by P J Berman
‘This is how I do my duty to almighty Estarron, by order of the divine and of the Emperor,’ Dionius had replied in a smug tone. ‘Watch. See if their false God protects them.’
Surely that didn’t mean what Silrith thought it did? People were only executed for the most heinous crimes in Bennvika, like murder, or high treason, not for practising the wrong religion. Silrith looked on in alarm as four men and a woman were manhandled on to the wooden stage by a group of soldiers. All fought to resist as they were wrestled forward and the sound of one of the men begging for mercy pierced Silrith’s soul to the core. But that was as nothing compared with the horror that gripped her heart at the sight of the sixth prisoner, a girl, no more than five years old with her hair in blonde plaits. She was the only one who didn’t struggle, apparently paralysed with fear.
‘Here we see the most despicable of things,’ said the priest in Verusantian, which Silrith’s aunt Turiskia translated for her niece and nephew. The prisoners were each forced to kneel with their hands bound behind their backs. ‘An entire family of apostates. They, in their folly, have renounced the Grace of our divine Lord Estarron, the one true God and instead have reverted to worshipping falsehoods and demons. This cannot go unpunished and so, with the divine blessing of Estarron, I commit them to punishment by the sword.’
As he finished, the executioner moved towards the prisoners from behind. The girl began to scream, looking over her shoulder at the executioner, while the others begged for mercy, wailing and babbling almost unintelligibly. The executioner stopped behind the first kneeling man, placed the tip blade slowly on the back of his neck, then raised it again before slicing down and snapping the man’s spine, cutting off his cries. The crowd cheered as his body fell limply on to the scaffold’s wooden floor, spurting blood. The screams of the girl reached a new pitch and the wails of the adults grew even more panicked as the executioner moved to the next prisoner, presumably the child’s mother, and the crowd cheered again as her life was ended.
The memory of their cries, of the child’s screaming and the sickening jubilation of the onlookers as the prisoners were killed was etched into Silrith’s memory. They had even cheered the killing of the little girl. Silrith’s family had been equally shocked. That night, Dionius again brought up the subject of religion and had even tried to convert Silrith and her family there and then. When Lissoll refused to convert the Bennvikans to the worship of Estarron, Dionius had become angry. Silrith’s father had decided to cut the visit short after that and they had left the very next day. On her arrival home, Silrith had made it her life’s purpose to devote herself to charity, throwing coins into the crowded streets whenever she travelled, while also intervening in public disputes as she grew older. She was never satisfied, always feeling she could do more in the fight for justice for the common people and there was always still much to do.
By the time Dionius had died five years later though, the incident in Verusantium had been forgotten by most of her family and friends. However, clearly Jostan had remembered Lissoll’s refusal and had made it his life’s work to convert Bennvika to the worship of Estarron. Everything Silrith had worked to build would collapse overnight. He had to be stopped.
Of course, even if she was successful in regaining the throne from Jostan and protecting Bennvika from his tyranny, that would not be the end of it. Silrith knew she bore a secret that would ensure that even if she were to be so fortunate as to win that particular victory, Bennvika’s future would still hang in the balance.
There was no point dwelling on that though. First, she had to get out of here. But how? Then she remembered one man who just might still help her. He was no royalist. That much was well known, but he was as much of a philanthropist as she was. As such, he had often visited prisoners in his fight for justice. Despite his republican politics, he had been a close friend of King Lissoll, so maybe, just maybe, he would visit her. If he did, Silrith had a task for him. If he accepted, the fight for Bennvika’s freedom would live on.
Jostan had no intention of giving Silrith any chance of a trial. Instead, he knew that when he presented himself to the Congressate the very next day after Silrith’s arrest, his skills as an orator would be enough to consolidate his claim – or if not, force was always an option.
He felt like a conqueror as he rode through the streets of Kriganheim, followed by his chief bodyguard, Ostagantus Gormaris, Head of the Verusantian Lance Guardsmen of Bruskannia, along with five other men, each in their black Verusantian armour, though protocol meant that the clamouring crowds would come later. Few of them would know who he was. After all, he wasn’t yet officially King in the eyes of the Bennvikan constitution, but that was barely anything more than a formality. It mattered little. Once he had presented himself to the Congressate and been accepted as the new monarch, he would send his troops riding through the city announcing his accession. In time, every man and woman in every Kingdom either side of the Kebban Sea would know of the shift in power. But for now, he was content simply to smile to himself as he looked upon the people of the city going about their daily business, each having no idea that they were laying eyes upon their new King.
His pleasure turned to disgust as he rode on and saw a large, paved clearing between the buildings. Throngs of people knelt and prayed at the feet of two enormous statues, each at least a hundred feet high. One was of a rather matriarchal looking woman and the other was of a warrior King. Both of these marble giants were depicted carrying swords that hung from their belts. Jostan supposed these idols must be Lomatteva and Vitrinnolf. The sight of the crowd of heretics worshipping their demonic Gods while the priests expounded falsehoods flared Jostan’s anger. But he controlled himself and he kicked his horse forward so that he no longer had to look upon them. They would soon know the folly of their polytheism. They would see that there was only one true God and they would repent for their sins or pay the price. But first, he needed the backing of the Congressate. Jostan prayed to his God that he would be blessed this day and that this would truly be the formality he hoped for.
The small column trotted quickly onward down the busy streets. Soon they were in the forum, which was full of the noises and smells of the market. Looming over it was the Congressate Hall. It was a tall building in the centre of Kriganheim and its rectangular front extended back to a circular structure, which had a domed roof with many windows in it. At the front of the building, above a number of marble steps and many grand pillars, stood a huge triangular façade, depicting the Bennvikan political hierarchy and leaving no doubt as to the Congressate’s place within it. The image was split into two levels and on the lower of these were farmers, fisherman, labourers and other common people. On the higher level, fewer in number but carved larger to indicate their status, were the Congressors and sitting in the middle in all his majesty, carved larger still, was the King.
Dismounting and leaving four of his armed men outside to keep away the plebeians, Jostan walked up the steps, between the great pillars and over towards the two large wooden doors. He stopped as his two remaining guards, one of them being Gormaris, hurried past on either side of him to open them. With that done, he strode into the first room and the two guards followed him through, shutting the large doors behind them. The marble of the walls, floor and ceiling shone as the sunlight hit it through the tall windows and there was almost no sound, save for Jostan’s footsteps and those of his two bodyguards, along with the distant murmur of many voices on the other side of the door that led into the domed room, the hall itself. He was dressed similarly to how he had been the previous night, albeit with the blue of his attire replaced by red, though he retained the gold sashes. These two colours had been associated with Bennvikan royalty for centuries, whatever the personal colours of the ruling house at the time.
As he paced down the enormous corridor, towards the large wooden doors at the far end, he cast a smug gaze over the large portraits of the country’s former monarchs. Of course, he had seen them all before while o
n earlier diplomatic visits, but this time he knew for sure that he too would soon be immortalised in the form of a portrait hanging in this most illustrious and noble of galleries.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped again to allow his two bodyguards to move ahead of him and open the two large wooden doors. Once they had been heaved open, both guards strode into the hall and each pulled out a small bugle before Gormaris declared ‘Congressors, I present to you his Majesty King Jostan of Bennvika, Governor of the home province of Kriganheim and the Verusantian province of Bruskannia.’ Instantly they both put their bugles to their lips and sounded the royal fanfare, at which point Jostan entered the room. Silence fell.
He looked over at the wizened old speaker, who was seated behind where Jostan now stood, opposite the Congressate members, who were ranged in front of him, dressed in their bright blue robes. In response, the man clanged his staff on the white marble floor three times and said ‘The King-apparent will now address the Congressate.’
As silence fell again, for a moment the Congressate unanimously stared at Jostan expectantly, although in truth it was more of a scowl from some, but he stared right back. They numbered in their dozens and most of them were old enough to be his mother or father. Some of them were sitting at his own level, while others had needed to climb up many steps to reach the seats in the rows towards the back. Looking around, he noticed that Hoban Salanath was not in attendance.
Damn, I see the bird has flown, he thought. Finally, Jostan took a deep lungful of air and began.
‘Noble leaders of the Congressate. Some of you may know why we stand before you now. Others may have heard only rumours, so let us enlighten you all. The results of recent events have led to an unexpected change in the succession to the throne of this great Kingdom. Our late uncle, the beloved King Lissoll, did not meet his end as the result of a sudden illness as some would have you believe, but was murdered by his own daughter, the Princess Silrith, who personally orchestrated the audacious act using words as poisonous as the substance that ultimately brought about our good King’s untimely death.’
‘It is at times like these where deeds count far more than words. Given that we are interested only in safeguarding the peace of this nation, we have done our duty by arresting the murderer and her accomplice, her maid. Due to her royal blood, the traitorous Princess will be escorted to the Ustine Isles. There she will be marooned under guard for the rest of her days, as was the fate of the terrible King Gengred, slayer of the innocents, as well as other prisoners of the Isles in centuries past. The maid, however, the one who personally added the poison to the King’s final meal, will be made an example of, showing the people of this land what happens to those who plot against the King.’
As the flow of his words increased, he started to pace around the hall, as was his habit.
‘Her hands, which tampered with and presented the deadly meal, will be cut off at the wrist and nailed to the Congressate Hall doors to remind the people of their place beneath us. Her head, which housed the brain that agreed to assist in this most dastardly murder, rather than report the threat, will be severed from her shoulders and placed on a spike on Kriganheim Bridge and her torso in which can be found her own traitorous heart, will be roped to a pole which will stand above the city gates. As his loving nephew, with every inch of our being, we will be the avenger of King Lissoll’s noble blood!’
There was a loud cheer, but Jostan went on. Most of the Congressors did not know Silrith well and he was eager to exploit this. He was starting to work himself into a frenzy now. With clenched fists, he bellowed out his words with vim and verve, such was the belief that he wanted his audience to instil in them.
‘So, with Silrith duly exiled and the late King Lissoll’s child as yet unborn, fate has decreed that it is we who shall now be King.’ Another cheer. This is going to be easy, he thought. They were like putty in his hands.
‘This proves, my noble Lords, that the prophecy written on the famous Amulet of Hazgorata was correct. Mother of many, Mother of none; a Queen will fall and a Warrior will come. As the mother of many, mother of none, your Goddess Lomatteva, predicted, when she was yet the mortal Queen of Hazgorata, a Queen has fallen and a warrior has come. We, Jostan Kazabrus, have come.’
‘When a man knows he is about to usher in a new chapter of history for his nation, it is important that he acknowledges the legacies, both good and bad, of his predecessors. In our first act as King, we have done away with Silrith Alfwyn, the traitor who murdered her own flesh and blood, but now we plan to consolidate and build on the achievements of the strongest Alfwyns, those who brought honour to our own mother’s great house, in particular, our uncle and his father, the noble King Bastinian; conquerors both.’
Jostan calmed and lowered his voice to a more normal level as he began to outline his plans.
‘There is still some resistance in the south from the Hentani tribe, but that will not last. We intend to rekindle Bennvika’s alliance with the Defroni tribe. As you all know, Queen Tefkia, good King Bastinian’s second wife, was of that race. Soon we will march on the Hentani, among whom tumultuous voices are at this very moment calling for rebellion against us. Those barbarian rebels will bow down to Bennvika within the year or be annihilated. Meanwhile, to raise our standing on the world stage, we will use our position within the Verusantian Empire as Governor of Bruskannia to create an alliance with the Emperor and to strengthen the trade agreements between our two nations. We also intend to continue our marriage alliance with Medrodor, by marrying the Dowager Queen Accutina, King Lissoll’s young widow.’
There was a murmur of sympathy for Accutina over Lissoll’s death, with various people voicing their agreement with Jostan’s plan.
‘In addition,’ he continued. ‘We declare the unborn child of my future wife and the late King to be our own heir, as if he were our very own son. With the military security and increased trade that these political ties will bring, Bennvika will be richer and more secure than she has ever been before.’
There was another cheer, but as it died down a Congressor stood. He was a short man in his mid-fifties, with brown curly hair, flecked with grey.
‘We all acknowledge your right to the throne, Your Grace-’
‘You will call us ‘your Majesty’. I am an easterner and you will use the eastern term of deference.’
‘My apologies, your Majesty. But may I ask, as you are also the Governor of Bruskannia, will you not, therefore, be the Verusantian Emperor’s vassal? Would you have us all bow down to him?’
Jostan gave the smile he always showed to people who questioned him; delighting in the man’s silent indignation.
‘No, Congressor Dongrath, he is only our Liege Lord with regards to how we run our territories within the Empire. He holds no power over our Kingdom here.’ This, of course, was a complete lie. The Emperor had even promised to supply Jostan with five thousand mercenaries, though when they would be setting sail for Bennvika Jostan couldn’t be sure. Even so, despite his knowledge that the Emperor expected Jostan to be his vassal in every way, Jostan had no intention of submitting to any master except for the Divine.
Unable to counter Jostan’s statement, Dongrath sat back down. Another, rather more elderly Congressor stood up stiffly.
‘Your Majesty, it is widely recognised the Verusantian Empire is home to many powerful oligarchs whose ambitions threaten the peace within their nation and whose wealth gives them the means to act on it. Would you have that happen here?’
Jostan laughed patronisingly.
‘Having seen the fine houses and castles that you and many of your esteemed colleagues here inhabit, Congressor Nasren and knowing our Bennvikan history, we’d say that happened here centuries ago.’ Nasren looked far from satisfied with the answer, but he sat back down, evidently not daring to press the point further.
‘However, we do have our connections within the Empire,’ Jostan continued. ‘And that will allow us to have a political pre
sence there in the way that Bennvika has never had in the past. If Bennvika wants something from the Verusantians, then for the first time, Bennvika will get it, under our reign! Ladies, Gentlemen, a new era of Bennvikan greatness has dawned. An era of honour, riches and bloody conquest.’
The entire room erupted and this soon developed into chants of ‘Jostan! Jostan! Jostan!’
With a royal wave, followed by his customary smirk, Jostan turned and left.
When he returned to Kriganheim Palace, he headed straight for the women’s quarters. Once there, he immediately spotted Accutina sitting at the far end of the room, engrossed in her sewing. One of her maids was seated across the room from her, playing a lute, while another sat behind her mistress, styling her tawny hair into curls. Next to the plainly dressed maids, Accutina looked even more ravishing than usual.
The dress she wore on this particular day was sapphire blue, decorated with gold patterns and lining; the low cleavage accentuating the perfect form of her small breasts, though having seen them, Jostan knew just how much help the dress was giving with regards to size. He smiled at the memory, then cleared his throat, causing all three women to look up with a start, before dropping what they were doing, standing and curtseying.
‘Leave us,’ Accutina instructed her maids.
‘So, how was it?’ she enquired once they were alone with both of the room’s doors firmly shut.
‘As well as could be expected, though Congressor Salanath was absent. One or two others attempted a token gesture of resistance, but they may as well not have done for all the trouble it caused. It was as if a puppet attempted a dispute with its puppeteer.’
Accutina grinned at the analogy.
‘And what of our proposed marriage?’ she asked.
‘They accepted it. Luckily for us, they seem to feel sorry for Lissoll’s poor, grief-stricken widow.’
‘I must remember to be overcome with sorrow when I make my next public appearance,’ Accutina laughed. ‘And what of the maid?’
