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

by Berardinelli, James

  * * *

  “How fares the army, Chancellor?” asked Myselene, recognizing that her efforts during her husband’s brief post-Challenge convalescence had strengthened Vantok’s militia in tangible ways.

  Gorton sat across from her on the balcony outside the second-floor chamber she had claimed as her office and receiving room. It was too stuffy inside to hold an audience, although the outside was by no means cool. Having spent more than three seasons in Vantok, Myselene was becoming inured to the heat; the same couldn’t be said of her chancellor, who was finding the shift in climate difficult to cope with. Part of the problem was that, in his dapper vest and thick woolen trousers, he was ill dressed for the weather. Myselene was wearing a sheer dress that clung to her body in a way that was almost indecent. While Gorton’s feet were shod with thick, heavy boots ideal for stomping through snow, the queen was barefoot.

  Mopping his brow with a handkerchief, Gorton replied, “Discipline is improving, Your Majesty. The swift marriage of so many of the Obis-born soldiers to the women of Vantok has helped with morale, although there remain strong pockets of distrust and resentment on both sides.”

  “How many more have taken up the offer of pardons?” Myselene had never expected Rangarak to provide her with the cream of his troops for her dowry, but she had been shocked to learn that many of the “soldiers” were criminals released from prisons and pressed into service to satisfy the body count specified in the betrothal document. Less than half the men from Obis were legitimate members of the militia and, of them, few were remarkable physical or mental specimens. Myselene had offered pardons to those who wished to admit to their pasts. As a citizen of Vantok, she said, any crimes or misdeeds committed before would be forgiven with no consequences if they were confessed. Thus far, few had accepted.

  “Another three dozen. They mistrust the sincerity of the offer, Your Majesty. They think it’s a trick. As more accept and are left unmolested, others will follow.”

  Ultimately, it might not matter, since many could die in battle. Still, she wanted to know their crimes not to institute punitive action but to curb future misdeeds. She was uneasy about the possibility of marrying a potentially violent man to a loyal citizen. She had informed Gorton that any man guilty of rape or the killing of a woman wasn’t to be considered for marriage, but discovering men with such blemishes on their past was no simple matter. Thus far, nearly 200 of the 500 men from Obis had been wedded to brides of various ages and social classes, strengthening their ties to their new city. How many of those women would suffer at the hands of their husbands?

  “And the contingent from Earlford?” Myselene’s negotiations with the eastern city had been more productive than the interminable wrangling with Basingham. King Dax of Earlford had agreed immediately that the army to the south represented a real and immediate threat not only to Vantok but to his city as well. He had also accepted Sorial’s legitimacy without a request for proof. The result had been an immediate consignment of nearly 1000 men to aid in Vantok’s defense should a battle occur. Thus far, Basingham had offered little and committed less. Myselene was hopeful of eventually procuring 300-400 men but the cost would be high. Ambassador Uthgarb’s starting point for negotiations had been exorbitant. Myselene could have purchased the services of two thousand mercenaries at that rate, if any could be found. Unfortunately, most of the swords-for-hire had flocked to The Lord of Fire’s banner.

  “They’re good men, Your Majesty - well-trained and professional. For the moment, they keep to themselves in their camp but there’s little cause for concern that they’ll be unready when The Lord of Fire makes his move. If we include them, our forces now number nearly eight thousand. The latest report gives us a ten percent advantage over our enemy.”

  Myselene nodded, fanning herself with a contraption given to her by her husband. It was made from the plumes of an exotic bird. These were all the rage among Vantok’s noblewomen. Myselene wondered what the bird that provided the feathers looked like.

  “As important as these matters are, I come bearing grave news. I received a missive by bird from one of my agents in Obis. The situation there has turned bloody and tragic. Even before the wedding entourage returned, the struggle for the throne began in earnest. I regret to inform you, Your Majesty, that both your sisters have been slain.” He provided the details succinctly: Esmelene, the eldest and Sangaska’s widow, had been poisoned. Fyselene, the youngest, had been butchered along with her husband when a group of guards, supposedly hired to protect them, had turned against their employers. “You’re the only surviving legitimate child of King Rangarak.”

  Myselene hadn’t been close to either of her sisters. Among the princesses of Obis, rivalry was more common than affection. Myselene had long ago grown weary of the mean-spirited games her sisters adored. But the lack of affinity for Esmelene and Fyselene did little to dampen the shock and dismay. In the play for power occurring in Obis, they were minor players. The only claim they had to the throne was one of blood, but neither had the ambition or the backing to pursue it. They hadn’t been a threat yet someone had deemed them dangerous enough to eliminate.

  “Will they come after me?” asked Myselene.

  “Hard to say. As queen of Vantok, you’re technically ineligible to succeed your father even though you are his only surviving true-blood child. And you’re very far from Obis. But it may be that whoever orchestrated the deaths of Esmelene and Fyselene is intent on eliminating all possible rivals, and that could mean you’re in danger. We should act and plan accordingly.”

  “Who’s responsible?”

  “Unknown, but most likely one of Rangarak’s bastards. One of the better placed candidates would have sought to use your sisters instead of killing them. My agents are looking into this for me. They should have a name in a few days.”

  “What’s next for Obis?”

  “A civil war seems inevitable. And I fear it will be long and bloody. With no clear frontrunner and perhaps a half-dozen strong options, the militia will be fragmented. The process of determining the next king will be harrowing.”

  “I wonder how much of this our enemies foresaw when they assassinated my father.”

  “Unless they’re augers, not as much as we are wont to give them credit for. My guess is that the attack on King Rangarak was intended to dispirit and create friction between the two cities. King Azarak’s decision to issue The Challenge wasn’t easily predictable. A civil war in Obis was an unlikely outcome, although I’m sure The Lord of Fire is delighted. If his goal is to conquer all six cities, Obis would have represented his stiffest challenge, militarily speaking. If the city tears itself apart determining its next ruler, it will become a softer target.”

  “Perhaps we’ll be fortunate enough to stop the enemy here. Sorial at least gives us reason to hope.”

  “If he survives his current encounter. I would have felt better sending some men on his trail but I understand his concern that supporting forces could lend the appearance of a trap.”

  “But you sent them anyway,” surmised Myselene.

  Gorton offered a wry smile. “You know me too well, Your Majesty. They’re well concealed and I daresay even a wizard won’t notice them. They’re there to observe and report, not to interfere. If Sorial loses in this conflict, we’ll need a more definite confirmation than one that arrives through weeks of waiting and wondering.”

  “Considering The Lord of Fire’s force, if it comes to a pure strength of arms and our magic negates theirs, can we win?”

  “Hard to say. In a straightforward collision of armies, having a tactical advantage is often negligible. It comes down to who fights the hardest and is the best trained. Armies struggling to protect their homes often have the edge.”

  “As we speak, the king is conferring with Duke Carannan and Overcommander Vikon, preparing the battle plan.” She shifted the topic. “Does he ever confide in you, Gorton? My husband, I mean.”

  “I wish I could say he does, Your Majesty, bu
t the answer is no. At least not the way he confided in Chancellor Toranim. Theirs was a rare bond and I never expected he and I would replicate it.”

  “I worry about him. Since Toranim’s death, he’s become lonely and withdrawn. No one is close to him in the way Toranim was. He relied on him more than he realized. Now, there’s a void there, and I don’t think he knows where to turn. He’s trying to force Carannan into the role of confidante but, although they have a shared past, they were never more than cordial acquaintances associated by the need to wed Alicia and Sorial. He won’t let me in, either. I’ve tried to reach him. Since Toranim’s death, he often doesn’t come to our rooms at night and, when he does, there’s a lack of intimacy.”

  “Far be it from me to offer advice on your marriage, but might I suggest that you open up to him. You’ve been single-minded in your quest to become queen of Vantok, Your Majesty, making emotions subservient to ambition. But now that you’re queen, allowing yourself to feel affection for your husband wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen for either of you.”

  “Thus speaks the man of a hundred affairs,” said Myselene tartly. Gorton’s reputation as a womanizer was legendary in Obis.

  He didn’t take offense at the charge. His answering smile was genuine. “My problem had little to do with not loving women and everything to do with not committing to them. Every woman I lay with, even if it was for just a night, had a place in my heart. I worry that in grooming you for power, we may have forgotten to teach you how desolate life can be if you don’t allow yourself to care. It’s not a weakness, Your Majesty, and it may be the one thing your wounded husband needs from you above all others. He’s lost his friend, confidante, and advisor. He keeps his own counsel because he trusts no other. The vacuum is yours to fill. Give to him what no one else can. Don’t just be his queen; be his wife.”

  * * *

  The trip up the coast was in its fourth day when Sorial first sensed he and Warburm weren’t alone. The new presence wasn’t the three men who had been covertly following him since Vantok. (Although he had specifically requested not to be shadowed, he assumed those were Chancellor Gorton’s agents.) No, this was something different. Something the earth told him was there but which he could neither pinpoint nor identify. Unless he was very much mistaken, Ariel had found him. Now she was awaiting the perfect moment to pounce. He wondered if she recognized his awareness.

  “She’s close,” said Sorial to Warburm as they made camp that evening. “Watching. Waiting for the best opportunity.” If she thought it would come while he slept, she was wrong. Lying naked on the open ground, which was how he slept while away from towns and cities, he was better guarded than if he had been surrounded by a dozen alert, awake guards. The ground was the best sentry he could hope for, Even if she came from the sky, it would mark her approach.

  “The sooner, the better,” grumbled Warburm. “I be getting’ tired of traveling food and fish. Every time I go on one o’ these ‘adventures,’ I come home looking like a corpse. I be still skinny from my last trip.”

  Better to look like a corpse than be one.

  The night passed uneventfully, although Sorial didn’t sleep soundly. Dreams and memories infiltrated his mind, refusing to allow him peace. Warburm insisted on taking a watch even though the wizard argued it to be unnecessary. “You do things yer way, lad, and I’ll do ’em my way,” was all he said as he stubbornly began to walk a circuit around the campsite. Their small fire had burned to embers. Near the edge of Vantok’s heat bubble, there was the slight night’s chill one might reasonably expect from mid-Planting.

  By the time the morning sun rose on the fifth day, Sorial had donned his clothing and was ready to continue. Basingham, the purported goal of this trip, was still more than a week’s travel by foot. To his left, the sea continued to present a comforting presence, although it was angrier and darker here than to the south. By now, the beach, with its wide expanse of sand and pebbles, had disappeared. The game trail along which they walked was elevated on a cliff with a sheer twenty-foot drop to rocky shoals below.

  Although Sorial and Warburm had talked frequently during the first two days out of Vantok, they had long since exhausted their mutual capacity for conversation. Now, they traveled in silence. Today, following Sorial’s warning, they were both hyperaware of their surroundings. So when Ariel made her appearance, neither was taken by surprise.

  Sorial saw her first, a distant, dark speck against the bright sky to the north, drifting slowly toward them. A sneak attack wasn’t her plan. The moment it became apparent that the approaching figure was a human and not a large bird, Warburm drew his hand ax from the loop on his belt - the same one he had used to fend off attackers in Havenham.

  Ariel wasn’t flying. She was walking on air, her boots ten feet off the ground. Sorial knew she would never touch the earth - to do so would give him an advantage she would never cede. She would stay airborne no matter what happened. He had expected no less, but he didn’t need her to touch the ground to be able to use his magic against her.

  She was dressed much as she had been on their previous encounters, wearing oversized robes that concealed every inch of her skin and a hood that hid her face. Her advance was casual, as if she was approaching an adversary unworthy of concern. Sorial didn’t know whether it was an act or whether that represented her true feelings about this encounter. She stopped when she was about twenty feet away. For a prolonged moment of silence, punctuated only by the crashing of the waves, they regarded one another, brother and sister, as if frozen in time. Then Ariel spoke.

  “I can only assume you wanted me to find you, having done everything but lighting a bonfire to announce your location. Silly of you. You could have gone on living until the war if you stayed in hiding.” She turned to Sorial’s companion, who was tensed for battle. “Hello, Warburm. I so wanted to acknowledge you when we met in The Forbidden Lands. It was good to see you then - a reminder of a simpler time before Ferguson’s blundering ruined my peaceful childhood.”

  “You blame Ferguson?” asked Warburm.

  “Of course.” Ariel’s voice was almost a hiss. “As does Justin. Even now, his poison continues to contaminate. His lies, manipulations, and ineptitude killed the brother I loved more dearly than I can find words to express. Braddock was my hero, my god. On the day he left for the portal, he swore that when he returned, he would weave a crown out of fire, cool it, and place it on my brow. But he never returned. And now, because of Ferguson’s continued meddling, I have to kill my younger brother, whose countenance is nearly a mirror of Braddock’s.

  “You should have heeded my warnings, Sorial. I tried to keep you away. I was sure you’d listen to me and turn your back on him, but you were blinded by... what? Not a desire for power or glory. Lust?”

  “Love,” replied Sorial. “I love her.”

  “If that was your sole reason for entering the portal - for risking your existence based on the assurances of a fraud - you’re a fool. I could have given you her. All you needed to do was ask. You think a wizard couldn’t have stolen her from under Ferguson’s nose? You and she could be tending sheep in some nice little cottage in the middle of nowhere now, enjoying each other’s company without having to worry about the war that will soon scour the continent and the blood-price that comes from wielding magic.”

  “You’ve become a cold-hearted bitch,” said Warburm sadly.

  “You won’t get a disagreement from me. Spiteful, vicious, unrepentant. I am what Ferguson made me. So is Sorial. And, in a strange way, so is Justin, The Lord of Fire. We’re all his creations. And the children will destroy the father.”

  Sorial made one final attempt to avoid a confrontation. “Why not come back with me to Vantok? You can confront Ferguson. If you want to kill him, no one will stop you. I almost did it myself. Let’s join together as brother and sister and protect this world rather than destroy it.” The words sounded pompous but they were sincere.

  “A noble sentiment and that n
obility is the reason it will never happen. Unification is dirty, bloody business, Sorial, not the purview of idealists. Would you have me join you, your wife, and Mother in some cozy house and defend against Justin when he brings his army north?”

  “Kara’s dead.” Sorial issued the pronouncement in a flat voice. The robes and hood hid Ariel’s reaction and the long pause could have meant any number of things, but Sorial suspected he had scored the first wound of the engagement.

  When she spoke, the timber of her rough voice was unchanged. “How?”

  “At the portal. Trying to escape our father. She had the potential but, as we both know, there was no opening. So the portal did to her what it does to those attempting to usurp a standing wizard.”

  “You let this happen? Knowing what you do?” There was emotion in her voice now, a ferocious heat that made her words thicker and more hoarse.

  Sorial shook his head. “I wasn’t there. By the time I arrived, she was gone. I killed Maraman but it was too late.”

  She was silent for a space of minutes. Sorial waited, surprised by his own patience. Next to him, Warburm fidgeted. He was by nature a man of action. Once he drew his weapon, he expected to use it, not spend an extended period in dialogue.

  When Ariel next spoke, she had regained her composure. She addressed the innkeeper. “Warburm, leave now. This isn’t your fight. Stand away from Sorial and I’ll let you live. You can’t make a difference in what is to come. This is for wizards to resolve. Your ax is irrelevant.”

  “Do as she says, Warburm,” said Sorial. He had never intended for the innkeeper to fight. As Ariel had said, this conflict would be decided by magic, not weapons.

  “Not likely, lad,” said Warburm, assuming a fighting pose.

  Ariel didn’t move or, if she did, it was so slight that Sorial didn’t notice it. The impact on Warburm was immediate and dramatic. Without preamble, he was hurled through the air in a parabolic arc that ended with him crashing to the ground more than fifty feet distant. It happened so fast that Sorial was unable to soften the impact. Once down, the innkeeper didn’t rise.