The stairs leading from the undercroft to the High Bench was carved from black fossil limestone, each step worn into a smooth hollow by two hundred years of unsafe men and triumphant judges.
Ren Vale climbed the eighty-four steps with iron chains clinking against his shins. Four Iron Templars surrounded him, poleaxes held horizontally to form a walking cage of steel. Behind them, two guards escorted Mira, keeping three paces of distance. Their gauntleted hands rested uneasily on their sword handles whenever the cold chime of her breathing echoed off the spiraled stone.
At the summit of the stairs, the iron gave way to polished walnut.
A pair of ten-foot double doors opened into the private chambers of the High Bench. The shift from the damp cellar to the upper sanctum was a physical shock of warmth, scent, and choking opulence. A marble hearth crackled with aromatic cedar logs. Bookshelves of dark wood held thousands of precedent rolls bound in gold-trimmed pigskin. And the air smelled heavily of ambergris, beeswax polish, and steeped jasmine tea.
In the center of the chamber stood an oval conference table of bog oak. Its surface reflected the crystal chandelier overhead like a pool of black water.
