Ferguson was technically required to answer a royal summons, he might ignore it unless it was properly phrased. And, although Azarak needed to see the prelate, he wanted them to meet not as antagonists but as allies. They both had a vested interest in seeing that this crisis passed quickly.
Understanding the meaning of his liege’s words, Toranim nodded. “It shall be as you request, Your Majesty.”
The chancellor rose and departed with a bow. Once his back was turned to the king, his features relaxed. Perhaps he had overstated the nature of the problem, but at least Azarak now had something to occupy his attention beyond the guilt gnawing at his conscience.
* * *
In Azarak’s experience, old men fell into one of two categories: those whose age diminished them, turning them into wizened gnomes, and those who carried their years with dignity and were the better for it. Despite being ninety years old, Prelate Ferguson, His Holiness of Vantok, was as sharp and vigorous as a man half his age. Both of his blue eyes functioned perfectly, although he needed the help of a hand-held lens for reading. His full mane of hair, the same snow white as his neatly trimmed mustache and beard, flowed to his shoulders. Despite deceptively simple clothing - the robe donned by all priests - Ferguson commanded attention. His bearing was as regal as that of any secular ruler. He understood the advantages of authority and was unafraid to apply them.
The king elected to meet the prelate in a private audience chamber rather than the ostentatious throne room. Many of Azarak’s notable agreements had been hammered out here, with negotiations taking place across the wide, worn wooden table while ale and wine flowed freely. The table was huge, occupying most of the chamber with a footprint covered by a fine, plush carpet. There were thickly padded chairs for reclining in each corner and a fire blazing across the hearth to the left of the door. Since the chamber was deep within the palace, there were no windows. Those who entered this room left the outside world behind.
Prelate Ferguson inclined his head slightly as he entered. Azarak rose from his seat, an extra-wide padded wooden chair facing the door across the table, to execute a similarly perfunctory bow. He motioned for the prelate to sit opposite him. No words were spoken until the servants had filled two golden chalices with the king’s best vintage and withdrawn.
“I assume Your Eminence is aware of why I requested this meeting,” began Azarak.
“Come, Your Majesty, let’s not mince words. You summoned me here. You could have easily come to the temple but you ensured this meeting would be at a time and place of your choosing.”
Azarak sighed inaudibly. So it was going to be one of those meetings. He had hoped Ferguson would put aside petty politics to concentrate on issues that concerned them both. He could have protested that he had just lost his wife and was still in the official seclusion of mourning, but he knew Ferguson would brush that aside as an excuse.
The prelate continued, “Of course I know why you ‘requested’ that I ‘join you for a discussion of some importance.’ In fact, I’m surprised it took you so long, although perhaps it’s understandable given your bereavement. But you were right to consult me before acting. This is first and foremost an ecclesiastical matter.”
“Is it true?”
“The rumors? Which one - that the gods have abandoned us or that they no longer exist? Are you a man of faith, Your Majesty?”
Azarak thought of his dead wife lying next to him in bed. “I once was, Your Eminence.”
Ferguson seemed satisfied with the response even though the king had used the past tense. “Then let your faith guide you in this matter. I cannot say for certain one way or the other but I believe the gods are immortal and they would not turn their faces from us.”
“Why do so many believe it?”
“There is no doubt that the favor of the gods
Understanding the meaning of his liege’s words, Toranim nodded. “It shall be as you request, Your Majesty.”
The chancellor rose and departed with a bow. Once his back was turned to the king, his features relaxed. Perhaps he had overstated the nature of the problem, but at least Azarak now had something to occupy his attention beyond the guilt gnawing at his conscience.
* * *
In Azarak’s experience, old men fell into one of two categories: those whose age diminished them, turning them into wizened gnomes, and those who carried their years with dignity and were the better for it. Despite being ninety years old, Prelate Ferguson, His Holiness of Vantok, was as sharp and vigorous as a man half his age. Both of his blue eyes functioned perfectly, although he needed the help of a hand-held lens for reading. His full mane of hair, the same snow white as his neatly trimmed mustache and beard, flowed to his shoulders. Despite deceptively simple clothing - the robe donned by all priests - Ferguson commanded attention. His bearing was as regal as that of any secular ruler. He understood the advantages of authority and was unafraid to apply them.
The king elected to meet the prelate in a private audience chamber rather than the ostentatious throne room. Many of Azarak’s notable agreements had been hammered out here, with negotiations taking place across the wide, worn wooden table while ale and wine flowed freely. The table was huge, occupying most of the chamber with a footprint covered by a fine, plush carpet. There were thickly padded chairs for reclining in each corner and a fire blazing across the hearth to the left of the door. Since the chamber was deep within the palace, there were no windows. Those who entered this room left the outside world behind.
Prelate Ferguson inclined his head slightly as he entered. Azarak rose from his seat, an extra-wide padded wooden chair facing the door across the table, to execute a similarly perfunctory bow. He motioned for the prelate to sit opposite him. No words were spoken until the servants had filled two golden chalices with the king’s best vintage and withdrawn.
“I assume Your Eminence is aware of why I requested this meeting,” began Azarak.
“Come, Your Majesty, let’s not mince words. You summoned me here. You could have easily come to the temple but you ensured this meeting would be at a time and place of your choosing.”
Azarak sighed inaudibly. So it was going to be one of those meetings. He had hoped Ferguson would put aside petty politics to concentrate on issues that concerned them both. He could have protested that he had just lost his wife and was still in the official seclusion of mourning, but he knew Ferguson would brush that aside as an excuse.
The prelate continued, “Of course I know why you ‘requested’ that I ‘join you for a discussion of some importance.’ In fact, I’m surprised it took you so long, although perhaps it’s understandable given your bereavement. But you were right to consult me before acting. This is first and foremost an ecclesiastical matter.”
“Is it true?”
“The rumors? Which one - that the gods have abandoned us or that they no longer exist? Are you a man of faith, Your Majesty?”
Azarak thought of his dead wife lying next to him in bed. “I once was, Your Eminence.”
Ferguson seemed satisfied with the response even though the king had used the past tense. “Then let your faith guide you in this matter. I cannot say for certain one way or the other but I believe the gods are immortal and they would not turn their faces from us.”
“Why do so many believe it?”
“There is no doubt that the favor of the gods
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