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

by Berardinelli, James

  Alicia’s ministrations were having an effect. “You’ve never been a good judge of character, stableboy. You aren’t so different from when we first met - you just think you are. And the most useful skill I’ve learned has nothing to do with magic. Now shut up and let me show you.”

  * * *

  Sorial arrived at the palace before noon the next day. As soon as he passed through the gates, he was informed that the king had requested a moment of his time. Sorial sighed. Kings defined “a moment” differently than other men. On this occasion, he was escorted not to the private meeting room but to Azarak’s sleeping chambers. The king, dressed more casually than Sorial was accustomed to seeing him, welcomed him with a hearty smile and a companionable slap on the back and gestured for him to take a chair next to one of the wide-open widows. It was hot outside, although noticeably cooler than over the previous few days. During the upcoming days and weeks, as the bubble broke down with the arrival of fresh air from the north and west, the seasons would roll back. Sorial and Alicia had started helping the process along by using the earth and underground water sources as heat sinks. Without Ariel’s enforcement to replace the heat that was being thus leeched away, temperatures were gradually returning to normal.

  A hovering servant offered Sorial a goblet of ale which he accepted. Azarak dismissed the man before taking a seat opposite his guest.

  “Sorry to meet with you in such an informal location but my wife is using the usual place for an audience with the ambassador from Syre. She’s taken it upon herself to wrangle troops from as many cities as possible to help with the upcoming war effort.” Sorial could tell by the king’s tone that he was more than happy to delegate this task. Azarak had previously mentioned that there were few more tedious functions of being a king than dealing with foreign dignitaries.

  “The heat is broken. I can see it and feel it,” the king said. The sky was no longer the unbroken, pristine blue it had been - wisps of high clouds and haze were visible, signs of moisture returning. “I won’t pretend this solves all our problems. Even not considering the likelihood of a war, there will be food shortages and sickness but the return of normal weather will cheer the spirits of all, and we can present this as a boon from the gods. Perhaps we can tie it to my victory of The Challenge. Or should I say ‘our’ victory?”

  “So you’re going to maintain Ferguson’s lie?”

  “It’s given me some uneasy nights but now isn’t the time to burden the people with such dire news. Let them continue to believe. There’ll be time enough later, when The Lord of Fire has been beaten, to introduce the new order of things.”

  Sorial said nothing. He had been told enough lies in his life to resent this approach even if it was sensible. And Azarak oversimplified matters. The more pragmatic northern cities had embraced the new theology and its influence was spreading across the South, where the prelates had been reluctant to confirm the passing of the gods. Ferguson was the worst offender but his colleagues in Basingham and Earlford were equally unwilling to cede the greater portion of their power and influence.

  Not recognizing Sorial’s silence as disapproval, the king continued, “The immediate question is what to do with your sister. According to my apothecary, the drug she’s being administered should keep her mind fogged so she won’t be able to use her powers. Still, I’d rather not keep her prisoner longer than necessary. As long as she’s here, she represents a risk. And if, for some reason, we miss dosing her or she finds a way to overcome her incapacitation... And who’s to say The Lord of Fire won’t mount a rescue.”

  “It’s possible but unlikely. He wouldn’t risk himself going up against two wizards, both of whose powers are effective against fire. In a battle, however, one of his objectives would be freeing her. So, when war comes, I suggest moving her.”

  Azarak raised an eyebrow. “You expect her to live that long?”

  “We can’t kill her until we have a replacement. If we execute her now, we open her position to whoever The Lord of Fire has in waiting. We need to find someone and prepare that person to enter the portal. That’s going to take a while and, until it happens, we need to keep Ariel alive. Drugged but alive.”

  “Is there anything you can do to make her less dangerous?”

  “I have to remove the stone encasement. It will suffocate her skin and eventually kill her. We’ll have to rely on conventional means.”

  “Do what you need to do to find her replacement as quickly as possible. And if she shows any signs of being capable of using magic, I’ll have her executed on the spot.”

  Sorial nodded, understanding Azarak’s position. For his part, he was more concerned about the long-term efficacy of the drug than he admitted. But he also clung to the unlikely possibility that there might be some hope of rehabilitating his sister. If he could make her see reason... But that would require a lucid conversation and, while she was under the influence, such a thing was improbable.

  “How do you plan to handle Alicia’s ‘ascension?’” asked Sorial. It was important to him that his wife’s status as a wizard be recognized as quickly as possible.

  “A public pronouncement should be sufficient to invest her with the status of Magus. We’ll couple it with news about the breaking of the heat wave. Give it a few more days until it’s apparent that the weather is returning to normal. Perhaps she could wring some rain from the clouds.”

  “Maybe, but she warned me that changing the weather can have unpredictable results, and it’s as much a question of how the winds blow as whether clouds contain enough moisture for rain.”

  “I’ll bow to your wisdom in this matter. My knowledge of magic goes no further than what I learned while secluded in my library. It used to be that gods existed and wizards didn’t. Now it’s the other way around. A great many things we took for certain have to be unlearned.”

  “I can’t read but Alicia can and she’ll be spending time in your library, probably studying many of the same things.”

  “And no doubt getting a lot more out of them than I did. While she’s doing research, I need you to start working with my battle commanders on the city’s defense plan. They’re good, reliable men but their approaches and stratagems aren’t designed to incorporate magic. Defending against The Lord of Fire’s brand and using yours and Alicia’s to bolster Vantok’s army - these things are foreign to them. Your input will be invaluable and it’ll help us decide how to best use you when the time comes.”

  “I don’t have any experience with war, Your Majesty.”

  “Neither do any of us, really. It’s been centuries since an army attempted to sack a city. Most of the hardened soldiers today were blooded in small raids against bandit encampments. Even the newcomers from Obis have limited experience in large campaigns. Overcommander Vikon is relying on a combination of his natural instincts and incorporating tactics gleaned from ancient battle plans.”

  “I’ll contribute as I can but your expectations…”

  “…are perfectly in line with your capabilities. I know you worry about not measuring up as a wizard, Sorial, but consider what you’ve already accomplished. You saved my life and possibly the city. You captured a rival wizard and dealt a blow to The Lord of Fire’s plans. And you put a stop to a heat wave that’s plagued this city since the days when you were a stableboy. I understand your concerns about how you did these things but the hard reality is that your sister, The Lady of Air, is lying unconscious in the dungeon as a result of actions undertaken by you and your wife.”

  “I need to see Ariel, Your Majesty.”

  “Of course. One of the guards will take you to her. She’s locked up with a half-dozen men guarding her cell day and night: three within and three without. But I’ll tell them they can all wait outside while you’re with her.”

  The dungeon was a depressing place; it brought unwelcome reminders of Sorial’s period of captivity in Havenham. However, in concert with the ugly flashbacks came a strange sense of comfort. The dungeon was built far below gr
ound, having been carved into the bedrock rather than constructed on top of it. The place was almost like a series of caves, although the layout was nothing like what would occur naturally. Being enclosed by earth on all sides calmed Sorial.

  Torches placed at regular but distant intervals provided variable illumination. The dungeon was an eerily quiet place - the scrape of Sorial and his guide’s hard boots against the stone floor sounded unnaturally loud. It was likely Ariel was the sole current inhabitant. The palace dungeons were infrequently used. Ferguson, the only other prisoner of note kept behind the palace walls, had been provided with less foreboding quarters.

  Ariel lay on the floor in a tiny, barren cell. In this setting, encased in a thin skin of stone, she seemed diminished - no longer the figure of mystery and menace who had first approached him nearly five years ago. A guard placed a burning torch in a sconce before departing and closing the door behind him, leaving Sorial alone with his sister.

  Sheathed in what appeared to be a mold of hard-packed clay, she didn’t appear human. He crouched beside her and, with barely a flick of his mind, let the sheath crumble away. It disintegrated in a cloud of dust and dirt. Now Ariel lay naked before him, exposed to another as she hadn’t been in many years. Her body was twisted and misshapen; it was a wonder she could stand upright. Her breasts and belly were distended in a grotesque parody of pregnancy. Her limbs were abnormally thin - skin covering bone. An angry red rash had spread over large portions of her torso, neck, and face, creating scabs and boils that oozed puss. Her face, once comely, had been eaten away by years of magic use. As with her arms and legs, there was little tissue to buffer skin from bones. Her toothless mouth was sunken. Her head wasn’t entirely bald but those hairs that remained were widely spaced, long and stringy, and pure white.

  Was this what lay in store for him and his wife if they lived another fifteen years? The encounter with Langashin and his men and his subsequent sacrifice to the portal had already set Sorial on the path to physical deterioration. He knew that practitioners of magic paid a heavy price but the state of his sister’s form - more corpse than living being - shocked him. Even without considering that Azarak’s headsman might even now be sharpening his ax, how much longer could she survive?

  “Is Kara truly dead or did you just say that to jolt my concentration?” The voice was a whisper but it startled Sorial that she was aware enough to speak. He tensed momentarily, ready to deliver a decisive blow before she could marshal her magical resources until he gazed into her half-open rheumy eyes. There was nothing to fear there. Mustering the will to speak a coherent thought was the best she could manage.

  “She is. It’s as I said.”

  “So much for my hopes of a reunion. I guess you found The Lady of Water. Your little Alicia, I assume. We should have known...” Her voice drifted off and her eyelids flickered shut. Sorial sat and watched for a while longer, observing the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest.

  As he rose, she mustered the strength to express a parting thought. “Enjoy your triumph over me, brother. With your advantage of surprise gone, Justin will grind you underfoot. The Lord of Fire will burn you, your beloved wife, and this city.”

  With those words ringing in his ears, Sorial left her cell. Before departing, he commanded the soldiers to clean up the dirt left by his dissolution of the stone cocoon, bring the prisoner a blanket, and administer another draught of the drugs.

  Sorial had thought that capturing Ariel would give Vantok a huge tactical advantage in the coming struggle. Now, seeing how desiccated her body was and recognizing that Alicia’s identity was no longer hidden, he worried that his sister’s defeat might have done little to shift the balance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE QUEEN’S REPAST

  For Azarak, sexual desire had dried up like a delicate flower left outside to wither in the heat. Objectively, he acknowledged that his queen was as beautiful and desirable as the day he had first taken her into his bed. But events of the past weeks weighed heavily on his mind and, by the time he came to bed at nights, he lacked the energy and will to engage in the kinds of gymnastics that had characterized their early relationship. Worse, despite their having enjoyed a sexual relationship for more than a half-year, Myselene was not yet pregnant. The inability of their union to produce an heir was worrisome, especially considering how precarious the current situation was. An heir was always desirable. In times of war, it was necessary.

  He lay on his back, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep. It was like this many nights. He wouldn’t reach his bed until an hour or two after midnight yet, despite physical and mental exhaustion, he was unable to reach the realm of dreams.

  “You must sleep, Azarak.” The voice was a gentle whisper positioned close to his ear so he didn’t miss the words. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek, a feather-light caress. The king turned in bed to face his wife, a dark shadow against the lighter gray of the benighted room. Some faint light shining through a window reflected off her eyes, making them appear to glow.

  “Sleep hasn’t been an easy companion of late,” he acknowledged with a sigh. “Much as I haven’t been.” The latter admission was made with regret. The old demons were returning - the ones that blamed him for the failure of his first marriage and for his wife’s straying into the warm, waiting arms of another.

  “Share your burdens,” she pleaded. “I know how difficult it’s been for you since Toranim’s death. I’ve watched you struggle to get through each day. I’ve seen the loneliness. I know how much you valued his advice and friendship. But he’s gone and you’re here. You need to find a way to do more than fight through every day or life will become a chore to throw away on a whim. I’m your wife and, though this is a marriage made because of politics and ambition, that doesn’t mean it can’t develop into something more. I want to be more than the woman who sits on a throne next to you. I want you to be able to trust and rely on me. I want to be the one who can lend you strength when yours fails. I want to be your friend, lover, companion, and the mother of your children.”

  Azarak was genuinely touched. This was the most open Myselene had been with him. In the darkness, he couldn’t read her eyes, yet he sensed the sincerity in her voice. But her last phrase touched a sore spot. “We have no children.”

  “I know.” She said it softly and a little sadly. She had expected to be pregnant by now. The rumor mill, fueled in large part by false bits of information she had disseminated, was ripe with stories of how she couldn’t keep her morning meal down and how her belly was rounding. But there was no truth to those snippets of gossip.

  “I fear I can’t have children,” said Azarak, speaking it aloud for the first time. “It was the same with Amenia. At first, there was no cause for worry. We had all the time in the world, a lifetime ahead of us. But then sex became a duty and a burden and still there was no child. One night she fell asleep while I was still atop her. After that...” His voice drifted off; the memory was as bitter as bile.

  “Perhaps you put too much pressure on yourself.”

  “Perhaps. But having children is the most natural thing men and women can do and I seem incapable. For a farmer or merchant, the lack of a son or daughter is a small, private disappointment. For a king, it’s a citywide tragedy.” Some part of him treasured the thought of a little boy sitting on his lap as he disseminated justice from the throne. As it had been with his father, so he wanted it to be with his son. But there was no child and he wondered if there ever would be one.

  “You aren’t the first royal personage to face this crisis. It’s easier when a queen is unable to conceive, but there are ways. It can be arranged for me to lie with someone trustworthy. Or we can find a pregnant peasant woman willing to give up her baby. When royal children aren’t born, they must be created.”

  Azarak found the first suggestion - that she would allow another man to impregnate her - uncomfortable to consider. What would Toranim have thought of that idea? Yet, in the end, he would
do what needed to be done to secure the throne, even if the future king wasn’t truly of his blood.

  Myselene began to kiss him on the sensitive parts of his neck - tiny nibbles that were playful and tender at first, but gaining in urgency. “Share your troubles with me, my king,” she whispered, hunger creeping into her voice. “Let yourself go. I’m not Toranim, but I can be so much more. You aren’t alone, Azarak. I’m with you.” She shifted her body so she straddled him. Her mouth moved from his neck to his lips. Her hand stoked his chest before moving lower. Azarak found himself responding with genuine ardor.

  For the first time since their wedding, the sex wasn’t frenzied or perfunctory. It was gentle, passionate, and loving. Afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, Azarak found himself no closer to sleep than beforehand, but he sensed a bridging of the gap of loneliness and a scabbing of the raw wound opened when Sangaska’s sword had struck down his friend and mentor.

  That was the night the king fell in love with his wife.

  * * *

  Sorial’s second visit to his sister came less than two weeks after his first one. When he arrived at her cell, he was surprised to find the door open and a visitor already in attendance. Prelate Ferguson had come to pay his respects to an earlier creation.

  Ferguson, who was sitting on the stone floor next to the rough blankets upon which Ariel’s body rested, didn’t look well. His face had regained the haggard, weary appearance it had attained following his arrest. His feet were caked with dried blood where the flesh was grafted to the stone soles. And, unless Sorial was mistaken, there was a hint of regret in those eyes as he sat quietly next to the unmoving Ariel.

  “One of your failures,” said Sorial, standing near the six guards who loitered outside the cell’s entrance.

  “Yes,” acknowledged Ferguson. “One of my failures. But the thing about failures is you can’t run from them. They happen. You move forward. And the result is, although this sweet child lies here awaiting the king’s pleasure, Vantok has two wizards for protection when The Lord of Fire comes calling.”