Count Clairmont was an unpleasant individual with a large number of friends at court. He also sat on the Council of Nobles and was openly politicking for the support of his fellows. He was suspected by some to have been behind the elimination of Myselene’s sisters as well as an earlier front-runner, Rangarak’s bastard son, Duke Edmund. Clairmont was rarely seen in public, preferring instead to remain sequestered behind the strong walls of his Ox Road mansion. Of the candidates, he was the most bloodthirsty and well-connected. The aging chancellor, who currently ran the city, was said to be a close ally. If winning the throne came down to money, Clairmont could outspend his rivals combined by ten times and still have plenty to spare.
Finally, there was the elusive Brother Rathbone, who bided his time behind the temple walls, possibly waiting for a candidate to eliminate one or more of his rivals. Sorial had been able to get close to Otto, Greeg, and Clairmont, but he had never even seen Rathbone. The man was cloistered out-of-reach, one robed figure among hundreds. Sorial might have discounted him as a phantom if Myselene wasn’t so certain that her half-brother had designs on occupying their father’s seat.
The queen of Vantok was dressed as a common Syrene courtesan. With her normally straight hair curled into ringlets, her eyes enhanced by subtle face paint, and her lips turned bright red by the application of rouge, she looked the part. She had told Sorial that her mother, like his, hailed from Syre. She was dressed in a rose-colored gown slit up the leg nearly to her hip. The material was sheer, clinging to her body like a second skin and leaving little to the imagination. She had elected to cover her breasts although it was common practice for some Syrene women to bare them. This was the role Myselene had chosen while they stayed in the farming village. It was unusual for a priest to be found in the constant company of a courtesan but not so odd that it would be remarked upon, especially with rules on celibacy recently having been relaxed for servants of the Temple.
She was rubbing her blistered feet when Sorial entered the room they shared. Her garb required that she wear sandals that looked to Sorial like torture devices. The strap marks were visible across the tops of her feet, her ankles, and the lower portion of her calves. “I’ll be glad when I can drop this pretense and go back to good, honest boots.”
Sorial, who had just returned from another day immersed in the sights of Obis, sat next to her on the bed, his stone leg stretched out in front of him. “Nothing new on Rathbone. I spent several hours inside the temple. I got some strange looks but no one stopped me. No sight or sound of him, though. The only reason I accept he’s there is because you insist on it.”
“I think we’ve gone as far as we can go with this strategy. Tomorrow, you have to take me in. No more delays.”
Myselene had been suggesting this almost since their arrival. Thus far, Sorial had rebuffed the request, primarily because he was concerned something might go wrong. Having never transported another person through the ground, he wasn’t sure how things would turn out. In preparation, he had experimented with a few animals and they had survived the journey unharmed (although frightened almost to death). But a person was very different than a mouse or a cat. Myselene was right, however. The time had come for her to enter the city and she couldn’t do it through the gate. The chance of recognition wasn’t high but any chance, no matter how small, was too great.
“Who are we going to visit first?”
“Even if you found Rathbone, he wouldn’t be a viable choice for my purposes. I need a marriage to seal the bargain and, even though incest isn’t unheard of in the history of Obis’ royal family, it would create complications and delays. Besides, Rathbone and I are incompatible. All we really have to offer each other is what we already have: Rangarak’s blood. The backing of the priesthood, which I assume he has, is of little matter in the succession. As far as I know, only Obis’ prelate sits on the Council of Nobles, so that’s not much advantage.”
“So we’re down to three.”
“Two actually. I won’t align with Clairmont. The man’s dangerous and untrustworthy. He’d have my assassination planned for our wedding night. Plus, like Rathbone, he doesn’t offer enough. His connections are overrated. His fellow council members don’t like him. He’ll need to buy every vote and, since you have access to unlimited wealth, I can spend just as freely. The nobility only has power when the government is functioning normally. Right now, all the power is with the military and that means either Otto or Greeg. The sycophant or the prig. What a wonderful choice for my next bed-partner.”
* * *
Had someone been present in the cellar of Duke Otto’s mansion when Myselene and Sorial emerged from the stone floor, he might have pissed himself from laughing so hard. The pair looked nothing like the queen of Vantok and The Lord of Earth. Myselene clung to Sorial’s back with such tenacity that her nails left marks. They were both naked - Sorial believed the skin-to-skin contact would make it easier for him to shepherd Myselene through the traveling process - and her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. Ironically, this was probably the most intimate contact they had experienced despite their numerous nighttime assignations: full body to full body. It wasn’t dignified but it had worked.
When she realized she was once again surrounded by air and not the claustrophobic rush of dirt and rock, the queen breathed deeply, released her death-grip on Sorial, and disentangled herself from him. Wordlessly, he handed her the small satchel he had brought to carry their garments. He was already putting on the priest’s robe. Her hand was trembling when she took the sack from him.
He was pleased with how things had gone. As best he could tell, Myselene was uninjured. She had flowed through the earth like an extension of him. Their nakedness, although a prudent precaution, had proven unnecessary, and that would make future spontaneous trips practicable. Because the queen was unharmed, it stood to reason that the tiny embryo growing within her was also fine.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” she said, barely finishing the words before emptying the contents of her stomach onto Duke Otto’s cellar floor. Sorial was disinclined to believe the traveling was the primary cause for her nausea. Since arriving in Obis, vomiting had become as regular an activity for her as pissing.
The cellar was lit by a single torch hung in a sconce near the staircase leading up to the main story. It was scant illumination for such a large chamber but it was better than nothing. It at least meant Sorial wouldn’t have to lead Myselene to the exit by holding her hand.
“That’s not something I’m eager to try again,” she said. “I suppose it’s second nature to you, but all that dirt and rock… pressing in from every side… almost caressing my skin.” She shuddered then doubled over and rode out a series of dry heaves. Sorial waited patiently. He wondered if Alicia would have a similar reaction or if her familiarity with magic might convey a kind of immunity. He hoped to learn the answer soon.
Once Myselene was dressed in what she described as “simple garb favored by the nobility for non-ceremonial occasions,” which looked to Sorial much like clothing that ordinary citizens wore in Vantok, they ascended the stairs. The door at the top was unlocked and unguarded - not surprising since there was no normal egress through the cellar. The mansion was relatively quiet at this early hour.
He trailed Myselene who seemed to know where she was going. When they passed a maid, the mousy young woman regarded them with wide eyes but didn’t go scuttling off to raise the alarm. Sorial wondered if she recognized Myselene or if the queen’s aura of authority was such that she supposed the woman belonged here.
“We’re approaching Duke Otto’s receiving room. Odds are that’s where he’ll be at this hour if he’s not still abed. If he’s there, there will be two guards outside.”
They rounded a corner where, at the end of the corridor, there stood a magnificently ornate door with the crest of Otto’s family etched into its polished surface. As Myselene had predicted, there was one guard to either side of the door. Their postures were att
entive but non-threatening, their hands near but not on the hilts of their swords.
With Sorial a half-step behind her, she strode down the hall as if she belonged there. The guards watched her carefully but didn’t move to intercept her. She stopped a pace away from them and demanded, “Tell your master he has a visitor.”
One of the guards, the older of the two, offered an impudent grin. His fellow remained as still as a statue, staring directly ahead, his eyes unblinking.
“You’re early, but he’s expecting you.” The smile tweaking his lips didn’t reach his eyes.
Myselene raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sorial’s expression of confusion was hidden by his cowl.
The guard opened the door a crack and called into the room. “The whore’s here, Your Grace. She’s got some sort of priest with her. Probably on hand to bless her before she gets to work.” A nasty laugh followed.
A cultured voice came from within the room beyond. “Let them both in. Might be fun having a priest in attendance. I’ve done plenty of things with an audience but never with one so august. But I guess his sort needs a new occupation now that things have changed.”
The one guard’s smile widened. Gazing at his features, Sorial guessed he wasn’t a nice man. There was something cruel in those eyes.
The situation changed markedly the moment Myselene entered Otto’s receiving room, where the duke was sitting at a table with the remnants of his morning meal in front of him. When he looked up, the broad smile slipped from his face and his skin became as pale as the grave. The guard outside might have mistaken the queen for a courtesan but Otto knew exactly who was standing in front of him.
“Shut the door, you lout!” he shouted to the guard, stumbling to his feet and executing a bow made clumsy by surprise. The door clicked shut behind Sorial and Myselene. Other than Otto and his guests, the room was empty.
“Your Highness, this is most unexpected.”
“Surely not, Your Grace. Obis must have been anticipating my return for some time now.”
“Rumors from the South spoke of your death when Vantok was sacked. We didn’t dare hope you might have survived.”
“When I heard of the situation in Obis, I decided that my presence was more valuable here than leading a ragtag hoard of refugees.”
“Then you’ve come to claim your father’s throne?” Having gotten over his initial shock at Myselene’s appearance, Otto’s wits were beginning to function. Sorial could almost see the duke calculating what this might mean for him.
Otto did not cut an imposing figure even wearing the perfectly tailored finery of a member of the nobility. He was an aging man closer to death than birth, with once thick, black hair graying and thinning, and a pasty face that, like his midsection, evidenced the pudginess resulting from a lifetime of indolence. Sorial didn’t miss the spark of intelligence in the man’s dark eyes, however. He sensed that the duke’s ordinariness didn’t extend to his mind. What Otto lacked in physicality he compensated for in intellect.
“Yes, or to support a worthy alternate. It’s my duty as the sole surviving member of the royal family to present myself to the citizens of Obis. They may not choose me but they deserve to know the choice is there.”
“With all due respect, Your Highness, you abdicated your rights when you became Vantok’s queen. The law clearly states that no person with claims to a foreign title can sit on the throne of Obis even if those claims are set aside. Following the death of your husband, the Council of Nobles voted to recognize you as the rightful ruler of Vantok instead of the upstart invader. As far as we’re concerned, you’re the queen of Vantok and therefore ineligible…”
“Circumstances have changed, Otto, and we must adapt along with them or perish at the end of The Lord of Fire’s staff. My title notwithstanding, I don’t have a city and Obis hasn’t experienced a vacancy of this sort in centuries. Now isn’t a time to stand on ancient protocols and laws that were designed for simpler times. War is coming and we must have a stable ruler enthroned before it arrives.”
“I see you’ve been listening to the alarmists, Your Highness. Considering what happened to you in Vantok, that’s only to be expected. The South may be ablaze but there’s no evidence to support the belief of some that the fire will spread north of The Crags.”
“Many in Vantok ignored the signs until scouts brought news of The Lord of Fire’s march. He’s driving toward Earlford to close his grip on the South. Once he’s done there, his next stop will be Syre, then Obis. He will be here in a season-and-a-half with an army twice the size of the one he brought against Vantok.”
“Wage a Winter war against a fortress city? No one would be that stupid.”
Sorial spoke for the first time, his voice low and dangerous. “Many things can be said about The Lord of Fire, but he ain’t stupid. Vantok fell because its commanders underestimated the opposition. It wasn’t the human troops there and it won’t be the human troops here.”
“I thought priests were supposed to be rational, yet you would have me believe that a legion of storybook monsters attacked Vantok? Djinn? Dragons? Do I look like a fool or a babe?”
“There will be time enough later to argue the truth of what happened in the South and the nature of the force that moves against the North. For now, the important thing is to expedite the succession process. We must have a new ruler on the throne by the first of Winter.”
“In less than a season? Your Highness, this could take years. As a child of Obis, you know that, when the line is broken, the succession is a matter of attrition. Candidates rise and fall. The council deadlocks. It cannot be decided in a matter of weeks.”
“I know my history, Otto. Gorton taught it to me meticulously. But the line isn’t broken; my standing before you is proof of that. The blood of Rangarak throbs in my veins. I know you have designs on the throne. There’s no point denying that, or arguing that my appearance represents a blow to your ambitions. But it needn’t be that way. What would it take for you to support my claim?”
Otto smiled. “I’m touched by the offer of an alliance, Your Highness. The nostalgic part of me wishes nothing more than to agree to it. The thought of a daughter of King Rangarak on the throne is a powerful inducement. But I’m first and foremost beholden to the laws and traditions of Obis, and they state unequivocally that no foreigner shall ever be allowed to sit on the throne. Your former rank is irrelevant. You may have been born into the House of Rangarak but you are no longer a citizen of Obis. You stand before me as the deposed queen of Vantok and nothing more. I cannot put my reputation in jeopardy by supporting the candidacy one whose claim is unjust and illegitimate.
“And, if I might be so bold as to offer advice, it would be for you to leave Obis without revealing yourself. You stressed the need for order in the vanguard of a coming war. The throne will never be yours, Your Highness, but your presence here will only prolong and complicate matters. The best thing for Obis would be for you to leave as quietly as you have arrived.”
* * *
The Citadel, the headquarters for Obis’ army, was the most impressive single structure Sorial had ever witnessed, surpassing even the damaged portal chamber in Ibitsal. A cylindrical structure eighty feet tall without a single window, it was at least ten times as wide as it was high. The walls were chiseled of the hardest stone, polished to a sheen that made scaling impossible and caused them to gleam in the midmorning sun. Myselene had told him that the citadel contained six stories, with the lowest being a single huge room where troops assembled, skirmished, and practiced on days when the outside climate made such activities difficult. All of the major officers had quarters in the building, although many were present only when their rotation allowed them downtime.
According to Myselene, Sorial had already met Greeg although, at the time, he had not yet been promoted to his current rank. Captain Greeg had been one of the officers in Rangarak’s personal guard; he had been present at Sorial’s power demonstration and also in attendance when Azara
k had dueled Grushik. The queen was uncertain how Greeg was disposed toward her. Unlike most in Obis, his opinion of what had transpired in the South was based on personal experience instead of rumor. Throughout Obis, it was widely believed Rangarak had been assassinated at the behest of King Azarak and Myselene had been an unwilling hostage and bride. Had Justin’s invasion not resulted in Azarak’s ouster and death, a war with Vantok would have been expected once the succession process had run its course.
Sorial was at The Citadel to arrange a meeting between Greeg and Myselene. Because the general was surrounded by armed men, it wasn’t possible to surprise him so a more straightforward approach was necessary.
Three guards stood at attention outside the heavy, wrought iron gate that represented The Citadel’s main entrance. When Sorial approached within ten feet, one extended a pike toward him, commanded him to stop, and asked his business. Implicit in his tone was an expectation that, whatever Sorial was about to say, it had better be important.
“I have a message for General Greeg, to be delivered directly to him, from a person of his acquaintance. So he knows I’m genuine, you can tell him the messenger is the one he saw perform in Vantok’s dining hall on the night the earth trembled.”
Sorial couldn’t read the guards’ faces through their visors but he got the impression they weren’t impressed. Myselene had warned him this was likely. Career soldiers such as these were not noted for high intelligence, initiative, or imagination.
“We’re not in the practice of delivering messages from itinerant priests. Be gone or we’ll offend the ex-gods by spilling your blood on the flagstones here.”
“Are you in the habit of denying your general critical tactical information about Obis’ enemies? I can assure you that Greeg and I are acquainted and he won’t react well if he learns you turned me away.” All Sorial needed to do was plant a seed of doubt. If they believed that, by their inaction, they could incur the general’s wrath…
Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) Page 26
