4. The High Court of Harebell

The guide leads us on the orphans’ path, far away from the citizens’ and the high court’s ones. Ours is made of dirt, flattened grey grass, and overgrown stems cut and laid on the ground.

With each step I take, I pass my hand through the cold white petals, lightly touching them, letting the water drops gather around my wrist and watching them slowly slide on my arm.

A breeze passes between the harebells, humming softly while shaking the flowers slightly. Small bell sounds would surge from some of them when moved, as many had been replaced by metal flowers fitted with bells, meant to suppress Harebell’s lullaby within this sector.

My once-a-year peaceful thirty minutes, where words aren’t spears thrown at our brothers or sisters, where, for an instant, gestures can be relieved from any harm only to be tender and used to care for each other, and where thoughts cease to be self-destructive, finally allowed to be meant for our lost ones.

I lower my head in remembrance of Marc; for the last time, I swore to myself. I take my hand away from the flowers and come across a metal one as I do so, making it ring discreetly amidst the others; a small water drop descends from my eye to my cheek.

I will allow it to slide without wiping it today.

Apry offers her open hand to me from behind her back; above her shoulder, her eyes are watching, sorry.

I hesitate to grab it… Although, she too can mourn the lost souls of the Northern Petal… So I grab it gently.

Hand in hand we walk, the sound of our steps and the shackles silenced by the tiny bells ringing from everywhere around us.

Apry tightens her grip and raises her head; she cries but does not scream… From her thro- music box, she finds the will to play her note.

It is trembling, uneven, and uncertain.

I join her with mine. Hearing us, Mary, Febry, Decy, and Mayth play theirs in intervals. We play the same note at different paces, it’s the only thing we can do; together we grieve in our way.

Reality catches up with us when the wind stops, along with the bell sounds covering our chant.

We arrive at the tribunal’s stairs. The guide makes us stand in line right at the exit of the orphans’ path.

From the tiled path of the civilians, the white guards arrive.

Their halberds tap on the ground in rhythm to coordinate their march toward the steps of the ornate stairs.

They climb them, and once the first guard reaches the last step, he stops and puts himself in position. Each guard does the same on each step. With a final thud from their weapons on the ground, they turn toward the path at the center of the fields, the cleanest one with the most decorations: the high court’s path.

The orphans from the other orphanages finally arrive and settle in line behind ours. When all the groups are here, the white guards begin to play their throat boxes.

“ What are th- “

Mary begins to say.

“ Shush. Don’t talk. “

Apry orders.

Mary, surprised, quietens.

Now is certainly not the time to draw any kind of attention.

Various bells are rung from the middle path. Some are loud and low-pitched, some swift and high-pitched. There is no consistent rhythm, but they all portray a different personality.

The sounds come closer. A figure steps forward at the top of the stairs and speaks into a device to increase the volume of his voice:

“ Keeper of threads and heir of the name Harebell, the bells ring for her arrival at each corner of the city. Lady Harebell of the high court. “

From under the sheet covering the whole path, a lady appears. She walks slowly but with a lot of assurance. Lady Harebell is followed by ladies dressed in connected garments on each side, shielding her head from the sun.

At their feet, tiny bells are attached by a string, ringing with each of their steps.

A lady hastens to take her hand and help her climb the steps. Once at the top, the doors of the tribunals open before her.

She slightly bows her head and enters with her followers, ignoring us, the guards, and any other living soul present.

She’s as lovable as I remember, and something’s telling me that it’s not going to change a bit.

“ Archivist of the non-white, cleanser of the very ground and spreader of the white noble voice; Lady Sylvestr of the high court. “

Dancers, spinning on themselves, arrive from the path, leaving white flowers behind them… What a waste of food.

They play their throat boxes in a quick cadence, making the scenery almost disturbing. Sliding on the ground with her heels, Lady Sylvestr reaches the stairs rapidly.

She wears an elegant white dress that spins with her movements. Long ribbons float behind her back. A red flower is at her ear; the only colored element in this white architecture and landscape… Nolvem aside.

The guards do not seem very pleased when she comes into their sight.

From the citizens’ path, we hear applause and entertained shouts filling the fields.

Her dancers make her float above the stairs by holding her arms and running to the top.

After bowing towards the field, she enters the tribunals.

“ Proud keeper of the white fields, in charge of feeding Harebell’s territory and owner of the renowned multinational Ursin Bank; Lord Ursin of the high court. “

A large number of men cross through the sheet. They all wear identical dress and accessories. A book of count in hand, they all march without looking anywhere but ahead of them. Their books have metallic harebells attached to them, making a faint sound as they walk on the stairs. Without any unnecessary presentation or entertainment maneuver, they enter the tribunals and leave us unable to spot who the true Lord Ursin was.

No bells or amusing sounds for the next one.

All the orphans tense at the same time. Many of them begin to tremble as we all hear the same unforgettable sound of a metallic peg leg hitting the floor. From one we reach six, and from six a dozen. Dozens of peg legs breaching the small comfort we had in these fields.

“ General and leader of the army-state of Myrr, former trainer of the special division of Myrr’s troops, named the Caretakers. Landlord of the orphanages and guardian of the Noise Dent; Lady Myrrhis of the high court. “

They all march in rhythm, their heads turned towards us, gazing into our vulnerable souls. They all have a prosthetic leg with a metal end to be heard loud and clear. A clean white apron attached to their long white dresses covers their legs. Lady Myrrhis is taller than all of them; her face is carved by experience, and her dress is the only one with a black apron.

Once they are all out of the path, they stop and bow to us without ever breaking eye contact.

Apry nervously taps her foot on the ground while biting her nails until they bleed. Some of the weaker orphans peed themselves and some even fainted. The Northern Petal stays proud. With the recent loss of Marc, we stand straight against their provocation.

From Lady Myrrhis’s mouth we can read:

“ We’ll see about that. “

They all take the stairs and walk inside the tribunals. A general sigh is produced as the tension seems to lighten.

How wrong I am to think that.

“ Ahem… Newly elected owner of the mines of Scabiosa, main governor of the trading routes, newest member of the high court of Harebell; Duke Lanarth of the high court. “

Wh…what happened to Lord Scabiosa? Harebell has a new leader?!

So that’s what changed last year? A brand new leader!?

He owns the mines and is the governor of the trading routes? How much power and wealth does this guy have?

A loud bell rings from the court’s path, making all of our throat boxes heavily shake.

I try to put my hands on the protective glass as I feel it could shatter at any moment.

Only a few seconds have passed, and another hit makes the bell ring.

All of the orphans, without exception, are on their knees. Some whimper in pain, others curl in on themselves, fearing their box would shatter.

From the court’s path, children, a bit younger than us, run on all fours. The only clear thing that I can see is their prosthetics. They are all made of a shiny metal that reflects the sunlight, blinding us when we try to look at them.

Many children are now running in circles on all fours, waiting for someone to arrive.

People our age this time, half their limbs replaced by prosthetics, scars scattered on their faces, and bits of various metals on their remaining flesh. They are very well dressed, but there is something in their behaviour that pisses me off. All of what they try to picture smells fake. Their smile, their straight back and their assured way of walking… What’s going on…

Behind them, a tall person follows.

The person walking out of the path is very elegant. He wears a suit with elongated pieces of cloth at its hem. His hair is whiter than any aged hair I could ever see; it does not look natural at all.

His beard is freshly cut and clean, but his dirty smile sickens me.

At his neck, he has a whistle that he periodically uses to bring back the children near him.

What is that about?

How can this kind of sick monster, who displays hurt children while smiling widely, be one of the leaders of Harebell?

Also, was the pitch of the bell intentionally low enough to make us feel discomfort with his arrival?

I see Mary crying on the floor, doing what she can to protect her throat box. Was it also his intent to hurt us while we were forced by the laws not to move or speak during this phase of the ceremony?

I feel nauseous and I only wish to put this… Thing… Back in the pit where it belongs.

He uses one of the older ones as a cane to get up the stairs, putting all his weight on him regardless of his visible pain.

The guards do not move an inch but I can feel their fear. It’s the same feeling we have when the Apron Lady is angry at us. Something in our instinct switches on and yells at us to run away as far as we can from the source of this feeling.

The Duke finally reaches the tribunals’ doors, leaving the poor soul bleeding on their knees behind him. He enters and stops smiling.

I feel it in my guts. This… Lanarth… Is a threat to humankind.