The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (29 page)

“So you’ve become nostalgic about a hole in the ground? Someday, you’re going to have to take me there. We can have sex by the light of the glowing fungus. Might be fun.”

Sorial didn’t think she was serious, but he could never be sure. Dark, dank places didn’t appeal to Alicia, although there was a little brook. Maybe she would like it. If nothing else it was peaceful and uncomplicated. Getting her down there would be the trick. He needed to return to working out how to bring objects with him when he traveled. It was embarrassing to arrive naked every time.

“Does this feel like home to you?” asked Alicia. He knew she worried that he wasn’t happy. She was perceptive. All the wealth, power, and adulation meant little. Growing up, he had never wanted or needed those things and, now that he had them, he saw them for the hollow traps they were. He would have traded them all for a good, reliable friend. He had Alicia, of course, and she was the whole of his existence. But there was still an unfilled longing, and she could sense it. If only Rexall had been true...

Sorial looked around the room with the gauzy white curtains shielding the lone window, the wooden dressing table and matching wardrobe, and the large bed in which they slept. It wasn’t as ostentatious a bedchamber as the one they had shared in the palace but, compared to what he was used to - a stable loft or a hard, lumpy mattress - it was opulent. This was the room in which Alicia had slept throughout her youth. The master suite, which Carannan had vacated, was intended for the lord and lady of the manor, but nostalgia had pulled Alicia to this chamber. She wanted to recapture
something
intangible; sleeping here gave her comfort. There were far more important matters to command his attention than where he lay down at night. One room was as good as another to him as long as she was with him.

“Home?” he pondered aloud, echoing her question. He knew this was home to her. It was where her memories began and ended, the good times and the bad. Their first night in this bed, she had shyly confided about the times she had lain here in the dark and touched herself under the covers, thinking of him. “When I think of home, it’s straw, a pitchfork, and the smell of horse shit.” More than ten years at The Wayfarer’s Comfort had left its mark on him. He had outgrown the place but the memories held an inexplicable fascination. He had been content there, at least for a while, but it wasn’t until now that he realized it.

Alicia nodded. She understood. The stable at an inn wasn’t her idea of home any more than their current abode was his, but she felt the pull exerted by childhood memories. “We’ll make this into our home, you and I together.” She said it with determination, as if it was a thing that
would
happen rather than one that
might
.

Sorial would work at it with her, but first they had to secure the city so this home of theirs would still be standing once The Lord of Fire arrived.  The enemy’s goal would be to burn it down along with the rest of Vantok.

* * *

Sorial wasn’t in his element. He was ill equipped to navigate the minefield of small talk and mindless babble that represented the primary terrain of grand dinners. Fortunately, whoever had  assigned the seating arrangements - Myselene most likely - understood this. Sorial was seated with his wife to his left - a gross breach of etiquette since husbands and wives
never
sat together - and Duke Carannan to his right. Myselene herself sat directly across the long, rectangular table from Sorial. Thus insulated, he was spared a litany of irritating questions from those of Vantok’s nobility at the banquet and jibes from those in the Obis party, who made no attempt to hide their scorn for a man they viewed as an unprincipled fraud.

Once the dinner was over, it would be Sorial’s task to convince them otherwise. Or, if he couldn’t manage that, at least to give them something to think about - something that might make them hesitate if their intentions were more belligerent than a celebration of the nuptials. Alicia had jokingly referred to him as “the after-dinner entertainment” and remarked that in some courts the role was reserved for The Fool. Sorial didn’t find that amusing.

He was attired in the same clothing he had worn for his wedding, a choice Alicia labeled as “gauche.” In her opinion, while it was acceptable to wear “everyday” clothing more than once, wardrobe used on special occasions should never again be donned. She was dressed in a teal gown Sorial had never before seen; if she was to be taken at her word, it would be discarded once they returned home, never again to adorn her body. Sorial shrugged off her sartorial criticism; he was reasonably certain that, by the end of his demonstration, whether or not he was dressed in previously worn garments would be of little matter.

Occasionally, Carannan or Alicia would consult his opinion about one matter or another, more to give the appearance of involving him in the conversation than because he had anything to contribute. He quickly learned that, while at table, nobles talked of the most boring, inconsequential things: how many puppies were in a prize hound’s litter, whether Duchess Berthinger, who had given birth to six sons in six years of marriage, was again pregnant, or what hardy plants could survive the withering heat of Vantok’s endless Summers so as to keep gardens from being completely barren during the coming seasons.

The only ones less active in the conversation than Sorial were the king of Obis and his heirs. They picked at their meals - the grain and poultry-rich dishes were apparently not to their liking - and sat in determined silence, their fierce glares challenging anyone to engage them in pointless chatter. Their most baleful stares were reserved for Sorial, whom Rangarak referred to as “The Cancer of Vantok” among less flattering names.

Eventually, after what seemed an interminable amount of time spent devouring seven courses and drinking several different varieties of spirits, Azarak rose to explain what would happen next.
Now the time has come for The Fool to entertain all the great and mighty lords and ladies gathered for dinner. Pray be kind to him. His tricks are untried.

The king’s introduction was short and plain, re-iterating points every citizen of Vantok now knew. Rangarak’s expression displayed scorn and contempt when the word “wizard” was mentioned, but everyone else clapped politely. Those who had watched Sorial build the mountain were keen to see what he could accomplish in a more intimate setting. Surely, he wouldn’t attempt to create a similar monument in the royal dining hall?

When Azarak had finished extolling his virtues, Sorial rose from his seat, executed a shallow bow to the Iron King, and then moved a distance away from the table. All eyes were on him, as had been the case when he stood atop the palace walls. “I am The Lord of Earth,” said Sorial, his voice infused with a pompous solemnity. “Rock is mine to command.”

It began as a distant rumble; a bass throbbing that was as much felt as heard. Then the ground began to shake, gently at first then with growing urgency. Sorial stood rooted to his spot, riding the undulations of the earth with no difficulty. Everyone else was grasping for whatever was close - the table, the back of a chair, or another person - but those things were also moving. Aside from the man causing the vibrations, there was no stability. Alicia, Carannan, Azarak, Myselene, and Toranim remained unperturbed by what was happening. They were the only ones who stayed seated. Alicia continued to nibble at a slice of some exotic fruit, apparently unconcerned that the solid rock floor of the dining hall was rolling and pitching like the deck of a ship during a storm.

Eventually, Sorial allowed the event to subside. It was more difficult to stop the trembling than to start it, but neither tested the limits of his stamina. It was more than a simple parlor trick but had it achieved the desired effect?

There was no applause when it was over. Dignitaries nervously retook their seats - silent, respectful, and more than a little nervous about what they had experienced. But the reactions of Vantok’s nobility were of little matter. Most had observed Sorial’s previous display; for them, this was merely a reinforcement of what he was. Few needed additional convincing that there was a wizard in their midst. The men from Obis, however, had spent the better part of their stay denying Sorial’s claims.

For Grushik and Sangaska, that hadn’t changed. “Trickery!” spat the former, glaring at Sorial with naked hostility. Both had their hands near the pommels of their weapons.
Draw, and then you’ll see a demonstration no one will think to deny.
The Iron King said nothing. His gaze was unwavering but speculative. There was no fear in him, but Sorial sensed his reticence was evaporating. Rangarak knew what he had experienced and could see no way for it to have been arranged through deception.

Sensing how easily Rangarak might be swayed at this critical moment, Sorial decided to do something else. The floor beneath him was solid, built on a foundation of deep, thick rock. There were cellars and dungeons below, but they were distant enough not to interfere with what he intended.

“I apologize if my next act will offend some of you, but there are things I can only do naked.”  So saying, he began to divest himself of the clothing Alicia had earlier ridiculed. He responded to her shocked expression with a sly smile. As he disrobed, most of the women at least pretended to look away - excepting Myselene, who gazed at Sorial’s lean, muscular form with admiration. An uneasy atmosphere settled over the gathered diners. None knew what to expect from the bronze nude man who stood before them, his finery pooled carelessly at his feet.

His body began to sink into the floor as if it was quicksand. Slowly and deliberately, he descended, like a man wading ever deeper into a pool. Sorial’s eyes locked with Rangarak’s until his head disappeared into the stone, leaving behind nothing but the discarded clothing. The great hall was so silent that individual gasps could be heard. Sorial had vanished, swallowed up by the floor.

Unconcerned, Alicia resumed eating her fruit. She glanced in Myselene’s direction with annoyance. She hadn’t liked the appreciative appraisal the queen-to-be had cast in her naked husband’s direction. It was perhaps the first time Alicia had felt the stirrings of jealousy. She knew she had nothing to fear from Myselene, but still... The look had been inappropriate.

Rangarak, who had risen during the quake and not retaken his seat after it ended, moved away from the table to the spot where Sorial had stood. He tapped the stone gently with his foot then, when it proved solid, with greater firmness. It didn’t yield. Sorial hadn’t vanished through a hidden hatch or a concealed panel - that much was certain. He had appeared to melt slowly and deliberately into the floor - the same floor that only moments earlier had undulated at his command. Little room remained for reasonable doubt.

After having been gone fewer than five minutes, Sorial made his reappearance. About a dozen feet away from the space he had previously occupied, he bled upward through the floor, rising in a perfect reversal of the way in which he had disappeared. Once free of the stone, he calmly retrieved his clothing and dressed.

Giving Rangarak a direct look, he said, “Lords and Ladies and Your Majesties, this ends tonight’s entertainment.”

* * *

“Did it work?” asked Azarak, sitting in his easy chair sipping from his customary pre-bedtime goblet. He saw no reason to alter the comfort of his regular routine just because he was getting married the next day, just as he saw no reason for Myselene to sleep elsewhere. No attempts were being made to pretend she was coming to the wedding as a virgin. It was widely known that she had been his mistress for many, many weeks. Their marriage was a formalization of a well-established relationship.

She was naked atop the bed sheets, but her position was more relaxed than sensual. If Azarak wanted sex, he would come to her. If not, she would drift off to sleep. She no longer felt the need to be constantly seductive. “I think so. I watched him carefully and there was a change in his expression and bearing. My brother and sister’s ass of a husband continue to claim it was somehow the work of a charlatan, but my father is smarter than both of them put together. He knows that not even a master illusionist could have faked what Sorial did.

“He won’t admit it in public, of course. The Iron King cannot be seen to be wrong on such a subject, but he won’t say anything more against Sorial. Grushik and Sangaska will continue to babble their rubbish but, without their king’s support, their insults will be hollow. “

“Have we staved off danger?”

“It depends how seriously my father views Sorial as a military threat. It’s one thing to make the floor of the dining room tremble, but it’s another to endanger a highly trained army of more than two-thousand. For that matter, neither you nor I know how valuable Sorial would be in such an engagement.”

“True, but this isn’t the way I want to find out.”

“If my father decides Sorial could shift the balance, he’ll curb plans for a military engagement. Even with only a fraction of his army here, a defeat would be devastating. It would reverberate all the way to Obis and he could return home to find the throne occupied by an opportunistic usurper.”

“But you think he might try something non-military?”

Myselene nodded. “I’m not sure it was ever his intention to force a confrontation. Even with Vantok’s army not in battle-ready condition, going into combat outnumbered three-to-one is a risky proposition. If he intended to fight, he would have brought more men. This is a show of force, and Sorial’s demonstration may not influence his eventual gambit.  Or I could be wrong and now our wizard represents a barricade to his goal - one that must be removed before he can press forward.”