The Last Whisper of the Gods (3 page)

“He’ll consider it.” By her tone, Sorial could tell it was unlikely. “Maybe in a few years, when you’ve come of age, you could return to live with us.”

Sorial reflected that maybe this was a long-held fantasy of his mother’s - someday, when he was old enough to make his own decisions, he would come back. It wasn’t in his future plans as of now, nor would it likely ever be. But he wasn’t going to tell Kara that. There was no need, especially not here and now.

“Warburm is a fair master and the work ain’t too hard. I’ll be fine,” he said.

She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. He could feel the wetness. Very softly, she said, “I would ask the gods to protect you if there were any gods left to do the protecting.”

Sorial’s blood turned to ice. Those words, so similar to what the priest had said… He pulled back his hand and tried to read her expression, but the darkness of the room defeated him.

She bent to kiss him on his uninjured cheek. “Be careful. Trust no one but yourself. The world is changing.”

“Mama, don’t be sad.” He could think of nothing else to say. If it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, he could do no better.

At the doorway on her way out, she stopped for a moment. “I love you, Sorial. Visit as soon as you’re able.” Then she was gone.

* * *

When Sorial relieved Visnisk before dawn the next morning, the older boy expressed a combination of relief and annoyance. The stable was in a deplorable condition. Visnisk wasn’t as fastidious as Sorial and several days of his sole stewardship had put the place in an unacceptable state with mice roaming boldly and clumps of dung obvious amidst the straw. Sorial wondered what his bedding looked like up in the loft, especially if that’s where Visnisk had been entertaining his whore.

After watching the sun rise, Sorial got to work and it took him most of the morning to right Visnisk’s wrongs. With the horses watered and fed, the rodents chased away, and the hay cleaned and turned, Sorial sat on a bale of straw to take a deserved break. That was when the visitors arrived.

There were three of them - a man dressed in finery, riding as grand a horse as Sorial had ever seen; a brutish looking fellow who was obviously a hired guardian; and, mounted on a pony, a well-dressed girl perhaps two years younger than Sorial. The stableboy surmised their likes had rarely if ever been seen at The Wayfarer’s Comfort.

“Young man,” said the rich stranger, dismounting from his animal, “Is your master a man named Warburm?”

“Aye, sir. That he is.”

“Then this is the right place. Would you care for my horse and my daughter’s pony?”

Without a word, Sorial went about his business, leading the steed to one of the empty stalls and the smaller animal to another.

“Alicia, you must stay here with Vagrum. This inn is no place for one such as you.”

“I don’t want to!” demanded the girl, her voice midway between a shout and a screech. “It smells. And he’s dirty.” She pointed accusingly at Sorial who had the good manners not to look in her direction, although his teeth clenched involuntarily at the insult.

“You will do as you’re told.” A note of steel entered her father’s tone. “Vagrum, see that she obeys and no harm comes to her.” Turning to Sorial, he added, “Boy, if there’s any trouble, run to the inn and inform me immediately. Vagrum can handle most problems, but these are uncertain days.” So saying, he disappeared out the stable door, heading for the inn’s common room.

One thought occurred to Sorial at that moment: Who was Warburm that he was attracting such visitors?

As he cared for the horse and pony, he was able to steal enough glances at the newcomers to form pictures of them.

Vagrum was a mountain of a man. His bare arms and legs were thick with corded muscles, although his midsection, covered by a garment made from animal skins, showed the telltale bulge of a sizeable gut - a frequent consequence of middle age in fighting men. His pate was shaved and oiled, but salt-and-pepper hair sprouted unevenly on his upper lip and chin. His face was a mass of crisscrossed scars, including one that had rendered his left eye useless. His nose, broken more than once, was misshapen. His right ear had no lobe and part of the top had been cut (or bitten) off. A worn scabbard belted at his waist contained a short sword and a sheath at the top of his right boot held a dagger. Sorial considered that if he was going to hire someone as a protector, Vagrum would be an excellent choice. Just one look at him would dissuade all but the bravest (or most foolish) of assailants.

Sorial guessed Alicia to have seen ten or eleven Summers, although she was small for her age. Dressed in a fine dark green riding outfit, she was the picture of a noble’s daughter. Her braided hair was the color of spun gold and her pale features showed signs that she would develop into a woman of uncommon beauty. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief but her lips were pursed in an expression of ill-contained distaste. She stood frozen in one spot as if afraid that moving might cause her soft leather boots to come into contact with something unpleasant.

“You can sit on one of those bales, if it please you, miss.” Sorial gestured in the direction of where he had been resting when she and her father arrived.

Alicia started, surprised to be addressed by a stableboy. “Are
you
speaking to
me
?” Her tone was affronted. She glanced at Vagrum as if expecting him to do something. He remained unmoving and seemingly unconcerned, his expression impassive. He might have been a statue, although Sorial recognized he would act with lightning speed if he perceived a threat to his charge’s safety.

“Aye, miss. The straw is clean.”

“You will not speak to me unless I speak to you. Haven’t you ever been taught how to act in the presence of ladies?” Her tone was aggrieved.

“No cause for that, miss. There ain’t many ladies as come here. Those that do ain’t so particular about where they sit or step or how I talk to ’em.” Sorial believed he caught the beginnings of a smile crinkling Vagrum’s features when he said that, but it might have been his imagination.

Alicia appeared scandalized but said nothing more. Sorial went back to caring for the horse and pony before moving to other chores. He was aware of Alicia and Vagrum’s continued presence but paid them no heed. Although he had been repeatedly warned to be watchful, he didn’t think he had anything to fear from these two. Strangers they might be, but not of the dangerous kind. If anything, Vagrum made him feel more secure. The big man’s presence would be enough to deter most troublemakers.

After nearly an hour, Alicia spoke to him. “Are you sure these are clean?” She indicated the bales.

“They are, miss. I was sitting on them myself before you came.” It didn’t occur to Sorial that she might not consider that an endorsement.

With a show of profound distaste, Alicia lowered herself to sit on one. His work for the moment done, Sorial joined her, although flopping down on a different bale. Vagrum glanced at him but did nothing more.

“Do you think my father will be long?” asked the girl.

Sorial blinked. Was she talking to him? He had no idea and told her so.

“This Warburm, your master, what does he do?”

“He’s the innkeeper. He owns this.”

Alicia frowned. “I’m not a dullard. I know that. What
else
does he do? My father wouldn’t come here to visit an innkeeper. There are many more refined establishments in Vantok, places where he would not have to come incognito and where I would be welcomed in the common room rather than left in the stable.”

That crystallized Sorial’s earlier musing that there might be something going on at The Wayfarer’s Comfort he was unaware of. He would need to ask Annie about it later. She knew everything that went on here, and if she didn’t know, she had ways of finding out. “I don’t know. Ain’t my concern. My duties are to clean the stalls and care for the animals, and that’s what I do.”

“
This
is what you do? All day?”

“And most nights. I sleep up there.” Sorial gestured to the loft.

Alicia was aghast. Her bright eyes went wide with a mixture of surprise and horror. “You live in here??”

Sorial nodded, unable to understand her reaction.

She turned to her guardian. “Vagrum, did you hear that? He
lives
here. This is his home!” Her tone urged him to contradict the circumstances of Sorial’s life, as if such a thing as living and working in a stable was an affront to humanity.

“Aye, Milady. I heard. ’Tis true of many such as him. Better’n living on the streets. ’Tis cleaner and warmer and he may got no choice till he comes of age.”

Sorial sensed a knowingness in Vagrum’s words. The big man was of Sorial’s class and perhaps had once been in a similar situation.

For a while, Alicia seemed to be at a loss for words. Finally, she turned to Sorial and said, “I’m sorry.”

He was surprised. “For what?”

“For this.” Her gesture encompassed the stable. “No one should be forced to live like this. When I’m grown, I will make it right for all boys like you.”

Sorial was amused but didn’t show it, knowing that in her own misguided way she was being sincere. Her naïveté wasn’t her fault; her sheltered upbringing was to blame, as it was with many boys and girls of her class. “But this is the way it is, miss. ’Tis always been like this. I don’t think anyone can change it.”

“My husband will be a great man. He’ll change it.” The words were spoken with such certainty that Sorial was tempted to believe her. Then, suddenly, she let out a high pitched shriek and fled behind Vagrum.

“What is it, Milady?” demanded the man, his body tensing for action. Sorial had risen to his feet and was scanning the inside of the stable for signs of danger.

“A mouse! I saw a mouse!”

Sorial breathed a sigh of relief and resumed his seat. Vagrum relaxed and was visibly struggling to hold back a smile.

“This is a stable, Milady,” he explained. “There are mice here.”

“And rats,” added Sorial unhelpfully. “And other things. They sometimes share my bed. As long as there aren’t too many of them, they’re nice to have around. The babies are ugly, though - all pink and wiggly and hairless. Don’t you have mice in your house, miss?”

When Alicia didn’t respond, Vagrum answered for her. “We have them, but Milady has probably not seen them. The servants do a good job of keeping them hidden from the family.”

At that revelation, Sorial thought she was going to faint. To Alicia’s credit, she gathered the shreds of her composure, but for the rest of her stay in the stable, she remained silent, white with fear, and huddled behind her amused guardian.

When her father at last reappeared, his countenance grim, she rushed to him and wrapped him in an embrace.

“Here now, what’s all this?” he asked, his eyes darting accusingly at Sorial, as if implicating the boy in whatever had disturbed his daughter.

“Mice,” explained Vagrum succinctly. “Milady doesn’t like them.” He winked conspiratorially at Sorial.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Alicia’s father with a laugh. “Come, my dear, it’s time to go. We have things to do and if we’re not home by sundown your mother will become anxious.”

At that point, Sorial had an opportunity to compare the man with his daughter. Physically, there was little of him in her. He was dark where she was fair. He was big where she was small. He was robust where she was dainty. But their eyes were the same piercing green and there was something alike about their lips.

Sorial led the pony and horse from their stalls and was rewarded with a copper stud for his efforts. Watching Alicia, her father, and their protector depart, Sorial was sure he would never see them again. He was wrong.

Why couldn’t he cry? Why wouldn’t the tears come?

He touched her gently - the supple flesh still pliant, warm yet cooling to the touch. She hadn’t been dead long, and her passage from life had been peaceful - far more gentle than he expected for himself when his last hours came. For her, it had been an unawareness of slipping away, a quiet slide into final darkness. She had no reason to suppose that her husband would lace her bedtime drink with a lethal dose of poison for which there was no known antidote.

Were he any other man in any other circumstances, he might go to the gallows for this. But he was Azarak, King of Vantok. He wasn’t above the Law; he
was
the Law. He had acted out of necessity in his role as sovereign, suborning his personal preferences. He loved this woman, yet he had executed her. So why couldn’t he cry? Why wouldn’t the tears come?

They were alone in their bedchamber, in the grand canopied bed they had shared since their marriage three years ago. Comfortable things surrounded them: plush carpets, colorful tapestries, chairs with overstuffed pillows and a divan where they had made love more than once when the queen was in one of her playful moods. The ceiling-to-floor windows were shielded by draperies of the deepest crimson, although it was early enough in the morning that there was no outside light to filter into the palace. A single lantern hanging near the door illuminated the room, casting shadows longer and darker than the king’s mood.

At the age of 22 in his fourth year on the throne, Azarak had just become Vantok’s most eligible bachelor. His face was an impassive mask - cool blue eyes, tousled reddish-brown hair with a goatee, and rough features that would be more at home on the visage of a warrior than a statesman and scholar. Azarak had a chiseled body to match - he had learned the arts of war as a boy and continued practicing them even after taking the throne. His father had taught him that diplomacy was a king’s first weapon, but the value of the sword as a back-up should never be discounted.

Lying next to him for the last time was Amenia, his wife of three years. Her life had ended just days before her nineteenth birthday. A curtain of blond hair covered her face as she lay on her back in what appeared to be a peaceful repose. Her lips were slightly parted but they no longer drank in air. Her breasts neither rose nor fell.

Azarak felt physically sick but he couldn’t cry. This had been necessary. His friend and chancellor, Toranim, had assured him of this. They had decided that taking the queen’s life in this manner would spare the city the ordeal and scandal of a trial. For, if her crimes were made known, a trial would be inevitable.

There would have been three charges against Amenia, all of which carried a mandatory sentence of death. Azarak had made sure of her guilt before pronouncing his private judgment, but there was no doubt: she had defiled their marriage bed, conceived a child as a result of that adultery, and committed espionage by providing secrets to her lover, Ambassador Ravensforth of Basingham. The foreign dignitary would be found dead in his bed later this morning, the apparent victim of a robbery. Crime was on the rise in Vantok; no one would question this death. Other than the king and his chancellor, no one knew of the connection between the doomed lovers.

Amenia had nearly completed her deception by passing off her unborn child as Azarak’s heir. Eight short weeks ago, upon learning of her pregnancy after returning from leading his army on a victorious rout of a troublesome band of rogues harassing the city’s “satellite” villages, he had been elated. Amenia's claims to be a full season gone had gone unchallenged, even though her belly had been bigger than one might expect for one so early in her pregnancy. Questions put to her attending healer had revealed the truth: she was closer to eighteen weeks than twelve, placing the conception during a period when the king had been away on a lengthy diplomatic mission. Her surprising lack of discretion had allowed him to discover all he needed to know about her infidelity. Perhaps she had believed his unwavering devotion would be her shield. If that was the case, she hadn't known him. Nothing was more important to Azarak than his city. He would have died for Amenia, but he would kill for Vantok.

Now the die was cast. Amenia had been removed in a manner that would cause minimal turmoil. The people of Vantok would be distressed; they loved their lively, beautiful queen almost as much as her doting husband did. Azarak’s council would be less disappointed. Many felt his choice had been ill advised, with Amenia bringing little in the way of political capital to the marriage.

Azarak bent over his wife’s body, brushed her long hair to one side, closed her eyes, and kissed her on her ruby lips for one last time. An image teased his memory of the first time he had kissed those lips in the darkened corner of the palace ballroom after their third consecutive dance. They had both been breathless and bright-eyed, a 14-year old ingénue and an 18-year old newly crowned sovereign. Even at that early stage when they had spoken no more than a handful of times, Azarak had been thinking of marriage. A year later, they had been joined as king and queen, the happiest rulers on the continent. Or so Azarak had thought. Now he knew at least some of it had been an illusion. His feelings for Amenia had never been feigned, but what about hers for him? He would  never know the truth; it was sealed forever beyond his reach.

With a deep sigh, he rose from the bed, donned a breechclout, and rang a pull bell he rarely used. It would summon his chancellor directly. Only the guards outside his chambers would know of Toranim’s late-night visit and they were as loyal as men could be.

Less than a minute passed before there came a respectful knock at the door to the outer room of Azarak’s private suite. The chancellor’s quarters were next door and Toranim had been awaiting the king’s summons. Azarak slipped on a robe and slippers before answering the knock. Standing outside was his closest advisor, appearing not to have slept at all. He was dressed in sleeping attire - a sable robe and night cap - but it was obvious from the clarity of his gray eyes that he hadn’t been disturbed from his repose. His thinning hair showed no signs of having being disarrayed by a pillow. His chin and lip were free of stubble, almost as if he had shaved while awaiting the summons he knew would come.

Nodding to the two guards outside, the king closed the door and led Toranim to the bed. The chancellor bent over the queen to confirm her condition, then faced his liege.

“Are you all right, Sire?”

“I did what had to be done. Had there been another way…” His voice drifted off. The sense of grief and loss were palpable, but the tears wouldn’t come.

“Your Majesty, this was
her
doing. She committed these crimes and condemned herself. We all wish this hadn’t happened, but you’ve done the best and most honorable thing in the circumstances.”

Azarak shrugged. “It seemed that way when we concocted this scheme. Now… I could have pardoned her, given her another chance. Divorced her quietly and sent her away.”

“We discussed those options and rejected them for simple, practical reasons. If it had only been adultery… but the treason made her actions unpardonable. Depending how much information made it into the possession of King Durth, we may not have seen the worst of the damage.”

“Is Ravensforth dead?”

“I’m awaiting confirmation, but the men I sent are reliable. You can be assured that, come morning, all will be as it was planned.”

“And now?”

“Now we let it be known that the queen died of an unexpected illness caused by her pregnancy. We go through the usual process of a royal funeral. The healers can examine the body - they won’t find anything. The poison can’t be detected; that’s why it’s the best, and they won’t be looking for it, at any rate. As far as anyone is concerned, you and she made love last night then curled up in each other’s arms to sleep. When you awoke, she wasn’t breathing so you summoned me. No one will question you. They know you adored her.”

“It’s too bad the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

Toranim looked at his friend and liege with sympathy. He knew what it was like to be cuckolded. But that had been many years ago and he didn’t like to think of it, nor of the woman who had made it impossible for him to love or trust one of her sex again. “I don’t think your marriage was a sham, at least not at the start. I remember watching the two of you together. When you courted her, I believe she was as infatuated with you as you were with her. But the life of a queen isn’t an easy one, with you absent for such long stretches. Who knows how it started? In the end, all that matters is that it did start and she couldn’t stop it before it became more than a way to relieve lonely nights.”

“You make it sound like it’s my fault.”

“No, Sire. A queen, like a king, is bound first by duty. She may have said the words and sworn the oath, but she proved to be false. She betrayed not only you but herself, her oath, and her people. You acted as duty required. She didn’t. None of this is your fault.”

“This won’t be easy to get past. Giving her that drink, lying there listening to her last labored breaths. Wanting to wake her and explain to her, to apologize…The headsman’s ax might have been easier.”

“You know as well as I do that wouldn’t have been the case. Her screams for mercy would have haunted your nights for the rest of your life. You’ll overcome this, Your Majesty. It may not seem that way now, but time will harden your resolve. I know this to be true. I wouldn’t serve a lesser man.”

“I guess we’ll both find out if that faith is well placed.”

“I don’t doubt it, Sire. Now, let’s begin the unpleasant process of announcing the queen’s tragic and untimely passing.”

* * *

The next week was a blur for Azarak. Publicly, he did all that was required of a grieving king with respect to his wife’s funeral and burial. He observed the expected 24 hour vigil by her corpse as it lay in state the day before she was consigned to the king’s crypt and made a touching speech that perhaps half the city turned out to hear. Privately, the king wrestled with his guilt. However often he reminded himself that it was justice, some small part of his soul refused to accept that. He thanked the gods for the sure, stable presence of Toranim, who leant him strength during those trying days.

The official mourning period lasted a fortnight. During that time, all audiences were canceled, the bells in the city’s temple tolled every hour, and the market was closed. Within the palace, activity gradually returned to normal with the queen’s personal staff being reassigned to other duties.

Some days after the funeral, Azarak and Toranim were seated in the king’s private sitting room, each occupying a plush chair facing the fireplace, which housed a roaring blaze. The drapes had been drawn since twilight. With Harvest waning and Winter coming into prominence, the nights were becoming colder and longer. Soon, snow would begin falling even this far south on the continent. Soothsayers claimed it would be a long, unpleasant winter. In his heart, Azarak believed this to be true.

“So, do you agree with them?” asked the king, exasperated.

Toranim paused before responding. He knew this was a sore area for his friend, but the issue of the succession couldn’t be ignored. Azarak had no siblings or children. If he died without siring a blood heir, there would be civil war. Dozens of claimants would vie for rulership and the city streets would run red with blood. “It’s not a matter of agreeing or disagreeing. It’s tactless for them to press the matter so soon, but you can’t allow it to lie fallow for much time.”

“I should choose a peasant girl from the streets or a Syrene witch. That would fix them.”

“We’re not trying to ‘fix’ anyone. And, despite what you may think of them at the moment, they’re your advisors. They’re looking at things from a clinical point of view, filtering out the human element.”

“It would be easier to take another wife if I hadn’t killed my first one. I need time.”

“There are ways to stall your council. Let them think you’re considering candidates. That will delay them for a while, at least until after the Midwinter holiday. Smile at all the daughters of earls and counts and foreign dignitaries. Dance with them at state functions. Let your subjects believe you’re looking for someone to replace Amenia.” Toranim didn’t add what he was thinking:
Maybe, in the process, you’ll find someone suitable
.

“When I next marry, it will be for the good of the city. I wed Amenia for love and look how it ended. That folly won’t be repeated.”

Toranim was glad to hear that. He had made a show of supporting his friend’s first marriage despite his misgivings. She had been beautiful and lively but the wedding had purchased little political gain for the king. This time, it would be different - either closer ties to one of his most important vassals or forging a link with another city. King Dax of Earlford would be sending his youngest daughter on a “diplomatic” mission to Vantok in the late Summer or early Harvest season of next year. Although not yet 15, she would be of marriageable age when she arrived. Such a match would make sense for Vantok and its distant northeastern neighbor. Rangarak of Obis, the so-called “Iron King” of the far north, had sired three daughters. The eldest was already betrothed but the middle girl, Princess Myselene, was of an age when she could be courted. Vice Chancellor Gorton had already contacted him by bird-messenger about arranging a meeting.