The Steel Beneath
The hard do what is necessary. The strong do what is right. The good do both.
Most Revered Saereen, High Guide of Kelios, r. 1679-1741
Light did not reach the Deep Cells. There was no sign of night or day, nor the passing of seasons. It was always warm in the Deep Cells, warm and moist. In the darkness, there was only the steady drip of water down the slick stone walls to remind the prisoners that they still lived. Some ran their fingers along the ground, moving to and fro the centuries of grime while others stared blankly at the grey rock as if to bore a hole with vision. All despaired of leaving but through the Red Door.
The Red Door stood ominously at the end of the block. To the newest in the Deep Cells, it was innocuous, merely an oddity that some ancient gaoler had seen fit to paint the door a vibrant red. After a few months, though, they knew. They all understood the meaning of the Red Door. Behind the Red Door lay death. You went through the Red Door and you never came back.
At least, so Lothir liked to believe. The prisoners did not talk to him lightly. The oppressive air felt too thick for frivolous speech down in the Deep Cells. He had been the Councils Justice for what felt three lifetimes, yet he had never overcome his superstitions about the place. A hint of a whisper murmured in his ear at every step, a ghostly hand gripped his shoulder, or a wind blew far beneath where any wind would ever blow. Lothir was not fond of the Deep Cells. He exercised his fear on his prisoners.
Those who had been in the Deep Cells the longest did not have his fear. He envied them, and he hurt them the most. No one saw broken knuckles and shattered knees in the dark of the Deep Cells. No one would have thought to look if they could. Here were kept the worst of the worst of Kelios, those who could not be released, those who had strayed so far from the Path as to be irredeemable. Only the full Council or a half Council presided over by the Most Revered could doom a man or woman to the Deep Cells, and the vote must be unanimous. Lothir rarely got new toys.
It had been a wondrous surprise when the Most Revered herself met Lothir on his return from the Deep Cells a fortnight past. He was not accustomed to speech, and the Most Revered must have thought him dull-witted. Truly, he had been astounded by her words. There were to be many prisoners, nearly a dozen, put under his care in the Deep Cells. When he asked of their crime, she replied only that they were scum of the worst sort.
Three days later, seven men and four women were led down into the Deep Cells by men wearing the cream color of the Army of Blades. They seemed little different from the usual prisoners. Some held their heads high in defiance as if somehow they might free themselves. The labyrinthine passageways would ensure not. Others slumped, already defeated. Lothir thought it odd that so many should be put under his care so suddenly.
Days passed. Water and slime oozed down the walls of the Deep Cells. Lothir fancied that the oldest prisoners told time by how many drops fell, counting each droplet in an eternal struggle for lifeand for sanity. When the eleven new inmates had been abandoned for nine days, the Most Revered returned. She was not as uneasy as he in the gloom of the passages. This time, what she said was of even greater interest to Lothir.
Lothir, you have served the Council for a long time. Down here in the dark, I doubt you hear the news of the surface, but the Council has given me sole authority over the prisoners kept here, in all of the Holding. I am taking especial interest in the Deep Cells. Will you serve me as loyally as you served the Council?
To Lothir, there was no question of loyalty. He served, as he always had. Of course, High Guide.
My heart is glad to know that some remain followers of the Path. You are yourself a shining example. At this, Lothir tried to interject. He thought of the Path little, if at all, and had not seen a Guide before her in a decade. The Most Revered raised a hand, and he fell silent.
As I was saying, you are a shining example of the Path. You see, these new prisoners, they are not.
As are all of the prisoners I hold, High Guide, else the Council would not have sent them to me.
Of course, yet these eleven are worse. Let me be frank, and brief. They profess to be Divotheists, believers in absurd beings of the air that will save them. They will not deny these beings of the air, for if they do they believe that they are doomed, more doomed than they could ever be. Your task is to make them deny Divotheism. I have heard much of your talents, Lothir. I rely on only the best.
I am the best, High Guide. Yet do you want them alive? No one ever left the Deep Cells alive.
If you can. Once they have proclaimed Divotheism three times, killed them. It is no use trying to convince the stubborn.
The Most Revered had left shortly thereafter, leaving behind a wonderfully fragrant tea and a sharp knife. Around the knife was curled a scrap of paper. Lothir had the Chief Undergaoler read it to him.
Use the tea the first time, the threat of the knife the second, and the knife the last. But what does it mean, Lothir? Who gave this to you, knowing that you cannot read?
Lothir kept his smile to himself. I will not say.
That night, he made the first attempt. She was young, barely out of her teenage years. She was one of those who had hung her head in defeat while being led down the stairs. Perhaps she would yield more easily.
Yet the tea did not loosen her tongue to deny the sky gods. Not the promise of leaving, not the knowledge that she might still survive. After four hours, Lothir surrendered and led the girl back to her cell.
The next night, he used the knife. She did not make a sound when the blade pressed against her throat. Neither the promise of death nor the threat of doom could make her deny the sky gods. Lothir led the girl back to her cell.
On the third night, the knife nicked her skin. Warm blood, warm even in the steamy warmth of the Deep Cells, trickled down her throat and into the hollow of her chest. In his arms, she denied the sky gods, and cursed them. For the first time Lothir could remember, a prisoner did not leave by the Red Door.
I would estimate there are maybe a couple left on Pax, but def under 10K, and maybe some hiding in the north, but not enough to be more than 1000. They will be politely asked to leave. Our purity must be insured.
