Struggle: The Path to Power

Shiroh tried to nod understandingly and even say something in conclusion, but he didn't have the energy to do so. The only thing he was thinking about was what would help him keep his place.

***

A wide gray stone. Dust and dim light all around. And turns that don't end.

This is the way to the cells of the Inquisition, where suspects, convicts, and anyone else who had anything to do with breaking the rules of Silan Zhah await their time.

Tomorous senseless footsteps and the same face. This is Metropolitan Priest Guzoh

(120th degree) of the Sacred Seim. In his phase, the Inquisition dealt with the middle ranks of the Empire — laborers mostly. Strangely enough, heretics and sorcerers were the least among them in percentage terms. This consequence came primarily from the fact that the peculiarities of their labor did not allow for a "week of repentance".

"Penitential Week" was a period declared after the arrival of the inquisitor, for voluntary confession of heresy. During it, informers also came forward, pointing out a particular plague. The informer had two options: repentance and accusation. More often the first option was chosen, because in case the plague was acquitted (and this could happen if he had connections, including with the church, for example, if he himself had previously successfully denounced), the denouncer himself was subjected to investigation.

Guzoh had moved closer to the cameras and could now hear the moans coming from there. The large number of turns was necessary for this very reason — to drown out the sound.

A black-robed guard, impressive even for a plague, stood at the entrance. His eyes were devoid of anything that could be called emotion, and his ears no longer discriminated between painful cries and the sound of footsteps; to him, everything was the same and differed only in volume. He bowed slowly and dryly.

Behind him were two rows of cells, where they sat long and hard before what they were about to undergo. After that was the torture chamber itself.

No one looked at the one who entered that room — all three of them: the inquisitor, the suspect and the notary lived in "their" worlds.

The Inquisitor, an old plague Katankhr, had not been able to be in this room for a long time. The acrid stench all around, the same questions that not many answered at all and even fewer answered positively. But though he dreamed of being an inquisitor for the Week of Repentance, this job seemed just as important to him.

Suspect Tishinhr, a worker at the arms factory, realized that no matter what he did, the life he had before his denunciation would never be the same again. He didn't understand why plagues like him were allowed to say where the truth was and where it wasn't, why they called

themselves "saints" and why one had to agree with them. He believed in the Zhah, prayed every day, asking for strength from the Black Stone, and believed that it was up to the chum himself to do the work of faith. Tishinhr knew. That if he confessed, they would let him live, but he could not do that: he would be caught a second time and the result would be the same.

Notary Uninhr, a longtime law school graduate, saw the whole arrangement. If a suspect confessed, the least he could face was public shame followed by "forgiveness". The so-called "pardon" among the church bureaucracy consisted in the fact that on specified days, which were usually about a hundred a year, for three to seven years the plague was required to attend church and participate in special processions, seeking reconciliation with the ecclesiastical authority.

And if he doesn't confess, he will continue to be tortured and burned at the stake tomorrow.

The suspect was lifted up a meter, then released and caught near the ground. The ropes tied to his paws dug into his skin. Inside, everything jumped. Consciousness blurred. And began to feel a little nauseous.

Guzoh looked around: blackness and emptiness, the acrid smell of malice and fear, two torches illuminating the chamber so that only a few glints reflected in his eyes.

"And that's us, the Inquisition," Guzoch thought. — Only the devil is not afraid of us…"

Prefect

Many things have changed at the mine, including the way of eating. Within a month, a canteen with 50 seats was built. It had only been in operation for three days, and not everyone had time to get used to it; a table, a bench, a special room — it all looked not so much strange as questionable.

Nekrasova sat down in her usual place, in the middle of the room by the wall, and stared at her plate, where pasta and some chicken were floating in a yellowish broth.

Lena Bagrationova sat down next to her. She was also in a bad mood, but seeing the combination of muscle tension on Nastya's face, she thought that he was doing even worse.

"Nastya, what's wrong?" — Lena had a knack for getting the right demeanor at the right moments and pitching perfectly ordinary questions with the right tone. Now it was silly for her to be as sour as she really was.

"No, nothing," Nastya turned away slightly, and at the same time with that she confused all her sad thoughts, only her mood remained.

— I can see that. You're not wearing your face.

— You know, on you, too.

After these words Lena inwardly gathered herself definitively and put this result on her face — it turned out to be very good.

— Not really.

Nastya looked at her, wanting to check it out: lively eyes added by freckles, red hair tied in a braid — and indeed, there was a face.

— All right. You're wearing, uh.

— There you go!

— What am I seeing?

— That things aren't as bad as they seem.

— Yeah. It's worse than that.

— Oh, come on, man! As if punishing yourself with something will make anyone feel better.

Nastya turned away, "It's my fault." — In what?

They fought over me.

— I know.

— You know?

— Yeah. What's the big deal? They fought over you, but what could you do?

— I don't know. But since they're me.

— Nast, just because they both love you doesn't mean they will listen to you…..

— What if I did?

— How could there be a "suddenly"? Didn't you tell them that— Told you… But I really don't like them… Both of them.

— Here we go. What else did you tell them?

— That… no matter what they do, I can't love any of them. I told them that to each of them individually.

— So what are you blaming yourself for?

— I don't know…

She really didn't know what to blame herself for. And Lena didn't know, but she felt that if she were in her place, she'd blame herself just as much. It's part of life. And not everything in life is logical.

In the far corner sat the prefect and his deputy. Both were hoping for good things, but at the moment they could only wait, preparing for bad things to happen.

Kostya Rich approached their table, concerned and anxious, "Gavi, I…" "Have a seat," Horus interrupted him without raising his eyes.

Kostya sat down and clenched his hands under the table, "Gavi, I don't know how to say it. It's impossible! I can't imagine what it's about… I knew that their relationship wasn't okay, but to go to this extent…"

— It comes down to this.

— Gavi, I don't know.

— Are you so worried about what Stoloff said?

— Yes, Gavi. Honestly, yes.

— And you're not worried for nothing.

"Yes, not in vain," thought Kostya, looking at his heavy stony hands, "I know you had a son die. I'm sorry, but almost everyone here has had someone die. And one of the children died too… And I have one too… I only have my wife left. I don't want to…"

— Don't be crazy. Nothing's gonna happen to your wife. Look… I'll tell you right off the bat. I don't want to kill those two fools. But I know they'll fight again, and I'll have to do it… The power to control others is unexceptional. If they break the rule, they'll pay for it with their lives.

— Gavi, they're just still young…they don't know…I've talked to them…I don't understand what they have.

— They'll fight anyway…" said Gora and thought about what he had been thinking about last night, "People are most united when they are protecting something they can't survive without. Then they are together. Then they can only support each other.

There was a rumbling sound, and the lights worn in the surroundings flickered and fussed. And everyone rushed to the mining and slaughtering sector.

The ceilings next to the stratum were held up by wooden and steel beams more than two meters high. One of them collapsed, the other tilted. The earth fell on everyone's heads.

Keeping his face firm and composed, Hora entered the sector. There were already four people on one side of the beam, three on the other, and among those three, two of them were the ones who had recently fought. They stood shoulder to shoulder, pushing as hard as they could. Someone was setting up another one next to them. Some were holding the ones that hadn't fallen off yet, while the rest were watching for another row of footholds. Two catfish piled up here completely and two partially.

And the light was flickering, and the earth was falling, but only the commanders were shouting loud orders. This is the mystery of the miners' resilience. When there is no confidence in the possibility of survival, when there is not enough air and it is dark around, something that sits deep in the soul of those who "live" underground is triggered.

Discipline works. Everyone knows that their commander is experienced and wise, that he has lived many years and is still alive, which means that he feels the Motherland, which he will not part with. And if you want to survive, you have to listen to him, no matter what happens.

Faith works. This is a very ancient meaning, because "in the trenches everyone is a believer". Everyone believes that everything will work out, that they will be able to withstand, and if not, then thank God — they are exhausted and it is time to rest in paradise, having left this hell.

It's the spirit that works. It's a strong, free, miner's spirit. It moves both hands and feet, and it doesn't let your eyes blink from the dust. It sticks in your head and says one all-moving word: "Forward!".

Gora squeezed between all of them and pressed into the very center of the beam. He had to move it forward almost half a meter to get it upright and into place.

For a moment it seemed that everything was falling apart, that it was time for this land to take away half a thousand of its sons. But no — all as one, as a single gust of wind, tearing down everything in its path, as a mighty sea that wanted to take an island far away from the big land, as a long-dormant volcano spewing lava, as an 8848-meter mountain standing on both legs. This is power, and nature herself is happy to see her children inspired by it.

All moved forward, and the beam moved, and Nature smiled, proud of those who do not fail her and endure her trials.

Kostya stood next to Gora, out of breath. His face was badly twisted from exertion, but happiness peeked out through the rest. His voice was quiet, but confident and satisfied: "Now they won't fight, my friend. Now they know what friendship means."

And then he remembered that Hora had gone out of the block that night, and before that he had ordered a change of posts in the mining sector. He'd been gone for hours, and he'd come back out of breath. And now his eyes looked special, as if no one could know what he now knew.

You couldn't mistake that look for anything else… Calculating, purposeful, intelligent….

Gora smiled slightly with the tips of his lips and, with a nod to Kostya, headed for the

exit of the sector.

Masha

It's been another half a month.

Today Masha got up earlier than her grandparents and sat down on the bench by the porch.

Everything was green in the neighborhood, and the sun was about to come out. There was a slight breeze, and for a moment it seemed that everything was fine and there was nothing to grieve about, but I didn't want to think so, because it wasn't.

She put her hand on her stomach, feeling what was left of her husband. She had thought many times about what to name the child, but they couldn't come to a single decision, she wanted him, Rafael, to like it.

"If it's a girl, it's Christina. — thought Masha. — He liked that name. But if it's a boy… He never told me what his favorite boys' names were. He never told me anything, not even his own. So what do I do with that?"

She closed her eyes and remembered how she'd met him, how she'd first seen his eyes, how she'd breathed in his scent. Her heart had beaten like never before, and the air had felt not just different, but like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

She remembered the first time she had said "goodbye" to him, smiled and went to her soma… It felt as if the Lord, the Virgin Mary and Jesus were all looking at her, at her reactions and feelings. And she didn't want to think about it, she just wanted to believe. Believe that this is love, the love that will be with her for the rest of her life.

And the first time they kissed. "It's good that he didn't see my face," Masha thought, because she felt herself blushing then, and so she pressed herself against him at once, close to him. And that warmth, which went round and round, rattled like a native. Then she realized that this was it, her happiness, it had come not just once, to stay for life.

Masha decided, so that forever, that she would never part with him, never, no matter what happened…

She was holding herself together as best she could right now. She gathered her strength and inhaled, then exhaled. All the heavy stuff came out, and only a small tear rolled down her cheek. Just one.

"Daughter, no matter how I look at you, you have the same expression," Maria Sergeevna quietly closed the front door and looked at the girl again.

— I miss you.

— Me, too. For my folks.

— Did you lose them? Yes?

— No, Mashenka, of course we haven't lost them. They're always with us… My husband and I are going to see them now. Will you come with us?

"I'll go," Masha answered somewhat timidly, not understanding what was meant now; "not lost," "to go to them now." It seemed as if they were going to some unknown place where their relatives lived in special conditions.

A couple of minutes later, Vladimir Ivanovich came out of the house with a huge green backpack that weighed as much as he did. In spite of this he was not heavy at all, and he held himself as if it had been decreed from on high that at a certain age he was destined to carry this thing.

They walked quickly, not looking around. After forty minutes, the house with the barn and the well disappeared from sight, and the green meadows were gone. Almost immediately the thought arose to ask how long it would be. But no matter how one looked at the question, it seemed indecent.

The river where Masha had cried, and where Maria Sergeevna had found her a month and a half ago, appeared at the edge of the river. The water was as clear and smooth as it had been that time, and, though there was no moon, it reflected a grayish gloomy light.

Another half hour passed and the place was hidden behind a bend in the river. They followed parallel to it, but at such a distance that the current did not sound too strongly.

The girl felt uncomfortable again: they were walking and not saying a word; maybe because there was nothing to say now?