Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3)

by Berardinelli, James

  “I understand. Finally.” He realized the words would make no sense to his sleeping partner, but he had to say them out loud. More than ever, he wished Alicia was here. She would understand. More importantly, she would benefit. What was true of earth was true of water. Anywhere there was a droplet of it, she could make use of that. They had been thinking in gross quantities, not minute ones. That had been their mistake. Magic was about controlling particles; Sorial had already exhibited that on some level by the method he had devised to manipulate large quantities of earth.

  He gazed into the darkness around him, concentrated on the motes of dust in the air, and suddenly he could see. The vision wasn’t like during the day, but it was sight: grainy and without color and black in those few places where there was no dirt. He looked down and saw his own sweaty, naked body with its missing arm and leg. Next to him, Myselene was similarly unclothed and slick with perspiration. He drank in the sight of her, exulting in this new discovery. He suddenly felt more alive than ever. Although the arousal that surged within him was non-sexual in nature, it was manifested in a sexual manner, the only way his body could translate it. His blood pumped. His breathing quickened. He became so hard it was almost painful.

  Something in Sorial’s tone had caused the queen to slip free from the gossamer bonds of her slumber. She sat up next to him. “Understand what?” she asked. The hand that had been on his chest slid down to rest between his legs. She uttered a small sound of surprise at what she discovered there.

  “Magic. I understand the truth of it. What it really means to be The Lord of Earth.”

  “And you came to that realization by fucking me?”

  Sorial laughed. “I suppose I did.” Would he have experienced the same revelation if he had never embarked on this child-conceiving endeavor? Eventually, probably, but perhaps not this soon. Sleeping with Myselene had made him yearn for Alicia in a way that might not have been the case had he been alone in his tent. And searching for his wife had opened his eyes and his mind.

  “Is it enough to help us?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘helping.’ It means I can be more effective using magic. I’ll be able to do things I couldn’t do before. But it doesn’t mean I can singlehandedly defeat Justin’s army, or even Justin himself. In the end, experience beats knowledge.” But at least I won’t be a clueless target.

  “Can you tell if there’s a baby in my belly?”

  Sorial extended his vision into the queen’s body. It was surprising how much dirt existed inside a person as a matter of course. The blood was clean, at least insofar as Sorial could determine, but it was everywhere else, sometimes in small quantities and sometimes in larger ones. Even though he could see more, however, he wasn’t able to understand what he was seeing. His understanding of the human body was rudimentary at best. If there was a baby, he couldn’t discern it.

  “Nothing,” he said at last. “That doesn’t mean there ain’t one, just that I don’t see it. At this stage, it could be too small for me to notice.”

  Myselene nodded. Her expression was unreadable. “All right. Since we’re both awake and you’re… ready… let’s try again. No sense wasting a good opportunity.”

  * * *

  “When we head north, she’ll be a liability,” said Overcommander Carannan, reiterating a point he had heard from both Warburm and Rexall. “We’re running short of the drug. More can be made, but there seems to be little point. She’s a dead weight, and a dangerous one at that. Widow’s Pass is treacherous enough without bearing the burden of an unconscious wizard who could wake up and wreak havoc at any time. As far as I’m concerned, keeping her alive is an unwarranted risk.”

  “We have to assume that if we kill her now, Justin will know the moment it happens - he’s probably linked to her in some way - and he’s in a better position to get someone to a portal than we are,” said Sorial.

  The council’s deliberation, which had begun with discussions about how and when to strike the camp and the logistics of moving thousands of refugees through Widow’s Pass and on the road to Obis, stalled when Myselene inquired about what to do with Ariel.

  “The sensible strategy,” said Ferguson, who had thus far said little. “Is to send the Lady Lavella, our most promising candidate, to the Ibitsal portal to see whether she’s sensitive. If she is, then we can bring Ariel to the portal, execute her on the spot, and allow the new Lady of Air to take her place. Any other approach leaves open the possibility that Justin could claim the position. For all we know, he may have a candidate in Havenham awaiting word of Ariel’s death. If that’s the case, our window may be no more than a matter of minutes.”

  Myselene turned to Sorial. “If we send Lady Lavella to Ibitsal, would it be possible for you to provide a means of instantaneous communication between her and the men guarding Ariel?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty. Given time, I might be able to figure out how to use earth for communication but it would require experimentation and practice, and it’s probably pointless since I won’t be with the main body of the army.” It had already been decided that Sorial would accompany Myselene on a more direct route to Obis - one he would facilitate through a portion of The Broken Crags where there was currently no pass.

  “What you propose, Vice Chancellor, is a dangerous gamble,” said Gorton, casting his shrewd gaze on Ferguson. He admired the former prelate’s cunning and intelligence but didn’t trust him. In his opinion, the man was still playing a game of his own. For the moment, his goal might be the same as the queen’s, but for how long would that be the case?

  Ferguson shrugged. “We have choices. None are ideal. We can kill Ariel now, ensuring that Justin loses an ally and we no longer have to cope with the burden of keeping her comatose. The downside is that this will almost certainly give Justin the opportunity to choose the next Lord of Air. Or we can test our candidate and, if she proves viable, make an effort to put into place a plan that will give us a three wizard-to-one advantage.”

  “And if the drug fails and Ariel awakens?” persisted Gorton.

  “If Ariel regains her ability to use magic while in captivity, there would be death and destruction,” said Sorial. “She’d lash out. But that ain’t likely to happen. Not only have Ariel’s senses been addled for weeks by this drug, but the ebb of her life force is low. It would take time before she’d be able to use her powers and longer before she could be a danger to others. We’d have ample opportunity to kill her before she could mount an attack against us.”

  “I’m uneasy about having a hostile wizard accompanying the refugees of Vantok on a journey that will be perilous without her. It would be one thing, Sorial, if you or Alicia was watching over her, but her only supervision will be Warburm and, although you’ve vouched for him…”

  “Warburm won’t be her only guardian, Your Majesty. I’ll be there as well,” said Ferguson. For a reason he couldn’t specify, that made Sorial uneasy - to think that the man responsible for Ariel’s existence would be in charge of her ultimate fate. Giving Ferguson any kind of autonomy, especially where magic was concerned, seemed like a bad idea.

  “What are the odds that Lady Lavella will be a suitable replacement?” asked Myselene, still weighing her options.

  “Moderate. The Overcommander is proof that not everyone of that bloodline is blessed with the talent. There’s no way to tell outside of exposure to the portal. Either she will hear its call or she won’t. Then we’ll know.”

  “Are there other candidates?”

  “None worth mentioning, at least within this camp. Several possibilities died at Vantok. There’s one I know of in Andel. I’m afraid that if Lady Lavella shows no aptitude for magic, we may be far from locating the next Lord of Air. Wizards are rare, Your Majesty, and locating those with an affinity for a particular element greatly narrows the possibility of success.”

  “So we’re faced with an ugly decision. Keep Ariel alive and insensible, hoping she doesn’t develop a resistance to the
drug or find some way to break free of its hold, in the belief that Lady Lavella proves to be her successor. Or kill her now, safeguarding the survivors of Vantok, while ceding the selection of the next Lord of Air to Justin. Not a choice I relish making.”

  “A choice you don’t have the authority to make,” said Sorial calmly, stating his position with characteristic bluntness. Eyes wide, Myselene glared at him but Sorial held her gaze. Gorton and Carannan’s faces expressed shock; Ferguson’s features were as impassive as ever, although there was something speculative about the way his lips pursed. “When I accepted the position as Vantok’s wizard, it was made clear that my duty was to serve the city and its ruler using magic as I see fit. This is a matter of magic. Ariel is also technically my prisoner. The final determination is mine to make. It ain’t a responsibility I relish, but it’s mine.”

  “You go too far, Your Magus.” There was ice in the queen’s voice to match the cold fury in her eyes.

  Ferguson interjected his opinion. “On the contrary, Your Majesty. Lord Sorial is correct. King Azarak invested him with full authority to oversee any and all matters related to magic and its implementation. He was given autonomy and his decisions are not technically subject to oversight by The Crown.”

  Myselene radiated extreme displeasure. Thinking back on it, she realized she should have been more active in drafting the agreement that bound Sorial to Vantok, but she had left that task to Azarak and then-Chancellor Toranim. She didn’t like having her authority challenged and there was no other way to interpret Sorial’s power play. Her response was clipped and tart. “Very well, Your Magus. What’s your pleasure in this matter?”

  Sorial remained unperturbed in the face of his queen’s displeasure. “Accompanied by a suitable escort, Lady Lavella will travel to the Ibitsal portal to determine her suitability. If the portal calls her, Ariel will be taken with all speed to the portal so Lavella can enter immediately following her death. If Lavella fails to show magical aptitude, Ariel will be executed as soon as possible. If there’s a chance we can gain the support of a third wizard, we have to try it, even if there’s risk involved.”

  “What if my sister doesn’t want to be a wizard? Has anyone consulted her about this?”

  Sorial leveled a hard look at Carannan. “We’re long past the point where choice is a factor. Ask your daughter if you doubt that. This is a matter of duty and, having served as The Wizard’s Bride for fifteen years, that’s something she knows.”

  * * *

  There was a palpable frostiness between the queen and her wizard as the two were led through the halls of the palace toward the chamber where they were scheduled to dine with King Durth. They were flanked by four of Myselene’s guards but those men were along purely for ceremonial reasons. The ruler of Basingham had assured the queen that their agreement remained in place even after Sorial’s actions assured the inevitability of an attack by The Lord of Fire.

  Sorial could understand his liege’s petulance. She wasn’t used to being contradicted or overruled and she undoubtedly viewed the experience as a humiliation. He privately admitted that he could have been - and should have been - more tactful. He was sure, however, that if she took the time to consider the situation, she would arrive at the conclusion he had. After the council, in private, she had accused him of letting “familial considerations” sway his judgment; he found the indictment unworthy of her. Yes, Ariel was his sister, but he had never allowed that to impede his thinking regarding her. It wasn’t as if they had a long, loving relationship. At this point, she was a piece on a game board. They all were. He didn’t doubt the necessity of her death - merely that it had to be timed for the most opportune moment.

  The room they were ushered into was deep in the palace, far away from windows. Myselene’s four guards joined the eight members of Basingham’s royal contingent already on duty. Sorial and the queen entered a dining hall that was smaller than any of the others where they had previously eaten. The table was set for six places, two of which were occupied by nobles Sorial dimly recognized from his previous forays into the palace. The king, who would occupy the head of the table, had not yet arrived, nor had the person who would sit at the foot.

  A practiced smile transformed Myselene’s face as she sat next to one of the nobles and began to engage him in small talk. Sorial, less familiar with the arts of statecraft, sat silently across from his queen. He observed the noble with whom she was conversing as well as the man sitting next to him. Both seemed ill at ease. Their smiles were thin and nervous. He wondered if Myselene sensed the same thing. She gave no indication of it but he knew her well enough to understand that she wouldn’t let on if that was the case. She continued an animated conversation that was largely one-sided.

  Servants entered the room to fill goblets. Myselene drank deeply from her cup and pronounced the vintage to be excellent. Sorial sipped despite having no sense of taste or smell. If nothing else, it warmed his belly but it made no difference to him whether the wine was rare and precious or nearly vinegar.

  “If I might ask a question, Your Magus?” prompted the noble to Sorial’s right.

  The wizard forced a smile. “Of course.”

  “Do you believe that, with your magic joining Basingham’s military might, we might be able to defeat our nemesis?”

  How to answer that? Sorial had never been good at prevarication but he instinctively knew that honesty wasn’t the best approach here, even if there were only two nobles in the room. One set of ears was all it would take to set off a panic. Myselene had heard the question and, even though she was continuing her conversation with the other man, she was listening to hear how Sorial would respond.

  “Much depends on what forces The Lord of Fire brings to bear. He’s got many things at his disposal, but I think we’re better prepared and more aware than last time. I don’t think this will be a repeat of Vantok.” No, it will be far, far worse. The only hope was that less blood would be spilt because the victory would be so complete.

  “So glad to hear that,” replied the noble but he seemed neither relieved nor reassured. If anything, he was more nervous than before. Sorial’s hackles rose.

  Conversation died when the door opened to admit the fifth member of the dinner party. This was one of the fattest men Sorial had ever encountered. The two Basingham nobles rose and bowed. Myselene, her face frozen in an expression somewhere between distaste and dismay, remained seated. Sorial followed her lead. “Ambassador Uthgarb,” she said, inclining her head only slightly in acknowledgment. “How pleasant to see you again after these many weeks.”

  Uthgarb’s answering smile was as false as any Sorial had seen. The mask of avarice it concealed made Sorial’s stomach churn. He had heard much about Myselene’s dealings with Uthgarb when she had been negotiating Basingham’s participation in the Battle of Vantok, but he had never before met the man. He was surprised at how powerful his instinctive sense of repulsion was.

  “Your Majesty, I’ve longed to speak with you since your arrival at Basingham but opportunities have been scarce with war preparations demanding my attention. Since King Durth has unfortunately been delayed this evening, it seems this is my opportunity. The king instructs us to begin without him. I aim to present you with a repast the equal of the one you served me on our last meeting. With one difference, of course. And I will eat from the same plate as you to confirm this.”

  Sorial didn’t understand the cryptic reference but it was clear from the sudden paleness of Myselene’s features that she did. There was danger here, although he couldn’t be certain how serious it was. Basingham might be an ally but Uthgarb was not a friend and his history with Myselene went deeper than their having engaged in difficult negotiations.

  Nothing else was said until after the first course had been served. It was some kind of thick soup or porridge. Its smelly was gamy and its look reminded Sorial of the gruel he had often eaten while working as a stableboy at The Wayfarer’s Comfort. Myselene waited until Uthgarb had co
nsumed two large spoons full ladled from a common bowl before delicately tasting it. Sorial ate more out of politeness than hunger. The tension in the room had robbed him of his appetite.

  “Let me begin, Your Majesty, by offering my most sincere apology.” Uthgarb, apparently a stranger to the manners common at nobles’ dinners, sprayed heavily spiced spittle all over the table in front of him. He shoveled another spoonful into his mouth as he continued, “In light of what happened at Vantok, I now see that you were right. I can’t help but wonder whether more troops from Basingham might have made a difference and whether my obstinacy regarding price resulted in too little aid.”

  “In the end, I doubt the addition of several hundred additional men from Basingham would have made any difference. Not against what we faced,” said Myselene. Her voice was as cold, sharp, and brittle as a long, thin icicle.

  “Fair enough,” said Uthgarb. “Since I wasn’t there, I bow to your wisdom in the matter. But I can’t help but regret that I wasn’t more gracious in my negotiations with you. Of course, you got what you wanted in the end and the ruthlessness you showed taught me a few things. Some might find it amusing - an old diplomat like myself being schooled on the rougher principles of deal making by a slip of a girl less than half his age. You may come to find that I am an excellent pupil, Your Majesty.”

  Uthgarb’s false smile had become almost predatory. He leaned to one side and pulled the bell that would ostensibly result in the next course being brought in.

  There was a sudden commotion in the hall outside the dining chamber: the clash of steel and several cries cut off in mid-shout. Sorial attempted to rise to his feet and felt as if the floor was buckling under him. He collapsed, his vision filling with black specks as the world tilted wildly around him. He was dimly aware of Myselene grasping the side of the table, trying to stay upright. The two nobles had slumped over their meals, heads resting on the table. Uthgarb continued to slurp his soup noisily.

  “Not poison, Your Majesty, but something that will make you suitably docile for a while. And in the drink, not the food.”