The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (14 page)

If Kara was surprised by her companion’s honesty, she gave no indication of it. “Wishes... we all have them. I wish I knew my son better than I do but the distance between us was my choice. I can assure you he’s as constant a man as you’ll find, although I think you know that in your heart. It would be more likely for you to put him aside than he, you. Sorial at 17 or 18 may be a different person than he was at 15 or 16, but you can be sure his feelings for you are the same. This was no casual fling on his part. He’s devoted to you.”

Alicia nodded, satisfied by the answer. She supposed she was looking for reassurance and the loss of Vagrum had made her feel more vulnerable than at any time in the past. Death, something with which she had little familiarity, had never felt more real, more immediate.

Another day and night passed without incident and, less than two hours after sunrise on the ninth day out of Sussaman, they came upon the east-west road that connected the North’s two biggest cities and centers of commerce, Obis and Syre. And, while there was no one visible at the moment from horizon to horizon, the manner in which the muddy slush had been churned up by hooves, boots, and wheels was proof that the road was heavily traveled even at this time of the year. It was the first sign of habitation they had encountered in many days. They started east at a canter but would only be on the road for the rest of the morning and the first short part of the afternoon. Then it would be time to cut across country, not even following a trail this time, and head directly for the ruins of haunted Ibitsal.

Even in this unfriendly weather, the road was well-maintained. When Alicia mentioned this to Kara, the older woman replied, “The Obis military patrols it almost to the gates of Syre. They also handle repair jobs and provide assistance to stranded travelers, although usually for a price. King Rangarak is obsessive about the roads that lead into and out of his city, and you can’t underestimate the importance of this highway to the North. Take this away and the cities, especially Syre and Obis, would be isolated. Not only would they be unable to trade with one another, but their contact with the South would be greatly reduced. Most of the commerce from Vantok and Basingham is funneled through Widow’s Pass during the warm seasons and through Earlford to Syre in Winter. At this time of the year, this road is used primarily for movement between Obis and Syre, but it still carries significant volume. Obis’ patrols ensure that legitimate travelers aren’t molested.” As if to validate her words, a large contingent appeared on the eastern horizon, heading toward them.

During the three hours they spent on the road, they passed more than a dozen parties heading in the opposite direction. The smallest group consisted of three people - one on a donkey and the other two walking. Most were large, well-guarded caravans with multiple wagons and a small army of well-paid mercenaries to protect the merchants who were rarely seen out in the cold air. The only difference Alicia noticed between these caravans and the ones that visited Vantok were the increased number of guards. In fact, during the Summer, these same merchants might be the ones hawking their wares in Vantok’s marketplace.

It was shortly after noon when the guides from Sussaman indicated the time had come to strike out north of the road. This part of the journey was tedious; they had to move slowly to avoid a misstep. The frozen slush could hide any number of pitfalls and the intermittent flurries of the morning had turned into a steady snowfall that limited visibility. What could be a three hour journey in good conditions looked likely to take twice that long, meaning they might not reach their destination until dusk.

They were fifteen minutes north of the road when Kara moved her horse alongside Alicia’s and asked, “Do you hear it?”

“Hear?” asked Alicia. She strained her ears, but there was nothing other than the usual noises made by the horses as they moved across the snowscape: breathing, saddlebags rustling, iced-over slush and twigs crunching under hooves. Beyond that... nothing. No birds, not even the crows so common in the North, and no little animals - not that the latter would make much of a sound.

Kara shook her head violently, almost as if to dislodge an insect trapped in her ear. “Maybe I’m mistaken... No, I still hear it. On the wind.”

Alicia listened again. It was breezy but they had traveled through windier conditions.

“Perhaps ‘hear’ isn’t the right word,” continued Kara. “It’s almost as if something is whispering directly into my mind.” A wind gust subsided and, in the calm that followed, she said, “Now it’s gone.”

After that, Alicia watched Kara carefully and noticed a pattern. Any time the wind gusted, she would sit erect in her saddle as if listening to something. When the breeze subsided, she would lose the posture of attentiveness. No one else showed signs of being bothered by untoward noises until they stopped for a short break to relieve themselves and munch on some nuts and dried berries.

Comecomecome
.

It was faint but distinct and, as Kara had said, seemed spoken into her mind rather than into her ears. Alicia started visibly, although only Kara noticed her reaction.

“It’s the portal,” said the older woman. “Talking to us. Calling us. My son Braddock heard that voice on his last ride. It convinced Ferguson he would be accepted. But that didn’t happen. Not everyone hears it, but apparently there’s no correlation between being called and surviving an encounter. According to Ferguson, though, if you don’t hear the portal, you’d be a fool to step into it.”

The voice, or whatever it was, was constant and insistent, yet it seemed more comforting than confounding. “Come, come, come, come,” said Alicia. “That one word, repeated over and over.”

Kara nodded. “If nothing else, it argues that we’re close.”

“We hear it, but the others don’t.” Alicia saw no signs of alarm or confusion in the men, who were going about their tasks in their typical businesslike manner.

“I hear it on the wind. You hear it because your feet are in contact with frozen water. The men probably have affinities with the other elements. Rexall is unquestionably a child of fire. So they may not be able to hear it yet. Or they may never hear it.”

As they were talking, Aiden approached. “We have to make a decision. This is as good a place as any to stop for the night. If we keep going, we’ll get to Ibitsal after twilight. No time to seek out the portal until morning. No time to find proper shelter either.”

“Seek it out? I thought you’ve been here before?” asked Kara.

“I have, but not for many years. Not since we scouted for Braddock and Ariel. In daylight, it won’t take much to rattle the location out of my rusty memory, but at night... Plus, though I don’t hold with ghost stories, Ibitsal isn’t a place where I’d want to spend a night. So, do we press on or stop here?”

Comecomecome
.

Kara cast a glance at Alicia, indicating it was her decision. It was always that way - Aiden deferring to Kara and Kara deferring to Alicia.

“We go on. We can camp outside the ruins, but I want them in sight before we stop.” By her calculations, if Sorial had taken the Earlford route, he would be a week or two away, but there were always variables in long journeys as she had encountered firsthand. If Sorial’s group had purchased horses along the way, for example, they might be very close. Or if Warburm knew a short-cut... Now that she was this close, she wanted to move on in the unlikely event something happened this night.

The day’s remaining trek was difficult with the horses picking their way carefully through ice and frozen slush while the thickening, windswept snow reduced visibility to a few hundred feet. Alicia’s attention wasn’t fully on the terrain as she found herself increasingly distracted by the call of the portal. The same was true of Kara, who once nearly fell from her horse. Rexall noticed something odd about the two but didn’t broach the subject. None of the men showed signs of hearing the portal’s call.

A range of hills separated the Obis-Syre road from the ruins of Ibitsal and it took longer to navigate these in the snow than the Sussaman men had expected. By the time it became too dark to safely travel, they were beyond sight of the ruins. They were close, Aiden assured them, but it would be foolish to go further before morning. Mistrustful as she had become, Alicia wondered if the pace had been intentionally set slow to prevent the party from coming close to the haunted city before dawn. Complaining did no good; she had to cope with the situation as it was.

Comecomecome
.

Aiden and Debulon scouted ahead while the others set up camp. They were not gone long and, upon their return, the first thing Aiden did was to douse the fire.

“We have a problem,” he said, addressing both Alicia and Kara. “The way ahead is blocked.”

“Blocked? How?” asked Alicia. Unbidden, memories of the nightmarish passage through The Broken Crags intruded on her thoughts.

“Camp fires. Many camp fires. There’s an army between us and the portal.”

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE MISSING TRIO

It had been roughly four hours since Azarak had ordered Myselene back to her rooms under the protection of a half-dozen of his most trusted guards. Chancellor Toranim had survived the attack in the palace’s rear garden, but that was all she knew. The situation - one of Vantok’s top officials assaulted on the palace grounds - was disconcerting. Looking out her window, she could see pairs of guards where there normally were none. At least in the near-term, the palace had become an armed camp not unlike the one in which she had been raised.

She pulled the bell to summon Posie. Her maid was not the most witty conversationalist but talking to her was better than staring out the window.

Posie exhibited the mouse-like excitement that servants often showed when something dangerous and unexpected had happened. She was eager to pass along all the gossip, but it amounted to ill-informed speculation. No one knew the truth, or at least no one who had passed the information onto a servant. Chancellor Toranim had been taken to his chambers and was being attended by the king’s personal healer but his manservant hadn’t seen him since the incident and the maids weren’t allowed in to clean.

After they had been talking for a while, Myselene steered the conversation in a different direction. “Posie, do you have any children?” She knew her maid was childless but asking the question was an easy way to broach the subject of offspring. Posie wasn’t clever enough to understand anything but plain speech.

“Nay, Milady. The gods ain’t blessed me with a baby, or a husband for that matter.” She laughed, but there was a little sadness in the chuckle. She had probably grown up with the hopes of marrying another member of the king’s staff but her looks were against her and it was difficult, bordering on impossible, for one who served in the palace to find a match with a member of the city’s general populace. Physical appearance, which mattered little in the unions of nobles and royals, was crucial in situations like Posie’s; it was the only currency a palace servant had.

Myselene felt a moment’s stirring of pity. “Are there good midwives in the palace?” She made the question sound innocuous but knew Posie would read much into it. The answer didn’t matter; the seed was planted. Within a day, it would be whispered throughout the palace that the queen-to-be was with child. Soon, the rumor would spread throughout the city. As the royal mistress, there were limited arrows in her quill, but she had just fired one of them.

Azarak made his appearance around mid-afternoon and his stormy arrival sent Posie scurrying from the room. She had attained a level of comfort and familiarity with her mistress; the same couldn’t be said of the king, even though she had known him for much longer.

“How is he?” asked Myselene as soon as they were alone. It would have been imprudent to begin with the question foremost in her mind: was she now free to come and go within the palace as she pleased?

“Not seriously injured, thankfully. Someone hit him on the back of the head with something hard. He didn’t see it coming, didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. Knocked him out cold but, other than a little bleeding, a headache, and some dizziness, he’s fine. Grumbling about being confined to bed for a few days by the healer but I’ll not have him exerting himself until we’re sure there are no lingering effects.”

“Do they know who did it?”

Azarak shook his head. “None of the guards saw anyone and it’s all a blur to Toranim. He was walking in the rear gardens, as is his routine in the morning before caucusing with me, when someone struck him from behind. The attacker’s motivation is unclear but killing or seriously injuring Toranim wasn’t their intention. They could have accomplished either with little difficulty. Knocking him out was the purpose.”

“So it’s a message.”

Azarak nodded. “It would seem that way. Someone impressing on me that not even the palace grounds are safe. The question is: who’s sending the message? Ferguson? The rebellious nobles? Or someone else? That’s the problem with having so many enemies. When one of them makes a move, it can be difficult to assign responsibility.”

“It a more petty move than I’d expect from your enemies to the south.” It seemed ridiculous to Myselene that a wizard massing an army and orchestrating a city-crippling heat bubble would seize the opportunity to crack Vantok’s chancellor on the head.

“Agreed. I’m inclined to place the blame on someone within the city. The scales tip in Ferguson’s favor. The nobles, for all their bluster, aren’t likely to try something this brazen, at least not at this stage of their would-be coup. The timing doesn’t make sense. They know that such an attack would force me to respond martially. And, since Toranim is arguably more popular than I am at the moment, it would dampen any widespread support they’re hoping to gain.”

“How would Ferguson profit?”

“He wants to remind me that he’s not to be trifled with. He knows I’ve issued a warrant for his arrest. It hasn’t been made public but he has enough spies to have learned what I intend. This is his warning to relent and accede to his view of how power should be distributed in Vantok going forward.”

“Something you can’t do.”

Azarak nodded. “Something I
won’t
do. The time for the prelate’s power passed along with the gods. It made sense to share with him when he enjoyed divine support. But, no matter how hard he tries to keep the citizens of Vantok ignorant, the plain fact is that the gods are no more. Ferguson must either submit to my authority or face the consequences. Attacking Toranim only makes me more determined to bring him to heel.” The king paused. “The thing is, he knows me well enough to understand that such a tactic won’t cow me. So why do something so foolish and counter-productive?” He let out an explosive sigh. “I doubt the investigation will turn up anything if it was Ferguson. I guess we’ll just have to wait for his next move.”

“Am I free to leave my rooms?”

“I’ve doubled all the guards and put in some additional checkpoints, but I don’t expect any incursions into the palace. If you go outside, make sure there are at least three men with you at all times, and twice that if you go into the city. Other than that, there are no restrictions on your movement. For now, though, come with me. There are some things we need to discuss about your father’s arrival.”

As they were exiting Myselene’s chambers, an out-of-breath guard approached hurriedly. After executing a crisp salute, he stood at attention. His insignia marked him as a courier.

“You have a message?”

“Aye, Sire. I am bid to inform you that a dispatch arrived moments ago from the nobles’ quarter. Duke Bantok was murdered this morning while walking the grounds of his estate. His skull was cracked open ‘like a melon.’ The three members of his personal militia attending him are missing. It’s unclear whether they were victims or the ones who perpetrated the attack.”

“Bantok was one of the rebels?” asked Myselene.

“One of the leaders. He and Yarbin, both former members of my council. It appears this was more than an isolated attack on Toranim. Too much of a coincidence to be anything but a two-pronged attack. What the hell is Ferguson’s goal? It’s a sloppy way to play us off against one another.”

“If it
is
Ferguson,” said Myselene. Maybe another noble, a rival of Bantok’s, had seen a way to gain an advantage.

“Let’s go see Toranim. He may be bedridden but maybe he’ll have some ideas about whether we have a new threat to identify.”

* * *

He was home, if any place in the wide above-ground could be considered “home.” It was a strange feeling. He had been gone only a season, yet it seemed like a lifetime since he had walked these streets. For the moment, Sorial was cloaked in anonymity, but it wouldn’t last. It was too late in the day to announce himself but, on the morrow, he would present himself to King Azarak and let it be known that he had arrived to claim his bride and serve the city - in that order. He would agree to be Vantok’s wizard once he and Alicia were wed and established in a house suitable for one of her upbringing. He could live in a stable but he didn’t think that would suit her. She didn’t like mice.

Vantok at twilight was as he remembered it, although it was more like a late Planting evening than one near Midwinter: mild with only a hint of chill, much warmer than it was a few days’ travel away. People scurried from place to place, trying to finish duties and chores so they could get home to be with their families. Others headed for inns and pubs where a few mugfuls of ale and a bawdy song or two would help them forget their troubles if only for a night. The normalcy was surreal to Sorial after all he had been through. No one took any notice of him. Dressed in the same shabby clothing he had worn on the road, he was just another peasant wandering the streets.

Sorial’s feet took him in the direction of The Wayfarer’s Comfort. He intended to visit the stable and reveal himself to Rexall but not to enter the inn, where his anonymity would be put to the test. Even if Warburm wasn’t there, the serving wenches all knew him and he hadn’t changed enough to be unrecognizable... or had he? Best not to risk it.

Although Warburm could provide access to the king or, at the very least, Ferguson, Sorial had selected another, more sure way. Plus, as a matter of pride, he didn’t want to be in a position to request something from the innkeeper. In any future dealings they might have, Sorial intended to maintain the upper hand. He would never again be placed in a situation where Warburm could manipulate him. He had taken the reins of control in Havenham when, as a newly minted wizard, he had saved the innkeeper’s life.

Seeing an unfamiliar guard patrolling Tower Street near The Wayfarer’s Comfort gave Sorial a pang of regret. That had once been Brendig and Darrin’s post. Those two, inseparable while on duty, had kept the order in this part of the city since Sorial had been a child. They had spent countless days together watching the sun rise - a beloved pastime of theirs that Sorial had come to share. Now, both were gone, having given their lives for the city. No one would know of their sacrifice. Yet Sorial recognized that, without them, he wouldn’t be here. Tomorrow’s sunrise, like today’s and perhaps many more in the future, was their gift to him. With Warburm and Lamanar, they had guided him through the mountains and to Havenham. Then, after Darrin’s death, Brendig had been instrumental in freeing him from imprisonment and delaying his pursuers long enough to allow him to finish at the portal.

Little had changed at the inn since Sorial had worked there. The open front door allowed air to circulate through the typically stuffy common room while the tumult of merrymakers and drunkards washed into the courtyard. Sorial thought he caught snatches of Warburm’s stentorian voice over the commotion, but he couldn’t be certain. Someone started an off-key rendition of a popular tavern song and soon everyone joined in.

The stable was manned but not by Rexall. A lad of about 13, the stableboy sat idly on a bale of hay while chewing on a piece of straw. Sorial could tell at a glance that the stable was busy; more than half the stalls were occupied. The weather being what it was, Vantok was the place to be at this time of the year. People came here to escape the grip of Winter as it stalked the land. With this many animals, there should be chores aplenty; this boy reminded him of Visnisk, who had worked shifts during Sorial’s early days at The Wayfarer’s Comfort. Visnisk had been allergic to hard labor and overly fond of whores. But Sorial wasn’t here to evaluate anyone’s work ethic. He was here for information.

“Is Rexall around?”

The boy looked up at the sound of a strange voice then, seeing that the speaker had the appearance of a vagabond, he declined to get up. “Who?”

“Rexall, chief stableboy of The Wayfarer’s Comfort.”

“Never ’erd of ’im. Recksall, you says? I be chief stablemasser here.”

“You?” Sorial couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. True, he had been chief stablemaster at 13, but he had worked grueling, sweaty 15-hour shifts. Surely it wasn’t that difficult to find good workers?

“Aye. As for this Recksall, I think he up an’ left some time lass season. Pissed some people off as I ’member. Got me ’ired, though, so I ain’t gonna complain.”

“Who hired you?”

“Misress Ponari, the ole lady in the kitchens. Masser Warburm promoted me when ’e got home from ’is trip.”

That answered Sorial’s question about Warburm. Additional conversation with the boy, who went by the name of Quickfinger, revealed little except that the city was in a state of restlessness with nobles withdrawing their support from the king. He didn’t know much else but that wasn’t surprising. When working here, Sorial had paid careful attention to the comings and goings of the stable’s patrons but he knew he was unusual in that. The average stableboy only noticed a customer when he suspected a tip might be forthcoming.

Sorial’s next stop was The Delicious Dancer, the inn at which Rexall had worked for so many years. He didn’t expect to find his friend there; Rexall had left on bad terms with the innkeeper, but he might be able to learn something of his whereabouts. Rexall’s departure from The Wayfarer’s Comfort was concerning, especially since it had happened before Warburm’s return. Still, even if he learned nothing about where he might be able to locate Rexall - that might take a visit to every stable in the city - he could get a better understanding of the news Quickfinger had provided.