The Last Whisper of the Gods (34 page)

But she had asked him, not the other way around. The words hung in the air between them. He had been honest with her thus far; there was no sense in resorting to half-truths and platitudes at this stage. He was uncertain why she had asked, but he doubted it would have an impact on her matrimonial decision.

“I respect you, like you as a person, and look forward to spending the rest of my days with you. When I awaken next to you, I feel gratitude that I’m not alone in a cold bed. And I crave your body in a way I haven’t desired anyone since the first days with Amenia. That’s how I feel.”

“It’s enough,” said Myselene. “Honest and straightforward. Had you told me you loved me, I’m not sure I would have believed you. It would have seemed patronizing. My father once told me that love is pointless but trust is paramount. Those are words I live by. We’ll promise much during the official ceremony, but let our true vow be one of honesty.”

His response was to kiss her full on the lips. She answered with equal gusto, pushing aside the sheets and quickly mounting him. Thus did they confirm their betrothal.

* * *

“You told her?” Toranim’s tone was a mixture of apprehension and disbelief.

“Lies and secrets were at the heart of the failure of my first marriage and the reason I had to kill Amenia. How could I begin a second marriage like that?”

“Not telling her something she had no expectation of knowing is different from hiding something from her. You’ve provided her with ammunition. If your marriage should sour...”

“...it would be her word against mine. Anything she claimed would be no more than unsubstantiated allegations. Not that I believe she would ever go so far.”

Toranim sighed. “At times, my friend, you show a surprising lack of judgment when evaluating people. I like and approve of Myselene, but there’s an element of ruthlessness in her character that you’re blind to. In the right circumstances, she could and would use that information against you. You’re correct in saying there’s no proof but rumors could damage your reputation as effectively as unclouded facts.”

“Rumors about an act that was within the purview of my responsibilities as a king. Regardless, it’s done and can’t be undone, and I stand by my decision to inform her. She has a right to know, Toranim. A right to understand the darkest thing about the man to whom she has chosen to be bound.”

The chancellor lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s your decision, Your Majesty, but we don’t agree. As you say, it’s done. I assume she’s given her formal acceptance.”

“All that remains is for it to be made public. Is the Vice Chancellor of Obis on his way home?”

“He took the liberty of assuming Her Highness’ consent and departed at first light. I believe he was most anxious to return to cooler climes. The heat didn’t agree with him although I suspect he’ll have to get used to it. The terms of the wedding agreement stipulate that ‘the Vice Chancellor of Obis shall transfer his allegiance to Vantok, where he will occupy a similar position of authority to the one he currently holds.’”

“Will he submit to my authority?”

“Without question. Gorton knew when we haggled over the terms that Myselene wanted him here on a permanent basis. He made it clear that he, like every soldier and officer who comes as part of Her Highness’ dowry, will sever his allegiance to Obis and swear fealty not only to Vantok but to you personally. He’s a smart and capable man and will make an excellent advisor. I could use a capable assistant - something you’ve long denied me,” said Toranim with a smile. “The next step is to make it official. Any excuse for a celebration. With the seasonal cooling and the announcement of a new future queen, spirits should be high, at least for a short while. Good news doesn’t last as long as it once did.”

“How are our coffers?”

Toranim shrugged. “Less than half full, but considering that tax revenue is down and we’ve been paying exorbitant amounts to fund the conscription and ship in grain, the treasury is in surprisingly good shape.”

“Can we afford to pick up all tavern tabs for a day?”

“No,” said the chancellor. “But we can afford first rounds.”

“Let’s do that, then. There’s no better way to get a populace to love their future queen than by free drinks.”

* * *

With the rush of her triumph fading, Myselene was experiencing something she had never expected: regrets. It wasn’t that she doubted she was doing the best thing for her future by marrying Azarak, nor did she think he would make anything other than a good husband but, for the first time, she recognized what she would lose - had already lost, in fact. The familiar comfort of her father’s court, as cold and formal as it could be, had always been the most solid reality in her life and she would likely never see it again. Her former companions would no longer join her for gossip sessions about palace life. All that had been familiar was gone. She had succeeded at her goal but, in doing so, had surrounded herself with strange people in a strange land.

She knew it was childish to yearn for things she could no longer have. Even if she had bypassed the opportunity to court Azarak, her father would have married her off to a nobleman, general, or guildmaster. She would have swapped a palace for a mansion and most of her status-conscious friends would have drifted away. She never thought to rue the day of her Maturity, yet a small piece of her was doing so today.

Azarak respected her. There was comfort in that. She reciprocated the sentiment, esteeming him and believing in him and what he stood for. When she had asked the king if he loved her, he had answered truthfully. For that, she was grateful.

Next would come the celebrations and, for them, she would have to be more radiant than she had ever been. Her first impression upon her future subjects had to be awe-inspiring. They must fall in love with her at first sight. They mustn’t see her as a foreigner come to steal away their king or usurp his power. Her role in public was to be submissive.

“Congratulations, M’lady,” came a timorous voice from behind Myselene. Her maid. Her
new
maid. Her Vantok maid. Nothing against this woman - Myselene didn’t even know her name - but she intended to send for Nymia, her longtime personal servant in Obis. She hoped Azarak wouldn’t take offense, but she needed someone she could confide in. The maid assigned to her here was good at her job but her bearing made Myselene uncomfortable.

The woman’s words were evidence of how quickly a rumor could catch fire. She knew from experience that nothing spread faster through the service ranks than gossip. By now, everyone in the palace knew of her betrothal. By tomorrow, it would be the talk of the city. The official announcement would be a formality.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly with a strong internal admonition to compose herself. She wasn’t a child anymore, and wishing so wouldn’t make a difference. She lived in a world of hard realities, not magic and fairy tales. Self-pity was as unbecoming as it was unproductive.

Power came through knowledge. Life at court had taught her that no one had more knowledge than servants. In the early days of her marriage, she could bask in the reflected glow of her husband. Eventually, however, she would need to develop a unique personal base of influence. In addition to establishing her as more than a figurehead, it would enable her to rule alongside Azarak and not in his shadow. This woman was as good a person as any to start making new connections.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Posie, M’lady.” The words were followed by a perfectly executed curtsey.

“How long have you worked in the palace?”

“Since I was a little girl. My mama was in service before me and my papa was a member of the king’s guard.”

Myselene judged Posie to be a few years older than Azarak, which meant she had known the king for much of his life in the intimate way only servants could know those they served. With a smile, she requested, “Tell me everything you can remember about your king and his first wife, Queen Amenia.”

There were few things worse than waiting. Sorial had learned that long ago during the dead hours in the stable when the animals were cared for and all he could do was wait for someone to arrive with a new mount or return from the inn to retrieve their horse. Waiting was tedious because it required a certain level of watchfulness. One couldn’t just drift off to sleep or fall into a reverie. He wondered how soldiers on watch managed to keep their eyes sharp and minds focused. It was a skill he had never learned and doubted he ever would.

Their goal, the ruins of the city Havenham, lay just beyond a rise that hid the southwestern horizon from their current encampment. He had been left here with Darrin and the ailing Lamanar while Warburm and Brindig executed a reconnaissance trip. The innkeeper’s assessment had been that it would take two hours to get there and another two hours to return plus however long was needed to assess the situation and, if possible, locate the portal. They had departed at dawn and didn’t expect to return until mid-afternoon. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait. Darrin, normally an expert conversationalist, was unusually close-mouthed today, likely because the job of watching the camp’s perimeter and protecting Sorial was entirely his. And, since the encounter with the rock wyrm, it had become apparent that peril in The Forbidden Lands could lurk in the most unexpected of places. They were on edge, aware that even the ground beneath their feet could conceal danger.

He idly wondered what Alicia was doing now - whether Rexall was watching her and whether they had loosened the reins bridling her to the Temple. Once he had departed Vantok with Warburm’s group, there was no reason to keep her under strict guard. Still, he suspected any ‘freedom’ would be more illusory than real and she was smart enough to recognize the difference. They would never let her return to her home on the duke’s estate. She remained a bargaining chip and Prelate Ferguson wouldn’t part with his most important guarantee of Sorial’s loyalty. He could never forget that her old life was as effectively over as his own. If anyone had been more cruelly manipulated than him, it was her.

Should he succeed at the portal, Sorial pondered whether demanding Ferguson’s head on a pike might be excessive. Considering King Azarak’s need for a wizard over a prelate (especially in an era when the gods no longer reigned in the heavens), such a request might be granted. But did Sorial really want Ferguson dead? Punished, to be sure, but executed? He needed to talk to the man - to look into his eyes and see if there was a hint of sorrow or remorse. He had hoped to do that before embarking on this journey but Ferguson had denied him the opportunity. That wouldn’t happen again. The prelate could refuse to see a stableboy but he couldn't ignore a wizard.

One way or another, it would soon be over. Finished. Done. Before departing shortly after dawn, Warburm had repeated his oft-issued directive: if the situation became grave, Sorial was to flee to Vantok. It was an absurd command. Sorial hadn’t come this far to turn back with the unlikely hope he might be able to survive long enough to find the city and mount a second expedition. He was here, now. There would be no backtracking. Alone in The Forbidden Lands and low on provisions, he would die of hunger or thirst if he wasn’t butchered by men, monsters, or those who were a little of both. And, if those things didn’t kill him, he would almost certainly become lost with little hope of discovering the path home. Then what? Live off the land? He was ill equipped to do that. He and his destiny converged here; either he would achieve his goal within the next few days or he would die.

The immediate path forward was unclear. In the best case scenario, Warburm would locate the portal without interference from those who lived in the area. More likely, however, the innkeeper would be forced to seek an accommodation with the inhabitants and such a route was fraught with uncertainty. What could such a people want that Warburm was in a position to provide? Their encounter with the marauders to the north loomed large in Sorial’s memory. If news of a bounty had reached this far, how certain could they be that any agreement with Havenham’s current inhabitants wasn’t a trap?

As best Sorial could determine, he had at least three separate and distinct adversaries. The first was his sister, although she had pledged not to oppose him until he passed the portal’s test. The second was the mysterious Lord of Fire, who probably saw Sorial as a rival although Ariel had indicated that, at least for the moment, a non-wizard was beneath his notice. The third enemy posed the most immediate danger: the leader or leaders of other “factions” seeking to remove a prime candidate from the running. Unlike Ariel and the Lord of Fire, they wielded no special power, but that didn’t make them less dangerous. Did they have influence this far south? The answer to that question might determine the likelihood of his being able to locate the portal.

“Sorial, come here.” It was Lamanar’s voice, weakened to a reedy rasp. Sorial turned in the direction of the man he had once called “father.” It had been two days since Lamanar’s injury and he looked ready for the grave. His skin was a sickly color Sorial had never observed in a living man. The horrors of his ruined chest were hidden by blood and pus-stained bandages. Lamanar could keep no food down and the only way he could take water was by sucking it from a damp cloth. When they stopped for the night last evening, he had been breathing heavily and barely able to stand on his own. This morning, since awakening, he had done little more than sit with his back to a tree trunk, his blade in his lap. Looking at him now, with his eyes filming over and his left hand shaking as if palsied, Sorial knew he would never rise from that spot.

He walked across the small clearing and squatted next to Lamanar.

“There are things you deserve to understand. We both realize this is the end for me. Regardless of what happens with Warburm, I won’t be with you on the final steps of this quest. Before I go, I want you to know why...” A fit of coughing interrupted him.

Sorial finished Lamanar’s sentence. “...you hate me.”

The priest’s laughter was more a bark than a chuckle. “Hate you? No. Hate myself. My attitude toward you has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I’m a shell of who I once was, tied more to Warburm by habit than faith or friendship. We’ve gone on so many adventures together, he and I. Shared so many experiences. It would have seemed odd not to be with him on this one last one. The culmination of all we worked for. Forty years is a long time to devote to a cause. It’s almost as if the gods were still alive and making mock of me by stopping me so close to the goal.”

“Mother thinks you’ve given into despair.”

“She always knew me better than most. Always saw the truth even when I denied it. Her faith sustains her. She still believes. Even after sacrificing four children to the cause, she won’t surrender to the darkness. I wish I had her strength. I wish I could make the same claim. On the day of her death, she’ll have a comfort I lack.”

“Perhaps it’s because of what she’s given up that she can’t allow herself to lose faith,” said Sorial, surprising himself with his insight into Kara’s character. “If she did, then those sacrifices ain’t got no meaning.”

Lamanar nodded. “No one’s given up as much as her. Not me. Not Warburm. Not Ferguson. Not you. Remember that if ever you see her again. And now it’s up to you to give her sacrifices meaning. If you die without becoming a wizard, her entire life will have been in vain. Not only hers, but those of many, many others - some alive, but most dead. You would perhaps be surprised how many people have perished so you can stand where you are now, within a wind’s whisper from your destiny. I’ll be just one more corpse.

“I don’t have much time, so let me say what I need to say to unburden myself. You deserve a fuller accounting than I’ll be able to provide but, if you survive, you’ll have to get it from Warburm, your mother, or even Ferguson - if you can persuade him to speak his secrets. He’s the mastermind of all this. Claims to have been chosen by the gods to prepare for their departure. Says he’s been given special knowledge. We believed him, Warburm and I. And dozens of others. We became his disciples; his doctrine gave us a purpose. When you’re young, that’s something you’re always looking for. It’s only when you get old that you realize trying to find meaning is another folly of youth. Over the years, you know who I’ve come to envy? The
real
farmers. The ones with homely wives and illiterate children. There’s warmth in their houses on holidays. They spend the hours between dusk and dawn in a deep, sound sleep. And their greatest worry is whether the harvest will come in. Much as I tried to make that my life, it never worked. Your mother was a constant reminder of what I was and not a day went by when I didn’t think about you. And, as the years passed and my faith faded, my guilt for my part in your making grew. You want to know why I avoided you all these years? It’s because I couldn’t bear to face you.”

Sorial nodded absently. It made sense. Those words gave meaning to the cold glances and rushed greetings. He had mistaken guilt for hatred, remorse for contempt.

“Kara’s arrival in our settlement changed everything. Ferguson divined that she was to be the mother of ‘our wizards.’ That’s what he called you and your siblings. ‘Our wizards.’ His studies of genealogy led him to her, the direct descendant of one of the two greatest wizards ever to live, Malbranche. I don’t know how he knew where to find her, but she was there, exactly where he instructed us to look. She was young, not yet blooded - a beggar on a path that would have led to whoring or worse. We offered her a clean bed, as much food and water as she wished, and the surety that she could keep her womanhood intact. What child wouldn’t agree to that? Safety, comfort, a full belly... There was no coercion; none was needed. She came willingly and, after a time, flush with gratitude, she joined us. We kidnapped her with kindness and friendship.

“I think I may have loved her from the first. Certainly, my feelings grew during the many hours we spent together. Ferguson made me, his most devout acolyte, Kara’s spiritual father. I was in charge of the enrichment of her soul. That meant preparing her for what was to come. As the days passed, however, I found myself loving her not as a mentor for a pupil but as a man for a woman. I hadn’t taken a vow of celibacy - indeed, I’d known my share of women before and after coming to serve the Temple - but, even after she shed her first woman’s blood, she remained off-limits. My mind understood. My heart didn’t.

“Your father first appeared at our settlement about a year before he was ‘introduced’ to Kara. He was kept from her during that first visit at his request; he didn’t want an attachment between them.”

“What was he like?”

“Maraman? Proud, haughty. Other than Ferguson, who recruited him, none of us knew him well. On those rare occasions when he was at the settlement, he kept himself apart. We learned little about his background. Rumor had it he was a disgraced noble who turned to adventuring when all other avenues were closed to him. Physically, you have the look of him. His devotion to the cause was questionable, but he was beholden to Ferguson. There was something between them. Warburm suspected either Maraman owed his life to the prelate or Ferguson was in possession of some incriminating evidence that would result in Maraman decorating a gibbet if it became public. Either way, he was among us but not one of us.

“On his first visit, he conferred with Ferguson, got a look at your mother from a distance, pronounced her ‘suitable,’ then left. The day of his return was fixed. On that day, Kara moved to a cabin with no windows. He visited her every night for the moon’s cycle, then departed. The hope was that a pregnancy would result - the joining of the descendants of two great wizards. Malbranche through Kara, Altemiak through Maraman.

“I’m not proud of what I tell you now, but if you’re to know all there is to know, you must hear this.

“On the first night Maraman was supposed to spend with Kara, she was settled in her new place but he didn’t arrive. I stood guard outside her door, a post I would occupy every night she was in that house during that season and in later years when she sought to conceive your sister and you. At the blackest hour, shortly past midnight when the waxing crescent moon had set, I made a decision that would affect the rest of my life. I entered the cabin and, in silence, took your mother’s maidenhead. She was meant to think it was Maraman come to fill his responsibility.

“It was an act of jealousy and opportunity. Had Maraman arrived on time, the idea to lie with Kara would never have entered my mind. But I had loved her for so long and the consideration that someone who didn’t care for her would be the first to fuck her... it felt cruel and unfair. There was no joy in our joining. I was driven by lust and haunted by guilt. She... what woman enjoys her first time, especially if it’s rushed? I curse Maraman for being a day late and myself for not having the willpower to stay at my post.

“When she said nothing in the days that followed, I believed my deception to have succeeded. It was, of course, a vain hope. Maraman arrived the next morning and spent his allotted time visiting her cabin nightly. He was never in there for more than ten minutes. I later learned that Kara hadn’t been fooled. She had known by smell and touch who deflowered her and welcomed it because at least her first time was with someone who cared about her. After that, she did her duty. She and I have never spoken openly about our one night but, during our years together in Vantok, she let me know in quiet, subtle ways that she didn’t regret what happened. Would that I could say the same. She deserved better - better than my frantic groping in the dark, better than Maraman’s cold, perfunctory sessions.