The second short story from Boardmier, my fantasy world. My submission for my first Writing Prose 2 assignment at St. Andrews University.
CONTENT WARNING: verbal abuse, death, trauma.
Since the dawn of Boardmier’s Two Kings dynasty, two thousand years ago, the Crown defined three rights of possession.
Krei was the first: one’s right to create, or use, one’s possessions. You created it, and it was yours to use. Naturally, as property rights are quite loose, the definition of “use” was slackened to mean a general form of ownership.
Parents owned their children; and under krei, no matter what caste they were, Pawn or King, they would not be separated.
On the precipice of sleep, a fragmented aria, etched in memory, roused William awake. That’d been the eleventh time this week.
At first, he’d thought nothing of it. Most likely, his Royal We was bored—the secondary inner voice that all Kings and Queens were born with, that gave them the insight to make sweeping executive decisions. But he stilled his mind, every time, waiting for the same response, a tad more exhausted than the last. Tonight, it said nothing new: I have no idea what’s going on.
Until it did: But they might. William’s attention shifted to a pair of voices chatting on the other side of his chambers.
“…This is a fine how d’you do. Rooms don’t just nip out of existence, do they? Check it again, Ossie, what? Just to be sure. Can’t be having that when someone’s died.”
Give assassins the credit they’re due: if a Monarch’s won over by a loquacious, nonchalant voice, one that’s a bit rambunctious around the frills, then a large enough bounty would have them all stage actors.
William heard the second speaker directly in his mind. It was baritone, brassy, monotone, but its owner didn’t sound altogether male… or human:
//. 𝙸𝚗/𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛—
“Iori,” came the cadences of a weary habit.
Then, a great hissing, like a newly-forged sword dipped in a lake, magnified tenfold. A sigh, perhaps? The other voice rumbled in William’s head again:
//. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐? 𝚆𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎.
“Right, well, I’m skeptical, Ossie,” Iori argued. “Rebirth Incarnates can’t open the bloomin’ door, or walk through the walls, but sure, magic binds the Light King to his palace, so he’ll be able to open it. That’s the order of things, sure.”
These were not, in fact, assassins. They were worse: not just one rogue god, in the dead of night, dragging him out of bed; they were a double act. Yet, despite the clue—‘someone died’—William had a hunch that he was still very much alive. He slowly shifted to face Judy, his wife, the Queen (in which order she was those things, he often mixed up). Still sleeping. Best to leave her out of this ‘god’ malarkey.
Beauty sleep, she’ll say.
He got up, walked over, and found a dark-skinned elderly man, falling and rising from a chair, tinkering with his companion—a ginormous silver golem, nine feet tall, vaguely human-shaped. Eyeholes flickered, light to dark, with stiff flames. An illuminant screen was installed on its chest, displaying characters of an alien language. Striking at it randomly, and drawing across it with his finger, the old man grunted and sighed theatrically, with the odd “blood and darkness” muttered under his breath.
//. 𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝙸𝚘𝚛𝚒?
“I’ve never wanted you to be more wrong. I just don’t get it.”
“But I might,” groaned the voice of the King.
Braggart. All-time high demand for original thoughts up here.
Iori’s fastidiousness at the screen went rigor mortis. He collapsed, then swivelled in his chair.
True, Iori found most of his clients at a disadvantage. This, however, was the first time he’d been on the receiving end. Horseradishes came to mind, for some reason.
“Talk about getting caught with the wind tickling the old proverbials, what?” he said cheerily.
True, this was the first time William had seen a god manifest. He knew his half of Boardmier still held many cultures, and thus, many personifications of death. Iori wore a broad-shouldered overcoat like a cape, creased flannel tunic, and the shortest undergarments he’d ever seen—knee-high. But the real giveaway that these gods were from the Betwo Dunes, northwest, were Iori’s sandals, binding foot to sole with innumerable crisscrossing vegetable fiber straps.
He didn’t look the part.
“I expected an executioner,” William said, fighting against the grog. “You look like a pauperous clerk who’s bumped into the Board’s biggest lump of silver.”
The strange scrivener let out an offended “Oi,” leaned in, and added: “Osiron’s cold and hard, but it’s got bally feelings, y’know?”
//. 𝙽𝚘, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝. 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢.
“We hate to ask for help, chum,” said Iori, “but someone’s died in your 411 Chamber, only now it’s not all here. “
The secret war room? Not all here? I’ve always told you it’s cursed.
William let the fact repeat itself in his mind. He lived in a world where a magic voice—no, I’m not the ‘M’ word—instructed him on kinging; gods sometimes just turned up in your chambers, and asked you to open doors, like schoolchildren desperate to use the toilet.
William put a palm to his right temple and massaged it. “You can wait, surely. You’re gods.”
At the same time, more of the Royal We’s unwanted backseat kinging: Iori bears a serious grudge against you. Holding back something.
//. 𝚆𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.
“Look, life, death, and rebirth can’t just stop for a breather, right?” said Iori. “Ferrying the dead is an access-all-areas sort of deal. One life missed here, one life there; delicate balance, ekcetra; pretty soon there’s so much de facto immortality to go around, no-one can die properly. Sooner we get this fixed, the sooner we are out of your life.”
William’s eyes fluttered at a sardonic thought. “Clearing out termite colonies must be very therapeutic.”
//. 𝚈𝚎𝚜. 𝚆𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚜.
“You don’t say. Fine.” William gracefully directed their attention to the door. “If I might make myself decent.”
Iori put his hands behind his back, pushed his feet against the floor, and rolled through the wall on his chair. Osiron, the hulking steel doll, excused itself from budging:
//. 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗’𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝.
William gave a performative glance down at himself, and then leered up into Osiron’s flickering eyeholes.
//. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢’𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢. 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍. 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕.
There came a grumble from the King, as he turned his back on the machine, and uttered a curse. This, Osiron surmised, was a response to a lack of clothing. Being naked mattered to humans in ways that its vital receptors couldn’t pick up.
William, meanwhile, in his half-awake jig to get dressed, reflected on death. Maybe Iori’s appearance was an attempt at being self-aware. As he knew too well, the rate of paperwork produced after death was in lockstep with decay.
Now clad in tights and undershirt, he stepped into the corridor, and showed Iori the way.
Profiti was the second right: If something came from the sweat of your brow, you were entitled to whatever it produced. Thus, the Light and Dark Monarchs, sitting on their thrones, owned all the sweat in their halves of Boardmier.
Kings and Queens, by birth, also had a legitimate claim to the throne. This created what should’ve been an obvious loophole. A non-Monarch King could owe his hard-earned labour; then again, what gave the Monarch the right to sit on his throne?
When Kings and Queens double-crossed each other, no-one they loved was safe.
He was no architect, but Iori instantly noticed the lack of interior design changes since William took the throne. Every Monarch, if they lived long enough, had added at least one new ornament for cleaning. Nowhere in the palace had stuck to a cohesive era. Pastiche? Best unsaid. Whatever it was, William hadn’t made it his own.
They left the corridor to descend down a stairway to the art gallery, when Iori started the conversation again:
“Funny old world, what? All this Kings-eating-their-own business. Used to call that tyranny, y’know. It’s a small miracle any of you inherited the throne.”
“None of us are naive to the fact we fight over the Crown with our lives. Fewer still seize power and don’t have the blood to show for it.”
“Like your friends,” said Iori, “They didn’t half scarper once the bodies piled up. Thirty, in all, by my count.” The prize of knowledge teased on his lips: “You’d love to know what they told me.”
We pursued the throne at any cost. Friends just got a bit close, is all. He knows nothing.
“Death doesn’t play favourites,” the King said. “After all, you killed my son, too. My Ferdinand.”
Ooh, dignified. Grandiloquent. Deflective. Just the right amount of pout.
Iori shook himself down, as if something had gone right through him.
“’Killed’,” he said. “is a strong accusation, chap. We turn up after someone dies.”
“And you decide to show yourself to me, seven years later, all because you can’t open a door? Cruel, and farcical!”
Confusion ran across Iori’s face. “What do you mean? We’ve got business here! Someone’s died tonight!”
“You act like you’ve a right to enter our private lives. Nothing about our meeting makes sense, unless it’s about Ferdinand.”
You do have to get over him eventually, William. You can’t grieve forever.
William offered the small courtesy of holding the left door, into the art gallery; Iori walked straight through the right, out of habit, stopped, and mouthed an apology.
“If anything, I think it’s about that Royal We of yours. What’s it been telling you all this time?”
William spat Iori’s own words back at him: “Wouldn’t you love to know?”
“I’m dead serious. I’ll admit, I’ve got awkward timing, and I haven’t been ‘humaning’ for very long, but I felt I had to show you the sympathy others haven’t. Please, trust me when I say, I need to know. Every Monarch before you has told me. You’re the only one who would tell me alive.”
‘Trust me?’ Think for yourself, William. That’s all I’ve ever asked you to do.
This end of the art gallery felt a little colder. William gave Iori another once-over with his eyes. Here were two voices who claimed they knew better. One of them only made themselves known half an hour ago; the other, William had been hearing before he could even walk.
If it was a matter of trust, then one of them was lying.
“It says everything happened for a reason. That he was stillborn – as retribution, by you, some grander plan, or all three.”
Iori twisted and turned in place, like he was ready to set about the gallery with a morning star.
“How can it say that,” he hissed, “except, of course it would. Of course! Ask it anything not directly to do with kinging, and the bugger spews any old bunk.”
Proof? Where’s all the testimony from your priors, huh? It’s hearsay.
“I don’t want to distrust you,” said the King. He thought of adding a ‘but,’ then putting forward the counterargument, yet he couldn’t put the words together.
“That voice feeds on suffering,” Iori said icily. “It’ll amplify your anxieties just to sustain itself. And if you’ve found the mental fortitude to ignore it? Lies, lies, lies, all the way down.”
With each lie, Iori brought the side of his right palm to his open left, for effect.
“That’s all it can do. That’s all it did for your friends. What god of death would I be if I took sides with a devil like that? Life happens, and it’s arbitrary, and it’s cruel. And it’s what happened to Ferdinand, however short it was.”
Let him run his mouth for a bit. He’ll drop his guard and show you how he killed Ferdinand. You’ll see.
William nodded, and sighed. “I know, I know. It’s hard not to listen. But you haven’t exactly made a great first impression. That nonchalant irony doesn’t make you clever, it just makes you insist upon yourself.”
Iori shrugged. “People love me when they’re dead.”
They paced through the art gallery to find a surreal portrait, three metres by five, lit by sconces and moonlight. This was new to Iori: white silhouettes marched into the limitless background; in the negative space, black silhouettes reached out to the viewer. The brush strokes constituting their anguished faces were laboured, every one. It was the sort of painting that captured something so hauntingly beautiful, in such a mesmerising fashion—it made one wonder what the point was in fixing it in a room filled with such meaningless architecture by comparison. Previously, it’d been a watercolour of the rolling glens enclosing the palace. Beige-iest greenery Iori’d ever seen.
And then, the bombshell: “That’s a fake Toulouse L’Échecs,” he said. “We met donkey’s years ago. The real one’s faces aren’t even half as relieved as these lot.”
The King nodded, and bowed his head. “That’s on a need-to-know basis. You’ve met everyone who didn’t need to know.”
He drummed along the ornate frame, powdering his fingers with dust, until he found a microscopic seam. It led to a bump that was very slightly loose, but otherwise perfectly disguised among the others. A contraption embedded in the frame whirred softly, and rolled up the painting to reveal a wooden door without a handle. The flimsy, rusty bar that held it all together looked ready to snap.
They pushed back the door, and were ready to climb into the pitch-black stairwell behind it, when the ground began to shake.
“Sleepwalking, are we, William William William Giles1?”
William’s neck nearly snapped at the call. The Queen, his wife, his Judy, had woken up. A pair of slippers were currently in the running for the non-existent Prize for Tremulous Footwear.
“You think you can always handle things yourself,” she said, “and if you lose an arm, well, you bloody lose an arm!”
“Darling, I–“
But his arms were already around her waist. He could feel himself slipping and stumbling onto one knee.
“No excuses,” she scolded, “you were going to that room yourself, never mind the Sandman over here.”
Iori swung his head to one side, emphatically incredulous. She’d rolled a joke, an insult, and a racist slur against his followers into two syllables.
“He’s just after a door,” William mumbled, forehead pressed against her belly.
“There’s milk in plums, too,” she said. She knew he’d laugh at that. “We’re doing this together. Come on, before your knees won’t let you.”
William wanted to stand up. And then he realised the tremors hadn’t stopped. They’d gotten stronger.
With a thunderous stride, Osiron burst through the art gallery door, and made precisely no impact as it went. Judy flinched, and immediately felt stupid.
“What happened to ‘I might disturb her?’” asked William.
//. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍, it said. //. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍.
He shook his head. Osiron’s monotone, inarticulate voice had tripped him up. “You couldn’t have said anything more ambiguous.”
Osiron rested its head on its left fist. A rhythmic clicking sound, coupled with what sounded like a chest being cleared through a metal pipe, emanated from its body.
//. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙸𝚘𝚛𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢.
A sheepish laugh from Iori. “Real meshugganah, this one…”
With that, William climbed into the stairway, pulled Judy up, and began to descend. The gods, for whom gravity and walls were optional, would walk straight through, and meet at the bottom.
A sheepish laugh from Iori. “Real meshugganah, this one…”
With that, William climbed into the stairway, pulled Judy up, and began to descend. The gods, for whom gravity and walls were optional, would walk straight through, and meet at the bottom.
Finally, forigi, the right to destroy one’s possessions. The lower the caste you were, the less this right protected you. Pawns, bound to their masters, had no right to destroy anything – not even themselves. That didn’t stop them from trying, of course.
Krei, profiti, and forigi. A Monarch, by definition, should be protected absolutely.
William benefitted from all the labour on his half of Boardmier, and he could have any of that labour destroyed as he wished. That made two rights. Not three.
Memories, slowed in time, played to the arrhythmic beats of war…
On the day Ferdinand died, William was preparing to hound orders in a battle that would take place a few miles north of the palace. While there was time, he and Judy had stepped through the courtyard, nearly blinded by the tiny summer suns that oozed into the pocks of the cobbles. The rain from the night before rendered them golden.
They’d argued over whether Ernest Fullbright–William’s most senior advisor, lifelong celibate, and the only other person with 411 clearance–was qualified to be a midwife. Bishop was the caste of healers; but Mrs. Croques, the head cook, had taught her husband midwifery mid-labour; true, but she was a civvy Knight, second to Pawns by caste. That’d be tantamount to scandal.
Judy’s waters broke during the battle; halfway down the stairwell to 411, she’d realised that Ferdinand wasn’t moving.
“Motherly jitters,” asserted Fullbright, a man who’d never clapped eyes on a woman’s body2 that wasn’t his mother’s.
Receiving the silent baby, his pout of mock incredulity at the “motherly jitters” bordered on treason. She had five minutes with Ferdinand, before Fullbright put the whole sordid ordeal away.
The still air mocked her. News of the stillbirth scarcely echoed. William exiled himself to his chambers for a fortnight, beyond consolable–the guards surmised he’d been stricken with illness by Dark Army blackguards. Fidelia Willowbrooke, a socialite, and clearly in love with the idea of the child, kept asking where he was, only to be silenced by a swift change of subject. Her ladies-in-waiting mentioned the absence of paraphernalia in the nursery once, and only once. It’d reverted to a study.
The Royal We was a complete non-starter. Gnomic utterances were all it could say. All it’d ever been interested in was conquest. Mindless conquest.
Mrs. Croques probably knew. Months later, they’d crossed paths, but Judy couldn’t say anything. Then, the year after, she’d overheard the cook in conversation with one of her kitchen maids:
“I don’t see why they can’t try for another. Not our place to say, mark you…”
Judy had braced herself for at least one person to say the wrong thing – not everyone around every corner. By that time, they’d tried multiple times to conceive. Both their bodies had given all they could, for Ferdinand. He’d never make friends. Never grow up. Never become Monarch. She and William would never be blessed with grandchildren.
They were not protected by krei. They never were.
To the gods, what stood before them was void, empty space, until William appeared to mime turning a giant valve. The 411 Chamber faded into a blurry existence, vault door and all, before sharpening into focus. Only the Creator could’ve made a space that materialised just for mortals – and if He’d shown face, Iori would’ve known.
The 411 Chamber’s interior had been the vision of a previous King, some twenty years before. The sconces, already lit, gave their light to what seemed to be a living room – round table in the middle, black leather chairs, a white and grey rug like the back of a playing card, stony carpet, granite-coloured walls, and a scarlet chaise longue that stood dramatically against it all. That’d been William’s only other personal touch, besides the painting. An ‘accent,’ he’d bluffed.
Judy called it in a single word: “Chronic.”
On that comment, their attention was drawn to the black mound underneath it, unmoving. Iori bent down, reached into his coat pocket, and produced a gold timepiece with a faint, teal halo. Once he put his hand on the shadow, the lifetimer’s glow intensified, and its hands began recalibrating.
It was a cat. Righting itself with a trill, it set owlish eyes on its saviours, and bade them a tiny meow.
“The lifetimer says it’s his last life,” said Iori. “but I deal with ‘em so often, I can tell by their look. Skinny as anything, what?”
The cat slinked gingerly over to Judy and William, and began to headbutt their ankles.
“Is it Ferdinand?” William asked. His wide-eyed stare said it all.
Iori gave a partisan shrug. “You’d think we’d know. I’m afraid it’s as much a mystery to us as it is to you.”
The Royal We begged to differ: What he won’t tell you is, he’s got a watch with your date of death, and he can wind those hands forward any time he likes. ‘Doesn’t play favourites?’ Come on, he’s a god in human skin – who says he doesn’t break his own rules from time to time?
Iori looked at the wall six inches above William’s head.
“I do,” he said. “And I don’t. I bally well don’t. Tormenting Monarchs is one thing, but Boardmier’s already chaotic enough with heir apparents killing each other left and right.
“I won’t kill the wicked, no matter how much I want to; the innocent, no matter how cruel their death, can’t be saved. Divine retribution would be tyranny by a godly hand. Were I to cross that line, I’d be robbing mortals of their agency. “
//. And if he would try, said Osiron, //. that is where I step in. They say, to err is human, but we cannot afford such mistakes.
They can hear it, William thought. All this time, he pretended not to–
Cry about it, figment. They can’t be rid of me.
The god’s eyes darted down to meet his, then back up. His scleras seemed to shine.
“Can’t we? Without the Kings and Queens of Boardmier, you’re nothing. Always have been, chap. Yet it’s their lives you use as bargaining chips. How’s that part of everything happening for a reason? You don’t even care about your own future, unless it involves killing!”
Kings and Queens die every day. Ferdinand was no different. Isn’t life arbitrary and cruel?
Iori turned to the cat. Still headbutting.
//. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜.
It paraded all over their lap before their bottoms had even touched the chaise longue.
And then, when everyone settled, came the purring. It quivered flames; inside Their Majesties’ skulls, a malaise began to ebb. It felt like a pressure point had been lifted from above. The silence in its place was serene, like an aria rousing them from sleep.
“Soothing, isn’t he?” said Iori. “Care for him, and that purring will restrain the Royal We. Teach that jackanave to play nice, what?”
Seven years of grief pooled in Their Majesties’ eyes, and ran off their chins in. Judy put her head in her hands, while William fumbled and choked on a ‘thank you.’ They could cry. Just cry. No backseat kinging.
Iori and Osiron nodded towards each other. Duty called. Best to leave them to it. Without declaring their leave, they shuffled through the walls, out into the night.
Afterword
James Woods, in How Fiction Works, theorises that the ‘voice’ of a story can change, from the author, to the characters, to the narrator. When two old ladies sitting in a restaurant joke about the small portions, they’re not the ones who’re making a metaphor about life. That’s Alvy Singer’s doing – the narrator of their story.
I’ve learned that if you want to change voice, and or change the psychic distancing of your characters, pretend they’re writing the story, for a moment. That could be as simple as referring to a character by their title (‘the King’) rather than their name (‘William’). I’m not sure this was the lesson Woods was trying to impart, but it’s what made sense to me, and when writing the Royal We’s dialogue, the vignettes about krei, profiti, and forigi, and Iori’s POV of the palace halls, I’ve tired to put my money where my mouth is. The speech Iori makes when calling out the Royal We originally came after William’s comment that ‘death doesn’t play favourites,’ and was free indirect speech. In the final edit, however, it’s quoted speech. I feel it makes Iori’s defense of his moral compass more impactful.
Talking of the Royal We, I thought a secondary narrator would be an interesting twist on voice. A misanthrope who fickly blocks William’s free indirect speech, instead injecting its own interpretation of events, it is, at best, an example of what Ursula Le Guin described in Steering the Craft as a semi-reliable narrator: you can rely on it to misinterpret details for its own sake. But as Iori makes very clear, when it can’t coercively control its hosts, it will start lying more often. Even its semi-reliability is tenuous. Either way, its role as a character is to fester anxiety, and manipulate what we and William see in Iori.
Voice can be characterised beyond the world of the text, too. Osiron, Iori’s partner, is a machine who communicates via telepathy. Within the text, its dialogue is characterised with tropes common among artificially intelligent characters: it is polite, subservient, rarely uses contractions. The reader learns from William that it’s also monotone, which I later exploit for a joke. Beyond the text, Osiron’s dialogue is rendered using the Courier font (commonly associated with old computer terminals or typewriters), and quoted using a double forward slash (standard syntax for comments in many programming languages) and period.
Contrary to Woods, however, no matter how distinct my character voices are, or the style of narration, it’s a fact that I, the flesh-and-blood author, put words in their mouths. Raymond Carver put words in the mouth of Fat’s first-person narrator, the waitress. Her conversational voice, the present tense and repetition all trick us into thinking we’re right across the table from her. It’s ‘her’ voice, sure. But Carver still made her up. He could’ve written, say, a faithful representation of a Scottish person with a heavy accent, and that wouldn’t change. Just as a voice actor’s performance contains subtle cadences of their speaking voice, how could we not expect to find traces of an author’s voice within their characters?
TTLY…
- [Feb 24] Acronyms and Anthropology https://brologue.net/2024/02/24/t-h-i-n-g-s-and-stuff/
- [Feb 28] On Productivity https://brologue.net/2024/02/28/my-god-pure-productivity/
- William’s grandfather’s scribe made a clerical error. William’s father was never good with names; he gave William ‘Giles’ by pulling names out of a box. ↩︎
- That anyone knew of. ↩︎
The Light King’s Tale – the Right to Krei is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license. Use it however you like, even commercially, so long as you attribute it to me, bm, and link back to this original article.