Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (23 page)

“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 Azarak 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…

The guard with the pike motioned for Sorial to move further away, which he did without resistance. When he was out of earshot, they put their heads together and conversed in urgent whispers. The result was that Sorial was told to wait while one of them departed to get direction from a superior. Over the course of the next two hours, Sorial was forced to repeat the message to three other men, each of a higher rank, before he was finally ushered inside and shown to a small, empty room where he was gruffly informed that the general would attend him at his pleasure. A half-hour later, the door swung open and a decorated officer entered flanked by two common soldiers.

Sorial drew back his hood. The mask he wore was sufficient to hide the damage done to his features by Uthgarb but it showed enough of his unruined face to allow recognition by anyone who had previously met him.

When he looked at Sorial, Greeg nodded in satisfaction. “I thought it might be you. No one else would be bold enough to speak of that night within these walls.”

The general was younger than Sorial had expected, with no hint of white yet in his umber hair. His skin was dusky, an indication that his ancestry lay to the west, in Andel. He was a big man and, in full armor, looked gargantuan, standing a foot taller than Sorial and outweighing him again by half. As Myselene had promised, Sorial recalled him from Vantok, where he had been one of several impressive, silent soldiers shadowing his king. Now, he was seeking to emerge from that shadow to claim the position.

“General,” said Sorial neutrally, inclining his head in a gesture of respect.

“I never thought to see you again. I supposed you died with everyone else in Vantok. I guess wizards have a way of wriggling out of circumstances when decent men perish.”

“As you can tell from my scars, I haven’t escaped injury.”

Greeg snorted. “Injury and death are distant cousins at best. Why are you here, wizard? I’m not one who enjoys long conversations, so I would hear your message, send you on your way or order you imprisoned, and get on with my day.”

“I’m in Obis in the company of one who would like to converse with you regarding the succession.”

“Really? I haven’t heard anything indicating she’s in the area. But let’s say that, for argument’s sake, I accept she is. What would I have to gain by meeting with her? Having renounced her citizenship here in order to marry the late King Azarak, she rendered herself irrelevant when it comes to the throne of Obis. That’s probably why whoever killed the rest of her family didn’t bother coming for her. What’s in it for me if I agree?”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

Greeg considered. In the end, curiosity won out. “Bring her here. I’ll see her.”

“She’d prefer a more neutral location. You can understand why she might be reluctant to walk into The Citadel.”

“You did.”

“I ain’t restricted to exiting by doors.” Technically, neither was Myselene, as long as he was with her, but there was no reason to mention that.

“Hard to forget that. All right, we can meet at Call to Arms. It’s a tavern on Constabulary Street. Not Obis’ finest drinking establishment, but far from its worse. I’ll come alone, ’cept for these two louts who follow me everywhere. Can’t even take a piss or have a fuck without them there. You can act as her bodyguard. Only fair that she have someone with her, I s’ppose. But only you - no one else. Make it an hour after dusk. You’ll have to violate curfew but I doubt that’ll pose a problem for one of your talents.”

* * *

Myselene was dressed in her courtesan garb with a veil hiding her face. In the parlance of the trade, that meant she was currently “engaged” for the night and was not available to field offers for companionship. Sorial sat next to her at the large table where, with their backs to a wall, they had a clear view of the common room of Call to Arms, including the door. The place was well-attended but not packed, with plenty of tables available. The atmosphere was almost funereal. Drinking here was an act of dour necessity, committed with great seriousness and little joy. No one sang songs, banged on a table, or shouted bawdy jokes. For one who had spent his youth around a place like this, Sorial found the difference in mood to be disconcerting.

The wizard and the queen had mugs of ale in front of them but neither was drinking. They had arrived early to beat the curfew but the time of the meeting was now upon them.

Sorial was uneasy about this situation. He didn’t trust Greeg. The general clearly harbored ill-will toward him for his role in what had transpired in Vantok and he suspected Greeg was no less kindly disposed toward Myselene. If revenge was part of the warrior’s code in Obis, Greeg might see this as an opportunity to eliminate two of those he viewed as being responsible for his sovereign’s demise.

“Relax. You’re too tense,” said Myselene. Sorial glanced at her and was forced to acknowledge that she did in fact appear unperturbed. She was dressed every inch like a high-priced whore, with a translucent gown that showed off her body and a wanton attitude. He wondered how much of that was playacting. Had this element of her nature captivated Azarak? His mother would have known but his mother was dead or trapped or both.

The front door opened and three common soldiers entered. Of course, one was Greeg, but he had removed all indicators of his rank and wore a uniform as simple and threadbare as the ones donned by his fellows. He bellowed an order for three beers to the barkeep then approached the table where Sorial and Myselene were seated.  He executed a flawless yet perfunctory bow before speaking. His action was shadowed by the two soldiers accompanying him.

“Your Highness. A most becoming disguise.” Lust smoldered in his deep, dark eyes as he drank in the sight of the young woman in front of him. A barmaid arrived with his beer and, after downing it in one swallow, he took a seat across from Myselene and Sorial. His companions remained standing.

“Last we met, you were Captain Greeg. I’m pleased to see that your loyalty and efforts have been met with a promotion.”

“After what happened in Vantok, the choice was either to promote me or execute me. I was fortunate. You seem to have lived a charmed life. Rumor had you dead either at the hand of the man sitting next to you, executed following the Battle of Vantok, or even assassinated at Basingham. Yet here you are, alive and playing the courtesan in the heart of the city that bore you. Your costume may fool the commoners but there are elite spies who’ll recognize you instantly. Obis isn’t the safest place for you.”