Vengeance of Hope

by P J Berman

  ‘But that’s what happened,’ Afayna whimpered.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t believe you. Now, did Princess Silrith give you the poison? Gods. You disgust me.’

  An acrid stench filled the chamber. In her terror, Afayna had lost control of her bladder and part of the rack was now soaked in urine.

  ‘No,’ she said eventually, overcome with humiliation.

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  Another stretch. Afayna endured it, forcibly silencing her scream. The ropes slackened again a little and she felt her whole body heave involuntarily, causing her to cough and splutter as she was almost choked by her own vomit, before it ran down her cheek.

  ‘Did she give it to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re really not getting this are you?’ The interrogator gave another nod and the torturer stretched her again. This time Afayna felt pain like she’d never experienced before as her shoulders were wrenched out of their sockets. An unearthly scream escaped from her mouth and pierced the air before faltering as she slipped into unconsciousness.

  She was slapped back into reality and looked straight into the eyes of her interrogator. Was death truly near?

  ‘I didn’t hear an answer. Did she give it to you?’

  ‘No,’ she spat, in one final attempt to summon up the strength of the damned.

  He stretched her again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Delirious with pain, barely a feeble whimper escaped her as her joints tore apart.

  ‘Stop. Please. I confess. I confess.’

  ‘About time. And who instructed you?’

  ‘Silrith,’ slipped from her lips. The interrogator smiled at the torturer in dark satisfaction. He walked to the door and opened it.

  ‘That’s it, boys. Home to Asrantica tomorrow. We’ve got our confession.’

  His words were met by a merry cheer.

  ‘Untie her and take her to her cell,’ he said matter-of-factly as he re-entered the room followed by two guards. ‘She dies on the morrow.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Sire, you must name an heir’.

  King Lissoll of Bennvika, third of that name, lay on his death bed, surrounded by his closest courtiers. From his right, a wizened old man in dark robes, Sankil, High Priest of Bennvika, bent over him.

  ‘Sire, if you do not name an heir, the Kingdom will descend into civil war.’

  It was late evening and the large, crowded room, only sparsely decorated for a King’s bedchamber, was lit with candles, although Lissoll’s four-poster bed still fell into shadow.

  Many of the courtiers were still dressed in their most dazzlingly extravagant finery, just as they had been for their audience with the King earlier that day. As a result, all of them were rather more colourfully attired than the Priest, not least Lissoll’s only surviving daughter, Princess Silrith.

  By now she was a fully-grown woman of twenty-three. Her long, flowing chestnut hair, piercing dark eyes and soft skin were in stark contrast to the deep emerald velvet and shimmering gold lining of her dress. Further down, her unstructured white under-trousers protruded out from below the hem, while her feet were wrapped in fine gold sandals. Her maids had said that she looked gloriously regal, although she herself always felt awkward and overdressed in such splendour.

  She’d been wearing these eastern style clothes as a political gesture of friendship towards her cousin, Lord Jostan, who had sailed across the seas some months earlier from his homeland, the Verusantian Empire, to spend the year with his Bennvikan relations. Naturally, the moment Silrith had been seen in such attire, all the ladies at court had followed suit and it was now the height of fashion across the country.

  But at this particular moment Silrith had no thought for such trivial things. She was overcome with worry, yet a lifetime of being taught how to behave with dignity had helped her suppress the urge to tear through the corridors to reach her father on hearing the news of his being taken ill. Now she could only watch in silence, keeping her emotions contained within her mask-like exterior.

  ‘Your Grace, may I speak to you in private?’ Her turbulent thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a servant.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She followed him out of the room and the double doors were closed behind them. Instantly, she noted his worried expression.

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Well, it is hard to be sure at this point, Your Grace.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Back in the bedchamber, as it became clear that the King was in his death throws, amongst the many dignitaries present, there were a few who were only too happy to speculate on what would happen next. These included two ageing men standing towards the back of the crowded room. The first was the heavily but neatly bearded Lord Feddilyn Rintta, who wore a purple tunic and hat. He was joined by the wrinkly, wispy-haired Congressor Hoban Salanath, resplendent in his blue robes of office. Hoban was deeply concerned.

  ‘Well doesn’t this throw up a few interesting questions, my Lord Rintta?’ he pondered in a hushed tone.

  ‘Why ask questions when the answers will quickly become apparent? We can only look on as events unfold,’ Feddilyn replied.

  ‘Tell me you’re not curious?’

  ‘As a mere mortal, of course I am,’ Feddilyn said. ‘However, only the Gods can decide the fates of men. Yet some things can be foreseen, or should have been, even. Here we see the risk of delaying the chance to remarry when you only have two surviving children. It is years now since Queen Gidrassa passed away. You and your Congressor friends discouraged him from remarrying quickly and this is the result.’

  ‘I didn’t see you encouraging him,’ Hoban retorted.

  ‘My responsibilities are manifold. Those bestowed on me by the King in my role as Governor by far supersede anything asked of me by anyone in the Congressate.’

  ‘The Congressate can advise but never demand anything of a King,’ said Hoban. ‘This could not have been anticipated. Two surviving children are enough when one of them is a strong and unchallenged heir in the late Prince Fabrald. The urgency to build a clear line of succession beyond that was not felt by the King until the Prince’s death. Until then, the King was more interested in finding a suitor for Princess Silrith, rather than one for himself, even though this proved more complicated than expected.’

  Feddilyn sighed.

  ‘Yet the fact remains; relying on the survival of a single son is always a risk.’

  ‘Yes, that was a most fateful hunting trip,’ Hoban conceded.

  ‘Quite, though I’m sure you and your allies were very pleased with yourselves when you convinced the King to arrange a marriage alliance with Medrodor after Fabrald’s death.’

  Feddilyn gazed over at Lissoll’s bed ruefully. To the left of the King sat the dainty, gently whimpering form of Accutina, Lissoll’s young wife.

  ‘Look at her,’ he said. ‘A mere twenty years old and now carrying the King’s child. Her position is highly vulnerable. This whole marriage alliance with the Medrodorians hinged on the idea that the King would live long enough to see his son to manhood, assuming the child is even male of course.’

  ‘Would you not agree that until today the idea that he would live that long has been recognised by all as the most likely outcome?’ Hoban forced through gritted teeth, doing his best to avoid anyone around them overhearing their conversation.

  ‘Of course, but that vision seems threatened now, doesn’t it? Unless the King survives, everything hinges on the allegiances of a number of powerful people. For the sake of the future of this nation, Accutina must remarry fast and to a man of suitable status. That way he can be named as Lord Protector until the child comes of age.’

  ‘I believe there are more possibilities than that, my Lord Rintta,’ said Hoban. ‘We cannot choose a Lord Protector, or even an heir if the King himself names one and he can select who he pleases. He may bestow the title on Accutina herself. Having said that, things might be
simpler if he were to choose Princess Silrith as his heir. She is the next in line, after all. But even so, her position would no doubt be challenged.’

  ‘Yes and if so, the vultures will descend very soon. That cannot be allowed to happen. It takes a man’s mind and leadership to eliminate such threats. Choosing a woman to rule would be a grave mistake.’

  ‘I disagree greatly,’ Hoban said. ‘Especially in the case of our Princess. The people love her and there is a strength in her that few men possess. It is perfectly plausible that the King will select her as his heir.’

  ‘I do not see it. I will not be ruled by a woman. The King must name a Lord Protector in anticipation of a male child. That would be unprecedented, but perfectly legal if the King orders it,’ Feddilyn insisted.

  ‘That could still be dangerous. He may choose his nephew, Lord Jostan. But would he be content in the role of Lord Protector, or would he pursue his own claim to the throne?’

  ‘If that happens, we will all have to do what we must for the benefit of the Kingdom.’

  ‘The Kingdom, or yourself, Lord Rintta? Honestly, your ambiguity never fails to amaze me and it wouldn’t be the first time your loyalty has been called into question.’

  ‘It’s all very well standing up for honour and principles,’ Feddilyn said. ‘But they are little more than political obstacles. In reality, we must all choose a side. After that, we must simply pray to the Gods that we chose the right one. Either way, I fear the timing could not be worse. Maybe the Gods now resort to mischief, or perhaps they guide the hand of a mortal whose interests lie beyond the Royal lineage.’

  Silrith re-entered the room.

  ‘Has there been any change?’ she asked Accutina, sitting down on the bed beside her, gently placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ Accutina spat back like a petulant child, slapping Silrith’s hand away.

  Silrith had given up trying to understand why Accutina had never seemed to trust her. Originally she had put it down to shyness, but it had been over a year now. Did she feel threatened?

  Silrith looked at her father. He had been lying there for quite some time, but now it was clear that he was quickly weakening. He was barely breathing and his eyes were glazed and vacant. The High Priest leaned over his King once again.

  ‘Sire, you must name an heir,’ he said again.

  Another servant entered and this time spoke to Lord Jostan, whispering in his ear. Silrith watched, intrigued as her foreign cousin simply nodded his acknowledgement of the servant’s message, then moved in behind Sankil at the bedside.

  Accutina shook her head.

  ‘It must be poison,’ she said, almost in a whisper, glancing up at Jostan. ‘When I discover who did this, who took him away from me-’.

  She was interrupted as Lissoll grabbed Sankil by the arm with what remaining strength he could muster, trying to say something, but no sound came out. With that, his strength failed and the arm dropped, hanging limply off the side of the bed.

  For a moment everyone was silent.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Somebody in the background asked.

  ‘F-father?’ Silrith whispered, her lip starting to quiver and her eyes welling up with tears. Desperately she fought to contain her emotions, but she knew it was a battle she was bound to lose. Slowly she reached to touch her father’s hand; hers shaking slightly as she did. No response. She drew her arm away again, the first tears starting to fall from her eyes and run down her cheeks. She reminded herself to rally again and just about fought back the tidal wave of emotion.

  Since telling them that there was nothing more he could do, the physician had stayed out of the way, not wanting to impede on Lissoll’s final moments with those around him, but now the dully robed man came forward again and after a quick inspection, formally pronounced the King dead.

  ‘Why? He was so healthy,’ asked Accutina.

  ‘It seems that your suspicions were correct, my Queen,’ said the physician. ‘I think there is a strong chance that he was poisoned, most likely by someone who had access to his final meal.’

  ‘It is not for you to play prosecutor,’ Silrith berated him, though in hushed tones. ‘Now please leave us to grieve in peace.’

  He bowed and left. Silrith was shocked by the man’s lack of respect, but she was even more surprised by his diagnosis. Her father had no enemies, or at least, surely none that could reach him here. It was then that she noticed the strangest expression on Accutina’s face. Her eyes were locked on to Silrith; her face tight-lipped. She appeared almost unaware of those around them, so intent was the stare with which she fixed her.

  ‘He told me he was having stomach pains after eating. It was that maid of yours,’ said Accutina.

  ‘What?’

  Silrith began to feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end in the eerie silence as she felt other eyes boring into her, from all around the room.

  ‘Such a picture of innocence,’ Jostan smirked.

  He was thirty years old, tall, muscular, with thick raven hair and a clean-shaven chin. Jewel encrusted earrings reached almost down to his shoulders. Even in this vibrantly dressed company he stood out, with two golden sashes draped in opposite directions over a spangled sapphire tunic that reached down to his ankles. Even his boots were studded with crystals.

  ‘I have to give it to you, Silrith, you actually nearly did it. I didn’t think you would.’

  Silrith glared at him, aghast, as sadness and fear temporarily gave way to anger and offence.

  ‘Did what? Explain your impudence. My father has barely left this world and already you insult him by conducting yourself in this way?’

  Jostan rolled his eyes theatrically and continued with a grim laugh.

  ‘Honestly, your commitment to the act of the innocent daughter, the dignified and noble princess with no personal ambition is highly impressive but, alas, some of us present appear to have seen through it. It’s interesting, is it not, that no other voice comes to your aid? I fear that you’ve given yourself away in your haste to denounce any accusations of poisoning. I’m sure your father’s spirit would forgive any insult in view of what I do on his behalf now.’

  Silrith’s eyes narrowed, a fiery hatred burning inside her. She didn’t like where this altercation appeared to be heading.

  ‘The correct procedures will be followed and the culprit will be caught. But my father will be treated with some dignity in death,’ she hissed.

  ‘All of which buys you time,’ Jostan said. ‘I am not prepared to give you that opportunity. For the benefit of those others present and for the young Princess here who seems entirely unaware of her own plot-’

  ‘What is this?’ Silrith bellowed, leaping to her feet, but she was restrained by four strong arms. She was dumbfounded to see that it was two of Jostan’s Verusantian Lance Guardsmen in their distinctive black armour, who had sprung forward from where they had been waiting at the side of the room. Neither wore their helmets and as Silrith looked from one to the other she saw a malice-fuelled expression of warning on both their scarred faces.

  ‘What ladylike behaviour. Gentlemen, ladies, here we see the true character of our dear sweet Princess. In reality, she is fuelled only by ambition.’

  ‘Pestiferous scum. You accept our hospitality these past few months and this is your repayment? Guards!’

  Silence. Silrith looked around desperately.

  ‘Are you wondering why they don’t come running?’ Jostan asked. ‘Well, that would be because my own guards have taken charge and those of your soldiers that don’t join their ranks will be duly punished. It’s for the nation’s safety, you understand. I’m saving Bennvika from being ruled by a murderer. As Queen Accutina herself testifies, it was your maid who served his last meal. That fits exactly with what the physician said, don’t you think? Something you were very quick to distance yourself from by sending him away.’ He fixed her with a cold stare.

  ‘Afayna has served my father many times o
ver the years.’ Silrith countered. ‘Why would she do this now?’

  Jostan moved in close to her, almost close enough to kiss her lips.

  ‘Royal promises, cousin, and royal treachery.’

  ‘Now, as I was saying,’ he went on, moving away again. ‘For those who still see a Princess and not a gaudily dressed murderer with royal ambitions, let me enlighten you. We all remember the noble Prince Fabrald. I still mourn him to this day, though it seems to have escaped everyone’s notice that out of the whole hunting party, only the lovely Princess Silrith was within sight of him when he ‘fell from his horse’. Or was he tripped, Silrith? Who can tell? I’m told that your usual sharp-shooting with the bow was rather off that day. Maybe your mind was on something else, planning something else?’

  ‘Even you know that is absurd,’ said Silrith. She’d always known that Jostan was ambitious and ruthless, but this? So soon?

  ‘Really? You seem very certain of that. Now, due to our beloved late King’s legions of accursedly stillborn children, Fabrald’s ‘accident’ put you next in line to the throne.’ He started pacing around the room. ‘That was until our new Queen announced she was pregnant and suddenly that threatened everything, didn’t it? You had to act quickly.’

  ‘Liar. You mean to slander me. You mean to incriminate me and claim the crown for yourself.’

  ‘Of course, I do not. But then, we can’t give the throne to a murderer now can we?’

  ‘You impudent fool. Is there nothing you wouldn’t say to sully my name?’

  ‘It’s over Silrith. You can stop the act now. Guards! This girl is starting to irritate me. Take her away.’

  ‘I am Silrith Alfwyn! I am your rightful Queen!’ She howled as she was dragged away.

  ‘Stop,’ came a voice from the background. ‘This is wrong. I will not have this.’

  The guards stopped in their tracks. Silrith scanned the crowd of faces to see who had spoken. It was Hoban Salanath. Silence fell and Silrith ceased struggling.

  ‘You would defend regicide, Congressor Salanath?’ Jostan challenged him.

  ‘Of course not. But I will not believe that the Princess orchestrated it.’