Your heart
pounds, your pulse racing ever faster as you strain against the virulent poison
still circulating through your veins. Your whole body clenches, muscles
wrestling to throw off the paralytic. Breath hisses through your teeth, and you
feel something pop in your eye, then spreading warmth. But your struggles are
in vain, the poison too potent. Rolling your eyes as far as you can sideways
you attempt to get a better view of your visitor, but all you can make out in
the dark are his hands and the side of his face.
It is as
though he meticulously constructed the scene—and his place in it.
You see those
hands clap against each other, one hand slowly tapping the palm of the other.
The sound is barely audible. The voice that replaces it is deep, voluminous,
and fills the room without being loud. “I applaud your fortitude in the face of
danger … or is it foolishness; regardless, your fatuous blather seems
indefatigable. Indeed, I am amazed at how the similarities between you and my
late nephew go so far beyond the physical resemblance … which is uncanny.”
The hands
shift subtly once again, and moonlight glints from a small glass phial that has
now appeared between two of his fingers. “Unfortunately, I have no intention of
administering this to you at this moment, for which I must apologize, as well
as for the conditions of this meeting, but your previous treatment of other
faithful servants of the crown has left little doubt as to how well this discussion
would otherwise go.” The moonlight winks and the phial disappears from his
hand. “Take heart; it will wear off by morning.
“Now, you
asked why I called this meeting,” his hands return to their steepled position. “Your
invasion of my domicile necessitated it, as did your subsequent discovery of my
family’s hidden vault.” He pauses; a controlled moment goes by as if he were
personally dropping each grain of sand through an hourglass. “Information,
intelligence, are my domains. Believe me when I say that I am fully aware of
all of your doings since you first took that ill-fated seat at The Pewter Pot.
All of your deeds and misdeeds since then are known to me.”
His face
turns further into shadow, as if he were staring at the wall, or perhaps the
royal crest carved into your headboard. “This kingdom is my heritage, my
birthright. More than that, it is my life’s blood. So, trust me when I tell you
that if it were not in the best interests of Elturgard to have Runard’s reign
continue uninterrupted, I would have removed you long ago.”
His face
shifts again, and you feel his gaze upon you once more. “That said, I will
acknowledge you have accomplished significantly more than did your predecessor;
although, I must be honest, that is not difficult. Merely by attending your
first Privy Council you accomplished more than he had in the last two years of
his reign.” The corner of his mouth pulls up, creasing the pocked surface of
his cheek in what you suspect to be a smile.
“And so, I
will permit you to remain for as long as that is true … but only for as long as
that is true.” His voice subtly shifts as he speaks, until he sounds like a
completely different person. “You are not irreplaceable,” he says glibly, the
voice high, pert, and you realize it is your voice you are hearing, unmistakably,
unerringly, your voice.
The voice then
reverts back to its sonorous, measured tones, the syllables crisp and precise. “By
your pretention in assuming his identify you have payed your ante into the
Great Game. But unlike any other game, when you lose it is not you who pays; it
is the people of this kingdom, the shepherds, the farmers, the nursemaids, and
the matrons, who will suffer. The stakes are too high for you to fail.” As he
speaks he begins to lean towards you, his face tense, one long fingered hand
pointing at you, the other dropped to darkness. Then he sighs deeply, the air
escaping his lungs in an explosive gush. He sits back again and composes
himself. “What I truly wish to tell—for you to know, is that the game need not
be played alone; indeed, it cannot be won alone.”
A silver hand
waves expansively, as if taking in the whole castle, or perhaps kingdom. “The
machinery of this kingdom is comprised of a complex array of gears and cogs,
all turning in their appointed place. You must learn to rely on those gears.
And know that oil is more effective than blood in keeping them turning
smoothly.”
He subsides
then in a grand gesture of his hands that seems practiced and purposeful—ruined
only by the trumpeting sound of Faerith farting noisily. You see your visitor
tense, and his face turn to behold your bedfellow.
For his part
Faerith murmurs something about “Murray, get my mumble, mumble” before turning
over and flopping an arm around your waist. Pulling you close, he cozies up to
your ear and begins to snore.
