Thieves did not prowl, but humankind was beginning to sense the shadow all around them. Within their seat of government, the council building known as the Kuh’taenium, the councillors met at sun down. It was unprecedented to meet while dark reigned, but many things were changing, and not just on Lianthre. Ignorant though they were of events on distant continents, of the hand of fate pulling three humans toward an unknown destiny abroad and at home, they discussed one of the three, equally ignorant of her place in the future of all living creatures. Had they known the woman of whom they spoke was one third of their hopes for survival, perhaps the outcome would have been different. Then again, fear cripples. Perhaps it would have changed the outcome not at all.
The Kuh’taenium was old beyond reckoning. It sat like a conch shell within the centre of the city, but one so large as to have a section of the city named for it. It could contain five hundred or more bodies, although there were rarely more than three hundred and fifty-seven — to be precise — the number of representatives from each region of the continent. Lianthre was huge, but the size of a region was no indicator of its importance. Some regions had more representatives simply because they were more populous. At five year intervals, a census was taken. Sometimes the Conclave expanded, sometimes, such as in times of plague (there was no such thing as war on the continent of Lianthre) it might contract.
The heat outside was fading as the night drew on. At this late hour, it was no longer burning. It was merely marrow-drying. Within the Kuh’taenium, the high summer heat was forgotten. Heat of another kind was steadily rising.
In the halls of the Conclave, righteous dissonance drowned out all sensible argument. The room, mirrored on all sides so each member could see all others, held over the three hundred-some councillors and the majority of them bowled bitter words at each other even though they agreed. The anger went were it could, and as the law dictated they could not direct it at the Hierarchy or the Protectorate they turned it on themselves.
A malodorous stench hid behind the ire and prickled the lone Protocrat’s nostrils. The smell of cowardice grew as one by one they capitulated and the Protectorate won another battle against its most unchallenging opponents.
Just one of the humans was different, though.
Reih Refren A’e Eril finally bashed an ornamental sceptre against the polished hollow pedestal that stood at the centre of the chamber. The resounding crash echoing back off the mirrored walls loud enough to pull its own hush behind it. The visiting Protocrat stood among them on the raised speech platform, tall and proud in ceremonial robes of the Interpellate (the political arm of the Protectorate’s twenty-one divisions), and savoured the last wisps of emotion before the assemblage reeled it in. He waited although he knew the outcome could not be disputed.
“Enough!” Reih cried, hitting the pedestal once more with the sceptre she alone was entitled to hold. She then spoke quietly and the words bounced around the room to every member’s ear. “Whether we like it or not, the order stands. By decree, the murder of an officer of the Protectorate instantly allows the council member to be disbarred, regardless of the punishment she receives. It is not our place to judge evidence, merely to ensure that the dissident cannot be allowed to return. This is the law, and it has spoken.”
“Then the law is wrong, and who are they — " said Myron Rumbil, pointing at the Protocrat — “to tell us!”
“Temper your wrath, Myron. None here are content with this outcome but the word of the law is inviolate. I understand Tirielle A’m Dralorn holds a special place in all our hearts. We took her in after her expulsion. When they said she was possessed of magic, we looked after her estate. While she was gone, we mourned for her father, favourite among us. But perhaps we wanted her to turn out like her father so much that we overlooked her evil.” Even as she said it she did not believe it. Appearance was paramount now.
“Bah! You expect us to believe Tirielle a murderer?” Someone mumbled to a colleague, the words gathering pace and shooting around the room as soon as they were free.
“Yes, I expect you to believe," the Protectorate’s representative spoke for the first time, "not because my word is the law, but because it is the will of the Kuh’taenium. Never forget, though; we protect you. Thanks to us this land has known a thousand years of peace! Each time the council rises against us in anger, each time your fears are laid low, and each time we forgive your race. A thousand years ago came the revolution and governance was passed into your own hands, but by edict you are forbidden to rise against us. In turn we keep to ourselves and you govern yourselves. The Protectorate shield you all from the harsh realities of a world with rogue magic, keep your streets safe and protect the innocent and yet still you bite the hand that feeds you. Have you no shame?!” The Protocrat sputtered in mock fury.
More mumbles roamed the room, but few dissenters were rash enough to speak out further. But there is always one whose mouth runs too freely.
“And perhaps we should petition the Protectorate for their brutality! Not two days ago I saw a man beheaded in front of my very eyes!”
Oh, Guy, thought Reih. You have just signed your own death warrant. She could see it, but Guy was wrong. To accuse the Protectorate would mean death, even if they could not kill a Councillor in the street like a wild wizard, they could still kill. The Protectorate were growing bold. She looked at the creature dressed in all its finery, but for all that still a thug by any other name. Such proud, noble features he had. When would all the others realise the threat they posed? Harsh words were allowed — such accusations were too far. It wasn’t written but they all knew it, even Guy. She could see the unconscious slump of his shoulder as he realised what he just done.
Reih sighed and rubbed her eyes. She knew there was some duplicity here — she would protect the law with all her might, but Tirielle a murderer? The charge smacked of politics more than crime. The boundaries were clearly demarked still, yet she felt the lines become involute. The Kuh’taenium seemed stretched and blurred in her eyes. The lines were fading. Her link with the law was tainted, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was bred into her bones, a link formed at birth, and now it felt diseased. As Imperator of the Conclave, she and the Kuh’taenium were symbiotic. They shared thoughts, saw each others dreams, gave each other strength. Some would think it unnatural that a building should have a soul, but not Reih. She accepted without question.
She needed the Kuh’taenium’s power more than ever now. Some kind of revolution was coming. She hoped it was all in her mind, but if it was in her mind, it was in the Kuh’taenium’s, too.
She could feel a headache coming on. Knowing there was nothing more she could achieve among the Conclave, she called it to a close, cutting off the Protocrat before he could reply to Guy’s foolish accusation. She needed to rest. The Kuh’taenium was sickened by the betrayal it had been forced to witness, and she felt its sadness in her bones.
As the sun came up, the members filed out through various exits (some above ground, some below — the shell itself sat half submerged in the earth).
His work done, albeit not swiftly, the Protocrat left last. Tirielle was disbarred and the arguments in her favour had held no sway. The Kuh’taenium had decided — Tirielle was on her own, and no rights afforded to a member of the Conclave would be granted upon her capture. Not that such considerations had hampered the Protectorates efforts to capture her until now, but it was the appearance of the thing that mattered.
The Protocrat stretched, spine cracking loudly, and made his way to his superior, who waited under the shade of one of the trees that lined the twelve approaches to the Conclave’s heart.
Reih passed slowly through the outer cells of the Kuh’taenium, ascending gradually to her living rooms at the apex of the giant sphere. The journey took some time as she wound her way higher, looking out through the sheltered windows onto the grounds and the city beyond.
There, under the canopy of growth that fluttered lightly on the day’s breeze, the Protocrat spoke animatedly with someone. Another Protocrat, his face hidden. The two were concealed on the curving paths that ran through the gardens, unseen from below. She stood back from the light watching the two in discussion until she could see who would walk away.
The man left, and Reih let out her breath. His size alone gave him away, but the Kuh’taenium confirmed her suspicions, its sight and senses greater than any mortal. She saw through its myriad eyes. There was no doubt.
Tun, the head of the Protectorate’s Search Division.
So it had all been set up. They had just been waiting for license to hunt Tirielle like an animal. Stripped of the benefits granted to the Conclave, Reih had no doubt that should Tirielle be captured, she would be tortured and killed.
But what could she do? What was she really, but a glorified politician?
What was one human, against the might of their rulers?
She sat on her bed, thoughts whirling dangerously, until the Kuh’taenium began speaking. They talked long, until Dow rose. Finally, she fell into her bed and slept a shallow sleep that did little to refresh her.
She woke to a new day half fled. As Carious slid below the horizon, she began to write.
‘Dear Gurt…’