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

by Berardinelli, James

  The sun was sinking through the haze to the west. Today had been another hot day and the humidity, which had built in the wake of the previous day’s rain, had not abated. Still, Carannan wasn’t about to complain. This was “normal” Summer, not the misbegotten magical creation Justin had inflicted on Vantok during the past several years. When it was time for Harvest then Winter, it would grow cold and snow.

  “It looks like our hand may be forced. They’re not coming out and it doesn’t look like we can get in, at least not by normal means. Unless we’re willing to concede Myselene and Sorial to Justin, which would give him a Lord of Earth and an unassailable right to Vantok, we have to gamble.”

  Carannan nodded. In fact, it would be more than a Lord of Earth that Justin would acquire. He would also gain a Lord of Water. Sorial and Alicia were a couple. If The Lord of Fire captured or killed Sorial, Alicia would attempt to save or avenge him and that would place her in Justin’s power.

  “Let’s confer with Warburm,” said the overcommander. “He’s been watching over Ariel since leaving Vantok. If anyone knows how best to awaken her, it’s him.”

  When they arrived at the former innkeeper’s tent, he was outside stirring something unappealing in a large cauldron. He called it “stew” but Carannan was unconvinced. It didn’t look or smell like any stew the overcommander had tasted. To those with half-empty stomachs, it didn’t matter. Men were lined up with bowls to receive their portion of the evening’s supper. Once the iron basin was empty, Warburm wiped his hands on his apron and approached them.

  “Sorry to keep you waitin’,” he said. “But we done all have our assigned duties and someone figgered that just because I ran an inn, I could cook.” He chuckled as if someone had made a joke. “Now, if they wanted someone who be an expert at taking good beer and wine and making it last longer by using a little water…”

  “Can we go inside?” asked Gorton. “What we have to discuss is for your ears only. Out here, voices carry.”

  They went into Warburm’s tent, where Ariel lay quietly under a thin blanket, her hands folded across her chest. Warburm moved to light a lantern but Gorton motioned for him not to. “Best not to chance The Lord of Fire learning our plans.”

  “We think we’re going to have to wake her,” said Carannan. There was no need to specify who he meant by “her.”

  The innkeeper grunted. “Dangerous proposition. But I s’ppose you don’t got much choice.”

  “If we offer her a deal - her freedom in exchange for bringing Sorial and Myselene alive from Basingham, do you think she’ll accept?” asked Gorton.

  “I reckon she ain’t got no choice but to accept. Look at it from her perspective - a choice between getting her life back or continuing to lie in a drugged stupor until someone decides to cut off her head. What would you do?”

  “The real question is whether, having agreed to the bargain, she’ll keep her part. Once she has her powers back, we’ll have no way to enforce the agreement.”

  “Depends how warped her anger and hatred have made her,” said Warburm. “The sweet little girl who used to bounce on my knee be well and truly dead. There be nothing of her left in that body. This Ariel’s been twisted by power and a sense of betrayal. Blame Kara. Blame Ferguson. Blame me. Don’t really matter. She might do what you ask out of a sense of loyalty to her dead mother and a brother who be as much a victim of circumstances as her. Or she might create a giant whirlwind to rip apart this camp then fly off to join The Lord of Fire in his march on Basingham. I can’t say which would be more likely.”

  “How would we do it?” asked Gorton. “Wake her up, I mean.”

  “Simple ’nuff. She be due for her next sip of the drug ’round dawn - I dosed her an hour ago. Just wait till she starts to wake up and, instead of giving her another, talk to her.”

  “Sorial thinks it might take a while for her to regain enough strength to be able to use magic,” said Carannan.

  “He’d know better’n most, but I’d take it careful. An if she senses an opening, she may stall. I don’t think she needs all that much power to get herself free. My advice is that if she don’t agree quick to the terms, you dose her and try again in 12 hours.”

  “We don’t have much time,” noted Gorton.

  “If she gets free, it won’t matter how much or how little time you have.”

  After finalizing the details with Warburm, Gorton and Carannan separated, heading for their respective tents. Carannan needed at least a quick nap; he hadn’t slept much since the assassins’ attack. His side bothered him more than he wanted to acknowledge but an oppressive sense of weariness was the real enemy. Tiredness was every soldier’s foe; it had seemed easier to beat back when he was younger.

  He entered his tent to find a visitor awaiting him. His sister, Lavella, was a few years younger than him and bore a striking resemblance to both his wife and daughter: the same golden hair, small frame, and fine features. His wife Evane was his cousin, although he hadn’t realized that until Ferguson provided details about his genealogy. In order to keep the bloodlines as pure as possible in the Wizard’s Bride’s line, intermarriage was encouraged with “new blood” only occasionally brought in.

  “I’ve heard some whispers,” began Lavella without preamble. “If you have plans that involve me, I wish you’d discuss them with me. I’m starting to feel like I did when I lived in the temple. No control over my future.”

  “Did you really feel that way when you were The Wizard’s Bride?”

  Lavella laughed; it was a rueful sound. “No, I suppose not. I never believed a wizard would claim me. It was just something I had to do until Alicia was old enough to replace me. It was a comfortable enough life - a little boring, truth be told. The only downside was that my virginity was protected with unseemly diligence. To this day, no man has touched me. But if you’re going to start making decisions about my future, I’d appreciate being consulted. Or, if not consulted, at least informed.”

  “What have you heard?” Unfortunately, security in the camp was poor. Gossip and rumors were the currency people used to buy their way into the good graces of others. Given long enough, a social order would develop in which those with the most “inside information” would be the most powerful.

  “That I’m to be sent to a portal to become a wizard.”

  It was a surprisingly accurate rumor and Carannan suspected he knew its source. Ferguson would leak information of that sort if it served his purposes. What those might be, only the vice chancellor knew, but there were few other likely candidates. Was this a preemptive attempt to begin exerting influence over the woman who might be the next Lady of Air?

  “Then it’s true?” asked Lavella when her brother didn’t respond.

  “Something along those lines has been discussed. But it’s probably a moot point now. The way it works with wizards is there can only be one master of any element at a time. Until the current air-wizard dies, there can’t be a new one. And Sorial’s sister, the current Lady of Air, is very much alive.”

  “Why do they think I can be a wizard? Because of Alicia?”

  “Mainly. I guess any close relative might have the potential.”

  “You?”

  “No, although it would have made things simpler. Apparently, when someone with the potential gets near a portal, it calls out to them. I’ve been in close proximity to the Ibitsal portal and didn’t feel a thing. It was proposed that you be taken there to test whether you’re a viable candidate.” Something that might no longer matter if Ariel is released.

  After Lavella departed, Carannan collapsed on his bedroll but sleep proved elusive. Finally, unable to do more than toss and turn, he rose, splashed some warm water on his face, and headed for Warburm’s tent. Much to his surprise, the innkeeper was awake and Gorton was already present. Both were sitting in crude chairs next to the wizard’s prone form. Warburm motioned Carannan toward a third, empty seat.

  “I got a visit from my sister a few hours ago. She wants to
know whether she should prepare herself for a trip through a portal.”

  “Would that the answer could be ‘yes,’” said Gorton. “It would be simpler to be faced with the dilemma of a week ago, when the question was whether it was safe to keep Ariel alive long enough for Lavella to be tested and put into position. Unfortunately, we’re beyond that point now. I think it’s safe to say your sister won’t have to worry about learning wizardry in the near future. Anything from Alicia?”

  Carannan shook his head. “Nothing. Rexall has a man watching the mirror night and day. If it became active, he would have let me know.”

  “I spoke to Ferguson before coming here this morning. He feels it’s best if he’s not present when Ariel awakens. He thinks she may harbor ill will toward him - imagine that! But he concurs we no longer have a choice in the matter. The die has been cast. This used to be when we’d put our trust in the gods. Now, I guess, it’s just a matter of fate.”

  “How much longer?” asked Carannan.

  “Two hours, maybe less,” replied Warburm. “You can tell by her breathing when she be starting to come out of it. Deeper breaths. That usually be the sign to give her the next dose. Today, we’ll just let her wake up and see what happens then. I got the flask ready in case we have to drug her but there’ll come a point when that no longer be an option.”

  “So we wait,” said Gorton. And they did.

  * * *

  Lying on the floor in a haze of agony, Myselene sincerely hoped it had been worth it. She had followed Sorial’s instructions, filling her cupped hands with the indeterminate substance that coated the floor and tossing it in the general direction of the flask once the guard had removed the stopper. Her aim had been good; a fair amount of the dried muck had reached its goal. Unfortunately, some had hit the gaoler on the chest and face. To say he hadn’t been pleased was an understatement. Now, all she could do was weep softly as she lay on the cold stone, hoping the pain and humiliation hadn’t been in vain.

  She had lost track of time but believed it was late in the day. The only way to estimate time was by listening to the changing of the guards and counting the times someone came in to dose Sorial. By those measurements, she guessed it was about forty-eight hours since they had sat down to dine at Uthgarb’s repast. So far to fall in such a short time… She supposed that was the way of things. After all, it had taken less time for Vantok to be transformed from Azarak’s seat of power to Justin’s plaything.

  Footfalls outside the door heralded the return of her captor. Uthgarb entered with a none-too-pleased expression blackening his countenance. To Myselene, it was less disconcerting than the false, unctuous smile that represented his typical mask. He began by “tsk tsking” her in the manner one might scold a wayward child.

  “Very unfortunate, Your Majesty, and such a pointless gesture. According to the guard, you heaved a handful of dried shit at him - not a very gracious thing to do. But I ask myself why you might do such a thing. You’re not the kind of woman to act on impulse; I’ve seen you up close and know you to be shrewd and calculating. Understanding, as I’m sure you did, how the guard would react, there must have been some reason for your action, but it eludes me. Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me?”

  Myselene said nothing. She wasn’t going to give Uthgarb the satisfaction of answering. The blood in her mouth was salty. She had lost at least one tooth to the gaoler’s brutality. She worried at the gap with her tongue.

  “Perhaps you thought you could distract him from giving the wizard another dose of the drug? Or maybe you thought to knock the flask from his hands? Yet neither of those things rings true, do they? You had something else in mind, didn’t you? Something that made you willing to experience the beating you knew would be the result.”

  Myselene closed her eyes but eliminating the image of the ambassador didn’t make him go away.

  “Come now, Your Majesty. Is your secret really worth the kind of pain you’re courting? The man who thumped you was an unskilled thug. It shows in the nature of your injuries. Justin, I think, will not be pleased by the lashes but maybe we’ll be able to make a case to justify them. But there are some experts in Basingham who can cause excruciating pain with little in the way of visible marks. These are people who have devoted their lives to the skill of torture and who pride themselves on being grandmasters. I’ll send one to you if you’d like. I have just the man in mind. He’ll delight in the opportunity to wring a few truths from the mouth of the former queen of Vantok. A prize subject indeed.”

  Uthgarb stepped closer and bent down. Myselene could smell his fetid breath as he leaned toward her. Something cold brushed her left nipple. She opened her eyes to see it sliced off - a clean, precise action executed by a well-honed blade. Blood seeped from the open wound and dribbled down her breast. She let out a ragged scream.

  “Have it your way, Your Majesty. Torture is so undignified, but it’s very effective. Whatever truth you’re guarding, I’ll delight in hearing it revealed. You’ll survive this ordeal, I promise. But you may wish you hadn’t.”

  The period between Uthgarb’s departure and the arrival of his torture-skilled minion was less than an hour. It was perhaps the most unpleasant hour in the queen’s young life as the wound from the amputated nipple blended with her other injuries in a symphony of suffering. Growing up in Obis, she had become used to beatings. They were administered regularly for a variety of infractions and even a princess wasn’t immune. But this was pain of a sort with which she was unfamiliar. Worse, there was no indication the “secret” she was safeguarding had value. Sorial remained limp and unmoving, a prisoner of the drug.

  The newcomer was the most unprepossessing of men: small of frame, garbed in black, and with the pockmarked face of a weasel. He carried a leather satchel and his features were frozen into a bland expression. After dismissing the guards and closing the door behind him, he executed a courtly bow to Myselene. There was no mockery in the action.

  “Your Majesty. It’s my pleasure to meet you.” He moved close and examined her injuries one-by-one. He smelled of lye. “Amateurs.” There was disgust in his voice. “Brutes who replace finesse with force.” He drew a container from his satchel. It contained an ointment that he applied liberally to Myselene’s breast, buttocks, back, and areas of her face. The pain-dulling effects of the cool substance were instantaneous. With a grunt of satisfaction, he replaced the salve and withdrew what appeared to be a long needle.

  “I’ve been charged with eliciting certain information from you regarding the reason why you attacked your gaoler. Ambassador Uthgarb is of the opinion that it was something more than a momentary fit of rage. I have no opinion on the matter but intend to learn the truth. I’ll procure this information without causing irreparable damage to your person. However, some of what you endure will be excruciatingly painful. There are many areas of the body sensitive to pain and it’s in those soft, fleshy areas that I do my most expert work. Imagine, if you will, having a hot poker as a lover. Or having your fingernails removed one-by-one and the raw skin treated with vinegar and lemon. Cutting out your tongue isn’t an option but no one said anything about your teeth. And I can make it so the only scent you smell for a long time is your burnt nostrils. But let’s start with your eyes. You certainly don’t need two. A needle through one, as long as it’s carefully manipulated so as to not damage your brain, can be a very effective…”

  His voice trailed off. His eyes went wide and an expression of befuddlement crossed his features before he toppled over forward. Since he made no attempt to break his fall, his face hit the ground with surprising force; Myselene heard bones cracking. She also caught sight of a small, bloody wound in his right temple where a pebble had blasted into his skull.

  Sorial was struggling upright, hampered by the restraint of the chains. “I hate torturers.”

  CHAPTER NINE: SIBLING RIVALRY

  The first thing Sorial did upon regaining consciousness was to delve deeply into his body with his mind.
While it was difficult for him to discern organs and fluids, focusing on traces of dirt and waste allowed him to develop a picture of what was going on inside of him. It took an inordinately long time to isolate the molecules of the drug and bring as many as possible into contact with specks of dust so their potency could be neutralized. He was a farmer caring for individual crops in a field that was planted for acres upon acres. Gradually, however, his thought processes became clearer and he was able to work with greater confidence and aptitude. His intuition about the beneficial capabilities of earth to counteract the drug had been correct.

  By the time he had mollified the drug’s effects, he became aware that he and Myselene weren’t alone in the dungeon chamber. The small man hovering over his queen wasn’t harboring friendly intentions. Killing him, unprepared as he was for hostile action from an apparently insensible man, required almost no effort. Sometimes the smallest actions of magic could be the most effective.

  Only after the torturer was dead did Sorial see the marks on Myselene’s body. One nipple had been severed. Her face and body showed the bruising of a merciless beating. There were wheals on her back and buttocks where the whip had bitten. She had paid a dear price for complying with his request.

  His next action was to sever the metal of the chains imprisoning them. Without his prosthetic leg, his movement was restricted. He could make a new one but even a crude replacement would have to wait. Of greater immediate concern was finding a way out. He could escape through the rock in his usual manner but transporting Myselene was a chancy matter. He thought he understood how it might be possible to transport objects without exposing them to impact damage from the solid material he passed through, but he didn’t want to make the first attempt with Myselene. If he was wrong, the price would be her life.

  If he had been at full power, he could have blasted a tunnel through the earth - a clean, clear path all the way to the surface - but he was too addled and weak to be able to command that kind of energy. But there was still a way…