The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia

by James Berardinelli

  “Then find a third option. They’ve already pulled you into politics but it’s not too late for you to extricate yourself.”

  “There’s no third option. These ‘other paths’ you mention aren’t just hidden. They’re sealed off. A crown princess is bound by duty.” She had recited that line so many times that it was ingrained in her character. But what constituted “duty” in this case? Unquestioning obedience, her mother would say. Forward-thinking pragmatism, Lavella would argue. Many times, those two answers lead to the same destination. Not now.

  “Only for as long as she remains a crown princess.” Bartholemu’s words hung in the air after they were spoken. Kara didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know whether to be shocked, horrified, or hopeful.

  Bartholemu was no mere functionary brought in to teach her the basics of theology. Prelate Belmar had sought him out.

  “Who are you?” she asked again, repeating the earlier question he had deftly sidestepped.

  His response this time was no more forthcoming. “I think, Your Highness, the real question you should be asking is: Who am I?”

  Chapter Five

  At that point in the conversation, Bartholemu decided it was time for Kara to speak with the Prelate. According to him, she was asking questions he wasn’t in a position to answer. Was this her third option? The Queen, Magus Lavella, or Prelate Belmar? What role could she have in the temple’s “new order”?

  The priest rose, went to a nearby cupboard, and withdrew a priest’s robe. Handing it to her, he said, “Remove all but your small clothes and put this on. You’ll attract less attention and it’s fitting that you come before His Eminence wearing the garments of a supplicant.” He turned his back to provide her with a modicum of privacy.

  The idea of getting undressed in the same room as a man - especially one as physically appealing as Bartholemu - sent a shiver of excitement through Kara. Although a part of her wanted to prolong the moment (the same part that hoped the priest might peek), she changed clothes quickly and Bartholemu didn’t turn around until she indicated she was done. He took her princess’ raiment and placed it in the cupboard from which he had removed the robe. Then he did something Kara never would have expected. He bent over and kissed her full on the lips.

  It was a lingering kiss, soft and gentle. His warm breath, scented with a vaguely minty fragrance, mingled with hers. When he drew back, his bright green eyes sparkling, she could feel her heart hammering in her breast like never before. Suddenly, her entire world seemed off-balance.

  Kara recognized that she probably looked like a frightened animal - a field mouse confronted by a cat, perhaps. It was how she felt. Bartholemu responded with a welcoming smile. “Consider all your paths, Your Highness, and what promise they may hold. There are duties other than waiting to take the throne or making a trek to the portal. Some may be onerous but others may conceal scarce imagined pleasures. Now, if you’ll come with me…” He opened the door so she could precede him into the corridor.

  Come with him? Right now, I’d come with him to The White World if he wanted me there. Kara couldn’t fathom that something as simple as a kiss - two sets of lips touching and parting - could so scramble her thoughts and emotions. She was having a hard time concentrating and didn’t feel like herself - or at least like the self who had entered this chamber a short time ago. So little time had passed yet so much had changed.

  Upon leaving the room, she was surprised to find that her protectors weren’t on duty outside the door. She couldn’t guess where they were, but she assumed they would rejoin her at some point. Aside from the recent incident when she had run away (from the same two men), she couldn’t remember another time in recent memory when she had been without an escort outside the palace grounds. Of course, the temple was at least as secure as the palace and Bartholemu was by her side. And she still had her knife, concealed in a boot that was mostly hidden by the voluminous priest’s robes.

  Her companion led her through the maze-like halls of the great building. It seemed to Kara that the temple, although not normally a hive of activity, was quieter than usual. Maybe it was just her.

  Her eyes were locked on Bartholemu’s form as he moved confidently ahead of her. She wished she could see his face. Maybe something in his features would calm her inner turmoil. Why had he done that? Had there been a promise in the kiss? Her mother and Lavella seemed far away; only Bartholemu was here.

  It didn’t take long for them to reach the Prelate’s private sanctum. Armed priests standing at rapt attention to either side of the door nodded in unison as Bartholemu approached. He passed between them without incident and held open the door for the princess.

  Prelate Belmar was sitting in an oversized chair poring over a scroll when they entered. He smiled, rose, and offered Kara a slight bow. She returned the gesture. Technically, she outranked him but she sensed that, in these circumstances, an element of deference was advisable. Uncle Rexall had said that, when it came to prelates and wizards, rank was a technicality. The queen viewed them as her subjects; that wasn’t necessarily their perception.

  “Your Highness, a pleasure,” said the old man, retaking his seat. “Brother Bartholemu, would you be so kind as to pour three goblets of my finest vintage so we can toast to Princess Kara’s Maturity. A most auspicious occasion.” To Kara, Belmar’s smile seemed forced.

  With a smile and genuflection, Bartholemu departed to fulfill the request, leaving Kara alone with Belmar. Over the years, she had spent much time in the prelate’s presence - he was a frequent guest at palace functions and a member of her mother’s council - but this was the first time she had been alone with him. It was an intimidating experience. Belmar had cultivated a grandfatherly appearance but she knew him to be shrewd and ruthless. He had for many years been Ferguson’s pupil and, from what she could tell, he had learned his lessons well. For the first time, she was aware how dangerous he could be if crossed.

  “You’re wondering why you’re here. And you have a great many questions. I’ve asked you to join me today so I can answer as many of them as possible and provide you with a more… open… view of your future. I know you feel constrained by the expectations of others. It’s a feeling I know too well. Following in the footsteps of the greatest prelate ever to live is daunting. When I accepted this challenge, I was aware of other possibilities. I could have done a great many other things. Magus Lavella asked me to be her personal scribe. I was offered the position of Chancellor in any of the cities. Your mother at one point suggested that I supervise the secular and ecclesiastic rehabilitation of New Earlford. My choices were numerous but I was aware of them all. My intention today is to ensure that you understand the variety of your options. Queen Myselene would have you believe that your destiny is to follow her on the twin thrones of Vantok and Obis. That is one possibility. But there are others.”

  “You were a priest, free to choose as you saw fit.” Kara was surprised she could speak to Belmar so calmly and with such authority. “These things were offered to you. You weren’t burdened by the weight of duty that’s my birthright. Our situations aren’t comparable. I’m the Crown Princess and, as of tomorrow, The Wizard’s Bride. I can’t shed either title easily.”

  Kara thought there was something predatory about Belmar’s smile. Perhaps it was just the lighting - the room, although large, was lit by only a single hanging lantern and a candle on the table. “Easily is the key word, Your Highness. Neither title demands you. If you were removed, one of your half-brothers would become Crown Prince. Another woman would be selected as the prospective bride of Vantok’s next wizard protector.”

  “I have a duty…”

  “You do. But at this time you don’t know what your duty may be. Being a princess is a duty, to be sure, but it’s a duty others can fulfill. It may be there is another duty for you, one only you can accomplish. Hear what I have to say and, in the end, you may believe that duty requires you to relinquish all you thought to be assured and allowing the wor
ld to believe you have died.”

  * * *

  “Burned to the ground?” Myselene’s voice was a mixture of incredulity and horror.

  Rexall nodded. “To the extent it could burn. Most of the outer structure’s made of stone - that’s how it survived Justin’s scourge. But everything else… It’s a charred ruin. The damage fifteen years ago ain’t nothing compared to what happened today.”

  “Anyone killed?”

  “Aye. Two people, maybe more. Difficult to be sure until it cools enough for people to begin sifting through the debris. Maybe a few customers. For sure, a serving wench and Ponari, Warburm’s widow.” Rexall said this with great sadness. He had known Ponari since he had been a boy, running around the grounds of The Wayfarer’s Comfort, playing games with Sorial. At one time, he’d had a crush on her, thinking she was far too young and pretty for fat old Warburm. On her return to Vantok following the war and her husband’s death, she had rebuilt the inn and taken over its running. Since Rexall had moved into the palace, he hadn’t seen her much - perhaps three times in the past fifteen years - but those old memories were strong. It seemed like everything from the old days was gone - first Warburm then Sorial, now Ponari and the inn.

  The queen was aghast. “Ponari? Are you sure?”

  “Rotgut confirmed it. She was supervising getting the overnighters out of their rooms when a burning beam crashed down on her. Head crushed, killed instantly.”

  “She loved that old inn and its connection to her husband.”

  “She did at that.”

  “There’s a daughter, right?”

  “Left Vantok some time ago. Don’t know where she went. I’m sure one of the serving wenches or stable hands could say.”

  “We’ll need to track her down. For the services rendered to the Crown by Warburm, she at least deserves to be informed. Also, the title to the inn should be transferred into her name or the name of her next of kin. She can determine what’s to be done with the property.”

  “There’s more, Your Majesty.”

  Rexall’s tone told Myselene that she wasn’t going to like the rest of the story. “Go on…”

  “The Watch found a scrap of parchment pinned to a post on the inn’s grounds. It indicated that the fire was in retaliation for ‘the innkeeper’s continued slander of the great name of Prelate Ferguson’ and any who sought to honor Warburm could expect something similar. Rotgut believes we may be dealing with a splinter group of priests who venerate Ferguson and follow his teachings. Those who refuse to accept his treason and excuse his betrayal.”

  “We’ve known about these groups for some time but if one of them is behind this then they have been elevated from a nuisance to a public menace. I’m becoming increasingly mistrustful of the Temple. For more than a decade after the city’s restoration, the priests have been good and faithful stewards and loyal subjects but some of the old ways seem to be creeping back in. In the days before the war, Crown and Temple were at odds, as well you know. I don’t intend to return to those dark times.”

  “Prelate Belmar was a member of Ferguson’s inner circle dating back to when he represented him on King Azarak’s council.”

  “Which is a strong argument against trusting him in these circumstances. If he isn’t involved with these seditious groups then at a minimum he should be accountable for bringing them to heel. Summon the prelate for an immediate audience and recall my daughter. Princess Kara shall no longer receive lessons in the temple until these matters are satisfactorily resolved.”

  Chapter Six

  “The world needs wizards,” said Belmar, adopting a lecturing tone. “The gods knew this to be the case so it was their final bequest to us before they slipped into oblivion.”

  Kara fought off impatience. After making his startling pronouncement, the prelate had launched into a history lesson. She supposed he would get to the point eventually. She kept stealing glances at the door, wondering when Bartholemu would return. Her mind began to wander as Belmar droned on about the gods and the “one chosen to shepherd their creations.” That would be Ferguson, of course, the priest everyone in the temple spoke of with awe. Having been raised by the woman Ferguson had betrayed, Kara was less kindly disposed toward the late prelate.

  “Ferguson had a vision of how the new order would be framed. Central to his plan was a fraternity of wizards who would act as caretakers of humankind rather than as lords setting up their own petty kingdoms. He knew that the establishment of this cabal would be no easy task and the character of every candidate would have to be assessed before they could be put before the portal. In order to have a choice, there would have to be many young men and women with the capability. Ferguson saw priests as curators - men who would put forward only those with the most noble and self-sacrificing of natures. No Justins. No Ariels. No Alemiaks or Malbranches. It’s all a matter of character. Although a good man might become corrupted by power and turn to darkness, it’s safe to assume that magic wouldn’t transform a bad man into a servant of righteousness. Better to select those with pure hearts and minimize the potential for mistakes.

  “The problem is, of course, that there aren’t hundreds of wizard candidates to choose from. By his calculations, Ferguson believed that only one in several thousand babes might be born with the talent. Scouring all the lands for every capable child was an impossible task even for an army of priests. But my mentor divined a way to enhance the odds. Like many traits - eye color, hair color, height, weight, and so forth - the capacity for magic is carried through the bloodline. The intermarrying of wizards was a time-honored way to maintain strong strains during the first age of wizards. Ferguson traced genealogies and found the most likely ancestors to carry the purest blood. His methods proved successful beyond even his expectations. No fewer than five gifted children, including our current Magus Lavella, were the result of this great experiment.”

  Even though she recognized it was impertinent, Kara couldn’t resist interrupting. “Why are you telling me all this? What does this have to do with me? Is this some position you want me to promote to my mother? Do you want her endorsement for such future experimentation?”

  Belmar’s answering smile was patronizing. “Your Highness, do you truly fail to see what I’m suggesting? When we say you have a choice beyond sitting in your mother’s shadow, we offer you a part in this new order - a role exalted above all others. The woman you were named after was the first mother of wizards. From her womb came Ariel, The Lady of Air; Sorial, The Lord of Earth; and Braddock the Lost. We offer you the opportunity to be her successor.”

  As his words sunk in, Kara’s mouth widened into an “O” of shock. She gazed into Belmar’s eyes, searching for signs of insanity. Surely he must be crazy. But he met her stare calmly, coldly, and (most disturbingly) rationally.

  Was he insinuating that her third option was to be a broodmare for a new race of wizards? How did that make any sense given her barren bloodline? And why would the prelate think it was something she would consider?

  “I can see you’re surprised,” Belmar said, his voice adopting a patient, paternal tone.

  No shit.

  “There’s something I should read to you.” He fingered through a sheaf of parchments on the desk until he found one particular document. “This was written by His Eminence Prelate Ferguson shortly before his assassination. When it was brought to me, it was sealed with his insignia. I recognize the handwriting. These are unquestionably his words.”

  The more Kara listened to Belmar, the more convinced she became that, for the priests, Ferguson wasn’t merely respected, he was revered. In life, he had been an important figure but, in death, like the other heroes and villains of the war, he had become something far greater. Rexall had once said this to her: If there ain’t gods no more, people will find something or someone else to worship. Her uncle had been right.

  “I write this missive in the hope that, should I not survive the latter days of the war, this may prove useful to any successors i
ntent on continuing my work. I have just learned that Queen Myselene has taken the throne of Obis. Of more interest, however, are her claims to be pregnant with the child of King Azarak. Were people not so naturally gullible, they would question the veracity of such a contention. Three things argue against this being true (or even possible).

  “It is likely that Azarak couldn’t have children. His marriage to Queen Amenia produced no heirs. Although she was pregnant at the time of her death, I learned from reliable sources that the child wasn’t her husband’s. Additionally, Azarak was engaged in regular sexual activity with Myselene before their wedding - she spent a lengthy period as the royal mistress. It’s suspicious, to say the least, that a child hadn’t been conceived until their last week together.

  “The timing of the pregnancy calls into question Azarak being the father. Although it’s possible that the seed could have been planted a day or two before his death, this strikes me as an unlikely coincidence. Without confirmation of the child’s birth date, this will be difficult to ascertain but be vigilant of the palace ‘hiding’ the newborn and queen from public view for several weeks after the normal term would have expired.

  “Finally, sentries loyal to me from the Basingham camp report having heard noises of a sexual nature coming from the queen’s tent. Circumstantial evidence points to Magus Sorial as being her nighttime visitor and, therefore, the father of her child. We must proceed under the reasonable assumption that the Crown Prince or Princess of Vantok, although being touted as the offspring of King Azarak, is in truth of Sorial’s blood and must be considered a prime candidate for investiture or breeding.”

  After reading the passage, Belmar fell silent, awaiting Kara’s reaction.

  She didn’t know what to think. The words had smashed her sense of identity like a sledgehammer on a brittle rock. She felt small and inconsequential, this base deceit having expunged the most basic truth of who she was. She staggered a little and might have fallen if the strong hands of Brother Bartholemu hadn’t reached out to steady her. She glanced at him, confused. When had he returned?