‘And at births, Nona. And at births.’
Great doors of ironwood gave onto a foyer, more pillars rising to a vaulted ceiling, the floor tiled in black and white. Other doors, bronze and of smaller scale, opened into a domed chamber where the high priest sat upon a dais in a chair whose gilded back rose above him in scrolls. The four archons sat at the base of the dais, two to either side, each clad in their finery and on chairs scarcely less impressive than the high priest’s. Nona took them in for the first time, having seen only their grandeur and the symbols of their office on the night of their arrival. A fat and pallid man, gone to grey, his eyes deep-set, his lips wet. A stern old woman, dark as pitch, head shaven, wearing a single golden earring. A tall and narrow man, younger than the rest, dark-haired and with a look of great melancholy. A solid man with an air of restless energy about him, head square upon a thick neck, half his face laced with ridges of old scar as if some clawed hand had tried to tear it off. This last official shot a quick tight smile towards the end of the hall – gone so swiftly it might never have been there.
Half a dozen assistants, some with leather-bound law tomes, attended the archons, the whole assembly before the dais apparently too deep in various muttered conversations to note the prisoners’ arrival. Sisters Wheel and Rose waited before an area close by the door cordoned within a short wooden wall that reached to Nona’s chest. Church-guards lined the chamber walls, five to each side.
Abbess Glass led the way into the enclosure, Nona following. ‘Are you scared, child?’ the abbess asked, turning her head and arms with difficulty to look down at Nona.
‘I don’t know.’ Nona knew that she should be scared. She had been scared of the fall when she had stepped out onto the blade-path. Not of the ground below but the helpless drop before it. She had been scared of losing Saida when the cart took them to the prison. Here though, in irons and with the sinkhole waiting, skulls in the black water looking upward for her arrival, she had yet to find room for fear. This came from Raymel Tacsis, his actions, his evil. That man would die by her hand and if the church supported him, it too would be her enemy. The high priest, she had already decided, would pay more than a crown for Giljohn’s mule. ‘I’m angry, mostly.’
Abbess Glass blinked, shook her head, then smiled. ‘Of course you’re scared, Nona. I am.’ She went to one knee to be on a level with Nona. A few strands of iron-grey hair had escaped her headdress; sweat beaded on her brow. ‘Do you know why they call this Heart Hall?’
Nona shook her head.
‘It’s named for the shipheart that’s kept in a cavern far below our feet. The heat for the bathhouse and dormitories comes from there, the pipes reach down, close enough to the shipheart to heat the oil …’
Nona let the abbess calm herself telling her stories and looked instead at her own wrists, held level with her shoulders by the yoke. The iron clamps had taken the skin, leaving wet red flesh beneath, the fingers above were numb and barely responded when she tried to wriggle them. If they threw her into the water still yoked she would sink and vanish. Even without the yoke she would drown, unless swimming proved to be an easy thing to learn in a hurry. But such a weight of iron … would they cast it aside as easily as her life? Or remove it for later use? That would be her chance.
‘… took it from the vessel that brought our forebears from the darkness above the sky. Did you know that, Nona?’
‘No.’ Nona looked away from her inspection of the damage to her wrists and faced the abbess. ‘Will they start soon?’
‘In a short while. There’s nothing a church court likes more than delay and debate, but I have a feeling that our high priest is anxious to be on his way. He must have a pressing appointment in Verity. Or perhaps he’s worried that other parties might show an interest in the proceedings given enough time to notice. I’m not without friends in court.’
As if hearing her across the length of the room and through the ebb and flow of the archons’ chatter, the high priest stood, bringing the heel of his staff down sharply upon the dais. ‘I, High Priest Jacob, holy of the church, declare this extraordinary meeting of the Ancestor’s court in session.’ He nodded to an assistant seated to his left, bent over a large and open scroll, quill in hand. The woman began to write.
‘Gathered with me in judgement I have the four archons of the faith. Archon Nevis, to bring the gravity of the gerant.’ The fat man bowed his head, deep-set eyes glittering in a pale face. His girth aside, he didn’t seem a particularly large man to Nona, not a blood-gerant for sure. ‘Archon Anasta, to bring the swiftness and precision of the hunska.’ The old woman nodded, the day’s light gleaming across the bald dark dome of her skull, lone earring set to swinging. ‘Archon Philo, to bring the mystery and insight of the marjal.’ The tall man made no sign of having heard, save perhaps in a deepening of the sadness on his narrow face. ‘Archon Kratton, to bring the direction and balance of the quantal.’ The last archon dipped his head, the scars across the left side of his face livid in the morning sun slanting in from narrow windows. He clenched his fists before him. Nona imagined those hands might crush rocks, leaving only powder.
The high priest bowed to each archon in turn then returned his gaze to the prisoners. ‘I expect this to be a swift trial. The facts are indisputable, the sentences prescribed by precedent, and it is hard to imagine that there can be any defence. We will listen to Abbess Glass’s apology and consider what measure of mercy may be open to us in this case.
‘The facts are these. Raymel Tacsis, son of one of the realm’s highest families, born of the line of emperors, given his name in the Ancestor’s holy cathedral, was mortally wounded by Nona Reeve—’ Nona opened her mouth to protest that she wanted nothing of Partnis Reeve, but the abbess shushed her, her look so fierce that Nona bit her tongue. ‘—said individual then being found guilty of murder and sentenced to hang at the emperor’s pleasure in Harriton prison.
‘Abbess Glass of Sweet Mercy Convent secured the release of the criminal into her care under false pretences and subsequently brought her to the convent where, with indecent haste, she was inducted as a novice.
‘The matter now sits under church law, which on matters of murder and attempted murder is no more forgiving than the emperor’s commandments in such regards. Our duty is clear. Firstly, we must sentence Novice Nona to death for her crime against Raymel Tacsis. Secondly, we must impose sentence upon Abbess Glass for gross interference with secular affairs of state – a transgression for which an example must be set before both the church and lay populations. Failure to hand out a severe sentence will cause unrest, both among the populace and within the emperor’s own court. The church cannot afford to be seen as thinking itself above the civil law.
‘Unless there are any other opinions at this stage …’ he glanced at the archons to either side, ‘… I will call upon Abbess Glass to make her apologies and appeal for clemency.’
All eyes turned towards the abbess, who took a step forward, now resting herself against the prisoners’ wooden enclosure. ‘Have you asked yourself why I would take a child from the hangman, Jacob?’