He briefly wondered whether it might be necessary to remove Rangarak, but decided that such a drastic step would be unlikely. The Iron King was a useful tool, solid and predictable if lacking in imagination, and he might not find as suitable a replacement. Certainly, the possibility of Grushik on the throne led to a number of nightmare scenarios. No, the best course of action, at least for the immediate future, was to prop up Rangarak’s reign. The status quo was desirable - it provided Gorton with the maximum latitude to work from within the shadows to make his vision of the future a reality. For the moment, he was content for the king to think of him as a subservient subject. In truth, Gorton’s loyalty wasn’t to one man or even one city. His goal was a united continent, with all the cities banded into one great nation. In Myselene, he believed he had discovered the person who could facilitate the realization of this goal. Together, he and she would blaze a trail into a radical future - one that would be constructed on the pyres of men like Rangarak, Azanar, and the other current rulers.
Deleted Scene #1: The Barefoot Princess
Book Two, Chapter One
This is the original beginning of Book Two, “The Curse in the Gift.” During the editing process, I decided to tighten things up. The result was that this scene was shortened considerably and all the interplay with Myselene was lost. Instead of her being introduced in the book’s opening pages, her first scene was deferred to Chapter Six. It’s designed as a playful scene and I think it works on its own although it’s a little too slow to start a book.
All of Vantok, greatest city of the South, lay before King Azarak as he gazed over its buildings from the vantage of the rooftop gardens of his palace. This was his kingdom; these were his people. And they were dying. The relentless heat bubbling up from the area known as The Forbidden Lands was sapping the life of the city and the will of its citizens. If not for the low angle of the sun in the sky, one might easily assume it was a late Summer morning. But it was the second week of the warmest Winter Vantok had ever seen.
This year would mark Azarak’s tenth on the throne. He suspected it would also be the most turbulent. Although he was still well regarded by a majority of the populace, Vantok’s nobility was taking an increasingly negative stance toward his reign, as evidenced by the recent resignations of Dukes Bantok and Yarbin from his advisory council. There was a growing chasm between the Palace and the Temple, fueled by Azarak’s belief that Prelate Ferguson was amassing an unwarranted surplus of secular power and influence. The world was not as simple as it had been when he had succeeded his father at the age of 18, his head full of grand ideas about how to make Vantok the jewel of human habitation across the continent. The heat wave, now in its fourth unrelenting year, had stalled the king’s plans. His most sincere hope was that Vantok would still be habitable by mid-Summer.
Azarak’s cool blue eyes roved from left to right and back again, scanning the city he had come to love above all else. Even if everyone left Vantok, he would remain, ruler of a ghost city. A welcome breeze stirred from the north, teasing with a reminder of the cold which held sway as close as 200 miles away. It ruffled Azarak’s short-cropped reddish-brown hair and brought the flicker of a smile to his lips. His face, with its bronzed skin and slight goatee, looked older than its 27 years. Even dressed informally in a light tunic and loose pants, Azarak looked every inch a king.
Somewhere, he knew, it was snowing. But not here. Under the dome of heat that baked his city and its immediate environs, farmers were sowing and reaping. The warm Winter weather was perfect for planting and harvesting. This year. Next year, if there was a next year, it might be too warm for farming even in the coldest weeks. Then what? Then Vantok would become the latest abandoned human habitation, destined to collapse into ruins like Havenham to the south or Ibitsal in the North.
All was not yet lost and bleakness had not overcome everything. Azarak was about to be married and his wedding, long overdue in the estimation of many, would be the cause for a much needed celebration. With a week of drinking, dancing, and pretending that the world had not become a dangerous and uncertain place, Vantok would have a hedonistic holiday to dwarf all others. There had been no official proclamation by the Temple and most people remained loathe speaking aloud of what they knew in their hearts: the gods were no more. But attitudes and morality were changing.
The sound of quiet footfalls approaching caused Azarak to turn. Moving toward him was his royal mistress and queen-to-be, Princess Myselene of Obis. Dressed in a sheer shift that left little to the imagination as the breeze plastered it to her body, she might as well have been naked. If not for the presence of the guards, Azarak would have welcomed her with less restraint. He knew she wouldn’t have minded, either. When it came to sex, she was insatiable, with a stamina that surpassed his by a wide margin.
Six seasons past her Maturity, Myselene was said to be one of the most beautiful women to hail from Obis, the hard military city where her father reigned with an iron grip. She had the features and form to enflame men’s desires and inspire artists. Her rich charcoal hair hung unbound to the middle of her back. Her complexion, unlike Azarak’s, was pale, although its nearly pure ivory had gained some color during the half-year she had spent in Vantok. Her violet eyes, nestled under thin brows, twinkled with mischief and intelligence. When people met Myselene, they were arrested by her beauty. Those who got to know her, however, were astonished by her intellect. She would be queen in fact as well as in rank. It wouldn’t be an empty title. She would share Azarak’s power as well as his concerns, and there were many of the latter for her to contemplate.
She came alongside her betrothed and stood on tip-toe to brush her lips across his cheek. It was a decorous kiss, much different from the kind he was used to in the privacy of their bedchamber. “So sad,” she murmured, noting his dour expression. “If you come back inside, I can think of a few things that will make you smile.” Mischief twinkled in those wide, oval eyes.
The king noticed that her feet were unshod. “No shoes? The ground here is rough.”
“In Obis, footwear is needed at all times. It’s too cold to go without. We wear boots and shoes and slippers except when bathing and sleeping. Until I came here, I never knew the freedom of going barefoot. And there’s no smell. Confined feet sweat and stink; not even scrubbing in perfumed water can remove the stench. There are many things about the climate here I don’t like, but the ability to go without shoes except on formal occasions isn’t one of them.”
Azarak reflected that during a normal Winter, Myselene would have been in as much need of footwear here as in Obis, but normality was a thing of the past. The palace’s roof gardens weren’t buried under a foot of snow; they were thriving and blooming. The vegetation, like the people, no longer knew what season it was supposed to be.
“I’d like nothing better than to retire to our chambers, but Toranim has a long day planned for me.” Azarak was expecting his chancellor at any moment; they would retire to his private sanctum to discuss the day’s agenda, which included morning and afternoon public audiences. The big event of the day would be the trial of a high ranked member of the Watch accused by multiple shopkeepers and tavern owners of extortion.
“And when will you begin to include me in your private discussions?” This was a point of contention. If it had been solely Azarak’s decision, Myselene would already be attending council meetings and briefings with Toranim, but the chancellor had made it clear that it was unwise and inappropriate until after the wedding. Until Myselene wore a crown, she shouldn’t be participating in Vantok’s rule. The king had conceded the point; Myselene hadn’t been happy. In her opinion, the wedding was a formality - a public confirmation of what had already been established.
“You know the answer to that. You also know that I’ll give you a full briefing tonight. Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll be needed to help with the wedding plans.”
Initially, Azarak had hoped the ceremony might coincide with the Midwinter Carnival, the year’s most f
estive event. Unfortunately, it was unlikely that Myselene’s father could arrive by then. Although King Rangarak had sent a message by bird indicating he would be departing before the first day of Winter, the lengthy journey he would undertake to the east to avoid bad weather in the mountains combined with the slow speed of such a large contingent of men and wagons made the likely date of his arrival well after Midwinter. It would require almost a full season of travel for the party from Obis, including the 500 soldiers comprising Myselene’s dowry, to reach Vantok. So the date of the wedding had been set for the first day of Planting, which was still ten weeks away. To Azarak and an increasingly impatient Myselene, that seemed like a long time. For the palace servants, however, it was a scandalously short period.
Myselene tried to draw him into conversation about inconsequential matters but was defeated by his mood. Eventually, recognizing that he would be better left on his own, she kissed him on the lips with a touch as gentle and fleeting as a butterfly, then returned inside to begin her day. Once she was gone, Azarak found his eyes drifting to the south, beyond the edge of the city and to the distant horizon.
Deleted Scene #2: Unrest
Book Two, Chapter Six
The original drafts of Chapter Six and Seven were eventually combined into a single chapter. This resulted in a fair amount of condensation. One subplot that was removed related to Carannan’s attempts to learn about his daughter’s whereabouts. This deleted scene is a greatly expanded version of what appears in the published manuscript.
“No news, my friend.” Azarak’s voice was heavy with weariness and sadness. He wished he had something more to offer Duke Carannan, a longtime supporter and Alicia’s father but, eight weeks after her escape from the temple, he still had no concrete information about her whereabouts. There had been rumors of sightings to the north, but nothing he could confirm. Ferguson apparently knew more but was being less forthcoming than usual.
The duke, a handsome man in his late-30s who looked every inch the picture of cultured nobility, rose from his seat and began pacing - even though there wasn’t much available floor in the small chamber for such an activity. The large table dominated the king’s private audience chamber.
“Sit down, Carannan.” Azarak said the words gently, but it wasn’t a request. Aside from the impropriety of rising while in the king’s presence, it interfered with Azarak’s ability to look into the duke’s eyes and read his expression. With his council one-quarter empty owing to a growing disdain for the Crown and several influential nobles openly advocating a “regime change,” Azarak had to contend with the potential for a coup in addition to all his other troubles, and he needed to know who he could rely on.
“My apologies.” Carannan immediately retook his seat. “You must understand my concern. For two weeks, the Temple kept me in the dark about Alicia, saying no more than that she was indisposed and unable to see me. That was worrisome enough. Then, when they finally admitted that she had ‘slipped away,’ I wasn’t offered an explanation. She’s been gone for eight weeks! Surely someone knows something.”
“That someone isn’t me.” It was galling to make the admission. The impotence that came with a lack of knowledge made Azarak feel small.
“Does the prelate know?”
Azarak didn’t immediately answer. He liked and trusted Carannan. The man had been faithful through good times and bad ones. He had been one of Azarak’s most staunch allies on the council. But Carannan was a member of Ferguson’s secret cabal - the group that had identified Sorial as a wizard candidate and had manipulated his life to send him in search of a portal. “You might be better able to answer that than me. I’m privy only to what the prelate wishes to tell me and, of late, that’s been little.”
“Is she still alive?” There was hitch in his voice when he asked that. “Do you know that much?”
“My agents have scoured the South all the way to the Broken Crags and found no definite trace of her. There have been rumors of sightings, but nothing confirmed and the trail has grown cold on the North-South Road. But I have every reason to believe that she and her companions are still alive.”
“And Sorial?”
Azarak could see the logical destination of Carannan’s thought processes: where Sorial was, there might also be found Alicia. In other circumstances, Azarak might have believed the same, or at least entertained the possibility. But not in this case. “He too has vanished, although our search for him hasn’t been as comprehensive. Scouts sent to The Forbidden Lands have a habit of not returning.”
“Nine weeks - shouldn’t you have heard something by now?”
Azarak nodded. “The prelate preaches patience, but it takes a more creative imagination than mine to ascertain how a passage of this much time with no word could augur a positive outcome. While Alicia’s disappearance is the result of her not wanting to be found, Sorial’s may be because he is no longer in a position to be found.”
“We’d best hope Alicia is brought back to Vantok before Sorial returns - if he returns, that is. If his bride isn’t waiting for him, all the work we’ve done will be for naught. Dammit! I warned Ferguson that she needed to be watched. I knew she wouldn’t simply wait around hoping Sorial would return. Now they may both be dead. How bitter to think we plotted their entire lives only to fail them in the end.”
“To be truthful, you probably have a better chance of getting information from Ferguson than I have. The relationship between the Crown and the Temple has become... strained. I tell you this in confidence, but some of his actions border on treasonous and, if there weren’t more pressing issues to be addressed, I might be forced to remove him from power.”
“I see,” said Carannan, nonplused. There had always been tension between the king and the prelate, but he had no idea it had become this serious. “Since Alicia’s disappearance, Ferguson hasn’t seen fit to respond to my requests for an audience. It’s my understanding he isn’t seeing anyone outside his close confederates. Apparently, I’ll have to press the matter. He owes me an explanation. Better to know that Alicia is dead than to be kept in a perpetual state of uncertainty. If he thinks to spare me by concealing the reality, he’s mistaken.”
After the duke’s departure, Azarak was left sitting alone in the room, pondering Ferguson’s recalcitrance to confide in a member of his close circle. He wondered how much longer he could delay taking action regarding the prelate; he was postponing making a final decision because he knew things would get messy. Myselene had counseled that quick action was best; Toranim thought the opposite. Azarak was stuck in the middle, recognizing that either course - action or inaction - could ultimately prove disastrous. If Azarak miscalculated his move and Ferguson fought back, the king could find himself toppled from the throne with Vantok in turmoil when the enemy showed himself.
Ferguson had always been a juggler, and the more balls he had in the air, the better. But it took sharp skills to keep everything cycling smoothly and, of late, there was reason to believe the prelate’s mental dexterity was eroding. If the balls began crashing to the ground, what would happen to those standing near where they fell? Were Sorial and Alicia pawns in one of Ferguson’s schemes or victims of his deteriorating gamesmanship?
“Your Majesty.” Azarak glanced up to see Toranim standing by his side. The chancellor was holding a cylindrical bone case. Inside was a parchment scroll. More bad news, he assumed. These days, it was rare for written communication to contain anything else.
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“Your council has lost another member.”
“Which one this time?” Somehow, it wasn’t surprising. With this new defection following in the wake of the resignations of Dukes Bantok and Yarbin, Azarak was left with only five members to fill eight seats. Rats deserting a sinking ship? The king scolded himself for thinking that way. There were a lot of leaks to patch, but he was working as fast as he could.
“Overcommander Vikon. He is ‘most displeased’ with the verdict and sentenc
e leveled against Lieutenant Horspath. He believes that ‘His Majesty has become more interested in pandering to the peasantry than in dispensing justice’ and ‘while Horspath may have exceeded the boundaries of his commission, it should be remembered that the mitigating circumstances - the universal respect of his fellow officers and his impeccable record to this point - were not given due consideration.’”
Azarak sighed. He had been expecting some kind of blow-back from Vikon regarding Horspath. The two were close and Vikon had privately petitioned for clemency before the trial. Azarak had heeded the plea, which was why Horspath’s head was still attached to his neck. Nothing less than a pardon would have satisfied the lieutenant’s supporters and, had Azarak released an obviously guilty man with no punishment, he would have faced a riot. Now, the question was not so much who would fill the council vacancy but whether Vikon could be left in his current position as commander of the full militia. Could Azarak invest that degree of authority in someone who openly questioned the king’s judgment?
As if reading his mind, Toranim provided advice. “You must remove him, Your Majesty. Demote him or reassign him, but he cannot continue as the overcommander of your army.”
“I know. It’s unfortunate since he’s easily the best qualified for the job. I wouldn’t be bothered in peacetime but with war looming, I need someone in charge who understands tactics and combat.”
“There are other capable, battle-tested men in your army.”
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia Page 16
