Myselene was dressed in a way that made her appear as much a warrior as a queen. Gone were the courtesan trappings designed to emphasize her figure and draw the eyes to her cleavage, replaced by an ornamental armor that he supposed would appeal to the masses. She wore a golden vest of chain mail with a deep blue cape draped over her shoulders. The sigil of the House of Rangarak adorned it. Her long hair was swept back and caught in single braid. Her trousers were dyed to match the cape and she wore high, hard boots. The short sword scabbarded at her side wasn’t purely for show. Under the gold plating was cold steel. It was functional, as was the chainmail. Greeg had been in favor of her wearing a helmet, but she had rejected that, claiming she was more easily recognizable without it.
If she was nervous, she showed no signs of it. In fact, her face glowed with anticipation. Sorial contrasted her demeanor with the way he had felt facing the assembled crowd in Vantok when preparing for his demonstration of power. It was hard for him to guess at her thoughts. Although she claimed her primary purpose in this power play was the defeat of Justin and the eventual retaking of Vantok, he imagined it had to be meaningful for her to be presenting herself as the heir to the throne of the city where she had grown up. On the day of the coronation, she would be the most powerful woman in the world. Six seasons ago, she had departed Obis as a landless princess sent south to seduce the bachelor king of a distant city. Now, despite the destruction of that city, she had returned in triumph to claim the crown vacated by the systematic decimation of her family.
A hush fell over the assembled throng as Greeg moved into position to address the crowd. The criers dispersed; they would relay his words to those too far away to hear directly. From beneath his hood, Sorial scanned the crowd with his magical senses, seeking anything that might prove dangerous. If circumstances called for it, he could throw up an earth shield over Myselene in an instant, but the speed of his reflexes limited the effectiveness of that defense.
“Citizens of Obis, welcome,” said Greeg, his voice carrying in the cold morning air. His loud, strong timbre was perfect for public speaking. “Most of you are here because you’ve heard the rumors that a new candidate for the throne of Obis has emerged. I am here, as a former personal guard to King Rangarak and a current member of the military staff, to assure you that this is true. I have willingly put aside my own aspirations and pledged my support to this newcomer. You know her well. She grew up among us. You celebrated her birth and feted her Maturity Day. She is the sole surviving child of the union between King Rangarak and Queen Selene, the final trueborn blood heir to the Crown. I present the Princess Myselene.”
Rapturous applause exploded across the plaza when Myselene emerged from behind the column and bowed to the crowd, which was growing exponentially as word of her return spread like wildfire throughout the city. Sorial, like the common military men around him, was on full alert, but there were no signs of hostility or activity that might presage hostility. Myselene, like all would-be leaders who had not yet done anything to anger their people, enjoyed seeming universal popularity.
She basked in the glory of the cheers, hand-clapping, and foot-stomping. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, but only those closest to her noticed. Few assembled knew her by sight - like all members of the royal family, she had rarely emerged in public - but the name was recognized. Most importantly, she was a link to the past - something lacking in the current uncertain climate. Sorial no longer doubted that Myselene possessed the popularity and political acumen to seize the throne. All she had to do was stay alive. That might be the most difficult thing of all. Enemies crowded on all sides, and Sorial was certain some remained unknown, hidden in the shadows. It appeared that none would reveal themselves on this day, however.
Eventually, she raised her arms, motioning for quiet. Her speech was short and to the point, so it could be endlessly repeated across the city. “Men and women of Obis, hear me! I, Myselene daughter of Rangarak, have returned to claim the throne for my father’s bloodline. Trying times lie ahead with war on the horizon - who better to lead this city through those but the sole survivor of our great king’s lineage? With General Greeg by my side as my husband, the future will be secure!”
The moment Myselene finished, the crowd roared again and a chant of her name erupted seemingly spontaneously (although Sorial suspected it had been encouraged by the non-uniformed soldiers spread throughout the plaza). For what seemed an excessive amount of time, the queen remained in full view of the spectators, who now numbered in the thousands. Having clogged the immediate environs outside The Citadel, they were spilling into the nearby streets and byways. It seemed that the entire populace of Obis was turning out for this performance. Myselene waved and blew kisses and occasionally pumped her fist. Greeg stood by her side, back ramrod straight with an expression that was supposed to be a smile on his face. He was as uncomfortable here as Sorial had been on that day in Vantok, but Myselene was in her element.
Sorial heaved a sigh of relief when she left the wall. Monitoring so many people wasn’t only exhausting, it was impossible. But there had been no signs of hostility or danger. The sole incident had been when a brawl started by a pair of drunkards resulted in thirteen men being rounded up by the militia. All-in-all, it was difficult to imagine things having gone better. Sorial wondered if Otto and Rathbone would agree and whether they were plotting ways to turn the new frontrunner’s triumph into tragedy.
* * *
He was in the temple again. With some free time while Myselene and Greeg planned the next move in their plot - something about giving an ultimatum “with teeth” to the Council of Nobles - Sorial had decided once again to go in search of the recalcitrant Rathbone. Myselene’s concerns about her half-brother had diminished substantially; she had claimed that with Greeg’s support there was no way he could upset her push for the throne. Sorial, ever the skeptic, would feel better if he could at least identify the man.
Otto had kept a low profile since Myselene’s introduction, although he had let it be known through surrogates that he wasn’t dropping his claim. His most forceful refrain had been that Myselene’s “grab” for the throne amounted to “an invasion by a foreign power.” The contention wasn’t gaining much traction, however. His support, especially within the army, was eroding and it was rumored he was doling out bribes at a rate that would soon bankrupt him. Myselene had requested a private meeting in which she was prepared to offer him the position of vice chancellor if he abandoned his candidacy, but he hadn’t yet responded.
The inside of Obis’ temple was much the same as the inside of Vantok’s temple: no windows, a seemingly endless maze of dimly-lit corridors, and, at least during the day, the ever-present distant hum of chanting. Sorial supposed some might consider these environs to be tranquil but he found them dull and a little depressing despite all the stone. He wondered what the priests did on a daily basis now that the gods were gone.
Sorial wandered without a goal. Getting lost wasn’t an issue: he could always use his earth-sense to find the exit or, failing that, simply melt into the floor. He avoided areas of high traffic since his clothing wasn’t an exact match for that of a true priest. He assumed residents of the temple mistook him for an itinerant cleric from an outlying village or one of the other cities. However, although his preferred method of locating Rathbone was to remain unobtrusive, the approach was unlikely to bear more fruit now than it had in the past. He was going to have to change tactics. He was going to have to engage someone in conversation.
“Excuse me, brother.” He kept his voice low, barely louder than a whisper, when he intercepted a priest approaching from the opposite direction. “Could you possibly direct me to the chambers of Brother Rathbone?”
Unlike Sorial, the priest had his hood pushed back so his expression was readable. It was a mixture of consternation and something else… perhaps wariness. “I regret to inform you, Brother, that I know no one called ‘Rathbone.’ I don’t believe I’m familiar with you, either. Might
I inquire as to your name?”
“I’m Brother Sorial, a refugee from Vantok. I’ve been sent on a mission from Prelate Ferguson to locate a Brother Rathbone and learn if he might be willing to accept an audience with His Eminence.”
The mention of the name “Ferguson” got a reaction from the priest - a quickly concealed flash of surprise. Sorial knew the name carried currency within Temple culture. By tradition, the Prelate of Vantok was the leader of the “six equals,” and Ferguson’s long reign had increased the stature of the position, even though it might technically no longer exist and, if it did, Ferguson didn’t occupy it. To the extent that the old man had a title, it was “Vice Chancellor of Vantok’s Government in Exile.”
“As I said, I know no one by the name of Rathbone but, since you’re a mission from Prelate Ferguson, I’ll be sure to make enquiries. During your time in Obis, will you be taking advantage of the temple’s hospitality?”
The question was a trap and Sorial recognized it. “No” would sound suspicious and likely result in his being followed. “Yes” would ensnare him in the temple’s bureaucracy, leading him to be interviewed by those who controlled the admissions process. So he evaded. “That may depend on whether I find Brother Rathbone.”
During the next hour, as he continued his random wandering, Sorial stopped two other priests. Neither was forthcoming about Rathbone’s location. One was obviously lying when he denied knowing the man but the other seemed genuinely befuddled. Neither questioned Sorial’s legitimacy, however - a fact he found strange. He could have made an attempt to contact the local prelate directly, but he was concerned that such a bold approach might cause unintentional ripples that could spread out and impact Myselene’s play for the throne. He wasn’t sufficiently schooled in the byzantine world of politics to be able to predict the ramifications of such a move.
So he decided to leave. The longer he stayed in the temple, the more he felt he was under observation. His presence might go largely unnoticed as long as he played the part of an anonymous stranger hurrying through the halls, but he had spoken to three men, two of whom had actively concealed their knowledge of Rathbone. Sorial might be naïve in some ways but he understood what that meant - Rathbone was here but his presence wasn’t to be revealed.
“I understand you’ve been looking for me.” The deep voice came from behind Sorial. He wasn’t taken aback by the man’s presence as much as by being addressed. He turned and came face-to-face with the object of his search. There could be no doubt that Rathbone was Rangarak’s son. The two men shared too many of the same features for there to be any doubt. He was a big man but, unlike most oversized priests, his bulk was more muscle than fat and, despite the tonsured crown, his appearance was more like a street brawler than a devotee to the gods.
“Brother Rathbone,” said Sorial, executing a perfunctory bow. He didn’t push back the hood as protocol dictated.
“Brother… Sorial, is it?”
Sorial inclined his head.
“I wasn’t aware the Wizard of Vantok had taken vows.”
Rathbone’s awareness of his identity surprised Sorial, forcing him to recalibrate his strategy. His eventual goal from this conversation remained unchanged, however.
“You’re well informed. If you know who I am then you know why I’m here.”
“Come with me, ‘Brother.’ I’d prefer we have this conversation somewhere a little more private. The walls in this temple have ears and eyes.”
Sorial assented and trailed the bigger man as he wended his way through the corridors on his way to an unspecified destination: right, right, left, left, right… Sorial lost track but it didn’t matter. Even if this was a trap, he remained unconcerned although, recalling how overconfidence had resulted in the acid-scarring of his face by Uthgarb, he maintained awareness. His senses, both natural and magical, informed him that nothing was amiss. There was no group of priests hiding in ambush around the next corner. The room to which Rathbone led him was empty - the spartan quarters of a priest with only a bed, single chair, and sturdy desk to adorn it.
Rathbone closed the door firmly behind them. “We won’t be heard in here. I’ve taken… precautions… to ensure privacy in my chamber. You can speak freely, although I doubt there’s anything you might have to say that I don’t already know.”
“Are you planning to challenge your sister’s play for the throne?” Sorial realized that Myselene, and perhaps anyone with diplomatic training, would have winced at his bluntness.
Rathbone, however, seemed to appreciate it. “Straight to the point, eh? Let me be equally direct with my answer, then. It depends on what I’m offered in return. I’m a physical replica of my father at this age. If I was to step into the public arena from behind these cloistered walls, I could garner the kind of immediate and passionate support that no other candidate can manage, including your queen. It’s one thing to be known as the child of Rangarak but another one altogether to appear almost as his reincarnation. If I was to claim to be him reborn, more than a few would believe it.
“Truthfully, I have little interest in being king. Perhaps all these years behind temple walls have dimmed my ambition in that area. Besides, I know that war is coming and I have little desire to lead men into battle. Let others claim the glory that comes with a valiant death. I value my life too greatly to see it lost. No target is more inviting than a king and few are less appealing than a lowly priest. So it wouldn’t take much to keep me in my current position until after that storm has passed.”
“You have a proposal?”
“A ‘proposal’ makes it sound negotiable.” Rathbone’s thus far reasonable voice became hard. “Call it instead a ‘demand’ unless the harshness of that word offends you. There are fixed terms for my not emerging into the fray.” His tone again became conversational. “First, however, let me impart some news to you of which you’re likely unaware. You see, I’m a little bit more than a mere bastard son sent into the temple to live his life out of public sight. For many years now, I’ve been a nexus in Vice Chancellor Gorton’s spy loop. I don’t know the details of his organization, but I’m placed near the top. A lot of information filters through me; at least nine agents report directly to me and some of those have people who report to them. Priests, you see, can meet a lot of different penitents without raising suspicion.
“Alas, my news is tragic. Gorton is dead. I know this with certainty, having heard it directly from a source embedded in the Vantok refugee group. He died a little over six weeks ago, before the refugees entered Widow’s Pass. Ex-Prelate Ferguson has taken command of the force and they have camped at Sussaman. There’s no indication they intend to move from there.”
Rathbone’s words had the desired impact. Although there was no way to gauge the accuracy of the man’s report, it was a shock. The implications were stark. “Was he assassinated?”
“My source said the official cause of death was a sickness. He was reported to have been ill for some time before his death. A violent cough. But there are rumors that the end was aided.”
Ferguson was good at ‘aiding’ such things. This news would hurt Myselene but she had borne worse blows. Regardless of what was happening with the Vantok refugees, however, it was a secondary concern. There weren’t enough men there to make a difference in the battle and, if Ferguson was holding them at Sussaman, it might be for the best. They could deal with him when Justin was defeated. And, if Ferguson was responsible for Gorton’s demise, Myselene would no longer coddle and protect the former prelate.
“You want Gorton’s position? Chancellor and head of the spy network?” surmised Sorial.
Rathbone chuckled. “Not at all. Such a life wouldn’t suit me. In some cities, the chancellor has all the power but that’s when the ruler is pliable. My sense of Queen Myselene is that’s not the case with her and, whatever promises she may be offering about the ‘independence’ of Vantok and Obis, you and I both know that won’t be the case. If she wins the war, she’ll forge a new orde
r with those two cities as cornerstones. She’ll likely absorb Basingham, Syre, and what’s left of Earlford into her realm. Her chancellor will have no true power. He’ll be a mouthpiece.
“Now that the gods are gone, the Temple must reposition itself for the future. Many priests fear this is the end for our order but they’re weak and shortsighted. No longer constrained by traditions that limited us, we can flourish. But radical changes are needed - changes that none in power are willing to acknowledge or engage in. What I want in exchange for remaining out of the succession process is a guarantee that, should Myselene win her war, I will be appointed Prelate of Vantok - the most prestigious of all religious positions.”
It was phrased as a simple demand - more a boon than a major concession. After all, the position was currently vacant. From experience, however, Sorial knew that the title Rathbone sought was in many ways more prestigious than the rulership of Obis. He might be right about Myselene’s eventual goal, but whether she sought dominion over all the cities, it was obvious that becoming Prelate of Vantok was Rathbone’s first step toward becoming emperor. Agreeing to this term might set the stage for a future war. But there were a great many things that would have to come to pass first. Rathbone was a schemer but Justin was a tangible and immediate threat. Besides, the choice was Myselene’s, not his.
“And if the queen refuses?”
Rathbone smiled. “Then I’ll form a coalition with one of the other candidates - Duke Otto, perhaps - and take the throne myself.”
“And what of your plan to consolidate the priesthood?”
“I’ll name myself king and prelate of Obis and dominate both secular and religious affairs in this city. With Vantok’s temple abandoned, it will be easy enough to reconfigure things so that Obis becomes the seat of the priesthood’s power. Another means to an end.”
Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) Page 31
