When Fesk Rangol was born, just after his mother completed the Naming, the Priest placed a tiny droplet of orange liquid on his tiny pink tongue and closed his mouth.
"Be silent!" the Priest hissed. The woman's wailing was highly irritating. She knew the risks of delivering a child this month.
The Priest held his breath as little Fesk swallowed the juice of the whisperberry. It would take seconds to enter his blood, and seconds after that for the seizures to begin. But in Fesk there were no seizures; the child only continued to scream the shrill howl of the newborn. The Priest handed the child back to his mother, who slid her bare nipple into his waiting mouth.
"We will come for him in six months," the Priest said to her as he wrote down the child's name and the mother's. He then packed up his belongings and left. On his way he passed a wagon in which lay six infant corpses. Six, before he found one resistant to whisperberry. It was a good year.
Six months later that same Priest came and took little Fesk away to the Venomous Academy. The mother cried and wailed a lot. They always did.
The Venomous Academy was two hundred years old, and now had a well-established formula. Until two years of age, Fesk -- along with the other children in his group, six altogether -- was given a daily dosage of the most common poisons and venoms. This was to bolster the natural immunity. Whisperberry; silver poppy extract; hanging adder venom; droplets from the spines of the blue duskfish; the powdery excrement of the Griskin caterpillar; even the lowly hemlock, the poor man's poison: all were administered in tiny doses. In the first year and a half of Fesk's life at the Venomous Academy three of his classmates proved not immune to all of them. It happened. Such children were returned to their parents, their ashes in silver urns.
At two years of age began the long work, sixteen years of it, of training the palate. There was still the daily sampling of poisons, but now Fesk had to learn Tasting. He had to learn about food and drink, from the cultivation of crops and animals to the final presentation at the table. Thus Fesk spent his days alongside the students of the School of Obosidor, Saint of Food and Wine, before returning to the Venomous Academy to study the world of toxins.
By the time of his Recognition in his eighteenth year, he had learned how to properly thicken a cream sauce for fish. He knew the roasting of an entire wild boar, how much to toast the flour in a roux, the harvesting of mushrooms, and the difference in flavor between herbs picked in high summer and the same herbs picked in autumn's fading days. And then there was wine. The gold, sweet wines of the Isles of Vonvolen captivated him; his heart was smitten by the reds of the Danan River valley. He knew which of the Realm's white wines to serve, depending on whether the Black scallops had been sautéed in butter alone or dredged lightly in stone-ground flour before being cooked in walnut oil. He had an instinctive sense of which wine to pair with which food, and he could identify vintages to within a month. Fesk Rangol's palate was the stuff of legend, and the chefs of the Realm thought it tragic that he was to be a Taster.
All this time he continued learning the tastes of poisons and the effects that they had on the flavor of food. The work of a Taster was the most dangerous in the Realm, more perilous even than that of the King's Knights. All of them had remarkable palates, but the course of training demanded more of anyone's palate than nearly anyone at all could give. Gradually Fesk's classmates either died when they failed to identify a poison correctly, or they failed the Food Trials, after which they were ceremonially killed. The secrets of the training could not be revealed to the people. By the time of Fesk's Recognition, only two other students remained. He was the youngest Taster ever to be Recognized.
On that morning they met in the Chapel of the Lady, the last three students and the High Priest, for the Recognition Ceremony. Fesk would admit to being scared, but no Taster had ever died during the Ceremony, and he was sure he would not be the first. The sickness from the combined poisons he consumed that day lasted an entire month, after which he was called upon by a youngish Priest who had been charged with escorting Fesk to Prince Yessel, the member of the Royal clan to whom he had been assigned.
It was a wonderful spring day when they set out, riding a wagon loaded with Moonmist wine, though Fesk knew that it was too warm to travel with Moonmist. "The wine will take on the flavor of the oak barrels," he observed, saying nothing more so as to enjoy the ride on the barge from the Isle of the Priests to the mainland, where they would ride south to Caluna, the summer home of the Royal Family and the permanent home of Prince Yessel.
The sun was going down when they arrived, and it was far enough southeast to be noticeably warmer than in Vairece and at the Venomous Academy. As they approached the marble steps that led up to the summer palace, Fesk saw that Prince Yessel himself was waiting for them.
Yessel was the second of two sons to King Jalory II, and thus was one spot removed from the Royal succession. His elder brother, Caspar, was the Crown Prince of the Realm. Caspar was the one who went on missions of state to the capitals of other nations, spent time with the armies studying tactics and armaments, and was betrothed to Yoneska, the young Queen of Kassamar, a nation to the northwest and seat of the world's greatest navy. To Prince Yessel, though, all that meant was that Prince Caspar was forbidden to enjoy life. Yessel had made the summer palace his own, and had a fabulous collection of painting and sculpture. He also had a magnificent library, though he actually had read none of the books on its shelves. He was known to prefer the contents of his wine cellars to those of his library, and his palace was the setting of the grandest feasts and cotillions in that part of the Realm, perhaps even anywhere in the Realm, rivaling even those of the Royal Palace in Vairece. Prince Yessel loved food and frequently gave feasts lasting for entire days at a time. It might have seemed strange for such a great Taster to be sent to the secondary Prince, but King Jalory II had a fine Taster while Prince Caspar only ate perhaps six things at all, so Fesk's palate would be wasted on such a man. His predecessor had performed the ritual suicide when his palate had faded from age. No Taster (save one) ever died of old age.
As they came near, Fesk looked at his new master. Prince Yessel was a stout man who wore his red hair very long and braided behind his back. He walked everywhere with his hands clasped behind his back, his long robes of porphyry flowing behind him. Around his waist he wore a belt of rich brown leather traced with gold. His beard was trimmed to a point, and he gazed at Fesk with pale blue eyes. Fesk jumped down from the wagon and knelt before his new master.
"I am your servant, Fesk Rangol, my prince."
"Yes, you are, aren't you?" The Prince's voice was smooth and buttery. "Then show me your craft, Taster." Fesk looked up and saw that the Prince held a crystal flask, inside which was a deep amber liquid. Fesk took the flask and sniffed the contents, immediately recognizing the fortified dessert wine of Tensdor. He took a sip, swished it about his mouth, swallowed, and then spoke with almost no hesitation.
"It is Doric Red, from the valley of the River Dor in Tensdor." He focused on the wine's finish for a very brief moment, and then named the vintage.
"Quite right," Prince Yessel said as he lifted his eyebrows. "Very nice. Now, let me look at you." He stepped backward and carefully inspected Fesk's personal appearance. "I am afraid that only I am allowed to conceal my true intentions behind a beard. Stelo!" The man named Stelo, Prince Yessel's officious steward, stepped forward. "Make note of this, Stelo: Fesk Rangol is to be shaven." Stelo nodded. "And the hair will need to be trimmed. Such a shock of curls must be tamed." He shook his head at Fesk's blue shirt, green pants, and brown cap. "Of course, these clothes are unforgivable."
At this point Stelo spoke. "Forgive me, Lord, but he wears the proscribed uniform of a Royal Taster. There are doctrinal reasons--"
"No. He serves me, and I will not have my Taster looking like a potted plant. Now, Taster, go with Stelo here and do not come back into my sight until you are out of your current condition." With that he wandered off for his daily stroll in the gardens, and Fesk was whisked away to have his appearance attended.
For the first year, Fesk's daily routine consisted of accompanying the Prince to every meal, where he always sat at the Prince's side. This was another slight to the Priesthood's established protocol, which required that the Taster stand the entire meal behind his charge, only coming forward to taste each course. Fesk sat to Prince Yessel's left, there taking a mouthful of each plate placed before the Prince. Fesk discovered immediately that Prince Yessel spared no expense, none at all, to employ the finest cooks in his kitchens and to provide them with the finest of ingredients. His waistline gradually expanded over a year of eating the delights of Prince Yessel's kitchens.
One spring morning in the second year, Fesk joined the Prince for breakfast, alone, on the terrace. Yessel pointed to Fesk's growing belly. "Well, Taster, you seem to be enjoying your position."
"It is what I was born to do," Fesk said.
"Yes, I suppose it is," the Prince replied. "But next week you shall be put to the test. I am receiving Caledon IV, Duke of Odona."
Fesk felt the blood drain from his face. Odona was the most fabulously wealthy nation in the world, a small duchy north of the Realm, in the Leeas Mountains and at the crossroads of the continent. The coming of Caledon IV would put Prince Yessel's kitchens to a test like never before. They would be asked to create dishes of wonder, with complexity of flavor that would defy even the most seasoned of palates. Yes, the kitchens would be tested. So would Fesk.
"Then that is why you have had so many deliveries to the larders lately," Fesk said. The Prince nodded.
"Exactly," he said. "And Cornoset has known for a month. I have sworn him to secrecy."
Fesk laughed. Cornoset was the Chief of the Kitchens. "I thought he was drinking more brandy than usual these days."
"Indeed," the Prince said.
The week flew by. The palace was filled with huge bouquets of the most beautiful spring flowers, and the grounds were tended with the utmost care. The Prince, most uncharacteristically, attended the daily Vespers of the local Priesthood; foremost in his prayers was a wish for the finest weather during the Duke's visit. Of course, he did not care in the least if the Duke's subsequent journey to Vairece was spoiled by rain. King Jalory and Prince Caspar could say their own prayers.
Thus it was that at dusk on the night before the Holy Day that a magnificent train of forty great wagons, pulled by teams of the finest white stallions, arrived at the Palace gates. Prince Yessel cued the thirty trumpeters to sound the call of Odona, and then the call of the Realm. Then the other musicians -- strings, harpers, pipers and drummers -- began to play as His Excellency Duke Caledon II stepped from his coach and bowed before the Prince, who reciprocated. The two men spoke formal words of greeting, and then the Royal parties went to the dining hall, where Fesk was waiting. As ritual proscribed, Fesk and the Duke's Taster bowed before each other, and then each took a bite from a specially baked ceremonial loaf. And then, the meal began.
And what a meal it was! To Prince Yessel's way of thinking, cooking was as much an art as painting, sculpture, or musicianwork, if not more so: every art served to engage one or more of the senses. Cooking employed not just taste but aroma, sight, and sound. No other art captured all of the senses, and thus cooking had supreme place amongst the arts. Cornoset and those in his kitchen were artists in the truest sense, and this night was the finest flowering of their craft yet.
The first course consisted of the shrimp of local waters lightly cooked in butter and then wrapped in delicate pastry, baked to a golden brown and served with a delicately sweet white wine from Trovenc. The second course was a magnificent soup of local vegetables and mushrooms in a pork stock, garnished with cubes of crusty bread. This was followed by simple greens flavored with vinegar and olive oil, but these greens were grown in the volcanic soil of Avirena, and thus those plates of greens exploded with color: every shade of green, some tinged with orange and purple and red. And at the bottom of each plate, a wonderful surprise: a boiled quail's egg, colored with tea to look like old alabaster. Of each of these dishes, Fesk and the other Taster had the first samples. With each magnificent bite of food and sip of wine, Fesk offered a prayer to Obosidor, that god of food and drink who lives in the fires of the ovens and in the necks of the bottles.
The meal went on for hours. There were to be twenty-one courses in all, leading up to the uncorking of a bottle of Obosidor's Wealth, the aged sweet wine that gained its name for its sublime taste and its gold-coin color. For hours Prince Yessel talked matters of state with Duke Caledon, laughing frequently at the Duke's complete seriousness. Fesk, meanwhile, sat silent, alone in his own form of worship. At last came the Nineteenth Course, the crowning achievement. Drums rolled and trumpeters sounded as a great cart was wheeled into the hall. On the cart was an enormous boar which had been roasted in a pit of coals for two days. The pig's skin was a deep fiery red, from the two inches of thick paste that had been spread over him prior to roasting. As the meat was carved, Cornoset himself came out to apply the sauce, which he had made just now. Thus, as the scent of the roasted pork filled the room, a plate of the meat ladled with white wine and truffle sauce was set before each Taster.
Protocol required that the visiting Taster go first, and this he did, placing a morsel in his mouth and chewing slowly. Finally he swallowed, and then smiled at Cornoset. Now was Fesk's turn, and he took his own bite.
Here, Fesk knew as before he even closed his mouth, was Art in its highest order. As the hot meat sizzled in his mouth, its sweetness combined with the pungency of the red garlic paste to fill his heart with joy. The sauce was shockingly mild, having no immediate flavor at all but imparting a blossoming finish that mingled with that of the pork. The flavors of the white truffles bloomed in his mouth after he swallowed, augmenting but not overpowering the complex tastes of the pork. And finally, as the flavors receded into the back of his mouth, Fesk became aware of one last taste, completely unexpected. He knew he'd tasted it before….As he tried to place it he saw that everyone in the hall was staring at him. That flavor, the tiniest wisp of flavor that vanished even as he tried to place it, was familiar, so, so familiar….and then, glancing at the Duke, he had it.
"Do not eat, Prince Yessel," said Fesk Rangol. Yessel's eyes went wide, the Duke stared, the other Taster's fork dropped to his plate with a loud clatter, and Cornoset went white. Fesk rose and spoke the formal words: "My Lord, Obosidor has forsaken." Stunned murmurs swept the hall.
"Are you certain?" Prince Yessel demanded.
"Yes," Fesk replied. "There is poison here."
"Impossible!" the other Taster exclaimed. "I taste nothing."
"It is miraculous that I tasted it at all," Fesk said. "It is a venom from a spider who lives in the sands of Pangrid." Pangrid was a land of vast deserts, away across the sea. "It is known to us only recently." The other Taster was taken aback, and he took another hasty bite. Everyone watched as he chewed, and then he set down his fork and nodded grimly.
"I believe I taste it now," he said. "I took it to be a nut oil base for the sauce." He looked at his Duke. "Do not eat, my Lord. Obosidor has forsaken."
Every breath was held as the Duke turned to face Prince Yessel, who was staring at the plate of food before Fesk.
"Your Highness," said Duke Caledon II in his most imperious voice, "this is a grave matter. And no matter what your position may be in the order of succession, this is a visit of state. But, I am prepared to grant that you had no foreknowledge of this attempt on my life. Therefore, I offer you this opportunity to make amends." He pulled from his belt a jeweled dagger and offered it to the Prince. "Take my knife, if you will, to slay this cook of yours. After all, he is the one serving the food."
The Prince took the dagger and looked at Cornoset, who was now utterly aghast. Then the Prince laughed. "Fear not, Cornoset," he said. "I shall not kill you now. I would not slay a horseman who brought tidings of loss from a battlefield, and I will not kill the unfortunate hand that serves the poisoned food." He turned to the Duke and smiled. "My dear, dear Caledon, how shall I take this betrayal?"
The Duke sputtered, thinking that his ears had deceived him. Then he became very angry. "You accuse me?" he demanded.
"You?" Prince Yessel's voice was as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "No, not you. I doubt very much that you had any actual part in this. But this is not an attempt on your life. It is an attempt on mine, and of course this poison had to originate with your party. I seem to recall that Pangridi silks are particularly prized in your land."
"What of that?" The Duke grated, his eyes nothing but ice.
"What of that, indeed?" The Prince smiled and opened his hands. "Surely you remember that our King, my father, forbids all trade with, and even travel to, the good state of Pangrid. There was some unfortunate business between a Pangridi potentate and our own Princess Dirwana." He shook his head sadly, and many eyes turned downward. That story was well known. "Poor Dirwana," he went on, referring to his younger sister. "Did you know they used to say that the birds and whales alike sang of her? Well, at least the child lived. But now, of course, and ship of the Realm found to be making port in Pangrid is put to the torch, with all hands still aboard. Except for the Captain, that is; for him is reserved the fate of being tied between two--"
"We know the custom," the Duke snapped.
"Of course you do," Prince Yessel said agreeably. "I know of things too, Duke Caledon. A trading expedition you authorized to Pangrid last year, for instance. Of course, I also know that several of those 'traders' you sent are known spies. Very interesting." He glanced at Fesk. "Tell me, Taster: how long does this venom retain its efficacy?"
"Less than a year, My Prince," Fesk said without hesitation. The Prince turned back to the Duke and spread his hands in a fait accompli gesture.
"You can prove nothing," the Duke said.
"Of course not," the Prince confirmed. "But under the circumstances, perhaps this lovely evening should end now."
The evening did in fact end then. The Duke said some very formal words in protest of being subjected, as a guest, to unfounded accusations; then he ordered his entire entourage back to their ships, whence they would sail back to Odona. He paused only to send a message to King Jalory with the standard written letter of protest, penned by the Duke's own hand and affixed with his personal seal. There were still diplomatic ways of expressing oneself.
After the meal Fesk retired to his chambers, his head pounding as much with the tension of the evening as with the effects of the venom in his system. He was mixing a soporific when there was a knock at his door. He was surprised -- no, utterly astonished when Prince Yessel entered the room. He was dressed in his night robes and was holding a small box carved of ebony wood and inlaid with gold filigree.
"Your Highness!" Fesk exclaimed.
"I hope that you will forgive this intrusion, Taster," the Prince said as he entered the room and looked around at Fesk's simple furnishings, "but we have forgotten something."
"My Lord?" Fesk blinked, confused. "We spoke the formal release, did we not?"
"We did speak it," the Prince replied. "But tonight you have given me fine service, and it would be remiss of me to not give proper reward." He held out the ebon box.
Fesk shook his head and held up a hand of refusal. "My Lord, I did my duty as required of me by Obosidor and the Lord God. No reward is necessary."
"Ah, but it is, Taster," said the Prince. "This is not for finding the poison. Tonight you have served me in a way you may someday appreciate. You don't care much for the politics of the court, I have seen."
"I confess that I understand very little of that business."
"Yes. That being the case, I shall not overtax you with a lengthy exegesis of what happened here tonight. Until morning, then." He held forth the box again, and this time Fesk accepted it. Then Prince Yessel headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. "The box itself is the gift, though you may find the contents illuminating." He gave Fesk a light smile before leaving.
Fesk gazed at the box. It was certainly beautiful, as long as his hand and only a handbreadth deep. He didn't recognize the wood, which reflected his image in the high polish of its surface. He looked over the scrollwork of the gold filigree, and then he recognized the handiwork of Pangridi artisans. A chill ran through him as he lifted the lid. The inside was lined with red satin, in the center of which was a glass vial stopped with a cork. Drawing the vial out with two fingers, he looked inside it. There he saw the dried, desiccated form of a spider.
Fesk never again brought up the subject of the dinner for Duke Caledon II or the contents of the ebony box. Occasionally he caught the Prince's eye and saw there a knowing gleam, a recognition there of what they both knew. The years were filled with many fine meals, and soon Fesk pushed the entire matter from his mind -- until one day when word arrived that King Jalory had broken off relations with Odona, in some territorial dispute that had festered since the Duke's ill-fated journey to the Realm. Fesk paid little attention to it all, until there was some unforgivable insult to the King's men during an encounter in the mountains between the two nations. There were deaths involved, and soon the entire nation of the Realm was ready to go to war against the heathens from Odona. Now the attempted poisoning of Prince Yessel became very important indeed.
On one chilly morning after the war had been going on for some time a messenger came to Prince Yessel's palace bringing word that he had been expecting. An overzealous captain had completely demolished an Odonian village, slaughtering the men and doing horrible things to the women. All of Odona was preparing to sweep southward to fight the evil Realm. The entire Realm army was moving north, led by Prince Caspar. Less than a week later came another message, that the King himself, Jalory II, was joining his force, leaving the kingdom in the hands of Prince Yessel. The Prince gathered up his entire entourage and went to Vairece, to take over the Royal Palace.
Even as the war continued, Prince Yessel brought an unheard-of opulence to the Royal City. His parties and dinners, long talked about in reverent tones that evoked "the Prince's City of Pleasure", became the new center of attention to the wealthy. And he loved it. Even while the young men of the Realm were dying on snowy mountain fields, Prince Yessel spent his mornings at the hunting grounds happily slaying the fattened deer. The other nobles were accustomed to King Jalory's frugal ways, and they adored this new flaunting of affluence.
At the end of the Prince's first year there, the word came from the fields that a very massive battle had occurred, during which the armies of the Realm had caught the Odonian troops unprepared and forced them back against the snowmelt-swollen waters of the River Donat. It had been an utter rout, and Odona had surrendered; but the cost was very heavy indeed: above the heavy casualties, Prince Caspar had been slain by an Odonian archer's lucky shot. Yessel was now Crown Prince. The Realm mourned, but during this time Fesk noticed no real change in the Prince's mood or conduct.
When at last the King returned from war, he was a shadow of the man he had once been. He was gaunt and listless, and a year in the cold climes of the north had done his health no good. And now his beloved Caspar, Caspar the Golden, was dead. It was little secret that Jalory had little love for his second son, but now it little mattered. The King's health worsened until on the first day of summer the persons passing by the Palace noticed that the windows had been draped overnight in black velvet, and the Royal Guards had donned the ebon armbands. Jalory II was dead, and preparations began for the coronation of Yessel I.
Thus Fesk Rangol became the King's Taster, and still, very little had changed.
"I yield the Royal Palate to the grace of Obosidor," Fesk said.
"I release you until the morrow," King Yessel said in proper reply.
Simple words, Fesk thought as he headed for his chambers. Simple words, spoken every night for twenty-five years now, twenty of them with Yessel as King. He entered his chambers, lit two candles, and looked at himself in his mirror. I was thin once, he reflected, gazing at the corpulent reflection. Such was the result of being Taster to a man well versed of food. He turned away from the mirror, picked a book from his shelf, and headed for the couch by the terrace door. He heard stirring on the bed, behind the curtains that hung from the immense canopy.
"Not tonight," he said to his concubine, a woman the King had personally selected to service the King's Taster. "I am tired and I shall just read some poetry before bed." A whimper of disappointment came from the bed. That was to be expected. What was certainly not expected was the sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard.
He had no idea how many grabbed him from behind. A pair of strong hands kept his head from turning, and a rough cloth sack was yanked over his head. A wad of stinking cloth was stuffed into his mouth. He heard several sets of footsteps around him; his attempts at struggle were utterly futile. He smelled sweat and dirt and horrible wine. One of his attackers had drawn very close....
"Stop struggling, you bloated buffoon," the man said. His voice was coarse. "You know you're not strong enough."
Fesk obeyed, although he remained very tense.
"Now, Scraphound, you will come with us."
The scrap of cloth was yanked from his mouth, and as he gasped at the air something was poured into his mouth from a bottle. He choked and sputtered, and some of it went down. Simple sackbutt, with a horrible aftertaste of the brandy and the wine...and the dusk oil. I will awaken soon, he thought as he slipped away into unconsciousness.
There was water, thrown onto his face. He awoke with a start, sputtering as some of the water went down his nose. He realized his shirt was wet, they must have thrown a good deal of water on him.
"Where am I?"
"Get that blindfold off," a male voice said. The blindfold was removed from Fesk's eyes. His vision was blurry and he blinked several times, looking around.
They were in an abandoned chapel with crumbling walls and decaying statues and altars. The whole place was lit by a single torch in the hand of the man who had spoken. All the others, however many there might have been, were behind Fesk, and he was still bound so he couldn't turn to see them. The man before him had his hood pulled up, concealing his features.
"What is the purpose of this abduction?" Fesk said, trying to sound more outraged than frightened. "I demand to know the reason for this direct insult and act of insurrection on the King!"
The man chuckled. "That was very nice," he said. "You will forgive our failure to be afraid. You are not missed now, having spoken the Release; you are bound with excellent ropes, you are unarmed, and I doubt any skill at arms you may have matches ours."
"I will be missed eventually," Fesk warned. He caught a smell on the air, foul, like rotting meat.
"Not until the morning meal," the man said, shaking his head. "And you will be back well before then."
Fesk blinked again, confused. "You are not going to kill me?"
"If that were our objective, we would have done so in your room, and in very bloody fashion. That would have made an impression. No, we needed merely to speak to a member of the Court."
"An official audience would have sufficed."
"An official audience?" The man snorted, suddenly angry. "Do you truly think that men such as us would be given official audience?"
"Why me?"
The man shrugged. "There are reasons," he said in a different tone. Quieter, softer.
Fesk shifted his arms, trying to restore some circulation to his wrists. "What do you want to say?"
"As the King's Taster, you are cloistered away in the Palace. How much do you see of the Realm? The Realm that exists beyond the walls and the gates?"
"The Realm is in good stead," Fesk said. "The Realm has always been a tower of strength."
The man laughed harshly and shook his head. "You are more cloistered than I thought. Do you not smell that?" He gestured to the air, and Fesk noticed the scent of rot again. "That is the smell of death in the city. Does the air itself halt at the Palace walls?"
"We know that there is disease in the Realm, but nothing lies within the King's power to halt that. Do you blame the King for the plague?"
"For the plague? No. But the ships have come, bearing medicines -- and yet those medicines are taken from the wharves to be placed in storage and used to treat the nobles."
"That cannot be true."
The man shrugged. "Ask the King, or check on it yourself. But have you ever wondered how the King can pay for all that opulence at the Palace? Is he truly that rich? Those feasts were he serves a hundred pigs at once, where a thousand loaves of bread are consumed? Those great meals after which the river canal runs red with the overflow from the opened casks of wine? Can this be what the King spends his money on?" The man rose and walked across the chapel to where he stood looking outside through a great hole in the wall. "The Odonian border is quite restless these days, and the King needs ships, wonderful ships bristling with cannon, to hold at bay the Awesome Threat of Gernivar." He spoke those last words with an inflated air, and Fesk took his meaning. Gernivar was a far less significant threat than the King or the Gernars believed. "Haven't you ever wondered how the King pays for all this? Do you have no curiosity, Taster?"
"I am a Taster," Fesk said weakly. "Such things are not my concern."
"Such things should be the concern of all men, and yet they are often ignored by men like you. The royal and the wealthy so often believe that the world ends at their own fences. But look, Taster. Look at this place." He gestured to the ruins of the chapel around them. "Is not the purpose of Kings to serve the God and to make his will on earth? Then why would a group of mercenaries, paid with royal coin, set upon this place and put it to the torch?"
Fesk stared slack-jawed at the man.
"Here was a place devoted to the God, and yet the King's men learned that occasionally the Priest of this chapel criticized his rule, and thus the place was burned."
"Why would the Priesthood allow that?" Fesk demanded, incredulous.
"They sanctioned it, Taster. The Priest here taught things that they deemed dangerous, so when the King's mercenaries came, they allowed them to do their work. And then there was the King's generous gift of gold and lands to the Priesthood. Coincidence?" The man shook his head. "The Priesthood does not exist to serve the nobles! And yet that is the way things are now." The man turned to Fesk. "King Yessel is a danger to the Realm and to his people."
"I am sworn to the King," Fesk insisted.
"Of course you are. You even saved him once, executing your duty with great aplomb that day. But I always wondered about that. Pangridi spiders wouldn't survive a journey as long as the overland route to Odona, and the ports of northern Odona would still have been icebound. But a ship docking at Caluna with forged manifests? That way the spider could have still lived to produce its venom."
Fesk stared at the man. "That is quite an accusation."
"I had hoped for more from you," the man said softly. "Look at this man, this King you revere. And see if he is worthy enough for you to have been torn from your mother's breast."
Fesk's head snapped up at that. "What? I was orphaned...." But the man had already gestured, and again there was the burlap sack and the wine blended with dusk oil.
When he awoke the next morning, back in his bed, his head felt as though it had been split open with an axe. Being twice subjected to dusk oil would do that.
At breakfast he couldn't help but stare at the King, trying to see some hint of evil in the man he had served for so long. But was that even possible? Could such monstrous nature be writ on a man's visage?
King Yessel smiled and joked through the meal, thoroughly enjoying his quail's eggs fried with sumac and bread baked with apples and cinnamon. Joining him was a group of his closest friends, noblemen all, a generally loutish group whose company Fesk did not particularly enjoy. Nor did he much enjoy his own breakfast, a fact which the King soon noticed.
"Goodness, Taster!" Yessel laughed with his mouth full. "You look as though you have suffered a night of ghosts and grave-wights."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not sleep well." That was certainly true enough.
"It was a warm evening," Yessel observed. "I prefer my rooms cold as well. Did you hear anything amiss?"
Fesk wiped his mouth carefully, not wishing to show too much interest in this line of questioning. "Amiss, Your Majesty? Amiss how?"
"Some of the guards thought they saw intruders, but they found nothing." The King made a dismissive gesture. "Not even tracks in the mud."
No tracks, Fesk thought. They were good. "No, my King. I saw and heard nothing."
Baron Wythnul, a very rich and pompous man Fesk disliked, laughed out loud. "If there was anyone here last night, Yessel, it was probably a group of commoners seeking perhaps to slit your throat!"
The King laughed too. "They could do worse! Royal blood surely does not stain." More laughter, all around the table.
Fesk had considered asking the King about what the man had said about the Tasters being taken from their mothers, but he could not think of a way to broach the topic in any kind of natural manner. He would not find his answer in the Palace. There had to be another way.
It took him two weeks to come up with a scheme to get out of the Palace long enough to return to the Isle of the Priests and the Venomous Academy. That in and of itself was dangerous; the Code of Obosidor expressly forbade any Taster to ever return to the Isle once recognized, under pain of death. It took him several more weeks to gather up the courage to make the attempt.
After speaking the Release, he dismissed his concubine, tied a bag of Royal coin to his belt, and climbed out his window. Stealing through the Palace grounds, he headed for the read entry to the kitchens, where the merchants brought their shipments of wine, sugar, flour, and many other things. Never was there a time when there was no activity in the kitchens; the King's opulent appetites required that. Fesk hid in some bushes and waited as a wagonload of apple barrels was delivered, the barrels full of apples being taken into the larders and replaced with empty barrels. Fesk thought briefly of hiding in one of them, but he quickly realized that he couldn't seal a barrel from the inside. He decided, instead, to crawl under a loose flap of the wagon's covering, just behind the driver's seat, and hide there amidst the barrels. This he managed to do, and he silently whispered thanks to the God that he was still as stealthy as he had been in his youth. Soon the loading was done, and the wagon began to move. The ride was very bumpy, and Fesk very quickly became nauseous. He had thought of this, though, and chewed a pulsan leaf he had brought with him. This calmed his stomach enough that he didn't have to worry about losing his meal. After a long ride, they finally stopped and Fesk very carefully snuck off the wagon and slipped away into the darkness. He sniffed the air and smelled salt water. They had arrived at the harbor.
It was a short boat ride out to the Isle of the Priests, but at midnight there would be no barge. No matter; he knew that now was when the poorest fishermen would take to the water, heading for the feeding grounds of the Night Porpoises. The Night Porpoises fed just below the cliffs up the coast, where the waters were very treacherous, and they were very hard to catch. Many fishermen had wrecked their boats and died trying to catch one, but the price a single Night Porpoise would return made the risk worthwhile. Fesk suspected that any fisherman desperate enough to try his hand at fishing for a Night Porpoise might also be desperate enough to take him to the Isle of the Priests, and it turned out he was right. The second man he asked agreed, taking half the contents of Fesk's coin bag now and agreeing to take the other half when he picked Fesk up on the Pier one hour before dawn. Fesk only prayed that this fisherman would not join the others who had been dashed against the cliffs and sent to the bottom. A short while later Fesk was on the Isle.
He still knew his way to the Venomous Academy and walked quickly, breathing in the scent of the olive trees. Making his way along the paths, he moved past the Temple of the God and headed for the Academy. When he got close, he walked around to the back of the building, where the gardens were. The gardens were lit by a series of slow-burning torches. Here he hid near an entrance that was never used except for students who were sneaking out after midnight. He was thinking of what to do next when the door opened, the hinges still squeaking after all these years.. Fesk ducked behind a tree just as a young Priest exited the Academy and headed up the path, through the Gardens, toward the Temple. Soon he would pass right in front of Fesk's tree. Strange, Fesk thought. The only Priests in the Academy overnight were the ones reciting the vespers in the chapel. A young Priest leaving in clandestine fashion could mean only one thing, and Fesk smiled grimly; he was grateful for this opportunity but not particularly proud of what he was about to do. He waited for the Priest to go by, and then he stepped around the tree onto the path behind the Priest and cleared his throat. The poor Priest nearly jumped clear of his body as he whirled about, but thankfully he had presence of mind not to shout.
"An intruder!" he exclaimed in a low voice. "Who are you? This is punishable by death!"
"I know," Fesk said, stepping forward. "I lived here once."
"I will shout!" the young man said as he stepped back, keeping his distance. "There are dozens of Priests in earshot."
"Eight dozen, depending on how loudly you call them," Fesk said. "There are ninety-six Priests on the Isle at any one time. And if you shout for them the other ninety-five will wish to know just why a Priest is coming out of this particular door." He stepped forward again and smiled calmly. "I confess my ignorance on current doctrine. How does the Priesthood look upon midnight liaisons between Priests and Tasters? Between men?"
The Priest winced and remained silent.
"I am Fesk Rangol."
"A Taster?" The Priest's jaw dropped. Fesk's name was still famous here. "You have returned to the Isle, to the Academy? That is forbidden!"
"I know," Fesk said. "But there is something I would learn, and I can only learn it here. I would know of my parentage."
The Priest shook his head. His tone became that of a Priest, instead of a scared young man. "What can that matter? You are not young anymore. Go back to the King and serve the God and Obosidor."
"I would know this, and you will help me, or I will shout for your brethren."
The Priest seemed to pale slightly. It was hard to tell in the moonlight. "Entering the Priesthood and serving the God to my highest ability is my only dream," he said. "Such it has always been. Come. We should not talk of these things here." He gestured for Fesk to follow him, and he led the way down to a sandy beach that Fesk remembered well for its clams.
"The first Tasters were found by accident, by the miraculous hand of the God," the Priest began. "It was in a village very far from here, on the Island of Nad."
"I was born on Nad?" Nad was a sacred island owned by the Priesthood.
"All Tasters are. The people of Nad are forbidden to leave the island. Only ships bearing the Seal of the High Priest are allowed to dock. It is a place of the highest piety...."
"Yes, where the God first revealed Himself to man. I do remember the liturgies."
"Yes, I'm sure you do," the Priest said, sounding rebuffed. "The Naddians live there to keep stewardship over the place where Daomon the Prophet, First of Priests, received the revelation. Those people must be pure. Their blood must be clean if they are to properly tend the Hallowed Isle.
"Two hundred years ago, a child was born who was immune to whisperberry. The child was left unattended in the garden by his mother, and he ate four of the berries."
"One will kill an adult male," Fesk said. "Two will kill a horse."
"Some thought it pure chance, but the God never does these things without reason. The Priests knew that to them had been delivered a means of protecting the anointed Kings of all the lands swearing fealty to the Priesthood from poisonous death. That boy became the first Taster, and others were born, but only on Nad and nowhere else. Thus began the Rite of Identification."
Fesk raised an eyebrow quizzically. "The Rite of Identification?"
"In the seventh month of each year, all newborn males on Nad are tested for the immunity. Those who survive are brought here, to become Tasters."
Those who survive.... Fesk felt the blood drain from his face. "They...they kill...." He couldn't finish. How many dead children were there, buried just after birth, so that he could be found? He felt like throwing up.
"You must understand. Before the Tasters poisoning had been the most common means of forcing the Royal Succession, and not just in the Realm. Dynasties were ended by slipping Silver Poppy Extract into a jug of wine. Wars began this way. You might recall the war with Odona some years ago, the war which put Yessel I on the throne."
A quick image flashed through Fesk's mind. A glass vial with a dead spider inside....
"It sounds evil to your ears," the Priest went on. "But the lives of innocents, even babes wrapped in swaddling clothes, have long been given in the names of Kings."
Fesk couldn't look at the Priest. "And Kings serve the will of the God," he said bitterly. "They are his chosen, his anointed. We are their playthings."
"Do not be bitter, Fesk Rangol. Every soul plays a part in the great tapestry that the God weaves, even those whose threads are so short."
"Actors should choose their own parts," Fesk replied. Then he turned and left the Priest alone in the moonlight. His fisherman arrived on schedule and took him back to the mainland. He found a fishmonger heading for the Palace and hid in his wagon. During the ride back, he heard sounds: hoofbeats, men marching. Bells of alarm tolled throughout the city, and there were indistinct shouts of men and soldiers in the distance. There was breaking glass, and there were screams in the darkness. And finally, as the fishmonger's wagon passed under the Palace gates, Fesk smelled smoke mingled with the salt of the breeze from the sea.
"I tell you, Your Majesty, the people are getting out of hand." It was Baron Wythnul speaking. "The lawlessness of last night cannot be permitted."
"It shan't be, Baron," King Yessel said, his mouth full. "I've sent the army to gather the instigators. Meantime, we should go to the lodge today. I fancy a fox-hunt." This brought cheerful nods from the King's nobles. They loved hunting.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Fesk said. "I have not heard what happened last night."
"Interest, Taster?" The King laughed. "Interest in what happens beyond the Palace walls? Very unlike you."
"True," Fesk admitted. "But I am growing older, and these walls are less comfort to my old bones."
The King laid down his fork and stared at Fesk, with something clearly in mind to say. He merely shook his head. "It seems that some of my subjects are not entirely satisfied. Last night there was an uprising of sorts, a protest against the tax collectors. A group of brigands broke into the Royal Repository and looted it."
"And you are not angry, Your Highness?"
"I am furious, Taster." He smiled coldly. "Fortunately, as King I have an army at my disposal, to make my anger known to the people." Those words made Fesk shiver.
After the meal ended, Fesk joined the King and his Royal Party at the hunting grounds. He seemed to be the only one concerned with the events in the city, finding himself often looking back down toward the sea and the city, where he saw occasional smoke. The King's soldiers were very thorough. When they returned that night Fesk learned just how thorough they had been.
Hundreds had been arrested and thrown into the stockades. The King had ordered public and summary executions. Fifty citizens had been killed that first day, their bodies hung on display along the Palace walls. That stench permeated the Palace, making Fesk and a number of other servants ill. Finally, on the third day, the King ordered the bodies taken down and thrown into the river.
It was one week after the riots that the soldiers captured the leader of the failed tax revolt. The King and his friends thought it would be amusing to confront this man, so the King had him brought before him at dinner. When Fesk saw him, he was surprised that the man did not appear to be a fearsome revolutionary. He was a middle-aged man, rather heavy, his hair and beard tinged with gray. His clothes were stained by soot and flour.
"Look on the revolutionary!" the King crowed. His mouth was full of roast boar. "A breadmaker. I think he will be seeing his ovens closer than he had bargained for, eh?" He laughed, and his attendants joined in. Yessel looked at the Rebel. "Your name, breadmaker."
The man stood straight. "Are you going to torture me for it?" His voice is familiar, Fesk thought.
"I suppose not," the King said, dismissing the thought. "It's not that important. So, Breadmaker: what did you hope to accomplish? Did you have wreaking death upon the people in mind? You brought that on, you and your insurrectionists."
"We wanted what was ours," Breadmaker said. "The money you steal from the people."
"How can the King steal that which is already his by right?" Still the calm smile.
"Your subjects disagree more and more. Someday they will no longer stand for it."
"Nicely said, Breadmaker. But if such a day should ever dawn, it will be long after your death." Still smiling, he gestured for the man to be taken away. Two soldiers stepped forward to remove him.
"It was a pleasure to meet your Taster," the man said, glancing at Fesk as he was escorted away. That was when Fesk recognized him as the man in the chapel the night he had been abducted.
Late the night Fesk went to the Palace dungeon, paying his way past the guards with coins and bottles of wine. The dungeon only held one prisoner that night.
"So," the man said, "now you see me without the mask, and I am the one bound." He laughed humorlessly. "What would a Taster wish to discuss? Certainly not bread making."
"The King has been good to me," Fesk said. "Why would I turn against him?"
"Has anyone asked you to?"
"Do not play the fool now," Fesk snapped. "You came to me, looking for a traitor. Why?"
The man sighed. "So this is what becomes of a Naddian child. How sad."
"You talked of medicines before, but you took only money. Why?"
"The medicines will be taken, the night after my execution. The King's soldiers will not be expecting it then. As for the money, we botched that. It was all to be sent to Pangrid."
"Pangrid? Why?"
"Because the Pangridi Potentate has a very strong navy, and a daughter who has designs on her mother's homeland. She would be a just ruler, governed as she is by the religion of the sands rather than that of our own corrupt Priests. If there were turmoil in the Realm when she came -- say, if King Yessel were to die before he names a successor, being childless himself -- the arrival of the Pangridi, led by King Yessel's niece, would be much smoother."
"What are you asking of me?"
The man fixed his gaze on Fesk, studying his face. For some reason, he nodded. Then he shrugged and said, "I ask nothing of you." He turned away and went back to his cot, saying nothing more.
Breadmaker was executed the next morning. He was beheaded and his body quartered, the official penalty for such high treason. Fesk found himself thinking often of the man over the next week.
If King Yessel expected the execution to stave off the unrest, he was sorely disappointed. That very night a party of angry citizens stormed one of the ships bearing medicines at the harbor. The ship, which bore the seal of the Govaran Queen, was burned; two of her crew perished. This filled the King with wrath, and he unleashed his soldiers again, commanding them to restore order "in the name of the King". There was much death in Vairece over the next few weeks, and Yessel came to be referred to as Yessel the Black, Yessel the Slayer, and worst of all, the Gelded King. His lack of a successor -- and his known refusal to even take a mate -- became a rallying cry among those certain that, by slaying him, an entire dynasty of evil would be destroyed. Fesk watched all this from the safety of the Palace, and his heart broke to see the fair city of Vairece put to so much damage. And then, one night, a letter was brought to him:
Fesk Rangol, Taster of the Realm,
I write to you to explain things that are best left unsaid until after my passing. I shall make, as my official Final Wish, the delivery of this letter two weeks after my death. I do hope that Clausus, my guard, honors his promise in this matter. He seems an honorable man.
You asked why I came to you, out of all the servants in that Palace. My name should help to answer this question. I am Kassodon Rangol. I am from Nad, and you are my son.
Please see that this is true. I left Nad because I wanted to see you again, to see my son and to follow and watch him. You see, Fesk, you were our only child. A year after you were taken from us we tried again, your mother and I. But this was not to be: neither your mother -- my wife -- nor your sister survived that night. I was alone, and my thoughts turned finally to the son I had seen taken away.
I waited for so long, saving my money for the journey. I was able to sneak onto one of the ships, and thus I came to Vairece. Here I lived, soon learning that you were serving Yessel. How proud I was when you saved his life! Yes, pride, even though you served the family that had taken you from me, as I have now been taken from you.
Know this, my son: Despite only seeing you twice and neither time in light, I see your mother in you. She would be proud of you, though she missed her one son all the short days she had left. Her heart cried for all the Mothers of the Seventh Month.
Know also, son, that Pangrid and Jurona, allies once again after hundreds of years, wait for the right moment to come across the sea.
I shall always be proud of you, my son, no matter what you decide.
In all things are endings,
Your Father.
Fesk reread the letter and then sat for a long time. In all things are endings: a proverb of the God. Fesk preferred An empty plate is both a beginning and an end. He thought long, for many days, over the words of a father lost, found, and lost again. The deaths continued to mount in the city and Vairece was no longer beautiful. Word came that unrest had spread to Caluna as well.
Finally, on the day when the King decreed a great feast to happen the next night, a feast for the Royal Ambassador of Pangrid, Fesk made a decision. That night he made his second forbidden journey to the Isle of the Priests and the Venomous Academy.
"Now, this is certainly a surprise." King Yessel said. "Do come in, Taster." He stepped out of the way, allowing Fesk to come into his personal chambers.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Fesk said as he entered. "I hope that you will forgive this intrusion on your private time. I found sleeping difficult; my old bones ache."
"Don't complain to me of your old bones, Taster. Mine outnumber yours by fifteen years." He smiled. "Come. I see you have edibles." He looked at the bottle of wine and loaf of dark bread in Fesk's hands. "Sit with me under the star dome." He led Fesk to a pair of couches that reclined under a large glass dome through which the stars could be seen in the night sky. Fesk put the wine and bread on a table between the couches and fetched two goblets from a nearby shelf. Then, after pouring the wine and breaking the bread the two men lay on the couches and looked up at the stars.
"Shall we speak the Resumption?" Fesk asked as he settled back.
King Yessel waved a hand of dismissal. "We have no need of that, Taster."
"As you wish," Fesk replied softly. If the King had been watching, he might have seen Fesk's ears turn slightly red. As it was, the King only had eyes for the stars.
"Do you know the constellations, Taster?" the King asked as he sipped his wine.
"A few," Fesk said, sipping himself. "There is the Spear of Langanar."
"Yes, I like that one very much." Yessel sipped again. "Before the Priesthood, men believed that the stars controlled their fates. Some still believe that." There was a moment of silence. Then the King spoke again. "I have seen the expressions on your face, Taster. The anger at my policies. The disdain in your eyes, which you struggle so valiantly to hide."
Fesk chewed a bite of bread as the King continued.
"Do you think me a monster, Taster? Do you think of me in the way my subjects do?"
Fesk shifted uncomfortably. "I serve you, Your Highness."
"Yes, you do," the King agreed, sipping the wine and chewing his own bread. "But even though the Taster performs his duties, perhaps you have had certain….thoughts. Thoughts which would test your faith in the strength of Kings."
Fesk sipped his wine. "In the many years I have served, Your Highness has never shown interest in what I think."
"It is, at best, a sporting interest, Taster. What would it take for a man like you to betray me, I wonder?"
Somehow Fesk remained calm. He focused on his own breathing. The King kept talking.
"More wealth than any man can offer, I think." Yessel shifted on his couch. "That is why I like you, Taster. You are loyal like a dog. You even subsist on my table scraps!" He laughed at his joke. Fesk did not. "Ah, the stars," the King went on, changing subjects. "They shine each night, not noticing the evils that take place among men. Do you think that the stars sit in judgment of us? That they are our moral arbiters?"
Fesk looked at the King. In the dim light he appeared pale. "The God is our arbiter, Your Highness."
"Ah, yes," King Yessel nodded. "The God. How we all believe in him, and yet no one realizes that we created him. The God, indeed….I should have to kill every person in Vairece merely to gain his attention. But the stars, twinkling with such permanence -- how can we stand before them and refuse their will? I do their bidding….and still you disapprove."
Fesk put his glass down and faced the King, sitting upright. Yessel merely lolled his head to meet Fesk's gaze.
"Stop this madness, King Yessel," Fesk said, leaning forward as he spoke. "This cannot go on. You cannot kill your people like this. Be a just King."
King Yessel smiled lazily. "Were it not for the warmth of this wine, I would have you executed for such talk. But I think you shall live, at least until your palate fades. Then there shall be the most solemn ceremony. The death of a Taster. How tragic that would be. A fine palate, wasted...." Suddenly he snapped his head up, and there was anger in his eyes. "You are a stupid man, Taster," he said with shocking vehemence. "You implore me to spare these wretches? They must know the will of their King. There is a price to pay for the King's anger. Men such as you never understand." He lay back down and glared at the stars.
"Perhaps not," Fesk said quietly. "But there are other prices to be paid."
The King snorted and waved a hand of dismissal. "Go, Taster. I thank you for your wine and for your bread, but I tire of your company. I will sleep now."
"Will you not retire to your bed, Majesty?"
The King was silent for a moment before answering in an already drowsy voice. "I think I shall sleep beneath the stars." He said nothing, and soon he was lightly snoring. Fesk sat by him for a long while, never averting his gaze from the man it had been his fate to serve for so many years. There were two fates decided there that night under a canopy of stars.
King Yessel's breathing became shallower. Fesk wondered at the man there on the couch. How could such cruelty and arrogance be vested in the same body as such love of beautiful things? How could such a palate serve a man so unworthy of the finest meals? Fesk offered his question to the God, but he took his answer from the stars. And as the sun began to rise, its golden light pushing the stars away, Fesk rose from the side of King Yessel I.
Fesk went to the door and opened it. To the guard there he said, "Come quickly. Obosidor has forsaken."
After the passing of King Yessel I five different nobles laid claim to the throne. They were the same nobles who had been the King's friends and had come to each of his parties; how easily the amity of those grand feasts turned to enmity. It seemed to all that the Realm might dissolve into civil war, until a Royal Ambassador came from Pangrid bearing the news of the impending arrival of the Pangridi fleet. The ships would also be carrying the troops of Jurona, and Princess Dirwana II would arrive to assume the throne. Until then he, the Royal Ambassador and Official Bearer of the Seal of Dirwana II, would act as Regent. He cautioned each of the nobles not to oppose him, for the Realm could not possibly survive such a conflict. In a rare display of reason, none of them did. And through it all, the King's Taster remained in the dungeon. It would be the duty of the new Queen to deal with him.
With the backing of he father's fleet and thousands of Juronan soldiers, not one person stood in her way. He first official act as Queen was to have the former Royal Taster blinded for his betrayal. A traitor was a traitor. But she apparently owed him some gratitude, and thus she had him banished to a far away island. Her second act was to free the people of Nad and end the business of breeding Tasters. The Priesthood was weakened, and they abandoned the Isle in the Vairece harbor, although they still maintained their hold over the remaining rulers across the continent. The Venomous Academy was destroyed and a temple built to the God From The Sands.
Thus the Realm of Gonn became one with Pangrid, by the hand of a Taster. The history that followed is very bloody, of course; but how often throughout the ages has so much turned on the actions of a single man? In truth, more often than the historians would admit.
Fesk Rangol died three decades later, not knowing -- and little caring -- what had happened since he had forced the Royal Succession. Historians looking through his papers, after they were at last unsealed by the Priesthood on the third centennial of his death, found two letters that were of particular interest. One was apparently written to Fesk by his father, with whom he would have been forbidden by Holy Law to contact. The other, in Fesk's own hand, was addressed simply: "To those Who Come After".
Obosidor did not forsake that night. Let him not be blamed. The food was not poisoned. Neither would the King have been, had he chosen to speak the Resumption. The choice was offered; he refused.
It had to happen that night. The letters I exchanged with the Pangridi ambassador made that plain. I had to do the deed so as to prevent the Realm from being plunged into a war it could not have won; but I also had to act to prevent a war amongst the terrible men the King counted amongst his friends.
There is a chamber, a vault, in the Venomous Academy where the most lethal of poisons are kept. These defy the immunity of even the strongest Taster; they always kill. The Priests kept the knowledge of these strictly; if they were discovered by the people, then the Tasters would be neutered. The Priesthood is, and ever has been, very good at keeping knowledge for itself when it deems it necessary.
One of these poisons was a powder whose origin I do not know. This powder did not need to be eaten, or even breathed. To touch it alone causes death. Do not wonder how I acquired it; those details do not matter. What matters is that it was a simple job, really, to dust it onto the King's goblet. He passed slowly, quietly, and with some dignity. Even then I could not bear to visit upon him suffering akin to that which he visited upon his people. Is that a failing? Only the God and the stars can know.
I served Yessel I well for many years. At last, it was time for me to serve the Realm, for the Realm is greater than any Taster, Breadmaker, or even any King.
In hopes of my mother's pride and my father's forgiveness,
Fesk Rangol.
An empty plate is both a beginning and an end.
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