The Last Whisper of the Gods

by Berardinelli, James

  Lamanar sighed, then coughed weakly before responding. “Your blood will give you a better chance than someone like me would have, but Braddock is proof there’s no certainty in this. Deep down, Ferguson knows this. I have no doubt there’s another option should you fail, although it’s not a child of Kara’s. Ferguson has planned this for too long to have everything invested in you.”

  In Ariel, Sorial had found a cause for hope. His sister was magical. She had survived the portal. So there was at least some validity in Ferguson’s theory. But he had no way of knowing his chances. Had Braddock been an outlier? Or Ariel? Or was the truth somewhere in between. Might he have the same odds flipping a coin as facing the portal?

  “Things changed after Braddock’s death. The spark of optimism faded. A number of followers left the settlement, never to return. Your mother kept to herself, accepting the blame for Braddock’s death. The one most profoundly affected was Ariel. Until her brother’s demise, she yearned for the day when she could embrace the portal and join him - two great wizards of the new order. As he embarked on his final journey, she said how much she envied him. Afterward, her extraverted spirit collapsed. She became moody and prone to bouts of crying. And, one day about a year before her date with the portal, she fled during the night.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Sorial. He, of course, knew the answer.

  “No one knows,” said Lamanar. “We conducted extensive searches but there was no trace. It was obvious that her exodus was well-planned, not a sudden impulse of panic. Looking back, we understood that the long ‘hikes’ she’d been taking for more than a season leading up to her disappearance were scouting expeditions. She got to know the land as well or better than those who tracked her. She learned how to cover her tracks and undoubtedly smuggled out provisions. It’s even possible she had a mount waiting for her somewhere. We’ll never know.

  “Your mother persists in a belief that she’s alive. I think that to be overly optimistic. The wilds are cruel to children although, in some ways, civilization is more hostile. The best she could have hoped for was to end up working in a brothel or as a serving wench in a highway tavern. She was comely and could have traded on her looks, but in that line of work such things wear out quickly. If she didn’t fall prey to wild animals, bandits, or the other perils of traveling in the North, whatever beauty she possessed would soon be gone.

  “You owe your existence to Ariel. Her flight forced Ferguson to recall Maraman one last time. On this occasion, he was there under duress. Age had sapped his stamina and strength, but there was something else about him that set my teeth on edge. He had lost all faith in what we were doing and made it plain that his lone reason for being in the settlement was to pay a debt. After a fortnight of often frustrating sessions with Kara, he left. I haven’t seen him since although Warburm claims to have met him several times, once as recently as three years ago at the inn. For all I know, you may have tended to his horse and taken the reins from him. He’s an old man by now but, as Ferguson has proven, old men can be dangerous.”

  Lamanar’s pronouncement caused Sorial’s memories to strain back three years, trying to remember the faces of old men who had passed through the stable. It was an impossible task. Everything about his life working for Warburm was one big blur and there had been more old men than he could count on his fingers and toes ten times over. Attempting to resolve individual patrons was impossible. The thought that he might have encountered his father, however briefly, and possibly exchanged the usual pleasantries was disconcerting. Perhaps the more pertinent question was whether Maraman had known his identity if they had met. Would it have been to Warburm’s advantage to keep it hidden or reveal it?

  “Maybe it was the last boon of the gods that you were born. The odds were against it. Maraman was near impotent and your mother was at an age when many children are lame of mind or body. Yet you were a hale, healthy baby. And your birth signaled the end of an era.

  “Ferguson didn’t want you raised in a wild settlement like Sussaman. He wanted you close to him, where he could watch over you if necessary. The decision was made that three of us would accompany you to Vantok: your mother, Warburm, and me, posing as Kara’s husband and your father.

  “It was then, I think, that I lost whatever faith was remaining to me. I saw my life spread out before me as a farce. At long last, I could spend my days with the woman I loved, but not as a man, because I had given that part of myself to the gods. So, instead of marrying her with the blessing of the Temple, I was cursed to sleep beside her as nothing more than a bed warmer on cold Winter nights. Some would say I should be thankful to have been able to live with her and work beside her for so many years, close enough to touch any time I wanted. Those who would say such a thing know nothing. It’s a peculiar kind of torture, and it seemed that the gods, whether alive or dead, were laughing at me. I saw you as a symptom of the mockery my ‘true and faithful service’ had become.”

  Over the course of his narration, Lamanar’s breathing had become increasingly labored and his voice had dropped to a whisper. But, despite his obvious distress, he showed no signs of stopping until every secret was revealed. After a lengthy pause during which he sucked greedily on a damp cloth to relieve the dryness of his mouth and tongue, he continued. Sorial had to bend close to hear him.

  “There was a disagreement about what to do with you. Your mother wanted you to stay with us. Her reasoning was that you would be more isolated from prying eyes and safer as a result. Farmers rarely had visitors and it would be many years before a trip into the city proper would be necessary. Of course, Kara’s real reason was that she wanted you to be with her. She had lost three children and wanted the comfort of raising the fourth. I supported her not necessarily because I agreed with her reasons but because it was what she wanted.

  “It wasn’t to be. Warburm argued that it made more sense for you to be at the inn. The girl with whom you were to be matched would have no way to meet you at the farm while encounters could be contrived if you lived in the city. Even then, when you were but a toddler and the Lady Alicia an infant, we had mapped out your lives. It took little effort to convince Duke Carannan to support our cause; it gave him hope that his daughter, whose status as The Wizard’s Bride was sealed upon her birth, might not die a disappointed spinster as so many had before her. And for you, how much sweeter the enticement of a pretty face and a fine figure when true love was involved? Ferguson, despite his status as a lifelong ascetic and confirmed bachelor, understood this and used it as his sharpest weapon against you. He knew that if you two fell in love, he would have control.

  “I’ve said all I can say,” gasped Lamanar, his breathing now erratic. “Go back to waiting so I can die in peace. I’ve told you these things not because I desire absolution - it means little in a life when gods no longer exist - but because you deserve the truth, and I’m not certain anyone else will give it to you without first dipping it in honey and perfume. I’m headed for oblivion and I welcome its embrace. Those who love life are fearful of its end. My existence has become a burden I yearn to be free from. When I’m gone, you can do with my body as you see fit: burn it, bury it, or leave it for the animals. It will be of little import to me.” He paused, again struggling for breath, before adding. “And if you see your mother again, tell her my final thoughts were of her as she was during those early years. She was the one good thing in my life. I want her to know that.”

  So saying, Lamanar closed his eyes to shut out the world around him. The sword remained in his lap. For a moment, Sorial thought he died with those words on his lips, but he saw that the chest was still rising and falling and knew Lamanar had at least a little time remaining. He did as he was bidden and returned to the spot across the clearing he had previously occupied. Darrin noticed his movement and gave him a curt nod and a half-smile.

  For a half-hour nothing happened. Time crawled as the wait for Warburm’s return continued. Then, in a few moments of blood, anguish, and chaos, it all
changed.

  Sorial, who had been gazing in the direction in which Warburm and Brindig had departed, turned when he heard a strange gurgling noise followed by a thud. Greeted by a horrific tableau, he dropped to a fighting crouch and drew his dagger. Always a source of pride and comfort, Alicia’s gift suddenly seemed small and inadequate.

  Lying face down near the edge of the clearing with the shaft of a spear protruding from the center of his back was Darrin. The weapon had been driven with such force that his thin vest of boiled leather provided no protection. The dirt beneath him was turning a muddy, rusty brown as the blood from the mortal wound seeped into it. Twenty feet to his right, Lamanar sat as he had when Sorial left him, except a thin red line had opened across his throat. The gaping wound dripped blood down his front and onto his lap, where his unsheathed sword rested. His eyes were closed.

  There was no time for shock or grief. Six men were advancing on Sorial, the ones to the immediate left and right moving into a flanking position. They resembled the marauders who had pursued them to the north, with ragged cloth shirts and leggings and tattered boots that provided little protection from the terrain. Their weapons were crude, dented swords, although one had his blade strapped to his back and was hefting a spear like the one that had felled Darrin.

  Sorial had only a split second to react. Warburm would have commanded him to flee and, for a moment, it remained a possibility. But he was committed to staying and meeting his fate. Then his enemies had him surrounded, ensuring that he would stand and fight and, like Darrin and Lamanar, die.

  His weapon was exceptional in terms of craftsmanship and sharpness, but it was designed for close combat. As inferior as his opponents’ blades might be, they were more than twice as long and could hack Sorial to pieces before he could close within range to do damage. His goal had to be a preemptive attack; after felling an enemy, he could retrieve a sword and at least not be at a disadvantage as far as the size of the weapon was concerned.

  So, allowing instinct to take over, he charged, practically leaping at the nearest one, who had closed to within ten feet. The man let out a yelp of surprise, stumbled backward, and clumsily attempted to bring his sword into play, but Sorial was inside his guard, slamming into his chest before he could react. Using a tactic he had learned while serving in Duke Carannan’s militia, he twisted his wrist and drove the dagger up and under his opponent’s ribcage, aiming for the heart. His effort was met with a grunt. There was little blood because of the trajectory of the wound but the man’s body went limp almost immediately.

  Sorial yanked the dagger free, transferred it to his left hand, and reached for the sword. He was a fraction too slow, however. At least two more were upon him before he could complete the maneuver. Seeing a blade slashing toward him, he jerked up his dagger in an effort to parry. He deflected the blow, but the jarring clash of steel on steel knocked the knife from his grip. As the second sword swept toward him, he faced it naked, with nothing to turn it aside.

  For a brief moment, Sorial disconnected from reality, as if watching through the disinterested eyes of a third party. He understood what happened as it happened, but it didn’t seem real. His left hand, severed above the wrist, fell to the ground beside him. Warm blood sprayed from the stump, dousing him and his enemies in crimson. In that instance, he felt no pain. His eyes told him he had lost the hand but his body didn’t register the loss. Then, before the searing agony could begin, something struck him hard on the back of his head and blackness rushed to embrace him.

  His last fleeting thought before surrendering to it was that he should have run.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE CAGED BIRD FLIES

  Alicia was nervous now, and had been nervous all day, but there was no way to burn off the anxious energy other than by pacing. As sundown approached, she watched the shadows creep longer. But the arrival of dusk was just another waypost, urging continued patience. Nothing would happen until near midnight, when the half the torches were doused and the halls emptied. She could do nothing until he came for her, and reliability wasn’t his best trait.

  Despite his assertion that he would do nothing to aid Alicia if it involved personal risk, Rexall had taken over planning the entire operation. Little remained of Alicia’s initial plot beyond the basic premise; Rexall had belittled it as short-sighted and too reliant on luck. He had devised an alternative scheme and, when detailing it to her, had seemed inordinately pleased by his cleverness. The smugness annoyed Alicia but she was forced to admit that the plan had an excellent chance of success, at least at the outset. But getting away was only part of her goal; staying free might ultimately prove to be the greater challenge.

  The means of her escape had been provided by Sorial. At some point, he had discovered a hidden tunnel connecting the cellars of The Wayfarer’s Comfort with the temple’s lowest level. Presumably, it was used to facilitate secret communications between Warburm and his priestly contacts. At some point, Sorial had mentioned it to Rexall and, thinking it might prove useful in facilitating Alicia’s departure, he had undertaken an investigation. After a “trial run” had been successful, Rexall had mapped out how the entire night should transpire.

  As the quiet of the darkening temple settled around her, her worries about Sorial intensified. He had been gone for a week; anything could have happened in that time. She was anxious not so much to be free of the temple’s confinement as to be on the road. Nothing would be “all right” until she tracked him down and turned him aside from his folly.

  At this time of the night, the temple was as quiet as the grave. The other rooms in this wing were either empty or occupied by priests who had long since retired in anticipation of rising before the sun. As a result, she knew someone was approaching by the sound of footfalls.

  The knock was little more than a muffled scratch. Alicia opened the door to reveal a robed man with his hood up to conceal his features, carrying a spare set of garments identical to those he had donned. He entered without ceremony. “Put this on,” said Rexall. He handed the robes to her as he closed the door behind him. “Wait,” he added as she took the garb. “Is that what you plan to wear on the road?” He was staring at what, to her eyes, was a simple dress of the kind she had been accustomed to wear around her father’s mansion on warm days. It was plain, cut just above the knees, and left her arms bare.

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t think that will look out of place on a modest traveler?”

  Alicia fought down a wave of indignation. One of Rexall’s annoying traits was his unchecked sense of superiority. “Sadly, my wardrobe here doesn’t include sackcloth or burlap. These are the most ‘ordinary’ clothes I have. Of course, I could have asked my father to visit today with something more suitable for a long, dirty journey, but that might have aroused suspicions, don’t you think?”

  Rexall’s response was an unconvinced grunt followed by a second admonition for her to slip the priest’s robe over her dress. When they stole out of Alicia’s chamber moments later, they could have been twins but for the difference in their heights.

  At night, the temple was a realm of the surreal. Although no light penetrated into this windowless wing of the building even at mid-afternoon, the priests went to extraordinary lengths to separate night from day. Torches mounted on the walls at ten foot intervals provided illumination; after dusk, every other one was extinguished, darkening corridors and lengthening shadows. The persistent drone of chanting was silenced following night prayers, plunging the building into silence. Many of the temple’s residents who hadn’t yet retired were in seclusion for study or contemplation. Since Rexall and Alicia wore hard shoes, they were hyperaware of the scuffing noise made by their soles on the bare stone floor.

  Rexall led Alicia confidently through a maze of corridors, public rooms, and stairways into a part of the temple with which she was unfamiliar. Belatedly, she realized how limited her explorations had been during her period of confinement. Rexall had been more thorough; he moved with th
e ease of someone who knew his route. He never appeared lost, confused, or uncertain.

  They traveled briskly, but not so quickly that their passage would seem irregular to any onlookers. The temple’s hallways were patrolled at night, but at uneven intervals and with little diligence. The two entrances - front and rear - were closed and heavily guarded, and there was little concern about the activities of those within the priestly community. All visitors were registered and those not authorized to be within the building after dark were located and escorted out when the sun dipped below the horizon.

  They were descending and the lower their progress took them, the more apparent it became that they were venturing into a poorly frequented section. The stones on the floor were less worn. The torches were more widely spaced. The walls were not as rigorously spotless. The air was cooler and closer, not unlike that of a cellar or dungeon. Alicia wondered whether anyone lived down here. Perhaps during these hot times, the below-ground chambers were prime sleeping quarters, claimed by priests of high rank. The stillness that was eerie above was suffocating down here. Her breathing and the thumping of her heart sounded thunderous in her ears. She wanted to say something to prove she hadn’t lost her voice.

  Down they went, and Alicia admitted to being hopelessly lost. If Rexall was to suddenly vanish, she doubted she could find her way back to her room without guidance. From the outside, the temple looked large, but from within, it seemed endless, with rooms and corridors spreading far and wide under the nearby city streets. There was more space than the current denizens needed; in prosperous times, the priesthood had been a honorable profession for young men without inheritance or land. Two centuries ago, all these rooms would have been occupied. In those days, the temple was a city within a city.

  “We’re here,” whispered Rexall, stopping in the middle of a corridor. The sound of his voice so startled Alicia that she nearly shrieked. Looking around, she saw no evidence of a door or other means of egress. Her companion placed a finger in the gap between two wall stones at waist height and probed. With a click, a panel comprising nine of the square stones swung inward, revealing a gaping blackness beyond. Wherever they were going, it wasn’t illuminated.