You are the clerk. You count the grain. You weigh the salt. The scales are rusted, but the brass is bright. You wipe your hands on your apron. The dust is in your lungs. It tastes like iron.

The castle is old. The stones are cold. You live in the undercroft. You sleep on a straw mat. The air is thick with the smell of damp wool and old fear. You have been here for ten years. You do not remember before this place. You only know the counting. You only know the weight.

Your wife is Eleanor. She is not here. She is in the upper hall. She wears silk that costs more than your life. She smiles at the lords. She smiles at the knights. You do not see her face. You only see the hem of her dress. It is red. Like blood.

"You are late," says the steward. His name is Sir Thomas. He has a beard like a hedgehog. He smells of wine and sweat.

"I was weighing the barley," you say. Your voice is quiet. You keep your head down.

"Weigh it faster," Thomas says. He slams his hand on the table. The wooden boards shudder. "The King’s men arrive at dusk. We must be ready. The justice must be seen."

You look at the scales. The barley is heavy. It is always heavy. You push the weight toward him.

"Done," you say.

Thomas does not look at you. He looks at the window. The light is gray. It is the light of a dying day.

"Go to your wife," Thomas says. "Tell her to be prepared. The tribunal begins in the hour."

You walk through the corridors. The floor is stone. It is slick with moisture. You step carefully. Your shoes are thin. You can feel the cracks in the rock.

You find Eleanor in the chamber. She is standing before a mirror. She is braiding her hair. Her hands are fast. Her movements are precise.

"You look tired," she says. She does not turn around. Her voice is soft. It is the voice of a bird that has forgotten how to fly.

"I am fine," you say.

"You are not." She turns. Her eyes are dark. There is no light in them. "Thomas spoke to you."

"Yes."

"He spoke of the tribunal."

"Yes."

"What will they decide?"

You do not answer. You look at the floor. Your fingers twist the hem of your tunic.

"They will decide what is right," she says. Her voice is flat. "They will decide what is just."

"Justice is a word," you say. "It is not a thing. It does not feed us. It does not warm us."

Eleanor laughs. It is a short, sharp sound. Like a snap. "You sound like a fool. Or a prophet. I cannot tell which."

She walks past you. She touches your arm. Her hand is cold. She leaves the room. The door closes with a heavy thud.

You sit on the chair. The wood is hard. You wait. The light fades. The shadows grow long. They stretch across the floor like fingers. They reach for your feet.

A knock comes at the door. It is three knocks. Slow. Deliberate.

You open the door.

A man stands there. He is young. He has no beard. His face is pale. He wears the livery of the King. He holds a scroll.

"I am here for the inventory," he says.

You step aside. You let him in.

The room is small. It is dark. The only light comes from a single candle. It flickers. It is the heart of the room.

The young man spreads the scroll on the table. He unrolls it carefully. He smooths the edges.

"This is the list of debts," he says. "From the last harvest. From the winter. From the spring."

You look at the paper. The ink is black. It is sharp. It cuts your eyes.

"I do not read," you say.

"You should learn," the man says. He does not look up. He traces the lines with his finger. "Numbers are the language of the world. They do not lie. They do not dream. They simply are."

"Numbers lie," you say. "They are written by men. Men lie."

The man stops. He looks at you. His eyes are wide. They are the eyes of a child who has seen a monster.

"Who wrote this list?" you ask.

"The Steward," he says.

"Thomas."

"Yes."

"Thomas is a man. He has a wife. He has a son. He is hungry. He is afraid."

"Then he is human," the man says. "And humans make errors."

"Not errors," you say. "Choices."

The man rolls up the scroll. He tucks it under his arm.

"The tribunal is not about truth," he says. "It is about order. Order is a kind of justice. It keeps the wolves out of the pen."

"Wolves," you say.

"Yes. The people outside. They are wolves. They eat the sheep. We are the pen."

"We are the sheep," you say.

The man smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"Who is the shepherd?" he asks.

You do not answer.

"You are the clerk," he says. "You count the grain. You keep the books. You are the memory of the house. Without you, the house forgets itself. And a house that forgets itself is a house that dies."

He walks to the door. He stops.

"Your wife is in trouble," he says.

Your heart stops. It is a physical blow. Your chest caves in.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"She is accused of theft. Of treason. Of loving the wrong man."

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are thick. You cannot breathe.

"Which man?" you ask.

"The King’s nephew," the man says. "He was seen with her. In the garden. In the dark."

You feel the room spin. The candle flame dances. It is a chaotic dance. It is the dance of the devil.

"I did not see it," you say.

"No one saw it," the man says. "But it was reported. And reports are facts. Facts are law. Law is justice."

"Justice is a lie," you say.

The man looks at you. He pities you. You can see it in his eyes. It is a cold pity. It is the pity of a man looking at a broken tool.

"Goodbye, Clerk," he says.

He leaves. The door closes.

You are alone.

You walk to the window. The night is black. The stars are out. They are cold. They are indifferent. They do not care if you live or die. They do not care if your wife lives or dies.

You think of Eleanor. You think of her hand on your arm. It was cold. It was lifeless.

You think of the scales. You think of the barley. You think of the weight.

You go to the undercroft. You sit on your straw mat. You wait for the sun to rise.

The sun rises. The light is gold. It is beautiful. It is cruel.

Thomas calls you.

"Come," he says. "The King’s men are here. The tribunal begins."

You follow him. You walk through the hall. The floor is polished. It reflects your face. Your face is gray. Your eyes are hollow.

The hall is full. There are knights. There are lords. There are guards. They wear armor that shines. They carry swords that gleam.

At the end of the hall is a throne. The King is not there. A proxy sits there. He is old. He is fat. He wears a crown of gold.

Eleanor is standing in the center of the room. She is in chains. The chains are heavy. They dig into her wrists. She stands straight. She does not look down.

She sees you.

Her eyes meet yours.

There is no fear in her face. There is no anger. There is only a strange, calm acceptance. It is the look of a woman who has already died.

"Silence," the proxy says. His voice is loud. It echoes off the walls. "The accused is here. The charges are read."

A scribe reads from a book. His voice is monotone. It is the voice of a machine.

"Theft. Treason. Adultery. Betrayal of the Crown."

The words fall like stones. They land on the floor. They make a sound.

You look at Eleanor. She looks at you.

You want to speak. You want to say her name. You want to say she is innocent. You want to say she is yours.

But you do not speak.

You are the clerk. You count the grain. You weigh the salt. You do not speak. You do not intervene. You are part of the system. You are the pen. You are the scale.

The proxy looks at you.

"Clerk," he says. "Verify the records. Did the accused take from the stores?"

Your mouth is dry. Your tongue is heavy.

"Yes," you say.

The word is small. It is weak. It is a whisper.

But it is enough.

Eleanor’s eyes widen. Just for a second. Then they close. She nods. She nods slowly.

She understands.

You betrayed her.

You saved yourself.

The proxy stands up.

"The sentence is passed. Death by burning. For the crime against the King. And for the crime against the truth."

The guards move. They take Eleanor. They drag her. She does not fight. She does not cry.

She looks at you one last time.

Her lips move. She says nothing. But you read it.

"Forgive me."

No.

"I forgive you."

No.

It is not forgiveness. It is release.

She is taken away. The sound of her chains is a rhythmic clinking. It is the sound of a clock. It is the sound of time ending.

You stay in the hall. You stand by the table.

Thomas walks past you. He does not look at you.

"Get back to work," he says. "The harvest is coming. We must count the grain."

You nod.

You sit down.

You pick up the quill.

You dip it in the ink.

The ink is black.

You write.

You count.

One.

Two.

Three.

The number goes up.

The number goes up.

The number goes up.

You are the clerk.

You are the pen.

You are the scale.

And the scale is true.

The scale is just.

The scale is cold.

And you are warm.

And you are alone.

And the grain is heavy.

And the day is long.

And you do not stop.

You do not stop.

You do not stop.