“They need to take down the wizard first. They’ll only get one shot. If they don’t get him, if he starts to use his powers… I’ve got a thousand fucking rats in my mansion because of him and they say he built an entire mountain outside Vantok!”
“One shot is all they’ll need. The archer charged with taking him down is a champion marksman, and the arrowhead will be envenomed.”
“Which poison?”
“Blacktongue. No antidote. Dead in ten seconds if the arrow alone doesn’t kill him.”
“You could use a bolt.”
Greeg shook his head in the negative. “More force, less accuracy. At the distance we’re projecting, a crossbow isn’t ideal.”
“The same fate for the princess?”
“No. I want the honor of executing her personally. My men will wing her to make sure she doesn’t take flight, but I’ll do the deed myself. King Rangarak’s memory deserves that much.”
“You’re sure she was responsible?” asked Otto.
“What does it matter?” The third member of the trio, the priest Rathbone, spoke for the first time. “We’ve moved too far along this road to halt now. Myselene’s culpability in our father’s death isn’t part of the overall equation. She’s a foreign invader and, as such, unworthy to sit on the throne of Obis. We’re squashing an unlawful coup and restoring the throne to a worthy successor. Does she suspect anything?”
“No.” Greeg shook his head emphatically. “She’s like her father in that she never expects betrayal from those close to her. He certainly didn’t anticipate for her to turn against him. The horrific way he died… Now the time has come for her to pay the price for that treason.”
“The wizard is a greater concern. What about him?”
Greeg considered. “He doesn’t like or trust me but I don’t think he suspects I’m involved in an active plan against Her Highness. He believes my ultimate goal is to rule Obis with complete autonomy. He sees me as being driven by ambition rather than the desire to see a legitimate ruler on the throne.”
“A belief I’m sure you’ve encouraged, General,” said Rathbone. “I doubt he sees what Otto and I do: although it’s true that you’ll be king after Myselene’s death, you’re far better suited at commanding our armies than wearing the crown. Once you abdicate in favor of me, you can return to your true calling. You and I both know that glory will come to those who fight on the battlefield in the coming struggle.”
“What of the wizard’s wife? She could be a great asset in the battle if we could convince her to fight for us. Of course that would mean laying the blame for her husband’s death elsewhere,” suggested Otto.
“Wizards aren’t to be trusted,” said Greeg.
“No one is saying that we trust her but there’s merit to Otto’s suggestion.”
The duke beamed at the rare praise from his future liege.
“Magic is a weapon we lack and I fear that deficiency may prove costly. I think we must consider how to trick this Alicia into being our counter to the so-called ‘Lord of Fire.’ As long as she believes the public story that Myselene and Sorial were killed by dissidents who infiltrated the palace guard, we should be able to secure her aid. Then, if she survives the battle, we can kill her afterward.”
Greeg scowled. “We can debate what to do with the female wizard once her husband and the bitch princess are dead. It can be dangerous to look too far ahead in a war. Win the immediate battle first. You have scapegoats for the queen’s murder?”
Otto nodded. “Some of those most loyal to my cause. They’ll be in the throne room so they can be cut down. A shame to lose them - they’re true patriots. But they’ll die in service to their city.”
Greeg said nothing but his sour expression spoke volumes about what he thought about that form of sacrifice.
“Regrettable but necessary,” said Rathbone. “General, you appear to have everything under control. We know the plan; all that remains is to execute it. Now, if there’s nothing else, we shouldn’t linger. I’ll see you both in three days’ time when we end this unfortunate grab for Obis’ throne and set our city on the right course as it heads into battle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE WRATH OF MEN
If the intent of the throne room in the palace of Obis was to inspire awe, it accomplished that with ease. A grand chamber, perhaps twice the size of the one in Vantok, the room was designed to admit as many of the city’s good citizens as possible. The translucent dome bathed every inch of the vast space in light, chasing away shadows during the day. At night, three hundred lanterns were lit to brighten a room whose sole function was to allow the king or queen of Obis to interact with those of a lesser rank - which, in the view of the man or woman sitting on the throne, meant every other human being in the city and across the continent.
It took fifty paces to cross the diameter of the circular room from one side to its opposite. Facing the ornate double doors that provided entrance was the throne - an obscenely large chair carved whole from the trunk of an immense tree before having been dipped in gold. Even the largest occupant was dwarfed by the seat, which appeared to have been constructed with a giant in mind. Kept gleaming by a man whose sole duty was to buff and polish it for several hours each day, it was the most ostentatious seat in the whole of the six cities.
Midway between the tiled floor and the gently convex ceiling was a railed balcony that ringed the perimeter. During normal audiences, only nobles were allowed to watch from this vantage point. There were a few permanently anchored benches facing the throne but, for the most part, those entering the hall were expected to stand, the exceptions being the very old, the very rich, or the very important. Beneath the balcony, the walls were hung with the most lavish tapestries money could buy. They depicted the history of Obis from its founding to its rise to greatness and highlighted some of its most famous (and infamous) characters. The hues were primarily reds, browns, and oranges, as befitted a city that prided itself on its ability to wage war.
Sorial avoided gaping only by a sheer effort of will. He remembered the first time he had entered Vantok’s throne room. At the time, he hadn’t been able to imagine a grander hall. He had also seen the audience chamber in Basingham. This outclassed both places by a wide margin. Its ostentatiousness was unexpected in a city that prided itself on plainness and simplicity. Although the outside of the palace was as drab and functional as every other building in Obis, the inside had been crafted by artisans at the height of their creative powers.
Today’s ceremony wasn’t open to the public. With relatively few people in the throne room, it seemed eerily empty. Every sound echoed. The balcony was populated with archers, all attentive and ready in case someone should make a late attempt to interrupt the marriage of Obis’ future queen and her investiture with the title of “Crown Princess.” Myselene was attended by a retinue of two score armed men - the core of her newly formed personal guard. A similar number ringed Greeg. Other than the soldiers and the participants, there were few others in the chamber: Sorial, soon-to-be Chancellor Otto and the other members of the Council of Nobles, various functionaries, and the vice-prelate, who would officiate.
Everything was different from Myselene’s first wedding, including her costume. In Vantok, she had worn a loose gown and great pains had been taken to make her appear the most beautiful and elegant woman in the entire city. In Obis, things were different. The white gown was simple and functional. Minimal care had been paid to styling her hair or applying makeup. She was still a stunning woman but, at least to Sorial, she hardly appeared like she was about to be married and invested with the powers of a queen. Greeg was wearing a dress uniform that didn’t look significantly different from his usual one. It was cleaner and there were fewer wrinkles. The lack of pomp was surprising, although Sorial assumed that, when it came to the official coronation, things would be more grandiose.
The ceremony was to take place at midday, when the sun stood at its highest point in the sky. At this time of the year, that
wasn’t close to the Midsummer zenith but the time was traditional for royal weddings. As they waited for the appointed moment when the vice-prelate would call everyone to order, the “honored invitees” stood uneasily, excepting several of the nobles who had taken advantage of the benches. Otto waited near the exit, flanked by a couple of mercenary bodyguards. He directed nervous sidelong glances at Sorial, an indication of his level of discomfort at being so close to one reputed to be a wizard. Sorial wondered if he had rid his house of the rats yet. A repeat infestation could be arranged if the man proved to be difficult in his new role.
Although weddings were supposed to be joyous occasions, this one was anything but that. An act of regrettable necessity was how Myselene had described it and the general mood of tense disquiet in the room reinforced the sentiment. No one seemed happy. Greeg’s face was as obdurate as granite. Most of the nobles were fidgeting. Myselene’s downcast eyes hid her impatience for this to be over. Only the vice-prelate’s serene features exhibited something other than strain.
Sorial was in a state of heightened awareness. He sensed a threat although he couldn’t pinpoint what it might be. Certainly, surrounded by so many military men, Myselene should be well protected from any danger. Maybe his edginess was a byproduct of the general unease tainting the throne room.
Three measured knocks sounded from the other side of the closed double doors - the sign that all was in readiness. The sun had reached its position. Quartets of guards moved into positions flanking the main entrance and the smaller one behind the throne, securing the chamber from interlopers - not that anyone would attempt to violate the sanctity of the ceremony. The vice-prelate strode purposely toward his place just in front of the throne, with the big golden chair forming his backdrop. Myselene and Greeg moved away from their protectors and stood facing the priest. Although it was customary for Myselene and Greeg to join hands at this point, neither moved to do so. The space between them was a telling sign of the lack of intimacy, a reminder that political expediency trumped personal affinity in this union. Indeed, the cold radiating from the couple was enough to challenge the frigid temperatures outside the palace walls, where a crowd of thousands had gathered to await word that there was a new Crown Princess.
The vice-prelate turned his attention to an officious, toad-like man sitting on the front bench. “Has the Council of Nobles ratified the claimant as the next ruler of Obis?” That line, like most of what would be said in the next few minutes, was demanded by tradition.
The man rose with great effort, slowed by gout and arthritis, and responded in the affirmative before re-taking his seat. The vice-prelate then affixed his steely gaze on the would-be queen. “Myselene, daughter of Rangarak son of Admonith, prostrate yourself before all of Obis. Abase yourself before the city upon whose throne you desire to sit. Yours is to be a position of servitude to the people, not one of lording it over them. Thus has it always been in Obis. Thus shall it always be.” Good words, thought Sorial. How many centuries has it been since they ceased to be true?
With a show of deliberation, Myselene removed her shoes, dropped to her knees in front of the priest, then bent at the waist until her face touched the floor. Her lips brushed the cold tiles with the whisper of a kiss. She remained in that position for several long minutes as a litany of her rights and responsibilities as the future Queen of Obis were recited by the vice-prelate. These were generic and, based on Sorial’s admittedly limited association with royalty, many were routinely ignored or flouted. When the vice-prelate completed his recitation, Myselene rose and stepped back into her footwear. “Are you in agreement with the decision of the Council of Nobles that you will succeed your father on the throne of Obis?”
“I am.”
“Will you discharge the responsibilities as I described them, placing the needs of the people above any personal desires?”
“I will.”
“Will you keep Obis safe from her enemies, be they from within the walls or from without? Will you give your life in defense of crown and city?”
“With all my heart, mind, and body, I will do so.”
“Then, as the vice-prelate of Obis, I grant you the provisional title of Crown Princess of Obis and invest you with the full powers of the monarchy. You shall earn the right to wear the crown, sit upon the throne, and be addressed as the queen on the date of your coronation. With those exceptions only, you are now the rightful ruler of Obis.”
Once he had finished the short speech, the elderly vice-prelate laboriously dropped to one knee. Everyone else in the chamber, including the stiff-backed Greeg and the wary Otto, did the same with one exception. Sorial remained standing. He was not, after all, a citizen of Obis and although he owed Myselene obeisance as her subject in Vantok, it would be inappropriate for him to show deference in these circumstances. In their earlier discussions about the ceremony, she had specifically told him not to kneel. “Let them think you are above law and custom. It will make them tread more carefully, not understanding whether you wear my leash or the other way around.”
The vice-prelate struggled to his feet and motioned Greeg closer. “General Greeg, son of Gothrik son of Mitrim, do you acknowledge that the Council of Nobles has duly chosen Myselene daughter of Rangarak as the next queen of Obis? That she is the sole heir to the throne and any she might choose to join with is her consort, not her co-ruler?”
“I do so understand.”
“Do you furthermore acknowledge that she is now your crown princess and will soon be your queen and, although a marriage with her will allow you to use the title of King, you remain her subject in all things?”
“I do.”
“Join hands, please.”
Myselene and Greeg took small steps toward one another and, with what appeared to be reluctance, clasped hands, his left holding her right. Neither looked at the other, instead keeping their eyes fixed on the priest.
“Myselene, do you accept the court of General Greeg and agree to his proposal of marriage?”
“I do.” The words were spoken quietly but the perfect acoustics of the throne room allowed them to be heard by all present.
“Do you acknowledge that, by virtue of this marriage, General Greeg will rule Obis with you and bear the title of King even though you will continue to outrank him? And that, should you predecease him without an agreed-upon blood heir in place, he will become the full and sole ruler of Obis and will gain the right to sit on the throne?”
“I do so acknowledge.”
“General Greeg, have you any objections?”
“I do not.”
“Is there anyone present who would challenge or contest this union?”
As expected, no one said anything. By previous arrangement with Myselene, Sorial cleared his throat. It echoed like a shot across the chamber. Heads turned in his direction and hundreds of eyes fixed on him at the sound but he didn’t speak. “Keep them uneasy,” she had said. “You know the value of keeping an enemy off-balance. Superior skill can be countered by unsteady footing.”
After a short pause, the vice-prelate continued. “Then let the record show that the marriage between Crown Princess Myselene of Obis and General Greeg of Obis is ratified and, henceforth, they shall be considered to be husband and wife by law and by custom.”
In Vantok, the throne room would have erupted with cheers. There would have been applause, back-slapping, and lascivious calls for the queen and king to lock lips or a bit more. In Obis, however, the pronouncement was greeted with a somber silence. That silence, however, was a preamble to something bloody.
It began with the twang of a single bowstring. Sorial, who had been alert through the entire ceremony, caught the archer’s movement out of the corner of an eye. But the man moved with lightning swiftness and, before the wizard could react and use his magic to deflect the missile, the arrow had embedded itself in the muscle of his neck just above the left shoulder. In and of itself, the debilitating wound wasn’t mortal but Sorial knew in less time than it
took to inhale that there was nothing normal about this injury. White hot pain flared, starting at the neck and raking his entire body with its talons. He crumbled to the ground in the grip of inflexible agony.
Chaos erupted in the throne room. The archers let loose as one, forty bows singing the same song of death, peppering the men loyal to Myselene with arrows while Greeg’s soldiers turned on their former compatriots with swords and knives. The nobles, who weren’t targets, scrambled for cover, some diving under the benches. One or two sprouted errant arrows. Otto remained where he had positioned himself, near the door and far from the fighting. The vice-prelate, despite not being a target, paid for his proximity to Myselene, taking a shaft in the fleshy part of his left leg. His howls of pain were in excess of what one might expect from what amounted to a minor wound.
The newly married queen was hit three times in quick succession and went down immediately, although none of the injuries were mortal. Sorial saw this dimly through the waves of pain and nausea that raged through him. He also noticed the dire image of one of Greeg’s men approaching him with a naked blade. He knew an executioner when he saw one. They weren’t taking any chances, at least not with him. Dead and buried - that’s what they wanted. He could at least oblige with the latter, so he allowed instinct to take over and he melted into the ground.
The poison, now coursing through his blood, was working fast. Even locked in the cool, comforting embrace of the earth, Sorial felt as if his veins were aflame. When the venom reached his heart, it would seize up and stop. Even though the span of his life might be measured in seconds, he remained calm and applied the techniques he had discovered while languishing in Basingham’s dungeon. What worked with a drug, he reasoned, should be as effective with poison. He was correct, at least in part.
The motes of dirt and dust within his body were able to attract and neutralize the poison, molecule by molecule, freeing his bloodstream of the contaminant, but there was nothing they could do to reverse the damage already done. The quick-acting venom, more corrosive than the acid Uthgarb had used on him, had begun destroying soft tissue the moment it had entered his body, eating away flesh and muscle near the wound and blistering the insides of his blood vessels. Keeping the poison from reaching his heart was the way to stay alive but Sorial recognized that, if he survived this engagement, it would leave its mark on an already scarred body. This was one reason why wizards, always targets, often died young.
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