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

by Berardinelli, James

  “I’ll send a messenger to inform the Prelate that Warburm will be with you, and I’ll summon a guard to fetch the innkeeper.”

  * * *

  Sorial and Warburm had been waiting for the better part of an hour in a dank, windowless chamber that was as cheery as a converted dungeon cell. The walls and floor were solid stone and the grim tapestries did little to lighten the atmosphere with their depictions of gruesome events from the world’s history rendered in dark reds and browns. One wall was dominated by a huge fireplace that looked not to have been used in many a season. Two smoky, guttering torches provided scant illumination. Warburm had settled his considerable bulk in a too-small wooden chair provided for him, but Sorial remained standing. Two silent priests, their faces shadowed by cowls, stood like statues to either side of the closed door, presumably to keep the visitors from wandering from the designated meeting room. Sorial paid them little heed. They were unimportant; if he needed or wanted to leave, they wouldn’t be able to stop him.

  Sorial and Warburm had spoken little on the journey here, although the innkeeper had provided a brief account of his trip home.

  Sorial asked only one question of any import: “Did you know of Ferguson’s plans for Alicia?”

  “Beyon’ her bein’ The Wizard’s Bride, ya mean? Nay, lad. If she done fit into his schemes in another way, he ain’t told me ’bout it.”

  Sorial believed him. One consistent aspect of the prelate’s plots was a tendency to reveal details selectively. No one knew all the facets of the overarching plan. He wondered if any of Alicia’s companions had known her escape was abetted by Ferguson. He thought it unlikely that anything would be left to chance; that would mean there was an agent in Alicia’s company. He supposed his mother was the most likely candidate but he intended to learn the answer shortly.

  The waiting was designed as a reminder of Ferguson’s authority in the temple. Those who visited here came as supplicants. As long as it didn’t go on for too long, Sorial didn’t mind - he had something planned that would eliminate questions about where the true power lay in this new order. Once that was accomplished, he could proceed with his purpose here. He knew his next step would be to go after Alicia, but he wanted to be better informed about the situation before embarking on the journey. It would be helpful to know, for example, if there was a trap at the other end.

  The door opened to admit Ferguson, dressed in full ecclesiastical regalia and flanked by a pair of hooded, masked priests who looked uncomfortably like executioners. They were armed, with masterfully crafted short swords in ornate scabbards at their waists. Sorial supposed they were bodyguards of some sort, likely with substantial martial training. It didn’t matter. They could be master bladesmen for all the difference it made to Sorial. Magic trumped steel. It was a decisive advantage, even for someone with a minimal understanding of how to control it. He had proven that in the confrontation with Langashin outside the portal chamber in Havenham. The torturer had been a brute of a man; Sorial had easily bested him.

  Ferguson moved to within three feet of Sorial and directed his penetrating gaze at the younger man. In youth, Ferguson had towered above others, his height easily topping six feet; age had compressed his body, but he was still tall enough to look Sorial in the eye. Warburm genuflected to the prelate; Sorial didn’t move. There would be no obeisance from him.

  The reverse, however wasn’t true. After a moment’s pause, Ferguson executed a deep bow. “Welcome to the temple, Your Magus.” The honorary title hadn’t been used in many centuries.

  Sorial wondered how long Ferguson had waited to say those words. Had he rehearsed this moment? Did he expect his wizard to come in gratitude, or had he known there would be outrage and anger? There was much about the man and his serpentine plotting that Sorial would never understand.

  Sorial closed the distance between himself and the prelate with a single stride. Then, before anyone could react, he struck Ferguson across the face with his open hand. It was a stinging blow. A younger man might have been staggered by it; Ferguson was knocked to the ground. His two guardians as well as the other priests moved swiftly to intercept Sorial but, with the stomp of one booted foot - more theatrical than necessary - Sorial stopped them.

  The temple shuddered as a powerful tremor shook the ground. Everyone except Sorial lost his footing, collapsing like a puppet with strings severed. By intent, it was like that throughout the temple. Outside in the city not even the faintest shaking was felt.

  Into the profound silence that followed the quake, Sorial said, “That was a warning. The next time anyone attempts to lay hands on me, I’ll bring the entire building down. Then there will be no need for this meeting.” No one doubted it to be an idle threat, least of all Warburm who had seen Sorial at Havenham. The innkeeper recognized the same level of anger and outrage. Not for the first time, he understood how precarious the situation was, but he had known Sorial would react this way to the news of Alicia’s absence.

  Ferguson, who was still recovering from the blow, urgently motioned his rising guardians away from Sorial. Like Warburm, he took the wizard at his word.

  Shaking his head as if to clear it and wiping blood from his mouth and nose onto a snow white sleeve, Ferguson got to his knees then, after a pause, regained his footing. Everyone else was standing by now; Sorial hadn’t moved from his original position.

  “If I have offended Your Magus, I offer my most sincere apologies.” There was no hint of condescension in Ferguson’s voice but neither was there true contrition. He was apologizing because it was expected of him.

  “Where is Alicia?”

  “Somewhere in the North between Sussaman and Ibitsal. The last report I received is a week old; at that time, she had recently departed the village of your birth. She is well, having recovered from a fever, as are your mother and your friend. Sadly, her manservant - Vagrum, I believe was his name - didn’t survive the mountain passage. It was a foolish route for them to attempt so deep into the cold weather.” This was all said matter-of-factly, as if Ferguson was imparting information of little consequence.

  “Which of her companions are your agents?”

  “You speak as if you and I are enemies, which isn’t the case. I have labored nearly my whole life to place you in your current position. Going forward, I’ll do everything in my power to support you as you establish yourself and defend this city against the forces that threaten it. You and I are allies not adversaries, Your Magus.”

  “Then how is it that you’ve placed the life of the woman I love in danger? Do you expect me to thank you for that?”

  A note of steel entered Ferguson’s voice. He wasn’t accustomed to his plans being questioned. “It’s her birthright to be more than your consort. Why do you think that particular lineage was chosen for The Wizard’s Bride? The Lady Alicia has nearly as much wizard’s blood in her veins as you have. In the old days, The Wizard’s Bride never realized her potential - she was kept from the portals - but it was there. By joining her with an active wizard, it was hoped the children of the union would have the potential. Often, that’s what happened.”

  “So you’re gamble with her life the way you gambled with mine?” Sorial was incredulous that the man could be so cold-blooded and calculating about such a thing.

  Ferguson raised his hands in a placating gesture. “It isn’t the gamble you believe it to be. My research has told me there is a sign to identify those with magical potential. Tell me, before you stepped through it, did the portal ‘sing’ to you? Did you hear it speaking not through your ears but in your mind?”

  Comecomecome. “Yes.”

  “That meant it would accept you. My ‘agent’, as you called him, has been instructed not to let the Lady Alicia near the portal if she doesn’t hear its call.”

  “Your methods are fucked. What about my brother?”

  “He heard the call. I know this. He said he could hear a voice telling him to ‘come.’ He had the potential, of that I’m sure. Your brother
’s case troubled me for years after. It shook my faith in all I studied. For a while, I was convinced the portal was flawed, damaged in some way but still partially functional. But I’ve since come to understand what caused Braddock’s death. His element was fire and, by the time he entered the portal, a wizard had already claimed that element. The Lord of Fire. The first of the new wizards. No element will permit two masters, so he perished by it rather than gaining control over it. Since then, I suspect a Lord of Air has emerged. The heat bubble around Vantok requires both fire and air for it to function as it does. Your element is earth. Had you been fire or air, I never would have allowed you to approach a portal, knowing it would kill you as surely as it did your brother. A waste of potential is in no one’s interest. You would have been held back until the element was clear. The Lady Alicia’s element is water. Her father and mother have confirmed this to me. To the best of my knowledge, water remains clear. There’s no evidence anyone has claimed that element. So the path is open for your prospective bride, should she hear the portal, to step through and emerge transformed.”

  “When my brother died, was there evidence anyone had claimed fire?”

  “No,” admitted Ferguson. “I wouldn’t have permitted him to enter the portal had that been the case. We were naïve in those years, believing time was on our side. We never suspected what happened - that someone found another portal and used it before Braddock was ready. I often wonder what might have happened had we sent him through the moment we knew the gods were gone. But we believed him to be too young then.”

  “You were wrong with Braddock. You could be wrong with Alicia. Your gamble assumes no one else has stepped forward to claim water. If you’re wrong, she’s dead. You ain’t all-knowing, Prelate. Vantok’s current predicament is in partly your doing.”

  “I would be interested in understanding how you reason that.” Ferguson’s tone was peevish.

  “You’re right about The Lord of Air. She exists. Perhaps she’d prefer to be called The Lady of Air. And she’s got a name you might recognize: Ariel.”

  Ferguson’s face paled, recognition dawning. For a moment, Sorial thought he was going to collapse, but the prelate regained his equilibrium. Still, the shock was evident - he now looked every one of his nearly one-hundred years. Instead of the regal personification of authority who had entered this room minutes ago, he was an old man who had lived too long.

  “So,” he said finally, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Your mother was right. She never gave up on Ariel, even after the best trackers concluded she must have died. Clever girl. She must have come back to the portal on her own. I can see the appeal of doing that. She needed to know. And now what? Revenge against those who couldn’t save her beloved older brother?”

  “Perhaps she prefers The Lord of Fire’s methods to yours. I wouldn’t blame her.”

  “Ariel alive.” He said it almost with wonder. “And you. And Alicia. Three out of four.”

  “Alicia’s fate ain’t set, and we ain’t your animals to be locked away in stalls.”

  “A metaphor with which you’re comfortable,” said Ferguson, some of the fight returning. “As for the Lady Alicia, I suspect the die has already been cast. By my calculations, unless she’s been delayed by bad weather, she’ll reach the portal today. She may be there already. And, once there, things will progress as they must. If she hears the call, she’ll enter the portal.”

  “Who’s your agent in her party? Is it my mother?”

  “Kara knows something of my plan, but not all. The time for her to be an integral part is long past. She believes I sent the Lady Alicia to meet you at the portal so her presence will boost your courage. No, my ‘agent,’ if you prefer such a misleading term, is your good friend Rexall. He has long watched over you for me and he now watches over your future wife. His duties are straightforward: protect the Lady Alicia, steer her in the right direction and, when the time comes, assess whether the portal will accept her. For this, he is being well-paid.”

  Sorial felt a sickness deep in his gut. It was almost as visceral a sensation as being punched. Now it was his turn to falter at an unexpected revelation, although not as visibly as Ferguson had. Yet, as he looked back on his life, it made sense. Ferguson had needed someone closer to him than Warburm; who better than Rexall? He wondered which had come first - Rexall’s friendship or his selection as an informant? Ultimately, it didn’t matter. The sting of betrayal and disappointment was strong, the bitterness like bile in his mouth.

  “You needn’t be too harsh on him,” said Ferguson, reading Sorial’s reaction. “He was like you: a boy with no home seeking a way to survive on the streets. He didn’t have a nearby mother and a guardian as steadfast as the man now standing by your side. The small amounts I paid him kept him from falling in with the worst sort of gutter rats. He told no deep confidences; his reports were vague and general. Your sense of betrayal is misplaced.”

  Sorial was unsurprised that Ferguson would interpret matters in such a cavalier manner. As a master manipulator, he would see sins like Rexall’s as inconsequential. In his eyes, there was no purpose more important than his divinely inspired one. Next to that, what did it matter if one boy informed on another, the daughter of a duke died trying to become a wizard, or a barmaid was left dead in a ditch?

  “Do you remember Annie?” asked Sorial.

  The change in subject surprised Ferguson. His face wore a puzzled frown. Sorial heard a sharp intake of breath from Warburm but the innkeeper said nothing.

  “The name is unfamiliar to me,” Ferguson said after a lengthy pause. “Is she an acquaintance of yours?”

  “Was. In fact, had things gone different, I might’ve married her.” That had once been his hope, but it had been a fool’s hope. These men had taught him the cold truth in the most ruthless manner possible. Dashing the hope had been cruel enough but killing Annie to do it? That was unforgivable.

  “You dwell overmuch on the past, Your Magus. On things that are long gone and of little import. You see slights and wrongs where none are intended and misinterpret acts of necessity as personal attacks. Yes, I remember Annie, although not by name. She stood as an obstacle to plans that had been in place since before her birth - plans on which far more rested than something as inconsequential as a marriage. You wish to know if I played a role in her death? I accept responsibility for it. Warburm pleaded with me to ‘find another way.’ But there was no other way. It’s like that with matters of the heart. Had she left, you would have followed. She was removed because she had to be removed. When you are in a position such as mine, it’s impossible to shrink from making the hard choices - ones you wish could be left to others. And you stand before me today wreathed in the power of earth because of that decision.”

  The urge to strike down Ferguson for a second time was almost too powerful to resist. But Sorial knew that if he hit the prelate again, it wouldn’t stop with a single blow. He would continue until there was nothing left but a bloody husk. And that wouldn’t serve anyone: not himself, not Alicia, and certainly not Annie.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, seeking calm. He drew on the cold impassivity of the earth below and allowed it to flow into his veins. The hurt and rage receded. Not gone, but bearable. One concern was paramount. All other issues would wait.

  “I’ll go to Ibitsal. Pray to your dead gods, Prelate, that Alicia ain’t joined them, or the next time we meet will be the last. For now, you’ll leave this temple where you hide like a rat in a maze and hand yourself over to the king. You’ll submit to his justice and accept whatever punishment he decrees. The gods ain’t no more; there’s only secular law. You’ve broken that law and will answer for it. When I return, there will be a reckoning between us.”

  Ferguson executed a bow as deep and courtly as the one with which he previously favored Sorial. “As Your Magus commands.”

  Sorial turned to the innkeeper, who had been standing by his side silently during the exchange. “Warburm, bring the prel
ate to the palace. He’s yours until the king takes charge of him. You’re responsible for him; if he escapes or don’t reach the palace, you’ll answer for his crimes in his stead.”

  Warburm blanched at that and the sight cheered Sorial. It confirmed that the innkeeper was more afraid of him than of Ferguson. He continued, “If you give him to the king, I’ll pardon you for your involvement in his schemes. Ferguson accused me of ‘dwelling overmuch on the past.’ Now you got a chance not to make the same mistake. You can reject your past master and align with a new one. Or you can stay loyal to one who deserves no loyalty and share his fate. The choice is yours.”

  Sorial didn’t remain to learn Warburm’s decision. He would find out when he returned. Actions, not words, counted. For Sorial, that meant finding an open space, calling his rock wyrm, and traveling as fast to Alicia as was possible. And hoping against hope that she didn’t hear the call of the portal.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: AN ARMY AT IBITSAL

  It wasn’t actually an army, not in the conventional sense. Or at least that’s what Aiden assured Alicia. There were about a thousand men and the loose nature of their organization indicated they were most likely a collection of mercenaries and local tribesman brought together by some common cause. They would be tough in a fight but no match for an ordered, modestly-sized militia. Unfortunately, Alicia’s group wasn’t accompanied by a militia of any size.

  Although the army’s purpose was unclear, there was no ambiguity about it being focused on Ibitsal. The campsite ringed the ruins; there was no way in or out of the ancient city without passing through the perimeter. Had Ibitsal been occupied, it might have been a siege. With such a large area to cover, the troops were spread thin, dispersed over a swath of cleared ground 400 feet across between the debris and the encroaching forest. It was Aiden’s guess that, under cover of darkness, they should be able to slip unnoticed into the city. There was no indication the men had entered the ruins; perhaps the rumors of its haunting held them back.