The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia
By James Berardinelli
© 2016 James Berardinelli
Cover art by Jacob Atienza
Map by Jack O. Gibson
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga:
Book One: The Last Whisper of the Gods
Book Two: The Curse in the Gift
Book Three: Shadow of the Otherverse
Stories from Ayberia
Table of Contents
Foreword
The Priest
The Virgin
The Knave
The Warrior
The King’s Man
The Serving Wench
The Iron King
The Spymaster
Deleted Scene #1: The Barefoot Princess
Deleted Scene #2: Unrest
Deleted Scene #3: Warburm’s Homecoming
Deleted Scene #4: Azarak Confides in Carannan
Deleted Scene #5: Rexall and Warburm’s Flight
Deleted Scene #6: Sorial & Alicia
The Prelate’s Legacy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Foreword
When I wrote the three books comprising The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga, I never intended for there to be a fourth. Yet here it is. Rest assured, this is not an attempt to drag out a tale that ended cleanly and definitively at the conclusion of Shadow of the Otherverse. So what then is Stories from Ayberia? Consider it a supplement - an opportunity for those who enjoyed their stay in this world enough to visit again and learn more about the place and its inhabitants. This volume is intended for those who have read the trilogy. It adds color and depth to some of the characters, revisits a few favorites, and (perhaps most intriguingly) tells one story from the post-Shadow of the Otherverse era. Within these pages, you will find prequel short stories, deleted scenes from the published books, and a sequel novella. Is this the last time I’ll visit Ayberia? Perhaps, although there remain stories that could be told. For the moment, however, I have my eyes set on different vistas.
Stories from Ayberia is divided into three sections. The first contains the eight “prequel” short stories providing background for a variety of supporting characters from the trilogy: Valdemar the priest (who wanders into Sorial’s stable in Chapter One of The Last Whisper of the Gods…never to be heard from again until now); Warburm’s rarely-seen wife, Ponari; Justin the Knave (prior to his gaining the mantle of The Lord of Fire); Alicia’s faithful guardian, Vagrum; Sorial’s torturer in Havenham, Langashin; the lusty and vivacious serving girl, Annie; King Rangarak of Obis; and Rangarak’s valued advisor, Vice-Chancellor Gorton. Along the way, we fleetingly encounter other familiar faces in earlier times: Warburm, Rotgut, Ferguson, Duke Carannan, Alicia, Kara, Myselene, and Sorial. Although these stories, which take place prior to the beginning of The Last Whisper of the Gods, can be read by someone with little or no exposure to the trilogy, the explanatory paragraphs are best skipped by newcomers since they may contain spoilers.
The middle section of Stories from Ayberia is comprised of six curated deleted scenes. This is material that was removed from the published trilogy to improve pacing. These “fragments” provide insight into some of the characters and allow readers to revisit old friends. Introductions to each of the deleted scenes place them in their proper context within the established timeline.
Finally, there’s “The Prelate’s Legacy”, a novella that expands a paragraph from the epilogue of Shadow of the Otherverse into a 100-page story. For those interested in “what happens next,” this provides an opportunity to venture 15 years beyond the end of the trilogy. Many of those who survived The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga can be found here alongside a few new characters. Designed to be read in one or two sittings, this is longer than any of the prequel short stories but not a full-length novel. Written in its entirety after the publication of the trilogy, it takes into account some of the comments and criticisms that readers provided in reviews.
Hopefully, those who read Stories of Ayberia will find this to be a worthwhile adjunct to The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga. This completes my vision of this world and its denizens and I hope that you enjoy exploring it as much as I enjoyed putting it together. Thanks for reading.
The Priest
This story uses a minor character from the first Chapter of Book One as an opportunity to present background about the departure of the gods. It was originally written to be an introduction to Ayberia for new readers. Those with a good memory may remember that a scene in this story appeared in “The Last Whisper of the Gods” when a priest visited the inn and gave his mount to Sorial.
The gods were dead. Whether dead to men or dead in fact, it hardly mattered. For one who had devoted the entirety of a life to their service, no fact could be more harsh. For the better part of nineteen years, Brother Valdemar had lived in denial but he could no longer pretend that the unthinkable hadn’t happened. When he prayed at night, the only ears to hear his voice were his own. When he gave thanks at meals, only the cooks acknowledged the praise. All that mattered - all that had ever mattered - was gone. The world had become a place where the wages of righteousness were no different than the fruits birthed by the wicked.
A woman approached him. She beamed at him - a wide, cheerful smile, as if she was genuinely pleased to see him. If she wondered why someone in priestly raiment would be in an establishment like this, it never showed. She was attractive, the kind of buxom blonde innkeepers liked to hire as serving girls. She wore a loose-fitting blouse and, when she bent to sweep the crumbs off his table with a rag she carried, he caught a glimpse down the gaping “v” of her neck. She might have held the pose a fraction of second longer than was necessary, allowing the image to burn itself into his memory. Not since childhood had he seen a female breast and the ones he had been exposed to at a young age hadn’t been as full and ripe. Valdemar felt a stirring between his legs. How long had it been since that had happened?
“What can I getcha, sir?” she asked.
He knew nothing about spirits. Water was the only liquid to have passed his lips for decades. He looked into her blue eyes, unsure what to say.
“Ale?” She supplied. He seized on her suggestion and nodded. She winked then turned and headed for the bar where the inn’s owner, a retired adventurer, regaled his customers with exaggerated tales of his past exploits.
What was he doing here in a place of ill repute? As yet, he had broken none of his vows but he was on the edge. Ogling a woman’s chest and placing an order for a forbidden drink… But the gods wouldn’t strike him down for his sin. In fact, was there even such a thing as “sin” anymore? His theology had never prepared him for a situation like this.
When the girl returned with his drink - a large pewter mug filled with a strong-smelling brew - he handed her a small pile of studs, unaware of whether the amount satisfied the price. He could tell by her surprised expression that he had overpaid, but it hardly mattered. She leaned across the table, giving him a longer, clearer view. “If you want anything, if you need anything, just ask for me. The name’s Annie.”
After she was gone, he gazed into the auburn depths of the mug as if it was poison. Once he touched that to his lips, he would cross a boundary he had never thought he would come to. When a priest spoke his vows, they were supposed to be forever. But he had sworn to bein
gs that had rewarded faith and devotion with abandonment. Doubt and fear had brought him to this point. The core of his existence, everything that had meaning for him, had been stripped away, leaving behind only a yearning for something to fill the void. The gods couldn’t do it. Perhaps immersing himself in impure thoughts and immoral actions could. Was apostasy truly the only path left to him?
As the fourth son of a landed earl in the southern city of Basingham, he had grown up knowing his life’s journey would most likely take him into the priesthood. His oldest brother would inherit his father’s estate. His other two elder brothers would marry advantageously. He was the “spare” in case one or more of them died. Unlike other noble children in his situation, he had never resented the material things he would lose by saying his vows. From the early days when his nanny had spoken to him about the gods, he had believed his calling to be true. The gods had made him a fourth son so he could serve them. To that end, he had spent many of his early days as a scholar and ascetic, rarely touching strong drink even when it was presented and never sampling the charms of the serving girls who offered themselves to him with the hope of gaining favor.
At age 15, he had formally entered the Basingham Temple for his novitiate. Following nine months of intense prayer, contemplation, and training, he had been invested with the rank of “priest” and sent to the High Temple in Vantok to continue his service under the tutelage of Prelate Ferguson, the most revered servant of the gods in the whole of the civilized world. The day when his name had been called along with only three others to travel to Vantok remained one of his happiest memories. How could he have guessed then that 30 years later he would be in the city for far different reasons?
His term of servitude within Vantok’s Temple had lasted the requisite 10 years. During that time, he had rarely seen the Prelate and only on three occasions had he been accorded a one-on-one audience. Despite being an old man, Ferguson had the energy and bearing of someone a third of his age and always seemed to be in a rush for a meeting or appointment. His questions to Valdemar had been perfunctory and his benediction curt, but that mattered little to the priest - he had simply been glad that the most holy man in the world had deigned to address him. Those had been happy times. Looking back on it, it was hard to believe things had once been so simple and straightforward. He had thought it would last forever.
Toward the end of his tenure, he had been given charge of one of the new novices who, like Valdemar, was the lesser son of a prominent noble in Basingham. Although Valdemar had been unfamiliar with the lad, whose name was Justin, he had known the family. Justin’s reputation had painted him as a dissolute rake but Valdemar had found him to be humble, pious, and intelligent - qualities not often found in 14-year old boys coming from noble backgrounds. He and Justin had gotten along well but their time together had been limited by necessity. Once Valdemar’s decade was completed, he had been sent to a small village in the North where he had replaced a recently deceased cleric.
The biggest adjustment for Valdemar had been the weather. Born and bred Basingham’s warm climate, when only the heart of Winter offered the possibility of snow, the priest had never experienced such a degree of unremitting cold - frigid temperatures for the bulk of the year with only Summer not courting frost in the mornings. Still, he had found contentment there doing the work of the gods - offering succor and comfort to all who needed it. His ministry had numbered less than four dozen families but it had been a good post, at least in the early years.
Then it had happened. Like most priests, Valdemar hadn’t been immediately aware although, looking back on that day, he remembered a vague sense of dissatisfaction during his nightly prayers. Normally, the hour he had spent on his knees by the side of his bed had been the most comforting time of the day as he had basked in communion with the deities. That night, however, something had been missing. He had put the blame on himself, that he had been too tired or his mind had been too unsettled. Only now did he know the truth of what had happened: the gods had abandoned their creations. The beings to which he had given everything had rejected his devotion in favor of oblivion. No man could face such a stark truth and not fall into despair.
The relative isolation of Valdemar’s hamlet had stalled the dawn of recognition. When merchants had brought ugly rumors along with their goods, the priest had dismissed their words as the grumblings of those who had lost their faith. His own convictions had been certain, his belief unshakeable. Faith didn’t demand proof, only a certainty of the heart, mind, and spirit. There had always been malcontents and deniers. If the gods had been testing Valdemar, he had been determined not to be found wanting. That held true until the day when Brother Augmentin had arrived.
Valdemar had known Augmentin from his time in Vantok. They hadn’t been friends but Valdemar had admired the older acolyte for his dedication. As was often the case with young priests who became acquaintances during their apprenticeships, they lost touch when Augmentin had been posted. The man who had come to visit was nothing like the stern puritan Valdemar had remembered. His place had been taken by a slovenly drunkard, a hedonist so deep in apostasy that it had been difficult to believe he had ever worn the garb of a servant of the gods. His greeting to Valdemar had been warm, like that of an estranged sibling eager to reconnect.
Augmentin hadn’t remained for many days but his stay had shaken Valdemar to the core. It had been one thing to ignore the rumors spread by merchants but quite another to have heard the same words come from the mouth of a man he had served alongside for six years in the holiest building in the South. Why, Augmentin had asked, was Valdemar staying true to his vows when the ones to whom they were given had turned away? According to him, it was time for the priests to find a new calling now that the gods had cast aside their favor.
After Augmentin’s departure, Valdemar had determined that he needed a resolution to his growing crisis of faith and the only place he could get that was far to the south, in Vantok. He had resolved to make the long trip and request an audience with the prelate. Although Ferguson rarely agreed to meet with supplicants, Valdemar had hoped that his previous residence in the temple would accord him a privileged status. He had been wrong.
He had been waiting for ten days when he had received a note from Ferguson stating that the prelate would not be able to meet with him; perhaps if he tried again in another year... Dejected, he had mounted his mule and headed home. Once back in his village, he had become a recluse, rarely receiving visitors and leaving the duties of ministering to the people to his assistant. When the appointed time had arrived a year later, he had again made the journey south. The results had been no different. He had spent a week and a half in a small guest room in Vantok’s temple, desperately hoping for word that Ferguson would see him. He had engaged in communal activities like group prayers and meals but his heart hadn’t been in it. When word had come that the prelate regretted not being able to see him, he had departed Vantok, more certain than ever that his life no longer had meaning.
This was Valdemar’s third trip. Once again, his efforts to meet with Ferguson had failed but, to his distress, he had gleaned the information he had come for. Last night, he had overheard a conversation between two of the prelate’s close associates that had confirmed his deepest fears: the gods had forever turned away from men. This was no temporary punishment; it was a permanent abandonment.
Valdemar looked up from his mug, shaking himself free from the grip of his memories, and studied the place where he found himself this day. The inn was called The Wayfarer’s Comfort and he supposed it was no different from many places of this sort found throughout Vantok and the other five cities. He couldn’t say for sure - in the past, his vows had kept him clear of such venues. Servants of the gods were expected to set examples of chastity, sobriety, and piety. But it no longer mattered, and his presence here wasn’t exciting interest or chatter.
It was early afternoon and the large common room was more than half-full. He idly speculated that if the
innkeeper had this many customers at such an early hour, the place was probably full to overflowing at nights. Most of the patrons looked to be merchants, soldiers, and day laborers. There were no farmers. This was Harvest season and those who worked the fields were occupied from an hour before dawn until an hour after dusk. When the moon was full (or nearly so), they might toil all night. By the time the first frosts came, any crops still in the fields would be useless, and useless crops neither filled bellies nor the coffers of those who grew them.
From what Valdemar could tell, The Wayfarer’s Comfort served three purposes. For city residents and visitors, it was a place to gather and either enjoy fellowship or drown one’s sorrows in the cheap brew that flowed freely. For those coming from afar to visit the Jewel of the South, as Vantok was often called, the rooms offered lumpy straw mattresses and little else. And, for anyone disinclined to visit one of the city’s brothels, most of the serving girls were willing to combine a tumble with a pint if the price was right. Valdemar was sorely tempted on that score, and Annie was obviously willing, but he deemed that breaking one vow today was a sufficiently daunting achievement.
Heaving a great sigh, Valdemar lifted the mug to his lips. Then, following the briefest of hesitations, he took a swallow of the contents. The liquid was tepid and slightly bitter but it warmed him as it made its way to his belly. After finishing the first tankard, an emboldened Valdemar called Annie over for a second one. His payment, again greater than the cost, earned him an appraising look. Bending over to afford him another lingering view down the gaping neck of her blouse, she asked, “You interested in going upstairs for a while?”
Valdemar found his mouth suddenly dry. The words croaked out. “I’m a priest.”
Eyes laughing, Annie shrugged. “Wouldn’t be my first time with someone from the temple. Ain’t you breaking a vow just by being here?”