TBOV: INTERLUDE: Among Us

INTERLUDE: Among Us

“Each of them bears the mark, each has been tested under the ritual. Each would gladly give his life for you, Muad'Dib.”

―Stilgar

…

For a time, the hall under the House of Black and White lay as silent as a grave. Not even the faint drip of water disturbed the hush, nor the muted shuffle of bare feet on cool stone. The Faceless Men gathered in a tight circle around the pool, hooded figures of different heights and builds, their faces unreadable—literal masks worn over the deeper masks of their training. A single candle burned, and even that small flame seemed tenuous, as though any stray breath might snuff it out.

I knelt among them, a sword’s length from the edge of the black water. My heart thudded slow and steady, yet my mind roiled with questions. We had been called from our tasks—some from Braavosi merchant ships, others from distant corners of Essos and even Westeros—to face a crisis none of us had foreseen.

It began a fortnight ago in the catacombs beneath. A sister had ventured down to retrieve an ancient ledger, only to find another. She glimpsed a figure with a face not its own—another Faceless One. But not one of ours. She had failed to kill it before it managed to escape.

The outraged hush in the hall reflected all of our feelings. Such infiltration was unheard of. To mimic our art—the sacred worship of the Many-Faced God—was blasphemy in the eyes of the House of Black and White. No intruder had ever dared transgress so brazenly.

Now the Kindly Man stepped forward, his thin lips pressed into a line, black robe rustling. “A face-stealer among us,” he said, voice echoing off stone. “A pretender. We have discovered it rummaging for hidden knowledge… secrets that belong to no one, or to all. Yet it evades us still.”

“We believe this spy to be a Speaker,” another elder intoned from beneath her hood. “One in service to the Butcher of Westeros. You know of his designs—he wages war on our kin, employing these shadows. Their cunning is said to ape some measure of our craft.”

I studied the water, dark as obsidian, seeing in it the reflection of my pale mask—some deckhand from Ragman’s Harbour. To each side, the silent shapes of my brothers and sisters ringed the pool, all poised like statues. Prince Aemond Targaryen. The name had drawn notice in this house for many moons. His mastery of espionage, some whispered, rivaled our own. Now, perhaps, we faced a living testament to that claim. I felt my jaw clench behind my mask.

The Kindly Man’s voice sharpened. “We have found they rummaged through our black ledgers of bounties.” He paused, letting the enormity of it settle on us. “This cannot stand.”

A second hush fell. Even the water in the pool seemed still as glass. We all knew that the archives contained knowledge far more dangerous than any coin ledger: hidden names, ancient pacts, the secrets of gods and men. If the Speakers pried too deeply, it could unleash a tide of violence across the known world, or worse—pollute the House of Black and White with suspicion and betrayal.

A crowlike figure stepped from the darkness—he wore a mask carved like a skull, gaunt and imposing. “Why have we not caught this Speaker?” The question hung, echoing in the candlelit gloom.

No one answered immediately. Then, one crow spoke, recounting how a week past, and they believed they had cornered the spy in the catacombs only to find only an empty corridor. A day later, one of our novices was found unconscious, stashed behind a statue of the Many-Faced God. Stripped of his mask which was then used to infiltrate and raid the stores for more.

Finally, the Kindly Man spoke as he lifted a narrow wooden bowl, scooping water from the black pool. “We do not know how many of them roam our halls. One was glimpsed. We know it can change faces with a skill that echoes ours—though I do not believe it is a true disciple of the Many-Faced God. A mockery, perhaps. Some Westerosi conjury aided by the cunning of espionage. In the end, it matters not.”

“All other tasks are set aside,” the Kindly Man declared, setting the bowl aside. “No bounties, no new contracts, no petty feuds. This faceless pretender and its kin must be found—rooted out. Destroyed. If it flees, we follow. If it hides, we flush it. Our House cannot abide infiltration or mockery.”

He turned, studying each of us in turn. I felt his gaze linger on me, though behind my mask, my expression was set as stone. His gaze moved on and the Kindly Man spoke again. “We have burned the garments it touched and locked the catacombs. But nothing can guarantee that we have truly cleansed these halls. All must be watched carefully. Any one could be compromised. Among ourselves… no trust is absolute.”

A frisson of dread. I glanced at the circle of hoods. Among them might hide the Speaker in a borrowed mask. The realization tasted of bile. This was what it meant to be undone by a cunning adversary. It seeded distrust in every shadow. The House was no longer inviolate.

At length, the Kindly Man poured the water in his bowl back into the pool, completing the quiet ritual. He turned, face shadowed beneath his hood, and dismissed the assembly with a single nod. One by one, the Faceless Men rose and dissolved into the corridors, footsteps fading to silence.

I did the same, stepping around the dark pool, striding into the torchlit corridor. The shadows played across the ancient idols—masks of the Stranger, the Weeping Woman, the Lion of Night. My own mask felt heavier than usual, as though weighed down by the rage and shame coursing in my veins… and even this gave way to remembrance. My heart did not stutter nor did my step falter as my ego re-emerged from behind its contrived facade. I swallowed a soundless sigh as I turned a corner and found my disguise yet unveiled. Beneath it, I could all but feel the cognitive mask sliding back into place, concealing my true face once more.

“Not yet,” I thought to myself. The Good Prince needed me; I couldn’t fail him a second time.