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

by Berardinelli, James

  “Speaking of The Lord of Fire, Ariel said you knew him. She called him ‘Justin.’”

  Ferguson’s response was a mirthless laugh that sounded like a bark. “So that’s what happened to Justin. I thought for sure he was dead. Another failure, I suppose. I probably should have looked longer and harder for him when he didn’t return.”

  “Another one of your candidates?”

  “No. A priest. One of my inner circle, in fact. I had no idea he possessed any sort of magical affinity. Insofar as I can recall, his genealogical history was unremarkable. But that’s how it is sometimes. It’s not all about heredity; that’s just a way to better the odds.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I sent him on a mission to seek surviving portals to the south. He disappeared in The Forbidden Lands. I guess he found one and entered it. Maybe the one in Havenham. Maybe another. Irresponsible of me not to look harder for him, just as it was irresponsible of me not to check your mother for an affinity and for not expending all my resources searching for your sister. As I said, many failures. But many successes, too.”

  “And you think your successes justify your failures?”

  “History will judge that. It always does. Those who live through events never see them clearly. But consider this: What would things be like if I had done nothing? If I’d ignored the call of the gods? You and your sister wouldn’t have been born. Who knows whether Justin would have found his way to a portal? Or someone like him, with a thirst for personal glory? There’s always the possibility that four good-hearted, altruistic men and women might have become the Lords and Ladies of Magic. But it’s more likely that one or more of them, consumed by lust and power, would be set on a course like Justin’s. And there would be no Sorial, no Alicia to stop them.

  “Or consider if I had given up after Ariel’s flight - if I hadn’t pushed your mother and father together for one last mating. Who then would stand between The Lord of Fire and Vantok?”

  Sorial looked past the prelate at his sister, who was lying in what appeared to be a state of repose. Her skin was waxy, its pallor that of the deathly ill. Whether because of her captivity or her enforced inability to use magic or because she had reached the end of her wizard’s lifespan, he didn’t know. But there was no doubt she was visibly, rapidly fading.

  “I need the list. Those candidates have to be vetted so when she dies, the next one is ready to go through the portal.”

  “Permit me to see an emissary from the temple. I’ll give him permission to release the documents to you. What you do with them is a matter for your conscience to dictate. Once you have them, however, I think you’ll begin to appreciate the burden I have borne these many years. I think, Your Magus, that before you reach your end, you’ll have cause to think less harshly of me than you have of late.”

  * * *

  After the depressing encounter with Ferguson, Sorial decided to take a walk to clear his head. Spending time with the leader of Vantok’s temple had a desultory effect on the young wizard. More than anything else, he worried that he was destined to become like Ferguson. It concerned him that the prelate’s rationale made sense. The question posed in Ariel’s cell had rattled him: What would things be like if Ferguson hadn’t acted as he had? Would Vantok, and perhaps the entirety of the continent be facing subjugation and ruin at the hands of wizards who were more concerned about advancing their own agendas than shepherding humanity through this fragile era when the gods had whispered their last?

  Sorial didn’t like to consider the seemingly inevitable next step in the game of magic and manipulation in which he had become a player. In order for him to recruit a fresh, loyal Lord of Air, Ariel would have to die. Perhaps the real reason she had tried so desperately to prevent him from becoming a wizard wasn’t so much that she had feared having to kill him but that she had believed he might kill her. It seemed absurd that, even as a full-blooded brother and sister and the only two survivors of their family, they couldn’t find common ground. Logic dictated that Ariel should have killed him long ago, when she had possessed power and he hadn’t. But she had shown mercy and that mercy was being repaid with imprisonment and the certainty of death. That’s the way it is in war; she made her choices and now I have to make mine.

  As if of their own volition, Sorial’s feet took him along a path that led to the river. It would be pleasant to spend a few hours of solitude there. Once Carannan’s property, it was his now, and the memories were all good, from his youthful swims to his first night with Alicia. It was a lovely mid-Planting day, with the temperature about where it should be. It had taken less than two full weeks for things to right themselves. It had rained twice in the past few days and the nights had grown chilly enough that Warburm had lit the big fireplace in the inn’s common room. Sorial and Alicia had returned to their bedroom. They still perspired under the covers at night but it was from exertion not stagnant air. The farmers were delighted, although the paucity of their recent crops had driven the price of grain to levels that only the wealthiest citizens could afford. Therein lay Azarak’s next challenge - staving off famine. No doubt Sorial would be called in to help. He had already fattened the Crown’s coffers, but much more would be needed. Fortunately, extracting gems and minerals from the ground required minimal effort and almost no skill. More demanding would be his impending input to Vantok’s plan of defense. With war certain, it was never too soon to begin preparing.

  Alicia wouldn’t be at the river around this time of day; she had gone into the city to visit her mother and father. After that, she would travel to the palace and spend the balance of the afternoon in Azarak’s library, researching magic. But someone was waiting for him by the water. He could feel the presence through the earth long before his eyes spied the visitor. He paused and considered turning back before he was spotted but dismissed the thought as unworthy. This was something he had to do.

  “Hello, Rexall.”

  The red-haired man, who was sitting with his bare feet dangling into the water, turned at the familiar voice, a smile on his face. Although it had been little more than a season since Sorial had last seen his childhood friend, it seemed like another lifetime. So much had happened since then...

  “Hello, Sor. I wondered if I might run into you here. Hoped I would, actually. Didn’t feel right going up to the house, though - not with how things ended between us at Ibitsal.”

  Sorial grunted noncommittally, but his mind was already turning over a question he had pondered since the parting of ways in the North: Had Rexall done anything truly unforgivable? Sorial had pardoned Warburm for worse infractions. The problem with Rexall, though, was that the betrayal felt so personal. They had been friends. And it wasn’t Rexall’s selling of information to Ferguson that rankled. It was what had happened at the Ibitsal portal. Rexall was no less culpable than Ferguson in Alicia’s transformation. And, although the result had been positive, if things had been different, he could have been an accomplice in her death.

  “So you decided not to stay in the North?”

  “Sussaman’s a nice enough place, I suppose. A little to slow for someone who’s spent his life in a city, though. Truth be told, there was some trouble with a girl. Gets damn cold up there in Winter, so it’s only natural to find a warm bed. Didn’t know I was expected to marry her. That’s the way it works up there. You stick your cock in a woman and you’re supposed to be joined to her till one of you drops dead. So I decided to leave before she got pregnant or her father used his ax to enforce the customs. Don’t think I’ll be welcomed back there any time soon.”

  That sounded like typical Rexall. It might even be true. Or it might be an excuse to return to the city where he had spent most of his life. Sorial had learned a lot about the allure of home from Alicia and Warburm.

  “You’ll find it difficult to collect the balance of your pay from Ferguson. He’s a permanent resident in a palace cell.”

  “So I heard. I went to the temple and they told me
it was a ‘private arrangement’ that wasn’t binding on them. I have to collect from the prelate. So much for that. At least I got some up front.” He didn’t sound inordinately disappointed.

  “How long have you been back?”

  “A few days. Long enough to get a sense of things. Everyone seems to have gotten married while I was gone. I’m glad you and your hellcat finally manacled yourselves to one ’nother. And of course you’re an important person now. Second only to the king and queen. Aiden’s with me, by the way. He wanted to ‘see the world.’ Nearly fell down a crack in Widow’s Pass. Still, he was good company on the road south when he wasn’t lecturing me about the ‘sin of abandoning Shiree.’”

  “If you plan to stay in Vantok, you’ll have to enlist. Mandatory conscription unless you’re a farmer. They get temporary dispensations during growing seasons.”

  “I can feel the winds of war. When we left - Alicia, Vagrum, Kara, and me - they were a distant breeze. Now, they’re close and strong. Conscription was very unpopular last year. Now there’s a sense it’s necessary. The people on the streets know a battle is coming. They don’t know the details - most seem to think it’s going to be with another city, maybe Obis. But they don’t grumble no more.”

  Sorial had spent enough time in taverns and inns to know Rexall’s assessment was correct. Vantok had accepted that war was making its approach even if there was no consensus about the enemy’s identity. The idea of building a strong military was no longer viewed as an irritant but a necessity. And the signs of ‘favor from the gods’ - the unveiling of not one but two wizards and the breaking of the heat bubble - had set off a wave of patriotic fervor unlike anything Sorial had previously experienced.

  “Are you staying?”

  Rexall shrugged. “That depends on you. If you don’t want me here, I’ll go away. Maybe to Earlford. That’s where my mother came from. Who knows about my father?”

  “It’s your life, Rexall. Makes no difference to me one way or another. I got a wife and duties to absorb my time. It’s a big city. I doubt we’ll run into each other by accident.”

  “I wanted you to know that I’m truly sorry. Thinking back on it, I can see how it looks. But if I thought there was any doubt at the portal, I wouldn’t have pushed Alicia. I know how much she means to you. In that moment, the best thing for her, the best thing for you, was that the portal awaken her abilities so she wouldn’t be a powerless hostage.”

  “You said these things when we talked at Ibitsal.”

  “I know. But there’s no other rationale I can offer. I just wanted you to know that I’m your man. If you need me for anything, you can count on me. I owe you and Alicia a debt that has to be paid.”

  Sorial considered. He and Rexall could never be what they had once been to each other but Sorial desperately needed connections. If not friends, then at least people he was familiar with. And his sudden, forced elevation into the city’s nobility had created barriers of class he hadn’t expected. Peasants no longer felt comfortable around him and nobles divided their time between being obsequious and sniggering behind his back. He needed men like Warburm and Rexall. Untrustworthy in many ways but more straightforward than so many of those he had day-to-day contact with.

  “Stay then,” said Sorial. “But there’s a condition: you’ve got to enlist. Not as a reserve but as a full-time soldier. Once you’re settled, see Overcommander Vikon. I’ll have you assigned to the Queen’s personal guard detail. They’re the ones I have the most direct contact with since many served with me in Carannan’s militia. When the time comes, I may need you and I want to know where to find you.”

  * * *

  Myselene had invited Ambassador Uthgarb to join her for dinner. Knowing the man’s insatiable lust for foods of all sizes, kinds, and flavors, she had assumed he wouldn’t refuse an offer to consume fare prepared in the palace kitchens. She had been correct, and when he had accepted, she knew she had him. Finally, the weeks-long wrangling process with Basingham would end.

  Thus far, Myselene had achieved closure with three of the continent’s five other cities. She hadn’t approached Obis for obvious reasons. Even if there was a clear leader, which there wasn’t, she wouldn’t have requested additional troops from the city of her birth. The other two northern cities had politely but firmly declined to provide more than a worthless pledge offering “military advisors” in the event that an attack became imminent. It was clear that Andel and Syre were more concerned about possible aggression from Obis than with the potential of an army sacking the South and proceeding across The Broken Crags. Earlford’s men were already in place. Only Basingham’s commitment was uncertain.

  The dickering was less over the number of troops Basingham would provide than the cost per head. The amount Uthgarb was asking, and upon which he was inflexible, would have been ruinous had Vantok’s treasury not been essentially limitless. That wasn’t something Myselene couldn’t reveal; hence, she had to pretend she had a cap and Uthgarb’s demands exceeded it - and that didn’t even include the additional cost of establishing refugee camps for citizens forced to flee Vantok if the battle went poorly.

  Myselene, however, was armed with knowledge. Gorton’s agents had infested Basingham’s corrupt court and the king’s privy council. She knew that what the king wanted and what Uthgarb was demanding were different amounts. King Durth had ordered Uthgarb to accept a significantly lower offer than what the ambassador was requiring - one that was within Myselene’s means. The obvious conclusion was that Uthgarb was playing his own game. Knowing that a royal visit to Basingham was unlikely in the current climate, he believed himself to be dealing from a position of unassailable strength - an idea Myselene intended to disabuse him of.

  “This is truly an excellent repast, Your Majesty,” commented Uthgarb, seated across from Myselene in the private royal dining room, the intimate setting where she and Azarak occasionally shared a meal when circumstances permitted.

  “I fancy myself to have a sophisticated palate and I can assure you that this food is as good as any I’ve tasted across the continent.”

  Myselene wondered if that opinion would linger after the end of what was likely to be a stomach-churning negotiating session. She suspected Uthgarb wouldn’t be dining with her at any time in the near future, if ever. She gently steered their conversation, which had been focused on items of inconsequential gossip, to the matter of the troop and refugee agreement.

  “Alas, Your Majesty,” said Uthgarb, tiny bits of fish infusing a spray of spittle. He had abandoned forks and knives in favor of the more expeditious method of shoveling food into his mouth by hand. “My last conversation with my king does not give me hope that better terms can be arranged. You may be sure that I argued mightily on your behalf, but His Majesty King Durth is unmoved. However much he might wish to provide aid to his neighbors to the south, he must first think of his people.”

  Myselene wondered if the ambassador was aware of how transparent his greed was. He probably didn’t care. That was about to change.

  She popped a grape into her mouth. Unlike her dining companion, who was consuming all manner of dishes placed in front of him, she was selecting from a small platter of freshly picked fruit. “Ambassador Uthgarb, we’ve been at an impasse for weeks now. I’ve told you the maximum Vantok’s royal treasury can afford. It’s an enormous sum, far more than could reasonably be expected even in these extraordinary circumstances. Nearly a half gold per refugee head and three times that per soldier stationed in Vantok’s vicinity. Yet the price you demand hasn’t budged.

  “You must think me stupid or naïve, but I’m neither. I was raised in the court of King Rangarak of Obis, and there isn’t a more politically treacherous place than that. I suspect you’re not representing your king’s position openly. Instead of negotiating with me, you’re using Vantok’s dire situation as a means to gain clout with King Durth by achieving a higher price than what he’s expecting.”

  “Your Majesty!” exclaimed Uthgarb wi
th a theatrical gasp of horror. “You wrong me! I can assure you...”

  Myselene cut him off. “You have a reputation for bluntness, Ambassador, so let me match your candor. My preference would be to request another representative from Basingham to further negotiations but I lack the time for such a request to pass through the necessary channels. You’re aware of this; you know that, at least insofar as this treaty’s concerned, I must negotiate with you. There is, however, a way to speed the process. If you should suffer an untimely death, King Durth will no doubt replace you expeditiously with someone who might be willing to deal in good faith.”

  As her words sunk in, Uthgarb stopped eating. His ruddy face began to lose color.

  Myselene smiled the smile of someone much older and more devious. “As you’re beginning to suspect, there’s a reason why I invited you to dinner and why I’m not partaking of the meal you’ve been so obviously enjoying. In addition to the many spices used to enhance the taste, several of your courses have been flavored with a unique brand of slow-acting poison. Within the hour, you’ll begin to feel fatigued. Your tongue will swell. Your throat will constrict. By midnight, your breathing will be labored and you’ll be sweating uncontrollably. By morning, we’ll be sending a missive to King Durth explaining that you died suddenly during the night and requesting an immediate replacement.

  “There is, of course, an antidote, which I’ll be more than happy to provide once the agreement has been signed. Rest assured, I’m not looking for unreasonable terms. What I offer should be more than enough to satisfy King Durth. But if you choose not to resume negotiations, I’ll be content to let nature take its course.”

  By midnight, Myselene had what she wanted. Refugees from Vantok would be accommodated at a camp just outside Basingham for the amount of one-half gold stud per head with a 1000 gold deposit. Basingham would provide a troop of 500 soldiers for the sum of 750 gold studs - half to be paid to the men and the other half into King Durth’s treasury. Payment would be made not in gold but in equivalently valued gemstones, since those were easier for Sorial to extract from the earth.