The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia

by James Berardinelli

  “It is, Your Majesty,” said Gorton. “I also bear word of Her Majesty’s condition. Healer Patrick has opined that she is better this morn and may be well enough to attempt a short constitutional after her midday meal.”

  That at least was good news. The sooner Selene was back to her old self, the better. The king decided that he would try to be more generous where she was concerned. Beneficence wasn’t in his nature but he was determined to make the attempt. Even if he never spoke words to that effect, Selene needed to understand that she was important to him. Heartened by the upbeat report, Rangarak donned the heavy robes of state with something approaching good cheer.

  Two weeks later, Queen Selene was dead.

  The funeral was a somber event, made all the more grim by the steady snowfall that marked the occasion. Although the burning was private, to be held within the palace grounds with only a smoke plume to announce its commencement, seemingly the entire populace had shown up for the occasion, cramming every street and alley leading in the general direction of Obis’ southern quarter. Although a few were curiosity-seekers drawn by morbidity, most came out of a genuine love for their queen. In her lifetime, she had been popular - more so than her taciturn husband - but in death, her reputation had been elevated. There was also an undercurrent of anger. Rumors abounded that Selene had fallen victim to foul play. After all, how was it possible for a woman in the prime of her life (not having yet reached the age of thirty) to have died so suddenly? If the queen had been murdered, the masses wanted vengeance. In the North, few crimes were more heinous than regicide.

  Dressed in midnight black plate armor, Rangarak stood by his wife’s bier, gazing down at her still, and tranquil face. As was custom, she lay naked, ready to be embraced by the flames that would leap up to consume her when her husband touched torch to the dry kindling surrounding her final bed. In addition to the king, only seven others were present: the prince and three princesses, senile Chancellor Fogram, Vice Chancellor Gorton, and the captain of Selene’s personal guard.

  Tradition dictated that Rangarak make a speech but he didn’t feel like talking. He also wasn’t sure he could trust his voice to remain steady and that, more than anything, terrified him. Considering that any sign of weakness could undermine him, even if it was only in front of such a small audience for an intimate occasion… Better not to make the attempt.

  “You say something,” he barked at Gorton. When it came to making speeches, few were better at transforming honey to vinegar than the vice chancellor. Over the years, Rangarak had made his share of bad appointments, but Gorton compensated for all of them. Handsome, dashing, and whip-smart, Gorton would assume the full chancellor’s position as soon as Fogram died - something that was taking an inordinate amount of time considering the aged man’s frailty. For now, Gorton did the duties without having the title.

  The vice chancellor nodded and took two steps forward until he was standing across the bier from Rangarak. He spoke with quiet confidence, almost as if he had been expecting his king to ask him to deliver a eulogy.

  “What can I say about Queen Selene except that she was a ray of sunshine in a city with many dark days? Obis is a cold, hard place where only the hardiest of men and women make their homes; we are unused to beauty and grace such as what she brought here. Since the founding of this great city, we’ve seen countless queens but few have been as readily accepted and truly beloved as Selene. She melted the heart of a king not known to bow to sentiment and gave to him four fine children, one of whom will eventually sit upon the throne. But the ways of the gods are mysterious and they, in their wisdom, have elected to take her from us. Let’s cherish our memories of her as we consign her spirit to the gods and her mortal remains to the purifying element of fire.”

  The short, unremarkable speech made Rangarak uncomfortable because it stirred feelings deep within that he was unaccustomed to coping with. Death was a reality he faced on an everyday basis. Most of his boyhood compatriots had long since departed their mortal lives, many killed in battle. He had attended more burnings than he could remember. But this was different. Somehow, he had never imagined having to put the torch to his wife. Some foolish part of him had assumed that she would outlive him. But, although he was The Iron King, she had proven not to be The Iron Queen.

  He took the proffered torch from the captain of Selene’s guard, accepting it with a characteristic grunt. As he extended his arm to start the blaze, he was interrupted by a tiny voice.

  “Father, may I do it?”

  Startled, Rangarak looked down. There, standing beside him with her hand extended to accept the torch, was Princess Myselene: his beautiful, raven-haired seven-year old daughter. True to her nature, she wasn’t content to stand by and watch with her brother and sisters. She understood that this was a momentous occasion and wanted to be part of it. It wasn’t enough to observe history; she wanted to be involved in it. If only she had been born with a cock between her legs…

  Rangarak’s first inclination was to rebuke such insolence, but he curbed himself. This wasn’t an instance when her forwardness should be dissuaded - not if he wanted to shape her to be the wife of a foreign king. The willfulness he would punish in either of his other two daughters would be cultivated in Myselene.

  Rangarak noticed Gorton watching him carefully. The Vice Chancellor was interested to see how he would react in this situation: punish or acquiesce? Of the mourners present, only Gorton recognized the importance of the king’s next actions. He too viewed Myselene through a different lens than the other three royal children.

  Without a word, Rangarak handed the torch to his daughter. Once in possession of it, her face a mask of solemnity, she reverentially touched the flame to the kindling surrounding her mother then stepped back. Tears glistened in her eyes but none spilled down her cheeks. As if by magic, the conflagration leapt to life, tongues of fire licking hungrily at the wood comprising Queen Selene’s final bed. As the column of smoke billowed skyward, announcing the burning to the city, a distant bell began to toll. Those near to the temple could hear the chant of mourning emanating from its open doors as the priests joined their voices as one.

  Several days later, while the city continued under its cloud of grief and the weather cooperated with gray skies that occasionally spat snow and ice, Rangarak and Gorton were sitting in the king’s austere study discussing, among other things, how Selene’s death would impact foreign and domestic relations. Although the queen had absented herself from political matters, not understanding them or wanting to learn, it was known across the continent that she’d had a tempering effect on her husband. Rangarak recognized that, without her influence, many of the other cities were already worried that he would turn into a warmonger. With the army of Obis behind him, he could carve a swath of destruction through the North and into the South if he so desired. The king had no such intentions but it was to his benefit for others to be unsure. One feared the wild, unpredictable bear far more than the tame one.

  “You know she should be the next ruler of Obis, Your Majesty,” said Gorton, referring to Myselene. The refrain, which the Vice Chancellor had repeated over the years, was being spoken more frequently.

  “Ain’t so much a matter of what should be as what will be. The hard truth is she can’t piss standing up. When it comes to the succession, that’s all that matters to some. Even if I named her, there’s no telling what the council would do when my ashes were sent into the sky.” In the murky world of Obis’ politics, the pathway to the Crown could be complicated when the succession didn’t follow a straightforward trajectory. The previous king’s choice for his heir wasn’t binding. In unusual or ambiguous situations, it was up to the council to determine whether a bloodline would continue. A strong choice would have no trouble lining up unanimous support but the forces opposing Myselene would be powerful. Civil war could result and, as much as Rangarak valued his daughter’s capabilities, he wasn’t willing to risk tearing the city apart on her behalf.

  �
��She would make a better ruler than Grushik. You know as well as I do, Your Majesty, that he’s not fit to sit on your throne.”

  “Not today, he’s not. But I don’t plan to be following Selene anytime soon. Once I’m ready to meet the gods, he’ll have learned.” Or, failing that, I’ll make sure he’s permanently removed from any succession consideration.

  “And Myselene?”

  “You’re fond of her.”

  Gorton nodded. It was no secret that the middle princess was the vice chancellor’s favorite pupil just as it was no secret that she was the king’s favorite child. But in the twin realms of politics and militia, favorites meant little. Rangarak could fantasize about what things might be like with Myselene on the throne but it wouldn’t happen. Gorton was enough of a pragmatist to recognize this, but that didn’t stop him from playing the part of her advocate.

  “I am,” admitted the vice chancellor. “She’s as smart as anyone I’ve tutored and has her mother’s looks. In another seven years, she’s going to be a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Oh, she’ll be queen, Vice Chancellor. But not in Obis.”

  “You’re still thinking of Vantok?” Gorton sounded surprised, although the idea of “introducing” Myselene to young Prince Azarak had been his suggestion.

  “The match makes sense. He’s the only ruler-to-be of marriageable age who isn’t already betrothed or otherwise promised.” Rangarak was confident of his daughter’s charms. He believed that, given another few years, she would be able to Azarak (or anyone else, for that matter) over. The difficulty was in getting the future king to stave off marriage to another candidate long enough for Myselene to reach an age when a liaison wouldn’t be considered scandalous.

  “King Azanar will never agree to it. He hasn’t forgiven the way your father snubbed him at his coronation. He has a long memory, it’s said.”

  “My father was stubborn and senile at the time. I’m not my father. And if the rumors of his health hold any validity, Azanar might not be around much longer. It won’t be many seasons before Azarak trades in his prince’s mantle for the crown of Vantok.”

  “Nevertheless, if you seek to arrange a match between Myselene and Azarak, Azanar won’t be your ally. And if the boy’s father opposes you, there’s little chance the two will be wed. At least while he lives. And you can be sure he’ll make every effort to see his son settled before he rests on his bier. Unless, that is, death came for him suddenly.”

  Was Gorton making a suggestion? An offer? Was his spy network powerful enough that he could have the leader of a city halfway across the world assassinated? Rangarak found the possibility strangely unsettling. It was hard for him to think of some of Gorton’s methods - those involving poisons and potions - as anything but craven. To his way of thinking, if one wanted to kill a man, battle was the only honorable way to accomplish it. But there were protocols to duels and challenges that didn’t apply when assassins were employed.

  “Perhaps it’s time to send a delegation to Vantok on the pretext of discussing the long neglected concept of a free North/South trade route jointly protected by soldiers from Vantok and Obis. You can choose the envoys, Vice Chancellor. Put your best men in the party.” It was the closest The Iron King would come to openly condoning such a plan. This proposal gave Gorton the authority to proceed as he saw fit. He trusted the vice chancellor to handle this matter discreetly and expeditiously. Rangarak needed only to know the results, not how they were achieved.

  Speaking of assassins…“My captain of the guard tells me you apprehended a would-be assassin.”

  Gorton shrugged. “It’s not that unusual an occurrence. Hardly a week goes by when there’s not at least one attempt on your life. Most are the work of amateurs. The only difference in this case is that the assassin was armed with poison not knives. His intention, it would seem, was to dose your food or drink with it. Not the most effective way to kill you since it was a fast-acting poison that would have disabled your taster long before it got to your plate, and that would presuppose the unlikely occurrence of a stranger getting anywhere close to where the vittles and brew are stored and prepared. No, Your Majesty, your life was never in danger.”

  “I applaud your vigilance,” noted Rangarak with a trace of sarcasm. He disliked it when his vice chancellor condescended to him, which was too often. The king was inclined to allow Gorton some latitude when it came to respect but there were limits. “When I heard about the failed poisoning plot, however, it caused me to wonder whether my queen’s death might not have been the result of natural causes.”

  For a moment, Gorton’s impeccable calm failed him; Rangarak didn’t miss the look of dismay that flashed across his features. So I’m not the only one to have considered this possibility. Interesting.

  “She was in her prime and as hearty as any woman of the North. She birthed four children without difficulty and rarely took to her bed because of an illness. Her death concerns me not only because I’ve lost my wife and the mother of my children but because it may point to a hidden danger close to the throne. If Selene was poisoned, it was done by someone in her intimate circle - and that could pose a threat to me if the killer remains undiscovered.”

  “I know the general populace is awash in conspiracy theories, but you may be taking speculation too far if you heed even the most rational of them,” suggested Gorton. “The healers, after all, certified that it was a natural death. If I was to bring them here…”

  “To do so, Vice Chancellor, you would have to dig up their bones, presuming the scavengers haven’t gnawed them already. Every healer who failed the queen was hanged and buried yesterday.”

  Gorton’s face paled at the revelation. Rangarak felt a twinge of satisfaction. Despite his vast network of spies, the vice chancellor hadn’t known. It had been done in secret and word hadn’t leaked out, affirming the loyalty of those who had carried out the act. Was Gorton surprised at the ruthlessness of the punishment? If so, he shouldn’t have been. The Iron King had little time for fools and posers. Those men would have decorated a gibbet even if their diagnosis hadn’t been in doubt. Regardless of whether she had died of assassination or an illness, they had failed their duty to the queen; they had therefore deserved to share her fate. That was the Old Law and Rangarak found it just. A healer was no less a soldier than any other man of Obis. There was only one acceptable price for losing a battle.

  “This is a security matter, Vice Chancellor. I expect you to look into it and accomplish something more satisfactory than the men attending my wife did.” Rangarak was aware how harsh those words sounded and there was nothing subtle in the threat they implied. However, even he didn’t know if he was bluffing or not. If it came down to it and Gorton was unable to uncover the truth, would he take punitive measures against his most valuable retainer? Healers were as easily hired as disposed of but there was only one Gorton.

  The vice chancellor, however, had no intention of finding out how sincere his liege was. It took him less than a week to reveal the plot that had led to Queen Selene’s untimely demise. It had been well orchestrated and funded but Gorton acted decisively to remove its tentacles as well as decapitate it.

  “The scheme ran deeper than I expected, Your Majesty.” The vice chancellor’s voice was muted. Rangarak couldn’t recall having seen the man so humbled. He prided himself on being one step ahead of any potential threats but his vaunted network of spies had failed him on this occasion and he had compounded the mistake by accepting the healers’ diagnosis without question. Any royal death should have been considered suspicious until conclusively proven otherwise. Failure was a galling admission for a man as confident as Gorton. “The financing undoubtedly came from Andel, although I couldn’t trace anything directly to the Crown. There’s little doubt, however, that the local leader was Ambassador Kreig. Whether he was acting on his own or under orders from…”

  “Andel wouldn’t be so stupid as to risk war, even if the chance of being caught was minimal and Kreig has alway
s been a climber. I’m sure he did this on his own, hoping that if it succeeded, he could take credit and if it failed he could distance himself from any fallout.”

  Gorton nodded. “That’s my assessment. Kreig employed only two confederates. Both were perfectly placed to carry out their assignments. I regret to inform you, Your Majesty, that one was Queen Selene’s own taster. Her previous taster died under seemingly normal circumstances two seasons ago, although we must now look into that death. Kreig was able to place his own man in the position after he was put forward as an ‘excellent and faithful’ servant of Duke Callifan. The duke was handsomely compensated for his complicity. We found a satchel of Adel golds hidden in the straw of his mattress.”

  “Who was in charge of the taster’s vetting?”

  “The chancellor.”

  That explained much. Once, Fogram had been as sharp and useful as Gorton was today, but his best days were lost in the fog of the Iron King’s early years on the throne. Although this was an obvious act of incompetence, punitive action wouldn’t follow - not for someone who had served so faithfully for so many years and whose aid had been key to Rangarak’s seizure of the throne. But Fogrum could never again be assigned a duty of even minor importance. From this point forward, he would be a figurehead - no more.

  “I want Kreig, Callifan, and the taster brought to the throne room in shackles for this afternoon’s audience. Let them see what it means to conspire to kill a queen.” Hanging would be too easy a death for such conspirators. Some considered quartering barbaric but there are times when gruesome executions were necessary - not to mention satisfying.

  “Sadly, Your Majesty, that won’t be possible. Severan, the taster, slipped on a wet spot on a staircase yesterday. He broke his neck in the resulting fall. Duke Callifan apparently choked on something in his dinner last night and died as a result. And Ambassador Kreig has vanished. His household and staff seem bewildered about his absence but a smart bettor would place a wager on him never being seen again.”