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

by Berardinelli, James

  Eventually, his father had recognized that his youngest son was doing little of note beyond spending his money, terrorizing his servants, and lording it over the sons and daughters of lesser nobles. When Justin was thirteen, the duke had done what was often done with the spare offspring of highly-placed men and offered his son to the Temple as an acolyte. Instead of being apprenticed in Basingham, where he would have been “too close to the distractions” that had “poisoned his life,” Justin had been dispatched to Vantok, the seat of the Temple’s power. Within a year, his intelligence, late blossoming sense of responsibility, and quick wit had brought him to the notice of Prelate Ferguson. At his Maturity, when he was elevated to the rank of full priest, Ferguson had adopted him as a personal assistant. It had been a fast ascent for one of his youth.

  In that role, Justin had been taken into Ferguson’s confidence, learning that his spiritual father believed himself to be in direct communication with the gods. They had entrusted him with the privileged knowledge that they were going to vacate the universe but, to fill the vacuum left in their wake, they would return magic to the race of men. It had been Ferguson’s duty, or so the man believed, to prepare the world for this and to shepherd his flock through the difficult transition period. For a young apprentice, the revelation had been both upsetting and exciting.

  To this day, Justin believed Ferguson had received some sort of mandate from the gods, but he was certain the man’s inflated sense of self-importance had perverted it. Ferguson had seen himself as the architect of the future. For a while, this had been an appealing idea for Justin; after all, as assistant to the most important man in the land, he would have basked in reflected greatness. Over the years, Justin had accepted that, although the gods might have assigned Ferguson the role of caretaker, he had appointed himself as a kingmaker. He had risen above man’s laws and, since there was no longer a “higher authority,” that meant no power in the world was august enough to pass judgment on him.

  During his brief time as Ferguson’s assistant, Justin had observed the man pursue a campaign of wizard-creation whose ultimate design was to establish the prelate as the sole, unimpeachable authority. They would have been his wizards, answerable to him, acting as his enforcers. Many of Ferguson’s devout followers had lived in a small village in the North called Sussaman. Justin had visited there once and found the place to be ramshackle and depressing, not at all the kind of settlement one would expect as the seat of power for a man of Ferguson’s status and ambitions. He had been introduced to Kara, pompously described by his master as “the mother of the future.” At the time, Ariel would have been about eight, but Justin had no memories of meeting her.

  The mission that had ended his role in the “new religion” came only weeks after the prelate’s small retinue had returned to Vantok from Sussaman. Ferguson, normally the most placid and methodical of men, had become erratic and frenzied. He had eventually confessed his belief that the gods’ end was at hand, and he wasn’t yet ready. So he had dispatched Justin on a journey to the Deep South, into The Forbidden Lands, to search for portals. At that time, Ferguson had known of only one possibly functional option, at Ibitsal. He had suspected there to be at least one other; Justin had been sent to locate it.

  The four soldiers accompanying him had been killed in a bandit attack just north of The Forbidden Lands. Justin had survived the ambush and struggled on. He had been deep in the mountains, lost, hungry, and despairing, when it had hit him. Since then, he had spoken with many others and no one acknowledged awareness of the event. Ariel hadn’t known. For so many, it had been just another moment of another day of another season of another year. He wondered if Ferguson had been as affected and suspected the prelate might have felt it more keenly. The moment of the gods’ passing had struck him like psychic hammer. For nearly a week after that, he had barely functioned, choosing daily between hurling himself off a mountain trail and continuing to wander deeper and deeper into The Forbidden Lands. Each day, the decision to live had been more difficult to justify. Then he had heard the call of the portal.

  His memories of those days were vague but he had no trouble remembering the portal’s insistent demand: comecomecome. In the end, when he had hurled himself into it, it had been more an act of suicide than an attempt at transformation. He had never considered himself as a candidate and, as best he could determine, neither had Ferguson. He hadn’t been sent on the mission to become a wizard. Yet he had survived and emerged a changed man. And in the first rush of exhilaration to accompany his resuscitation of magic, he had recognized one basic truth: it was him, not Ferguson, who was the appropriate choice to lead the world forward. The moment Justin had stepped through the portal, Ferguson’s role, whatever the gods had decreed it to be, had ended. His purpose had become obsolete; wizards weren’t his to control and command. Of course, the prelate wouldn’t have seen it that way. So Justin had elected to abandon his former master and his calling as a priest. He had become The Lord of Fire.

  He often wondered whether Ferguson had sent out a search party. Likely not. The prelate viewed his priests, even those close to him, as disposable commodities. Looking back through the haze of a quarter-century, Justin couldn’t say with certainty whether Ferguson had harbored any affection for him. For his part, Justin had loved and respected the man as much then as he now hated and reviled him.

  “You’re not listening to me.” The accusation was stated with enough vigor to shake Justin out of his memory-fueled reverie. Ariel had folded her legs under her and was leaning toward him.

  “Apologies. Something you said reminded me of days when things were simpler.”

  “We were talking about Ferguson. His weaknesses?”

  “Forget getting to him. We’d burn ourselves out trying. He knows more about magic than we could hope to.”

  “Knowing is different from practicing. Understanding that you can create a fireball doesn’t offer much protection when you do it. Knowing I can travel on the wind can’t stop me from dropping out of the sky with a dagger in my hand.”

  “Don’t underestimate knowledge as a weapon. There may be inherent weaknesses in wizardry that we know nothing about but he can exploit. He’s a more dangerous opponent than your brother, for all that Sorial is The Lord of Earth. I keep hoping old age will claim Ferguson, but he seems to be immune. Maybe the gods conferred immortality on him.” Justin didn’t really believe that, but it was extraordinary how long the prelate had lived.

  “Given an opportunity...”

  “...I would strike him down, gladly and willingly. He no longer has any claim on my loyalty. But he’s unlike other men. He so rarely makes mistakes that to count on them is folly. His webs are so complicated that you don’t realize you’re in one until there’s no way out.” Justin had been saved by blind luck and a suicidal impulse.

  Ariel echoed his earlier thoughts when she said “Perhaps instead of killing Sorial, we should work to make sure he and Ferguson never form an alliance.”

  “Killing him is the easiest way to assure that never happens. But if eliminating him proves difficult, then poisoning his relationship with Ferguson, whatever that may be, presents an alternative. It doesn’t, however, give us everything we want: a Lord of Earth who’s one of us.”

  “His paramour is his weakness.”

  “As has been the case for men and women throughout history.” Love - Justin wished he could have experienced it just once. He supposed what he had with Ariel was the closest he would ever get. “Very well, extend your net. Look for her as well as for him. But if you find either one, come to me with the information. Don’t act on your own.” She didn’t need the reminder, but he offered it nonetheless. Her sincere contrition for the way she had handled the situation with her brother didn’t guarantee she wouldn’t misstep again, especially if she believed there to be a quick path to redemption.

  “What of you?” she asked. “Did you succeed last night?”

  She was referring to his initial attempt to s
ummon a djinn, a task he had tried far from the army in case the creature proved to be uncontrollable. He had been concerned about the havoc it could wreak if he couldn’t tame it. Nothing so dramatic had happened, however.

  “I felt it. Deep below ground in the molten rock, I could sense its presence, and it knew I was questing for it. But all that damned earth interfered with the summoning. So it didn’t come, either because it feared being entrapped or because it didn’t recognize who or what was calling it. “

  “Is there only one?”

  Justin shook his head in the negative. “I sensed several, perhaps as many as a dozen, but they are farther beyond my reach than the one I touched. I don’t understand their society or culture, or even much about their true nature. I don’t doubt their existence and their value in battle should they be bound to me, but they’re elusive. Sometimes, I wonder if I might be better served scouring the far reaches of the world, beyond where men exist, in search of a living dragon.”

  “What now? Try again? You certainly can’t give up.”

  “No. They’re integral to my plan. One djinn in battle will be worth a hundred seasoned warriors, if not more. They can take the onus of using fire as a weapon from me, allowing me to husband my magic rather than wasting it. But there’s no benefit in continuing to probe for them. I have to visit the Yu’Tar library and seek lore about how to contact them. The fire wizards of old were seen in the company of djinn.”

  “Perhaps they had cooperation from earth wizards in making the initial contact.”

  Justin frowned at that possibility, but recognized she could be right. Many of the greatest magical endeavors involved multiple wizards, much as the heat bubble over Vantok was a result of his and Ariel’s cooperation. Some of the feats spoken of in myth and legend were said to require all four wizards working in concert. As things stood today, Justin couldn’t expect aid from Sorial in contacting the djinn. So there had to be another way. And if it was known, he would find clues in the Yu’Tar library.

  “What do you think he can summon? My brother, I mean.”

  “Like us, he’s hampered by the passing of the ages. Many of the creatures that might have answered his call have ceased to exist. There are still rock wyrms; I assume he has mastery over them. There may be trolls and giants, although they could be extinct like the dragons. Beyond that... I suppose he might be able to marshal an army of burrowing animals or insects, but I don’t know how much value they would have in battle. The Lord of Water would have the most success binding creatures to his summons but their usefulness would be limited. A sea monster would have no value in a land battle.”

  “How long until we’re ready for combat?”

  “Soon. Time is both friend and enemy. The difficulty is determining when waiting becomes delaying.”

  She nodded as if his words had clarified the schedule. “Where do you want me now? Aside from continuing my search for Sorial, that is.”

  “Check on the progress of the king of Obis. And it might be a good time to make a little mischief in Vantok. Perhaps another of those rainless storms you enjoy. Anything to keep the population on edge, to erode their trust in their king and prelate, and to drive some to seek a less cursed locale in which to live. Refugees are easier to conquer than entrenched peasants and nobles with property to protect and defend.”

  She nodded, put on her boots, and exited the tent, leaving Justin alone with his thoughts.

  Tomorrow, he would travel to the library at Yu’Tar, one of the greatest repositories of knowledge from the ancient era. When Ferguson had traveled there a half-century ago, the trip had taken him more than a season in each direction, with an ocean to cross. Justin’s powers had enabled him to use a few short cuts but it had still consumed four weeks of his life to get there and another two weeks to uncover its specific location. On that initial trip, he’d had the foresight to set an ever-burning travel fire in the vicinity - a gateway that would allow him to pass there using any other travel fire almost instantaneously. There were limitations to the usefulness of fire-travel but, when it could be employed, it was superior to the opportunities offered by water, air, and earth.

  Although seeking knowledge about how to summon djinn was his primary goal for visiting the library, it wasn’t his sole purpose. It was there, deep in the musty, mildewed archives that some of the most obscure and arcane scrolls existed, many scribed by wizards whose names were legendary. Hints in those documents had long fascinated Justin, fueling his obsession with The Otherverse. Their incompleteness was a source of frustration. Many had long since decayed into powder and others were written in languages lost to men. As for what he could read, much was intentionally obscure, intended only for those with a deep abstract understanding of magic. Justin was enough of a scholar to believe that, given sufficient time, he could discover the key that unlocked magic’s greatest mysteries. But, as he had told Ariel, time was both a friend and an enemy and, when it came to completing this task, it was more the latter than the former.

  CHAPTER TEN: THE VISE CLOSES

  Myselene was deeply concerned about the latest turn of events. Prelate Ferguson’s decision to create an arbitrary dividing line between secular law and ecclesiastical law threatened the integrity of the Crown. And if Azarak’s rule was in danger that meant her plans were also in jeopardy. Worse still, this could open the door to an ugly scenario she didn’t like to consider.

  Her father’s arrival was imminent. He would likely be in Vantok within three weeks, possibly as early as Midwinter if he rode ahead of the majority of his entourage. If the political situation remained volatile, she wouldn’t put it past him to “help” Azarak quell the civil unrest through the deployment of Obis’ troops. That was Rangarak’s way, and it would be done “in the best interests of all involved.” Once the populace had been cowed, control would be ceded to Azarak, but Myselene’s “dowry” would turn into an occupying force and the king of Vantok would thereafter be a puppet of Obis. Azarak would resist such an arrangement and that stance would lead to his ouster, imprisonment, and possible execution. She paused to consider how Ferguson might use such a situation to his benefit. If the prelate agreed to assist Rangarak, he would almost certainly be given a secular post - possibly even that of chancellor. No matter what she said, her father would see the prelate as a stabilizing force, not a divisive one.

  All this would be done in Myselene’s name, of course, to “ensure peace and harmony in the city at the time of her wedding,” but she didn’t want this. She wanted Vantok to stand on its own as the Jewel of the South. Turning it into a satellite of Obis was unacceptable. To avoid that, the situation with Ferguson had to be resolved or at least camouflaged so it didn’t come to King Rangarak’s attention.

  She studied her reflection in the new mirror Azarak had procured for her - an early wedding gift. Made in far-off Andel, the westernmost of the northern cities, it was smooth and carefully polished and provided the best image she had ever seen of herself. Today, she wore a deep violet gown intended to complement her dark eyes and hair and contrast with her pale skin. It was a simple dress with a plunging neckline designed to draw eyes to the large amethyst dangling between her breasts at the end of a gold necklace. This outfit, simple yet elegant, was what she would don for her first appearance at a council meeting. Officially, she wouldn’t be a member of that august body until her appointment was ratified, but she knew the other counselors wouldn’t flout the king’s wishes in this matter, especially with the most intractable of them having resigned.

  She pulled a bell to summon her maid, Posie. As always, the woman was the personification of promptness and courtesy. She entered and curtseyed, then stood awaiting her lady’s pleasure, head lowered. At 30 years of age, the mousey woman had lived her entire life in service, starting at a young age working alongside her mother, who had been a maid in the palace for two generations of kings. She was too obsequious for Myselene, who preferred servants to have a little spine and a willingness to speak their minds. Th
is reticence was a characteristic of those who worked in Vantok’s palace. During her early days in the city, when she had been an honored guest and not yet the king’s paramour, she had been “assigned” a girl close to her age who had fawned over her. Posie was older but no less slavish in her attentiveness. Myselene had sent for Nymia, her childhood maid from Obis, but she was accompanying the wedding party and wouldn’t arrive for several weeks. Until then, Posie was her closest female companion.

  “How do I look, Posie?” asked Myselene, continuing to scrutinize her reflection. Rumor had it she was the greatest beauty of the North. But she was in the South now, and she had seen a great many beauties.

  “Gorgeous, Milady, but that’s how ’talways is with you.”

  Myselene suspected Posie would have said exactly the same words had her mistress been a 70-year old harridan. Politeness always trumped honesty where servants were concerned. And, truth be told, bluntness was often rewarded with a dismissal.

  She was quiet for a moment as she considered the reason she had asked the maid to attend her. It wasn’t for help with the gown, the necklace, her hair, or her shoes. She could attend to those things herself - the move from Obis to Vantok hadn’t impeded her ability to make herself presentable. It was to ask a simple question. “Posie, do you believe the gods are dead as some folk say?”

  She seemed genuinely surprised by what her mistress suggested. “Dead, Milady? Don’t think that’s rightly possible, them being the gods and all. How does a god die? They’s forever, I reckon. Turned away from us, they did, because we was becoming all high and mighty. Sinners all is we, though we don’t see it. But dead? Whoever says that needs to spend long hours in prayer and repentance.”

  Myselene avoided a sigh. Herein lay Azarak’s problem. In a few short sentences, Posie had clarified why a public denunciation of Ferguson could represent political suicide. The prelate had played the match too well. He had outmaneuvered Azarak at every step, forcing him into a position from which there was no escape. The only possible move for the king at this point was something bold, unexpected, and potentially disastrous.