A fresh gust of wind whipped my face, but could not get me out of my catatonia. From afar, through a filter of terror, came a diffuse pain - the crushing grip of the silent guards - and the familiar smell of rancid sweat and metal. The wind rushed into the prison meowing like a ghostly feline, freezing me to the bone as I was carried outward. I squinted my eyes at the luminous rectangle at the end of the tunnel, whose glow was so intense that it was painful. Then we were outside, in the raw light of the courtyard and the familiar sounds of Castle-Horn rustling in the air. The horses in the steaming stable, the jabbering of the bundled maids who turned into curious or pitying murmurs as they passed us, and the tinkling of the chisel on the stone, all this was swallowed up by the steady creaking of the snow under the footsteps of my escort and the inexorable approach of the sharp verdict.

We passed in the imposing shadow of the main dungeon, and I was carried backwards along a path of frozen stones. Among the gardens and snow-covered statues that enclosed the compound was the Circle of judgment, an elegant building topped by a bronze dome. Our route did not allow me to see it directly. I knew, however, that at the back, next to the northern rampart was a small courtyard, called the Cloister, where the scaffold that was reserved for the most serious crimes stood. When they reprimanded a child who was too unruly or spoke of a particularly dishonest individual, the mothers of Brown-Horn used to proclaim, " That one will end up in the Cloister". I had already heard some of the washerwomen use the expression about us, when, with the other orphans of the Ronna farm, we threw mud or rude words at them. I suddenly regretted not having listened to these prophetic admonitions.

The pale blue sky was stunningly clear that day and contrasted surprisingly with the black walls of the castle. It is the small details that I remember. The sparkling dome of the Circle caught in the ice reflected the sun like a jewel. My aching eyes landed quite involuntarily on the ancient sculpture of a young woman with imploring hands, buried under the thorns of a frozen rose bush. We moved on, bypassing the fountain basin with dozens of shiny stalactites clinging to it. All around, the crystalline silence, crushed by our steps. It was a place of sinister tranquility, and despite the sudden jolts that agitated me and the explosive desire to scream and struggle, I did nothing.

The guards put me on my feet as we reached the Circle gate and forced me to walk on my failing legs.

One took up a position in front of me and in my back, his companion used the shaft of his spear to guide me, like a sheep being led to the knife. The bronze curved wood opened onto a polished corridor, bordered by gypsum arches, under which were the alcoves where witnesses and families were supposed to wait. For my trial, all these benches were empty. We crossed the vestibule, the militia's heavy, shell-covered boots hit the tiles at a steady pace. Echoes of our passage were scattered in the invisible corridors that surrounded the building. In front of us, a new door, this time double-leafed, imposing and curved, covered with iron. I swallowed. The soldier walking in front stopped at the entrance. He leaned over me and tied my hands with a fiber cord, more gently than I had expected. His closely shaved face was close to mine, he had a thick, broken nose, and I could smell on his morning breath that he must have been drinking the night before. As he finished his knot with a dry twist, he whispered a few words to me, in a forced whisper, as if the place imposed silence of its own accord:

"Don't you want to take a piss, kid?"

I shook my head without being able to repress a shiver. The man shrugged his shoulders, and I recognized him. He was one of the soldiers patrolling with old Nep the day my fledgling story had led them to march to the sawmill. "As you wish. Some people piss their pants, but it's up to you." Then he put his full weight on the door, and it swung slowly on silent hinges.

The Circle seemed to me to be smaller than one could judge from the outside just by the size of the dome. It is a circular room, with a canopy in the center and a large crackling hearth in the background. Just below the base of the dome, there was a glass roof, a beautiful colored stained glass imported from Losca. But in winter, with snow and ice piled on the roof, natural lighting was a problem. So the Circle was illuminated in a different way, and the columns and statues on the perimeter carried torches and candles. On the ground, a line of striated marble paving went up to the canopy, dividing the room in two distinct semi-circles. This symbolic cutting was to serve as a separation between the parties involved. A strong smell of burning wax floated in the air, without heating it.

Sesh was waiting for me as he had promised, frozen in a rigid posture on the side reserved for criminals. He had put on a less worn tabard than he usually wore, and his oiled hair shone with a fawnish glow.

The guards left me by his side, and when he put a hand on my shoulder, they left us to stand on guard by the door. I glanced briefly to my left where Lig and Randu Lemis were waiting, the father bent over to whisper in the son's ear. A little further back, two other men, servants, judging by their attire, kept the richly embroidered capes of their masters. They did not look at me once.

A concert of echoes suddenly resounded behind the canopy, the clacking of footsteps so strong that they startled me. I raised my head, in expectation, before my attention was caught by another silhouette that I had not noticed before, but whose gaze I could no longer take away. The noise of the approaching procession faded away as if by magic, submerged in panic. Near the platform stood Gormo Vog, the executing legate of Brown-Horn, shaved as usual. The sarpian helmet, symbol of his condition, rested in the hollow of his elbow. His hands firmly embraced the pommel of a large-bladed sword, the tip of which rested on the marble. Vog was approaching his fifties, but he still inspired fear, even more than Sesh among the people of Brown-Horn. Age had not been able to deprive him of his imposing stature, and he was, it was said, a veteran of the Carmian wars who had fought in the second siege of Fossin, where he had received the large scar that gashed his bald skull. At his feet laid a stained block of wood. I moved backwards and Sesh's grip on my shoulder became tighter. I was still shivering, unable to see anything but the blade and the log when a quavering voice sounded from the top of the canopy:

"On this second day of the Snowmoon, Lord-Primate Bard Govon the Younger will render justice."

I looked up with frightened eyes at the stage. The three empty chairs were no longer empty: on the right had taken place the wrinkled, sickly announcer who had just opened my trial. In the center stood the primate, and beside him a figure even more frail than that of the announcer. A woman, who was partially hidden by the shadow of the chair. These two figures managed to snatch a few scraps of curiosity from me, despite the situation. I had already seen Bard from afar, when from the top of the Orchard hill we were watching for his procession on the occasion of his hunts or his departures to the round tables. Up close, he was even more impressive than I remember. His clothes were sober but beautifully made, thick fur hems decorated his ochre coat and a large silver chain embellished the wolfskin cape that fell from his shoulders. The only jewel he wore was a small silver earring.

Bard had an outgoing and open face, serious without being severe, framed by a short black beard. The beard was not trimmed in the Sand-Port style, as most men of the upper class wore, but it was trimmed short, like a soldier's cut. His green eyes, the only explicit clan heritage on his face except for a vaguely tanned complexion, were bright and intelligent. Neither very tall nor very imposing, he was not a handsome man in the conventional sense of the word, but he exuded a quiet confidence, a solid charisma that was both warm and peaceful. This was apparent from him in all circumstances, and I was able to discern it even then. Usually, Brownian primates delegate cases and judgments to their justiciary, but since the Lemis were rich and influential, Bard had chosen to sit in person at my trial. I could not say whether his presence reassured me or whether it worried me even more.

The woman on the right, it occurred to me suddenly, must have been the woman that the lord-primate had just married, lady Nami Rockin from Cover-Pass. I couldn't explain why, but I found her presence curiously out of place, a delicate apparition that contrasted strangely with the solemn violence of the Circle. All I could discern from her was the brilliance of two large black eyes, a few stiff, brown locks and, in the darkness beyond, the sketch of soft, refined features. Our eyes met. I had the distinct impression that she was looking at me with interest. I remained captivated for a few moments, as if I had recognized in this stranger the power to extricate me from the mess I had gotten myself into. Then, with a jolt, fear brought me back to the trial and to the echo of the voices and I finally looked down. The old clerk coughed, before repeating his words in a monotone voice:

"The plaintiffs are Sir Randu Lemis, merchant of his state, and Sir Lig Lemis, merchant of his state. The accused is a vagrant child of unknown ancestry who bears the nickname of Fyss. The witnesses of the plaintiffs are Sig Gand, servant of his state, and Bel Mavor, henchman of his state. The witness designated to the accused for lack of volunteers is Bert Sesh, first-blade of his state. The case is as follows: the boy Fyss was caught in the act of burglary and damage to property during the seventeenth night of the moon of Glas, by the night patrol of the Monies neighborhood. The plaintiffs seek compensation for the theft of a sum of money found in the possession of the accused, in the amount of three denarii and eight dimes, for the burglary of their common property, a woodworking store located in Artisan street, as well as for the deterioration of several pieces of furniture on display in the said store, the restoration work on which is estimated at thirty-two denarii. Do the plaintiffs have a statement to make?"

Lig Lemis' rocky voice resonated throughout the room. "There's no need to debate, we've caught him in the act. Let's take his hand and get it over with." I began to tremble with all my body, my ears invaded by the shattering jerk of my heart. The scribe turned to me, and I barely heard him question me. "Does the accused have a statement to make?" I swallowed, with a dry mouth, quite unable to react to his words in any way. Behind me came Sesh's voice, which seemed to come from far away.

"No. Nothing to say." The scribe coughed again before saying:

"The lord-primate will render judgment."

Bard, whose face quickly dissipated behind the veil of terror that fell on me, made a vague gesture, fingers stretched out in my direction, before speaking in that rich and deep voice that had been dictating the lives of the Brown-Hornian citizens for nearly twelve years:

"Unfortunately, the situation seems very simple to me. I therefore condemn the accused to the removal of his left hand for the theft he committed, three lashes for the offence and seven lashes for the degradation of the plaintiffs' property. Legate Vog, do your duty."

I sank deeply into general insensitivity, unable to make the connection between reality and what was happening to me. Around me, in this other universe of which I had become the silent observer, things seemed to be rushing. The executor and his assistant arrived at my level, one carrying the log, the other the sword. Gormo Vog girded up with his thick helmet, an antique mask of shiny bronze with no chiseling or ornaments, split at the level of the eyes and mouth. The assistant, a pale young man with bulging eye, untied me, then grabbed me by the wrist. On my left shoulder, Sesh's grip still weighed on my shoulder. I couldn't tell whether his intention was to support or to restrain me.

A thin cord was passed around the top of my forearm, and it was squeezed so tightly that I saw it sink into my skin like a furrow traced in the water. The pain vaguely brought me back to the present. I began to cry silently, trembling with all my body. As my escort had predicted, I felt my bladder let go in a single icy twitch, without feeling either shame or relief. My body had come alive with a life of its own and had been transformed into a prison of flesh in which I was a stranger. My hand was placed on the log, and I put up little resistance, but it proved to be in vain, since Vog's assistant, who was holding the cord, had knelt down in front of me and held the limb firmly in place. I heard the scraping of the blade against the pavement, perceived a flash as the glow of the candles danced on the steel. My whole body stiffened and I closed my eyes.