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

by Berardinelli, James

  More riddles. More damn riddles. He felt the same frustration bubbling to the surface he had experienced every time he visited Kara and she told him the time wasn’t yet ripe for him to understand the purpose of his life.

  “I can’t read.” It seemed an inadequate response, but it was true enough. Given time and a patient teacher, the deficiency could be rectified, but time wasn’t an abundant resource for him. In the best circumstances, The Lord of Fire would be marching toward Vantok before Sorial could comprehend a book of children’s tales.

  “Your wife can. While you caucus with King Azarak figuring out how to blunt The Lord of Fire’s charge, she can accomplish the important work.”

  Sorial turned to leave but paused before knocking on the door to ask to be let out. “Did you know my mother could have been a wizard? The portal called to her and, when she answered its call, it destroyed her.”

  “Kara?” One hairless eyebrow shot up. “That’s unexpected. Perhaps it shouldn’t be. As I recall, we never tested her. An oversight, obviously. But we made many mistakes in those early days. Your sister was one. Not rushing your brother was another. I’m convinced The Lord of Fire was invested only a short time before Braddock approached the portal. Maraman lacked the wizard’s capability; we tested him. Carannan is equally bereft, even though his bloodline is respectable. Alicia benefits from his heritage and that of the Lady Evane. Not as strong as yours yet sufficient; that’s why I encouraged their union. But Kara? I never suspected, and I should have. At this point, recriminations, like regrets, are pointless. We are where we are. I’ve gotten us to this point. Now the burden shifts to your shoulders. Without my help, though, you’ll fail. Come back to me, Your Magus, when you’re prepared to have a conversation of substance. When you’re ready to discuss magic as more than just a tool. When you’re ready to understand why, if you don’t gain a fundamental understanding of what it really means to be a wizard, you’ll never be more than a glorified carnival performer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: A SECOND DEMONSTRATION

  The man Myselene called “father” was, in Azarak’s opinion, a monster. After having spent the better portion of the day in Rangarak’s company, reviewing logistics for the upcoming ceremony, the king of Vantok was exhausted. Apparently, the concept of “compromise” didn’t enter into Rangarak’s way of thinking. He was a cold, calculating man and, as the leader of the North’s most daunting city, he was accustomed to getting his way. His tactic of negotiation was to verbally bludgeon his opponents until they capitulated.

  “I’d apologize for him if I thought it would mean anything,” said Myselene, cognizant of the difficulties her betrothed was having making headway forging a working relationship with Rangarak. Before the Iron King’s bombastic arrival, Azarak had hoped to use the week prior to the wedding to discuss the possibility of a closer relationship between the two cities - a relationship that would include mutual defense pacts and a protected trade route through Widow’s Pass for which both cities would share responsibility. Rangarak, however, appeared unwilling to enter into diplomatic discussions, preferring instead to inspect every aspect of Vantok’s infrastructure and bluntly criticize each area in which he found it wanting.

  The Iron King’s comments, never gracious from the first despite Myselene’s suggestion that he would be cordial because of his status as a guest, grew increasingly more insulting with each passing day. It was evident that Rangarak had little respect for Azarak or the way in which he ran his city. “Soft leadership” was what he called it. He found Vantok to be shabby, poorly organized, uncomfortable, smelly, and full of undesirables who should be pressed into work gangs or military service. “If the scum don’t want to work to earn their keep, throw them out of the city.” When he learned about the situation with the rebel nobles, his advice was to send in the army. “Can’t have dissent. It undermines the authority of the Crown. If that happens, you might as well step down.” He volunteered to lend some of his men to help quash the nascent civil disobedience. When Azarak had demurred, Rangarak had sneered.

  “Have you two at least come to an agreement about who’s going to officiate at the ceremony?” asked Myselene, reclining in bed next to her soon-to-be husband. It wasn’t late at night, but they had taken refuge in the king’s chambers as an escape from the oppressive need to engage their guests in conversation. They lay in bed in a state of partial undress, but neither considered it an intimate encounter.

  When Azarak had explained the situation with Ferguson and proposed Sorial as an alternative, Rangarak refused to acknowledge “the charlatan’s” right to perform the marriage of two peasants, let alone a king and queen. Despite being a firm believer in the doctrine that the gods were gone - if, in fact, they had ever existed in the first place - Rangarak was adamant that a priest preside over the ceremony. He had brought a high-ranking one with him, the vice-prelate of Obis, second only to His Excellency. “Far better him than that shit you call a wizard.”

  “We’re going to be married by two priests,” Azarak informed Myselene, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. “That wizened prune your father dragged with him from the North and our esteemed acting prelate, Bishop Belmar.” For many years, Belmar had served as Ferguson’s surrogate on Azarak’s council, so there was at least a level of familiarity. No trust, though. Belmar had been one of Ferguson’s confidantes and there was no indication that the prelate’s incarceration had changed that.

  “If there’s one advantage to this debacle of your father refusing Sorial, it will at least make our wizard available to concentrate on security.”

  “You believe there’s a threat that either of our magical enemies might strike?”

  “Put yourself in their place. Can you think of a more tempting target? But Sorial doesn’t believe an attack, if it comes, will be primarily supernatural. According to him, something big and bold would be easy to detect and defend against. His concern is something more subtle - something that wouldn’t be recognized for what it is until it’s too late.”

  “Something we might not be able to plan for.”

  “Exactly. I explained the situation to your father and he dismissed it, much as he has dismissed any suggestion that wizards or magic are real. Insufferable man. I don’t know how you grew up under his thumb and ended up as open-minded and rational as you are.”

  “I hardly ever saw him. I’m his daughter not his son. He has little use for women so I was left in the care of governesses and tutors. Vice Chancellor Gorton was ten times more a father to me than the king was. Any paternal feelings he might have were carefully concealed, although I’ve been assured by many at court that I’m his favorite child, prized even over my brother. That was scant comfort for those times when I went weeks without seeing him or received only cool words and affectionless kisses when he remembered my existence.”

  “Is there any chance he’ll use the men he brought with him to take the city by force?”

  Myselene considered before answering. “Nothing is impossible with a man as arrogant and ambitious as him. There are more than a few oddities about the composition of his entourage. Twenty-two hundred men is more than the king of Obis needs for an honor guard, even considering that he’ll be leaving a quarter of their number here.

  “His limiting contact between his soldiers and the citizens of Vantok could be seen as common courtesy or it could be to lessen fraternization. It’s less complicated to attack people you don’t know. Plus, it would be easier to mobilize his forces if they’re all in one place than if they’re scattered around the city.

  “Then there’s the question of why Grushik and Sangaska are with him - the heir and the heir’s heir. Their inclusion in the party makes little sense unless one or both of them expects to remain behind. That augurs the possibility that Rangarak doesn’t intend for you to have autonomy when he leaves. At best, one or both might remain as ‘representatives’ of the Iron King. At worst, they would be in complete control.”

  The irregularities noted by M
yselene lay at the core of Azarak’s concern. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that the wedding was merely an excuse for Rangarak to come south with a large military force without raising suspicion. Had this been his plan all along, or was it an embellishment he had arrived at after Azarak accepted Myselene? Whatever the case, it appeared she was innocent of any conspiracy. He sensed that she was as concerned as he was about the way events were unfolding.

  “How would he do it, do you think? You know him better than I do.”

  “He doesn’t have a large enough force to engage in a pitched battle with a strong assurance of victory. Vantok’s army outnumbers his three-to-one which negates any advantage he might have when it comes to training and organization. It’s more likely that he’ll use coercion or threats with the expectation of resorting to force if thwarted. He could opt for one of two approaches. The first would be to keep you as Vantok’s nominal ruler with the understanding that you would be beholden to him through Grushik or Sangaska, whoever is left behind. The five hundred men of my dowry would likely report directly to Obis. Or my father could have you assassinated. The throne would then be mine and Grushik or Sangaska could be appointed as ‘chancellor’. In either case, Vantok becomes Obis’ vassal.”

  It was logical. The irony, of course, was that anything Rangarak attempted would weaken the city for The Lord of Fire. If the Iron King took Vantok, it seemed unlikely he would hold it for long. Of course, Azarak might be dead by then.

  “You have a keen understanding of these things,” remarked the king.

  “You don’t grow up in Obis without getting lessons in the finer points of strategy and tactics. And Gorton was determined that my lessons mirror those of most high-born boys. I can’t sew or knit but I can read a map and study a battle plan.”

  “And if this comes to pass, if your father makes a play for the city, where will you stand?” He hated to ask; it seemed disloyal to do so. But, in a situation like this, he couldn’t assume her allegiance. Then again, if she intended to betray him, she would hardly admit it.

  “Once I’m no longer needed, they’ll dispose of me. I’d be a loose end, someone who couldn’t be trusted. So of course I stand with you. And with those who’ll be my people.”

  “Not what you expected when you came south to woo a king? A city fractured by rebellion, on the verge of takeover by a foreign power, and facing a massive army from out of The Forbidden Lands.”

  “I came to Vantok with the objective of becoming its queen. And, in three days, that’s what I’ll be. The more difficult the challenges, the more rewarding the title.”

  Azarak wished he could share those sentiments. The thought of a nice, quiet reign held immense appeal. “Your father’s plan, if it’s close to what you surmise, is fatally flawed. He discounts Sorial, believing him to be a fraud. And he doesn’t know about Alicia. By not considering them in his strategy, he assures himself of being unprepared for whatever defense they mount. But perhaps we overestimate you father’s ambition. Perhaps he’s simply here to attend the wedding of his daughter - an act that will bind the greatest city in the South to the greatest city in the North. Maybe the size of his force and the presence of his heirs is a sign of respect for the importance of the event.”

  “Maybe,” conceded Myselene, her voice betraying doubt. “But I hope Sorial’s demonstration is convincing. If my father is converted to being a believer in magic, it may blunt any ambitions he harbors where Vantok is concerned. If not, let’s say that The Lord of Fire could be delighted by the result.”

  * * *

  Spent, Sorial withdrew from Alicia to roll onto his back. His skin was sticky with sweat, his breathing labored. He was exhausted, but it was a good kind of exhaustion - the kind that could make his worries temporarily evaporate, and there were plenty of those.

  “Wow,” said Alicia. Like Sorial, she was bathed in perspiration. It glistened on her stomach and breasts and darkened the ends of her hair where the curls touched her forehead and neck. “We need to argue more often.” Their bout of frenetic sex had been preceded by a fight over the merits of frequent bathing.

  Sorial supposed he had lost; he recalled saying something about taking a bath only if she fucked him to exhaustion. Since she had done that, he assumed he would now be required to trudge down to the river in the middle of the night and go for a quick swim. Except Alicia seemed in no hurry to get up.

  “You can wait until morning,” she finally conceded, as if reading his thoughts. “After I catch my breath, I might want to do it again. No point getting cleaned up yet.”

  For Sorial, sex with Alicia, like arguing about pointless, insignificant minutiae, was a welcome distraction from the weightier matters of life. The first and foremost of those was the demonstration he was expected to provide to the king of Obis tonight at Azarak and Myselene’s gala pre-wedding banquet. The other was that he had been put in charge of security for the celebration. Sorial’s initial relief at being removed from the responsibility of officiating had been short-lived; his new role was more important and less straightforward.

  “Have you figured out how to awe King Iron Stick Up His Ass?” asked Alicia. She had taken an immediate and intense dislike to the king of Obis. She didn’t like how the man treated his daughter nor was she appreciative of the constantly insulting comments he made about Sorial.

  “I think I’ll shake him up a little. Nothing harmful, but he’ll get the point, I hope.” It was disconcerting to recognize how easily he could dispatch the king if he so desired. Open the floor beneath his feet, send a pebble into his skull, drop one of the gargantuan stones that comprised the dining hall’s ceiling onto his head... there were an endless variety of possibilities. But it bothered him how… pedestrian… those applications of magic were. Ferguson’s labeling of him as a “glorified carnival performer” had lodged in his mind and festered. The prelate was right - every application of magic he had thus far attempted was obvious. Against The Lord of Fire, obvious wasn’t good enough. And with Rangarak, it might be easier to kill him than impress him.

  “The king thinks Rangarak might be plotting something, that this might not be a purely ceremonial visit. He ain’t convinced that the mighty Lord of the North needs an honor guard of two-thousand. But if he’s planning something, it ain’t gonna happen till after his daughter’s been confirmed as Vantok’s queen. So Azarak should be safe from Rangarak till after the wedding.”

  “Myselene is worried about something. I can sense it.” Alicia had been spending a fair amount of time with the soon-to-be-queen, at least as much time as Myselene’s responsibilities for arranging the wedding and playing host to her father’s party would allow. “She doesn’t trust those two cretins Rangarak brought with him - her brother and her sister’s husband. They’re both married but they spend all their time at the brothels.”

  The only brothel Sorial had visited was The Tart’s Twat, and he doubted that was where the visitors from Obis were spending their coins. More likely a high class establishment like Ladies of Luxury. And they probably didn’t pay. Men like Grushik and Sangaska were accustomed to getting what they wanted for free.

  “Azarak asked me to watch them. He didn’t say anything specific, but he suspects an assassination plot. So now I have to worry about Ariel and The Lord of Fire during the ceremony and the brutes from Obis once it’s over. Things were so much simpler when I was stuck in a cave.”

  “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.