The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (38 page)

Noting Sorial’s approach with surprise, the innkeeper curtly ended the tale and shooed away the four who were listening to him.

“I be honored, Yer Magus,” he said with a lopsided grin. There was no hint of mockery in his voice or manner. Same Warburm - the trip to The Forbidden Lands hadn’t changed him at all.

“Good morning, Warburm. How’s business?”

“Fair ta middlin’. Truth be told, I like it better this way than when all them foreigners were around. More coin then but I done had to bang more’n a few heads every night. It be one thing to grope a barmaid but another thing altogether to try’n force her hand down yer pants. But you ain’t here ta talk about my business. I rather think it be yer business we be ’bout to discuss.”

“I need your help.”

Both of the innkeeper’s bushy eyebrows shot up.

“It’s a commission from the Crown. I need a guide and some muscle to take me to Basingham. Travel ain’t easy for a one-handed man, even if he is a wizard. The journey starts in the evening. I’ll be gone between two and three weeks, at best guess. On foot and off the main road, following the coast all the way there.”

Warburm scratched his stubbled chin. “Coast huggin’? Somethin’ tells me you be wanting more’n a simple guide.”

Sorial nodded. “Your kind of job. Could be dangerous. I’m gonna force an encounter with someone you once knew: my sister.”

“I knew her as a child, but that were a long time ago - years afore you were born. Devoted to yer mother. Sorry to hear about Kara, by the way. Terrible way ta go; damn Ferguson for that. I shed a few tears when I found out. She an’ I went back a long way.”

Sorial brushed aside the condolences. “Ariel wants to kill me. If she sees you as a threat, she’ll take you out, and you don’t have my abilities to defend yourself. If she strikes at you, I may not be able to protect you.”

“Lad, if you think fear of death is goin’ ta keep me from being yer guide, you don’t know me very well. ’Course I’ll do it. Hell, it’ll give me a chance to go someplace where it ain’t so fuckin’ hot. Jus’ you an me or be there others?”

“Just you and me. I’ll meet you at the south checkpoint at sundown. Pack what you need.”

Sorial had one more person to see before his departure, but that could wait until the morning. Time to go home to his wife and tell her they had found their guide. And now it was Sorial’s turn to keep secrets from Warburm. He took a perverse delight that turn of fortune.

* * *

Ferguson was looking better than the last time Sorial had seen him. He was more composed and self-assured than on their previous visit, with only a vestige of humility remaining. He remained confined in small room but his attitude wasn’t that of a prisoner or a penitent. It was telling that the Temple hadn’t yet replaced him - an indication that his power base remained strong outside the walls of the palace. Ferguson might be a prisoner at the moment but Sorial was convinced he had no intention of remaining so in the long-term. If Vantok survived, Ferguson was likely again to be a threat. But today wasn’t the time for concern about the prelate’s future plans.

“Your Magus.” He greeted Sorial with a florid bow. If he was surprised by the visitation, he gave no indication of it.

“Your Eminence,” replied Sorial with an inclination of his head. “I’ve got a request for you.”

“If it’s within my power, you need but ask.” The words were subservient but the tone wasn’t. There was an ill-concealed arrogance in the way Ferguson spoke. Sorial was more sure than he had been upon entering the cell that Ferguson’s future plans didn’t involve a life of self-abnegation and contrition. The safest course would be to execute Ferguson. It could be done quietly and without fuss. No one would miss him outside of his most devout followers and they would be unsure of his fate. But he knew things that Sorial was certain would be important, perhaps even critical, in the future. He was too dangerous to keep alive but too important to kill.

“You said you had a list of possible wizard candidates. Do you have a choice for The Lord of Air.”

“An odd request indeed considering that the position is currently filled. By your sister, as you informed me. Has something happened to her?”

“Not yet.”

“Ahh! But you intend for it to. And you’d like her successor to be chosen by you rather than your rival. It would certainly alter the balance. You have a plan, I suppose?”

“That ain’t nothing you need to be concerned about.”

Ferguson smiled his predatory smile. “Perhaps I was wrong about you. Perhaps you are ruthless enough.”

“The list?”

“I have a group of names, but their suitability is untested. I studied their genealogies and determined which ones have the highest likelihood to carry the potential. None have nearly the promise of you or your wife, but some may hear the portal’s call. In order to determine their elemental inclination, however, I would need to meet them. What you ask isn’t a simple thing. To find your next Lord or Lady of Air would require excursions to one of the portals followed by interviews.”

“This is an urgent matter.”

“I understand that, Your Magus. But this process can’t be rushed. Let your sister continue in her current position for a season longer. Uncover her successor so that when the time comes to strike, The Lord of Fire won’t have the opportunity to trump you. It’s not unreasonable to suppose he has someone in place, primed to leap into the portal should the need arise. Remove your sister without a ready candidate and all you accomplish is to allow him to put someone younger and stronger in her place.”

“I thought experience was the most important thing in magic.”

“Experience in magic, as in all things, has its benefits and limitations. It would be as foolish to overestimate its value as to underestimate it. It’s usually the case that there’s an inverse relationship between experience and vigor. Wedding the two would result in an incredibly powerful wizard. New wizards are at the peak of their raw power. They have not yet begun to drain their reserves. Their bodies are hale. The effects of magic, the so-called ‘curse in the gift,’ haven’t yet started to eat away at them. Experienced wizards know how to do more with less and understand tricks gained only through age and wisdom. Many of them have at least a partial understanding of deep magic - something you have yet to taste. You can decide for yourself which is more important. If a fight between you and your sister were to come down to pure strength, you would destroy her. But if it comes to guile and a recognition of what magic can accomplish, she’ll defeat you.”

“Vantok can’t wait a season. This thing has to be done now.”

“I can only offer advice. If you choose to reject it, I can’t be held accountable for the consequences. I’m your creator, Your Magus. You would do well to heed me.” Those words, spoken with icy superiority, triggered a stab of intense anger in Sorial.

Thus far, he had been lenient with Ferguson. He had shown restraint and mercy despite the man’s sins. He had ignored Annie and others like her, victims Ferguson had claimed directly and indirectly over the years. He had chosen to overlook the gamble with Alicia’s life. But there was no contrition in this man. Sorial was determined for him to be humbled, even if it was a lesson he had to impart himself.

Sorial rapped on the door, the sign to be let out.

“Going so soon?” inquired the prelate.
Was that a sneer on his lips?

When a guard answered, Sorial told him, “You might hear some screaming coming from this cell. Don’t let it alarm you and, whatever happens,
don’t interfere
.”

During the next fifteen minutes, there were screams, although perhaps not as many as might have come from a less stoic man. Sorial’s aim wasn’t to torture - he wasn’t Langashin and he derived no pleasure from the pain of others - but to remind Ferguson that the balance of power had shifted. His position of control had been ceded to those he helped create. Sorial used earth to bind the prelate then began to experiment, expanding on the germ of an idea that had come to him during a stretch of sleeplessness: was it possible to bond rock to flesh and, by so doing, create an impregnable armor?

His goal with Ferguson wasn’t to provide the aging prelate with full body protection, but to try out the concept on a smaller scale. And, instead of helping him, Sorial wanted to result to be a hindrance - something that would make the prelate more controllable.

The unavoidable damage wasn’t permanent, but the prelate would find rapid movement challenging with the soles of his feet sheathed in rock. It would be difficult for Ferguson to stand, uncomfortable for him to move slowly, and agonizing for him to run. Sorial wasn’t gentle in affixing the “stone footwear.” It was a brutal, bloody business with spikes of stone stabbing through flesh to affix directly to bone. As Sorial worked, molding rock and grafting it to skin, he observed the superiority and arrogance drain out of Ferguson. Langashin would have reveled in accomplishing something like this. Sorial didn’t enjoy it but neither did he shrink from it.

Before rapping to summon the guard for a second time, Sorial had a few parting words for the injured prelate, who lay sprawled on the floor, sweating and panting. Tiny rivulets of blood seeped from the joints between flesh and stone. The jagged rock, formed into pads less than an inch thick, couldn’t be removed by conventional means unless the drastic step of severing the foot at the ankle was considered. Even Alicia, with her healing skills, would be confounded. Only Sorial’s magic could undo what had been done. And, in finishing this crude prototype, he had glimpsed a fraction of what earth-magic could deliver. This first attempt had been clumsy but there was immense practical potential in the application if it could be refined and implemented with minimal pain.

“You call me ‘Magus,’ but you ain’t got true understanding of what that means. You throw around terms like ‘surface magic’ and ‘deep magic’ without understanding what they mean. You live at my whim, Ferguson, and I’ll only be pushed so far. You are a
prisoner
. You might be right when you say you’re too important to kill, but there can be worse things than dying. I learned that on my journey to becoming a wizard. If you don’t want to experience them, show more respect the next time we meet. For now, enjoy the protection of your new footwear. It may be painful and cumbersome but you ain’t got to worry about foot injuries. This might not be proper deep magic but it’s more advanced than surface tricks.

“Is this ruthless enough for you?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: A CONFRONTATION

By the time dawn arrived on his first day away from Vantok, Sorial was following the coastline, with the sea roaring and crashing to his left and the quiet, baking plains to his right. With the sun hanging low over the land, the terrain seemed as barren and lonely as it had in the heart of The Forbidden Lands. It was hard to believe he was within easy traveling distance of one of the largest cities on the continent.

Sorial’s sole traveling companion was Warburm, who had done little but grumble since their departure the evening before. In additional to being opposed to traveling at night, he thought Sorial was setting too aggressive a pace and didn’t like the infrequency of their breaks. Warburm the innkeeper had yet to be replaced by Warburm the adventurer. Had the situation been less grave, the young wizard might have chuckled. Circumstances were indeed reversed from what they had been two seasons ago on the trek to Havenham. Being the leader of an expedition - any expedition - had its advantages.

“Lad, I dunno ’bout you but I need to sleep some time. All this walkin’ in this heat ain’t good for a man’s body.”

“Now that we’re by the ocean, we can move more slowly. We’ll take several breaks during the day and set up camp tonight.” There had been a necessity to cover the first miles of the journey quickly. Now that they were beyond what he considered to be the area of greatest vulnerability, haste was no longer mandated. In fact, it could be detrimental if they covered too much ground. After all, the goal of the mission was to be found not to escape detection.

As if reading Sorial’s mind, Warburm said, “You ain’t planning to reach Basingham.” It wasn’t a question. He had been briefed on only the barest skeleton of Sorial’s plan.

“If we ain’t intercepted before then, this trip will be a failure. We’re hunting my sister and the only way to locate her is to let her find us.”

“Said the lamb about the dragon...”

“She might be a dragon but I ain’t no lamb. Once, perhaps, but things have changed. You were there in Havenham. And next time you see Ferguson, after you get done examining his feet, ask him what he thinks of the ‘lamb.’”

“Did sometin’ ta get his attention, did’ya?”

“Let’s just say I taught him a lesson he ain’t gonna forget. A lesson about the consequences of ruthlessness.”

“Wish I’d been there ta see it, lad. I’ve done seen Ferguson
give
a lot of lessons but never
receive
one. I s’pose yer never too old to learn a few new things.”

“He likes to take credit for creating me. Now he’s got to learn to respect his creation.”

“I’ve known Ferguson for a long, long time and he can be a right ass. Or a pain in one. Thinks too highly of himself, he does. But he believes in his cause. He don’t seek personal glorification. He be a holy crusader, mayhap the last of ’em. We’ve all made sacrifices for this cause, you included, but no one’s given more than Ferguson. He gave up his entire life for this. Eighty years pursuing one thing with unwavering determination must be exhausting.”

Sorial was in no mood to hear Warburm’s defense of the man he had recently crippled. Ferguson was what he was and, however righteous his motivations, his actions were frequently abominable. Anytime he felt inclined toward a moment’s misplaced sympathy, all Sorial had to do was recall Annie’s face.

As they walked, they passed the time with small talk. When Sorial had traveled to the ocean with Alicia, they had said little to one another on the journey. The companionable silence had been pregnant with mutual affection. It wasn’t so with Warburm. There was an intangible restlessness between them that was exacerbated by lengthy pauses in their conversation.

After they had stopped for a midday meal and a short nap in the shade of a grove of parched trees, Warburm reminisced. “Sad ta think how this trip is going ta end. She were such a sweet little girl. I remember one day when she came skipping up to me. Had sometin’ hidden behind her back. When I asked what it were, she smiled and gave me an apple. Another time, she found a dead butterfly somewhere. Brought it ta me and asked me ta ‘wake it up.’ When I said I couldn’t, she started crying. There be a lot of memories like that ’bout her. Breaks my heart, this journey does.”

“People change. Magic changes us. Am I the same person I was before we left for Havenham?”

“Nay, but I blame that more on your losing an arm and being tortured than on what happened with the portal. It were the time in the dungeon what changed you. I knew when we rescued you that the boy who tended my stable was gone.”

“I won’t deny that Langashin’s lessons played a part. But magic changes a person. It eats away at who he is and replaces it with something similar but ain’t the same. Our existences - yours and mine - are defined different. Every human’s got a link to one of the elements. But with a wizard, the bond grows every time we use our powers. I’m a creature of earth.”

“You always did like getting’ dirty. Let me ask you somethin’, lad. The reason you agreed to travel to the portal, what was it really? Not a duty ta yer city an’ king.”

“The hope of marrying Alicia without having to run and hide. The chance to give her the home she deserves. You know that. We talked ’bout it when I worked in the stable and you told me to go after her. At the time, I didn’t know how important our relationship was to your plan.”

“Not mine, lad. But I well remember the conversation. An’ it may surprise you that it were me talking, not Ferguson. Yes, it were all set up for you to marry her, but I ain’t never believed class should be a barrier to love or desire. Noble or gutter rat, we’ve got the same parts and fucking ain’t different between gentry and peasants.”

“So says the man who warned me in the strongest terms not to marry Annie.”

“Now
that
were Ferguson. Hell, if you ain’t who you be, it would’ve been a good match, even with the age difference. But you was meant for Alicia, and she for you. Would you have gone to the portal for Annie?” When Sorial didn’t answer, Warburm forged on. “You say magic done changed who you be. But it still be as much about Alicia as it ever were. For you, it were never about power or wealth. Those things was foreign to you. It were about proving yerself to Alicia and winning her. An’ that didn’t change once you became a wizard. What be in here” - he thumped his left breast - “don’t change so easy.”

“And Ariel?”

“It weren’t the magic that changed her either. It were Braddock’s death. The poor girl worshipped her big brother. To lose him like that... To bury him instead of celebrating his transformation... It done broke her spirit. The girl who fled the village and entered the portal weren’t the same one I knew as she grew up. I mourn for her now as I grieved for her then.”

“She tried to warn me - came to me several times and told me not to heed Ferguson. When I was Sorial, Kara’s human son, she wanted to help. But when I became Sorial, Ferguson’s pet wizard, she intended to be my executioner. Do you remember Eylene?”

“The elf who saved us in The Forbidden Lands? Aye.”

“That was Ariel in disguise. Do you remember her last words to us? ‘This is the last time I can help you unless you turn back. You know what awaits you should you forge ahead.’”

That revelation surprised Warburm. Thinking back on the strange encounter and everything he had subsequently learned about Sorial’s relationship with his sister, the truth about Eylene’s identity made a certain twisted sense. It was no less credible than that she had been a member of a lost tribe of elves dwelling deep in The Forbidden Lands.

“Since then, she’s seen me once that I know of, and I almost died. An arrow to the breast. This trip is for me to confront her and resolve what’s between us, one way or another. Nothing would gladden me more than a reconciliation, but it ain’t likely. She’ll kill me if she can. It’s magic that sets brother ’gainst sister when affection might have existed without it.”

* * *

“How fares the army, Chancellor?” asked Myselene, recognizing that her efforts during her husband’s brief post-Challenge convalescence had strengthened Vantok’s militia in tangible ways.

Gorton sat across from her on the balcony outside the second-floor chamber she had claimed as her office and receiving room. It was too stuffy inside to hold an audience, although the outside was by no means cool. Having spent more than three seasons in Vantok, Myselene was becoming inured to the heat; the same couldn’t be said of her chancellor, who was finding the shift in climate difficult to cope with. Part of the problem was that, in his dapper vest and thick woolen trousers, he was ill dressed for the weather. Myselene was wearing a sheer dress that clung to her body in a way that was almost indecent. While Gorton’s feet were shod with thick, heavy boots ideal for stomping through snow, the queen was barefoot.

Mopping his brow with a handkerchief, Gorton replied, “Discipline is improving, Your Majesty. The swift marriage of so many of the Obis-born soldiers to the women of Vantok has helped with morale, although there remain strong pockets of distrust and resentment on both sides.”

“How many more have taken up the offer of pardons?” Myselene had never expected Rangarak to provide her with the cream of his troops for her dowry, but she had been shocked to learn that many of the “soldiers” were criminals released from prisons and pressed into service to satisfy the body count specified in the betrothal document. Less than half the men from Obis were legitimate members of the militia and, of them, few were remarkable physical or mental specimens. Myselene had offered pardons to those who wished to admit to their pasts. As a citizen of Vantok, she said, any crimes or misdeeds committed before would be forgiven with no consequences if they were confessed. Thus far, few had accepted.

“Another three dozen. They mistrust the sincerity of the offer, Your Majesty. They think it’s a trick. As more accept and are left unmolested, others will follow.”

Ultimately, it might not matter, since many could die in battle. Still, she wanted to know their crimes not to institute punitive action but to curb future misdeeds. She was uneasy about the possibility of marrying a potentially violent man to a loyal citizen. She had informed Gorton that any man guilty of rape or the killing of a woman wasn’t to be considered for marriage, but discovering men with such blemishes on their past was no simple matter. Thus far, nearly 200 of the 500 men from Obis had been wedded to brides of various ages and social classes, strengthening their ties to their new city. How many of those women would suffer at the hands of their husbands?

“And the contingent from Earlford?” Myselene’s negotiations with the eastern city had been more productive than the interminable wrangling with Basingham. King Dax of Earlford had agreed immediately that the army to the south represented a real and immediate threat not only to Vantok but to his city as well. He had also accepted Sorial’s legitimacy without a request for proof. The result had been an immediate consignment of nearly 1000 men to aid in Vantok’s defense should a battle occur. Thus far, Basingham had offered little and committed less. Myselene was hopeful of eventually procuring 300-400 men but the cost would be high. Ambassador Uthgarb’s starting point for negotiations had been exorbitant. Myselene could have purchased the services of two thousand mercenaries at that rate, if any could be found. Unfortunately, most of the swords-for-hire had flocked to The Lord of Fire’s banner.

“They’re good men, Your Majesty - well-trained and professional. For the moment, they keep to themselves in their camp but there’s little cause for concern that they’ll be unready when The Lord of Fire makes his move. If we include them, our forces now number nearly eight thousand. The latest report gives us a ten percent advantage over our enemy.”

Myselene nodded, fanning herself with a contraption given to her by her husband. It was made from the plumes of an exotic bird. These were all the rage among Vantok’s noblewomen. Myselene wondered what the bird that provided the feathers looked like.

“As important as these matters are, I come bearing grave news. I received a missive by bird from one of my agents in Obis. The situation there has turned bloody and tragic. Even before the wedding entourage returned, the struggle for the throne began in earnest. I regret to inform you, Your Majesty, that both your sisters have been slain.” He provided the details succinctly: Esmelene, the eldest and Sangaska’s widow, had been poisoned. Fyselene, the youngest, had been butchered along with her husband when a group of guards, supposedly hired to protect them, had turned against their employers. “You’re the only surviving legitimate child of King Rangarak.”

Myselene hadn’t been close to either of her sisters. Among the princesses of Obis, rivalry was more common than affection. Myselene had long ago grown weary of the mean-spirited games her sisters adored. But the lack of affinity for Esmelene and Fyselene did little to dampen the shock and dismay. In the play for power occurring in Obis, they were minor players. The only claim they had to the throne was one of blood, but neither had the ambition or the backing to pursue it. They hadn’t been a threat yet someone had deemed them dangerous enough to eliminate.

“Will they come after me?” asked Myselene.

“Hard to say. As queen of Vantok, you’re technically ineligible to succeed your father even though you are his only surviving true-blood child. And you’re very far from Obis. But it may be that whoever orchestrated the deaths of Esmelene and Fyselene is intent on eliminating all possible rivals, and that could mean you’re in danger. We should act and plan accordingly.”