The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia

by James Berardinelli

  “And me? You think I should just agree to be a mother to the next generation of wizards?”

  “That’s not my decision to make. It’s down to you. But ask yourself this: Do you see your life as a princess as being fulfilling and meaningful?”

  “If I said yes…?” She wasn’t sure that was the answer but she wondered how he would respond. She was reasonably certain what Belmar would say (or do).

  “Then we would release you to return to your life. This ‘new order’ isn’t about forcing people to do things against their will.”

  The darkness concealed Kara’s surprise. Was he hopelessly naïve or a liar? This was all about force and she knew that, sooner or later, if she didn’t spread her legs willingly, they would be spread for her. Most likely by him.

  “You don’t seriously believe that, do you? Belmar has already gone too far to turn back. He kidnapped the Crown Princess of Vantok and Obis. By now, I will have been missed. The Watch will be scouring the city for me. And what about my protectors? Are they still alive? The moment I drank that drugged wine, everything changed. You went from being my teacher to being my captor. Belmar’s treason has scarred you and anyone else in league with him.”

  “If it came to it, would you protect me from the headsman’s ax?”

  The question took Kara aback. Was he serious or merely trying to gauge her reaction? As Crown Princess, having reached Maturity, she held the power of Clemency. She could pardon any convicted criminal, commute any death sentence. The only one who could overrule her was the queen but Kara had no notion how her mother might react if she employed Clemency to save her kidnapper. Myselene was known for justice and sometimes ruthlessness but rarely for mercy. As far as she knew, her mother had never invoked Clemency for any prisoner, even ones who had been allies and supporters.

  “If you helped me get away now, I could convince my mother that you were misguided, that Prelate Belmar led you astray…”

  “He hasn’t, though. That’s what you don’t see now, although I’m sure you will in time. We’ve been brought together for a purpose, you and me.” His lips brushed the area just below her ear, sending a shiver through her body.

  Kara wanted to respond but his closeness was scrambling her thoughts. She could smell him, hear him, feel him. It thrilled and terrified her. Suddenly, marooned in this darkness, she no longer knew what she wanted. Princess, wizard, or lover of this sincere, selfless priest?

  “There’s a ceremony,” said Bartholemu, whispering directly into her ear. “Our version of your Maturity, except instead of being conferred with the title of ‘Wizard’s Bride’, you will be named the Mother of a new generation. Isn’t that a better future than spending the rest of your days in a stuffy palace waiting for the queen to die?”

  For a moment, she almost yielded to the seduction, almost believed she could be something other than what she was. But, deep down, she knew it was a fantasy. Perhaps Bartholemu didn’t know it. Perhaps even Belmar didn’t know it. But her mother would never let her go. She knew this to be doubly true if Sorial was her father. And Queen Myselene had a very long reach. She didn’t think there was anywhere on the continent she could go and be free. Not The White World, The Broken Crags, or The Forbidden Lands.

  But Bartholemu’s warm breath, spiced with cloves, made it so easy to want his vision to be possible.

  “I’ll protect you,” he said. “No matter what, I won’t let anyone hurt you. If there’s a danger to you, I’ll drive it away.”

  But what if Bartholemu was the real danger from which Kara needed protection?

  Chapter Eight

  Once Kara had been led out of the darkness, it took a while for her eyes to adjust. The cavern to which she was taken wasn’t brightly lit but, compared with the place where she had spent the last few hours, it was like noon on the plains. Bartholemu accompanied her, having remained by her side for the remainder of her time in isolation. Despite her deeply conflicted feelings about the young priest, Kara took comfort from his presence.

  “Welcome to The Cave of the Magus, Your Highness,” said Belmar, executing a shallow bow that implied respect but not subservience. “This will soon be the most sacred place for the new order, an underground chamber dedicated to the veneration of your father.”

  The carving on the wall was incomplete, with most of the fine chiseling still needing to be done but Kara had no doubt it was meant to be Sorial. There was a portrait of him in the throne room. Although it had been painted some years after his disappearance, the queen and Uncle Rexall maintained that it was a good likeness. The sculpture taking shape here replicated the same features.

  “We are in The Lord of Earth’s realm, deep under the ground,” continued Belmar. “Here, under the gaze of his avatar, we can commune with him and reflect on a future that might do him honor. Today, you will prove your loyalty to him and to the vision of a united family of wizards.”

  Sorial’s vision? Or Ferguson’s? Kara was certain they weren’t the same. Sorial had hated Ferguson and the Prelate had betrayed Queen Myselene in part because of his disappointment in decisions Sorial had been making. With a flash of insight, Kara recognized that although Bartholemu might be genuinely committed to this cause, Belmar was an opportunist and manipulator. That recognition enhanced her unease about what this ‘ceremony’ might entail. The pressure of the knife still safely tucked in her boot gave her great comfort. She was grateful they hadn’t searched her although she guessed none of them had suspected a pampered princess might be armed.

  “When the others join us, we can begin.” Belmar led her to the front of the cave and had her stand underneath Sorial’s carving, facing the wide opening through which the congregation would enter.

  Kara waited nervously, uncertain what her next move should be or, indeed, if there was anything she could do other than submit to whatever they were planning. It was clear to her, however, that whatever appeal there might be in spending the rest of her life with Bartholemu, doing so under Belmar’s “guidance” wasn’t desirable. Only now did she understand her mother’s wariness where the Temple was concerned. This might be a rogue faction but it was led by the most powerful priest in the city.

  The supplicants came one-by-one, all robed and cowled, their identities protected by the anonymity that accompanied a hidden face. As they filed in, one separated from the rest and came to the front to stand with Belmar, Bartholemu, and Kara. In his hands, he held a large chalice. When the last of several dozen observers had entered, Belmar stepped forward to address the assemblage.

  “Brothers, welcome. We gather here today at the start of a new era - one we have been eagerly awaiting since the war ended. Following the gods departure, we men have wandered like lost souls in the desert, but the time has come for us to build a new home and discover that these spiritually arid climes can offer hope and succor to those with the courage to seek them. You who will witness the consecration of this first place of worship will go forth from this cave and be the bishops of a new order. You will discover that we have many friends and fellow adherents across the continent. This may be a young movement but it’s full of vibrancy. We dedicate ourselves to a single purpose: raising a united clan of wizards who, once they reach Maturity, will step forward to follow the example of the revered Magus Supreme, Sorial of Earth.

  “With us are the two figures who will lead us into the future as the Father and Mother of the next generation in the manner set forth by His Eminence, Prelate Ferguson. Brother Bartholemu, you know. What many of you may not realize is that his lineage ties him closely to the bloodline of Magus Alicia. Her blood runs in his veins. He will be the consort to Princess Kara, who has been confirmed through lost documents to be the daughter not of King Azarak but of Magus Sorial.”

  A collective gasp echoed through the cavern at this pronouncement as the well-kept secret was spoken aloud. Kara was surprised that Belmar hadn’t previously revealed the truth to his followers. She wondered how closely guarded it was. Other than her mother
, Lavella, Rexall, Belmar, and Bartholemu, who knew? Servants, she supposed - men and women so often ignored by those they served. Their gossip, if salacious enough, could spread like wildfire.

  “Now we come to the moment of truth. Today, Princess Kara celebrates her Maturity. Rather than do this weighed down by tradition and pomp in the palace, she will be enjoying the momentous day here, under the watchful eye of her father, joining with Brother Bartholemu in the first of many unions designed to produce the next generation of wizards. As is our right… nay, our duty… we will bear witness to this.”

  Shocked by the implications of this revelation, Kara took an involuntary step away from the prelate. Although descended from the courtesans of Syre, the princess was a modest girl. No man had ever seen her naked. And now, in front of all these people, was he expecting her to…? Her eyes, wild with panic, locked with Bartholemu’s and she saw in his face that he was equally nonplused. Whatever Belmar’s plans, neither of the principals had been consulted. This was no longer about choices or consent. It was, as Kara had earlier surmised, about force. The plan was for her to “celebrate” her Maturity by losing her virginity here, on the cold stone floor of this cave, with three-dozen priests watching. Her mind screamed in silent horror at the prospective violation.

  When Bartholomu spoke, his voice trembled with anxiety. “With all respect, Your Eminence, I don’t think…”

  Belmar’s wise, grandfatherly demeanor slipped. His words were harsh, his tone brooked no defiance. “Silence! Your role is to observe and participate, not question. This is the will of Prelate Ferguson, whose wisdom we shall not question in these proceedings.”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the congregation. With every face hidden beneath a hood, Kara couldn’t read the men’s expressions or accurately gauge the mood of the gathering. Were they as horrified as she and Bartholemu at what was planned or did they see this as a reasonable ceremony? Or were they prurient enough to want to see their princess despoiled? This was designed to humiliate her, to cement her bond with this sect so she could never resume her royal duties even if she so desired. At that thought, a white-hot anger began to supplant her fear. She had no intention of playing the victim to this withered old priest.

  “Princess,” said Belmar, turning toward her. He executed a shallow bow that Kara read as more condescending than genuine. “I recognize this may be…difficult…for you. That your modesty may interfere with your willingness to yield to Brother Bartholemu in such a public venue. We have considered this and will allow you to drink a broth that will cause this to pass in a haze.”

  The priest with the chalice approached, offering it to her. She stood stock-still, her arms by her side, her jaw clamped shut. When he realized she wasn’t going to take the cup, the priest moved alongside her and put it against her lips. “Drink,” he said in a dry, reedy voice. From the wrinkles and spots on his hands, Kara guessed he was about Belmar’s age.

  She glared at him but didn’t relent. With his free hand, he grasped her chin and tried to pry open her mouth, but his arthritic fingers lacked the strength to unlock her jaw. A current of unease rippled through the congregation as they recognized her reluctance. “Drink,” he hissed. Then, leaning closer so his rank breath tickled her ear, he whispered, “Or I’ll pinch shut your nostrils and pour it down your throat when you try to breathe.”

  Standing close enough to hear the words, Bartholemu spoke, his voice tinged with the agony of betrayal. “This cannot be borne! This must be an act of free will, not coercion, lest it have no meaning! We aren’t knaves! I won’t be a party to this!”

  “Hold your tongue, whelp!” retorted Belmar. “You’re here to fulfill your part. You think the future of humanity can be secured with absolute pacifism? You think the sensibilities of one girl matter when the fate of every man, woman, and child on the continent is at stake? Do you remain committed to the cause you have pledged to uphold, or do you now waver?”

  The question hung in the air and, with all eyes turned to Bartholemu, Kara seized the moment to act. In one quick motion, she reached down and liberated the knife from its sheath. Before her tormentors realized what she was doing, she plunged it into the neck of the chalice-bearing priest. Jerking the blade sideways with all her strength, the princess opened his throat from ear to ear. He collapsed at her feet with a bloody gurgle, the cup dropping from senseless fingers as he fell. Her features a mask of fierce determination, she assumed a fighting crouch and sliced the air in front of her, holding the rest of the priests at bay.

  Belmar was stunned. His bulging eyes shifted back and forth between Kara and the dead man as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. The rest of the priests were slowly backing away but none had left. Only Bartholemu stood his ground. His expression reflected profound sadness; this was a tragedy that could easily have been averted.

  “Please, Kara, don’t let it end like this,” he said. His words were a plea, but what would he have her do? He had said it himself: This must be an act of free will, not coercion, lest it have no meaning!

  She blinked back tears but anger still ruled her psyche. What now, though? This was more of a reprieve than a stalemate. By doing the unthinkable, she had grabbed the initiative but, when the priests rallied, sheer numbers would give them the advantage. Some were probably armed and they so greatly outnumbered her that they could restrain her without fear of coming to grievous harm. She didn’t take much solace from the realization that they would try to capture her uninjured. She was no good to them maimed or dead. Their goal was a rape not a murder.

  “Let her go.” Bartholemu’s voice rang out, the command in his words unmistakable. Kara was surprised to see that he was holding a knife like her own. It was inches from Belmar’s throat. “This is over. You lied to me, Prelate Belmar. You lied to us all. The choice was Princess Kara’s and she has made her decision. She must be allowed to leave unharmed and unmolested.”

  For an old man, Belmar was quick. In his earlier years, before entering Prelate Ferguson’s personal service, he had been a priest warrior and, although age had slowed his reflexes and diminished his strength, he had retained many of his combat skills. One hand grabbed Bartholemu’s shoulder while the other punched him in the stomach, causing him to double over. As Kara looked on helplessly, Belmar ripped the knife from the younger man’s grasp and plunged it into his side. With a wail, Bartholemu crumpled to the ground, clutching at the hilt protruding from beneath his rib cage. A dark stain was already spreading around it, blackening the brown of the robe.

  Kara heard the sound before she or anyone else in the cavern recognized its significance. It started out like the distant whisper of a breeze then rapidly grew to the howl of a gale. Yet, despite the noise, there was no wind. The stale, damp air remained calm even as her ears argued that a hurricane was descending.

  Almost as one, the priests collapsed, hands clutching at their throats. Gasping for air like fish on land, many threw back their hoods but it didn’t help. Belmar was no different. With bulging eyes and bluing lips, he fell to his knees. His mouth opened and closed spasmodically. His nostrils flared. He was trying without success to suck in air. Kara, however, was experiencing no difficulty with her breathing. Whatever was happening to the priests, she was protected. And she had a good idea what (or, more precisely, whom) the source of the assault was.

  It was affecting Bartholemu as well but he had slipped into unconsciousness and was mercifully unaware of his impending death. Anger draining away, Kara looked on as the threat to her safety was nullified. The unshed tears pooling in her eyes spilled over. In less than two minutes, every one of Belmar’s followers had died. But, although her captors were gone, she was not alone in the Cave of the Magus.

  Magus Lavella, wearing robes similar to those of the priests, threaded her way through the rows of corpses to enfold Kara in the protective circle of her arms. Although not accustomed to offering physical succor, the wizard did her best to offer solace to the princess, who had achieved mor
e than one kind of maturity on this day.

  “It’s over, Your Highness. Let’s leave this place. Your mother is waiting.”

  Kara permitted herself to be led from the site of carnage. She spared a final look at the dead: the bloodied priest whose throat she had slit; Brother Bartholemu, the true believer who had perished defending her; and Prelate Belmar, the warped follower of Ferguson’s teachings whose ambitions had dwarfed his abilities. They had offered Kara a choice but, in the end, their option had been a falsehood and an illusion. Now it was time for her to face her real decision and, armed with knowledge of the truth about her bloodline, she knew it wouldn’t be easy.

  Chapter Nine

  “Is it true?” Kara knew the answer; she had seen it in her mother’s eyes the moment she had finished recounting her ordeal, but she needed to hear the queen say it. As shaken as Kara was from what had transpired in the cave, the revelation about her father had affected her more deeply than slitting a man’s throat or watching Bartholemu die before her eyes. It realigned her core identity, changing how she saw herself and her position in the world. Belmar’s legacy wouldn’t be her kidnapping and the orchestration of her attempted rape; it would be revealing a truth that might otherwise have been consigned to conjecture and secrecy.

  Myselene took a deep breath to compose herself. The events of the past two days had unsettled her in a way that nothing else had since before her daughter’s birth. The fear of losing Kara had been accompanied by an intolerably long period of waiting until word had arrived that the princess was alive, well, and in friendly hands. She had wept with relief after receiving that message - the first time she had shed tears in more years than she could remember.

  Now mother and daughter sat together in the princess’ chambers - just the two of them. Maids and guards had been banished outside. Lavella and Rexall were elsewhere. This was a time for truth-telling and decisions about the future. This was when Kara would make the choice.