then.

  “Yes, well, we can come... come to that later. So you accept the charges of Heresy?”

  “I was a Heretic, but I deny that I am one.”

  “There is little difference, I assure you,” the Guardian said.

  “Maybe in here, sire.”

  Chain almost bit straight through her lip. Another small blow in the Heretic's favour. Sol would forgive those who repent, would accept them into himself after they die.

  The Guardian coughed once; then continued. “In addition to those charges, questions abound about what happened during the Battle for Aureu. More than fifty Disciples attacked, and you, along with an unknown accomplice, killed at least forty-four of them. In so doing, you flooded Aureu and razed the Planted Forest. All of this was achieved with the aid of an... an ability whose origin is unknown. This hearing shall also attempt to clear up the matter of whether additional charges of Heresy need to be brought against you. What do you say to this?”

  The Heretic held his gaze as though she had the right to speak with him as an equal. “It will be hard to answer your questions under the current restrictions, but I will try. I only wish to help.”

  Again the Heretic showed piousness. It had been too much to hope, as Chain realised she had, that whatever power the Heretic had allied herself with might have ruined her mental acuity. And Chain felt some momentum building on the Heretic's side. Tasting blood, she let her lip fall from between her teeth and tried to calm down.

  The Guardian nodded. “Very well. Start the fires.”

  The Heretic frowned, looked a little panicked. This cheered Chain somewhat, helped calm her nerves. The details of how a Hereticum works are not public knowledge, and so she wouldn't be aware of what was about to happen.

  It became clear to her when coals were carefully poured into the hanging bowl by thick-gloved Servants. As the heat rose and made itself known to the Heretic, the bitch took a deep breath. The bowl rested against the metal surface, at knee-height to the Heretic, and orange coals blazed within it. Chain hoped the fire would ruin her poise.

  “I pass scrutiny to the circle of prosecutors,” the Guardian said when he was satisfied with the Servants' work. “I think the question of this ability, this power, should be addressed first. So Lord Councillor Blind, please question her.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Lord Councillor Blind replied, his voice soft, even. With an audible effort, he stood. Hunched over, as though weighed down by his beard, he stepped behind the Hereticum and was handed a vial of flammable oil. He sized this up before pouring it onto the coals. A burst of flames brushed against the Hereticum in response.

  The Heretic winced at this, shifting uncomfortably. Chain fancied she could hear the sizzling of flesh.

  The Lord Councillor rounded the Hereticum and stood by the Guardian. Before speaking, he looked her up and down, sizing her. “So, Heretic, I'd be interested in hearing how you were granted your ability, what some might call Magic in the Old Language.”

  Chain almost punched the air. Finally someone other than her had levelled this accusation against the Heretic.

  The Heretic took slow, purposeful breaths before and after saying, “Okay.”

  “When were you given it?” the Lord Councillor asked.

  “Around three weeks ago, sire.”

  “And where were you given it?” he rattled back, building momentum.

  More controlled breathing. Sweat collected on the Heretic's face. “In the Prime Woods.”

  “Is there any evidence of this, Heretic?”

  “Well... I was being chased by Shields when it happened, sire. If you check the–”

  “We are aware of such reports, Heretic,” the Lord Councillor interrupted, not letting her get her poisonous explanations in. “Ten Shields entered the Prime Woods in pursuit of you and fell unconscious with no recollection of what happened. Very convincing. But why, if Sol gave you such a reprieve, would he not let them know what had happened?”

  A pause. The Heretic was flagging. “Such is not for me to know, sire.”

  “How convenient an excuse.”

  “If so, you'll have made many such excuses in your time, sire.”

  The crowd gasped. Chain stamped her foot. What could the Lord Councillor say to that? If he claimed to know the mind of Sol, he would be lying, would undermine himself. Damn her, she was not letting this go, could even be... no, she couldn't be winning, could she?

  After composing himself, the Lord Councillor cleared his throat. “So, what happened to knock these Shields unconscious? What was done to them?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You don't know?”

  “No, sire. I was hiding at the time, fervently hoping I wouldn't be caught. The Shields were close by but out of sight, so I did not see what happened.” She took another breath to purge her pain. “When I ventured from my hiding place, I found them alive, but no longer a threat.”

  The Heretic was being allowed to talk. Worse, she was being listened to. Even the Lord Councillor seemed more amenable to these lies. Getting to the truth, exposing her as a Heretic, might come down to Chain. Geos may again have to rely on her faithfulness alone. Again.

  “And I imagine you would claim, if you were allowed, that Sol appeared and granted you this power, presumably in preparation for the assault that was to come, or was already on its way. We cannot speculate on that matter here, but would you explain this power you found yourself with? What does it do; how does it work?”

  The Heretic shook her head. “No.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “I said no, sire. I cannot explain this to you. Its secrets are only for the likes of Contegons.”

  Someone in the crowd screamed. Chain laughed: the Heretic had slipped up. It was all over. How wonderful, how fitting, that she should be tripped up by naming the very rank she had forsworn. As a holy rank, she had broken the covenant of the Hereticum and would be put to death.

  “You break your promises, Maya,” Councillor White shouted over the rustling crowd. “You are therefore condemned–”

  “No, Councillor White, I did not mention anything I should not!” Maya shouted back. “During your caution, you did not say that I cannot mention that Station. If that is so, I shall not do so from now on, but you did not counsel me correctly.”

  “How dare–” Chain started but Councillor White held up her hand. The crowd went silent. Everyone watched her, most of all Chain.

  “She is right, Contegon Justicar, everyone, I failed to mention Contegons and other holy Stations cannot be mentioned. It was... it was I who broke the rules of the Hereticum, not Maya. For this, I apologise.”

  Chain scrunched up her eyes, couldn't believe that the Heretic had come so close to punishment but had survived by the faintest of margins. Why couldn't Sol have just ended the Hereticum there, with the right conclusion?

  “That is but a sideshow anyway,” the Lord Councillor said, his soft voice silencing the crowd. “So you cannot tell me this power's workings. Then how, may I ask, do you expect us to be able to judge it?”

  “On the evidence of your eyes, sire. The rest you'll have to take on... faith.”

  Chain stamped her
foot again and almost ripped her robes apart. The Heretic was bending the rules, if not outright breaking them. And she was getting away with it: the assembled crowd stared at her not with open hostility but with awe now. How could she be winning? How?

  “Calm yourself, Contegon Justicar,” Councillor White whispered. “You will break your vows at this rate.”

  On hearing this, Chain released her robes and took a breath. Sol wanted her to keep calm. Sol wanted her to keep her cool.

  “On the matter,” the Guardian spoke up, ending the Lord Councillor's weak attempt at prosecution, “of what we saw, I shall pass the session across to someone who can comment on that very thing. Thank you, Blind, for your questions. Contegon Chain Justicar, will you take up the mantle?”

  “I will, sire,” Chain replied.

  Again the safety of Aureu, the defence of Sol and all he stood for, rested with her. Without a perfect performance, the Heretic could be released, and her blasphemy would spread. Chain decided, as she walked across the Space and took the Lord Councillor's place before the Heretic, that this battle would be even more important that the Battle for Aureu.

  For this was a battle for Geos' soul.