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

by Berardinelli, James

  The source of Warburm’s ordeal had been the dwellers in The Forbidden Lands. He had never imagined that so many nomadic tribes might live in a region widely accepted as unsuitable for human habitation. They had all been on the move, going... somewhere. Warburm had been swept ahead of them, deeper and deeper into the mountains until he had become hopelessly lost. It had taken nearly five weeks for him to find his way to the coast while avoiding the locals and discovering concealed tunnels. The mountains were a maze of underground passages. He suspected it was possible to pass from one side of the range to the other without ever seeing the sun. Of course, without a comprehensive map, it might take a lifetime - or longer - to find the correct route. Surviving The Forbidden Lands had been about avoiding the inhabitants. Upon reaching the coast, he had followed the shore northwest to the southern terminus of the Vantok Road.

  Warburm reported all this to Ferguson and the prelate listened attentively, but gave no indication what he thought of the news. Warburm had the feeling he was providing confirmation of something Ferguson knew from another source.

  The innkeeper couldn’t answer the prelate’s most pressing question: When would Sorial return to Vantok? It was unclear to Warburm what the new wizard was doing beyond gaining a familiarity with his powers. He didn’t know where Sorial had gone and could merely report that he would make his way to Vantok when the time was right. There will be a reckoning.

  It was surreal to be back in Vantok. Warburm had never expected to survive the trip south. Upon his departure, he had made sure all his affairs were in order and had said his final goodbyes to his family. There had been tears and hugs and kisses. He had made peace with the idea of dying. Even in Havenham, as Sorial embraced the portal, Warburm had expected to lose his life buying those precious minutes the boy needed to emerge triumphant. Somehow, Warburm had survived. Darrin, Brendig, and Laminar hadn’t but he had. Now, suddenly faced with a future he had never planned to have, he found himself mystified about what to do next. His life’s purpose had been accomplished. Satisfaction warred with a strange sense of emptiness.

  When he asked Ferguson what was next, the prelate’s response was succinct: “First, you must report to the king. Do that immediately. The rest depends on Sorial. Until he arrives, return to your inn and serve your customers.” It was as if he was being released from his responsibilities and invited to enjoy a peaceful, normal existence. Warburm could think of few things less fulfilling. He had spent his adult life helping to shape the future. Complacency wasn’t part of his nature. He could no more spend the rest of his days in an inn than Ferguson could spend them in prayer and contemplation.

  He departed the temple to find an escort of uniformed palace guards awaiting him. He wasn’t under arrest, but would he kindly accompany them? A special, late-night audience with the king was being arranged. This wasn’t a surprise to Warburm; Ferguson and Azarak balanced each other. Having made his report to the religious leader of Vantok, it was only fair that he provide the same information to the secular one.

  He was taken to the private audience chamber with the large table. Three people were awaiting him - two he knew and one he didn’t. There was the king, dressed casually as if for bed but showing no signs of sleepiness; his chancellor, who was more formally attired than his liege; and a girl of seventeen or eighteen, who stood almost possessively behind Azarak’s chair. She was stunningly beautiful and had the look of a northerner, perhaps from Syre or, more likely, Obis. The king was the only one sitting. Warburm executed a perfunctory bow then sunk into the indicated plush chair, facing Azarak across the table. He took the goblet of wine placed before him by a servant and downed it in one swallow. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Warburm turned his full attention to Azarak, whose bearing was more regal and self-confident than it had been upon their previous meeting. That seemed a lifetime ago. How much had happened since then... and who was this girl?

  “Master Warburm, it’s good to see you returned safely to Vantok. I’m informed that you’ve come alone, however. Should I take that to mean your mission was unsuccessful?” Azarak’s tone was grave - the voice of a man steeling himself for the worst possible news.

  “Nay, Your Majesty. ’Twere a success, in fact. Young Sorial be a wizard. But he decided to go into hiding and learn more about his newfangled powers before coming to Vantok. He sent me ahead to ‘prepare the way,’ so to speak. The other three didn’t make it. They should be remembered with honor and maybe a little compensation to their survivors.”

  Relief was evident in Azarak’s features and voice. “This is welcome news, Master Warburm. Please tell us the whole story. Leave nothing out.”

  Warburm found the king to be a more receptive listener than Ferguson, whose attention had often seemed to drift during the innkeeper’s narrative. By contrast, Azarak concentrated on every word, frequently interrupting to ask questions or request additional information. For the prelate, all that mattered was Sorial’s success. For Azarak, everything seemed important.

  When Warburm was done, the king asked, “Did Sorial give you any indication of when he might return?”

  “Nay. There be people who want him dead - other wizards. He needs to be familiar enough with his powers to be able to defend himself if’n they come after him. But I know he be anxious to wed and bed the duke’s daughter, so I can’t think it’ll be long.”

  “Do you know anything of Ferguson’s plans for the Lady Alicia?”

  Warburm shrugged. When it came to Ferguson’s plans, the only one who knew for sure was Ferguson. In all the years Warburm had known the prelate, he had been secretive, keeping his own counsel. Even those claiming to be in his inner circle didn’t know half of his intentions. In this case, however, the answer seemed straightforward. “I assume he’ll marry them as soon as Sorial shows up then let them go about their business of producing little wizards. The prelate will want to advise and ‘guide’ Sorial, but I ain’t sure the lad will cotton to that. He be prickly where Ferguson be concerned.”

  “The prelate didn’t tell you about the Lady Alicia, then.”

  Warburm’s face expressed mild alarm. Had something happened...?

  “I see he didn’t. Let me be the bearer of bad tidings then. Shortly after you and your party departed Vantok, Lady Alicia disappeared from her room in the temple. She left the city, apparently heading north, accompanied by her protector, Vagrum; one of Sorial’s friends, a red-headed boy whose name escapes me at the moment; and Sorial’s mother. We lost track of them on the road north but believe they’re headed somewhere beyond The Broken Crags. We don’t know where they are or if they’re still alive. We suspect, however, that Ferguson may know something of her whereabouts - information he’s withholding for his own reasons.”

  Warburm was momentarily stunned into speechlessness - something almost unheard of. Alicia...gone? Better than dead, to be sure, but if Sorial returned and found her missing... How could Ferguson have been so lax as to have let this happen? While Warburm had been dragging Sorial into the heart of The Forbidden Lands for an encounter with a torturer and his destiny, Ferguson had failed to keep one girl confined within the most secure building in Vantok? It was unthinkable. And that could mean only one thing: Alicia hadn’t escaped. She had been released. But why?

  “Go to your bed, Master Warburm. We’ll have more questions for you tomorrow. The commendations and compensation you recommend shall be conveyed, although it may be difficult in the case of Kara bet Lamanar.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Azarak and Toranim were sequestered in the king’s private audience chamber, discussing strategy. A knock on the door interrupted them. The guard revealed when Toranim opened the door was apologetic. “Beggin’ Your Majesty’s pardon, but there’s a visitor from the temple on ‘urgent business.’ He insists on an immediate audience. It didn’t seem wise to tell ’im to come back later.”

  “Ah. That’ll be Farber.” They had sent a message to the Temple asking their new ecclesiastical
ally to join them. “Escort him here, Toranim. It will be interesting to see how many of our suspicions he can confirm.”

  Toranim wasn’t gone long, but when he returned, he was accompanied not by Farber but by His Eminence of Vantok, Prelate Ferguson. Judging by the stormy expression on the features of the city’s chief ecclesiastical authority, he wasn’t a happy man even though his lifelong ambition of creating a wizard had been confirmed as realized a short time ago.

  Ferguson was an ancient specimen of the human race, creeping toward the century mark with every indication he intended to surpass it. His ice-blue eyes were sharp, not watery or rheumy as was often the case with men of his age. His shoulder-length hair, like his short beard and neatly trimmed mustache, was the color of new snow. He used a walking stick, but his steps were so brisk that Azarak suspected it to be an affectation. Despite possessing garments appropriate for one of his rank, he often dressed, as was the case now, in the simple robes of a priest - garb that might have allowed him to pass unnoticed through the city streets were his visage not so immediately recognizable. There was no such thing as anonymity for Ferguson and Azarak suspected he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  In what could be considered an unpardonable breach of etiquette, Ferguson didn’t bow. He stalked to the opposite side of the table from where the king was sitting and, instead of making use of the chair, he leaned forward across the table, towering over Vantok’s secular ruler. Azarak experienced a flashback to his days as a lad being confronted by an angry tutor, except Ferguson was far more intimidating than any of Azarak’s teachers had been.

  “Your Eminence, this is unexpected.”

  “I don’t doubt that. I’ve been told you were scheduled to have an audience with one of my assistants, Farber. Rather than entrust tragic news to a messenger, I came myself to inform you that Farber died last night in his sleep. Since he was young and in good health, the circumstances of his death are being investigated, but it appears to have been a most unfortunate act of fate. Some men, like myself, live beyond the normal span allotted to men. Then there are sad cases like Farber, whose time is short. In the end, it all balances out, and balance is the most important thing to maintain in these uncertain times.”

  Azarak bowed his head, almost as if in silent prayer. Apparently, Farber’s alliance with the Crown had cost the man his life. Somehow, Ferguson had discovered the priest’s “disloyalty” and taken punitive steps. If Azarak had ever doubted the prelate’s ruthlessness, this was a testament to it.

  “Let us speak frankly, Your Majesty. I didn’t come here to play with words, to thrust and parry as we often do. You’re the lawful king of Vantok and I acknowledge your right to wear the robes and crown. But some things that go on in this city don’t come under your jurisdiction and your meddling in them endangers more than just the legitimacy of your reign. I’ve worked to restore wizards to this world for the better part of my life - since a time when your great grand-sire was on the throne and long before your father was born. It’s a sacred charge that was laid upon me by the gods and, though they may be gone, it remains. Matters related to wizards aren’t yours to question or interfere with.”

  The prelate’s words left Azarak red-faced with anger. The effrontery of the man...When he spoke, however, his voice was as icy as Ferguson’s. “You overstep your bounds, Your Eminence. We speak not of a religious matter but a secular one. The gods are no more. Your duty is to aid in the transition from the old ways to the new ones. All other matters fall within my jurisdiction, including Sorial.”

  “I speak not only of Sorial, as well you know. I hoped to avoid this... ugliness... by withholding the information from you but, since it’s been provided to you by illicit means that stink of betrayal, there’s no alternative.”

  “When Sorial returns, Alicia must be here.”

  “If Sorial returns. There’s as yet no proof he accomplished his goal.”

  “Except the word of your man, Warburm.”

  “Warburm has been a good and faithful servant through the years, but it’s unclear that he has more than a murky understanding of what happened at the portal. I’m inclined to believe Sorial underwent the transition, but after that... We mustn’t assume the boy will be our savior. To do so would be folly. You’re an intelligent man, Your Majesty, so by now you’ve divined my intentions regarding Lady Alicia. She falls within my divinely designated purview. Her whereabouts and fate are no longer your concern.”

  “And if Sorial returns tomorrow to find his betrothed gone?”

  “Then I’ll explain to him that her location is known, she is being watched over, and he can go to her immediately.”

  “And if she dies at the portal?”

  “We must be bold, Your Majesty. There’s no timidity to be found in the forces aligned against us. I’ve devoted nearly eight decades studying these matters. How long did you spend sequestered in your palace library? A handful of seasons? You know nothing. When it comes to matters of magic and wizardry, I’m the land’s foremost authority. I’ve traveled to ancient repositories of knowledge and perused the writings of some of the most insightful scholars from the age of wizards. I’ve uncovered the hidden scrolls of the Wizard’s Guild - the group that determined who would be tested at the portal.”

  “For all your knowledge, Your Eminence, you can’t guarantee the Lady Alicia’s survival if she enters the portal. You can argue odds, but you don’t know. And if you’re wrong, if you’ve miscalculated, you doom this city. I can’t allow that. It’s my royal command that you inform your agents to return her to Vantok to await the arrival of her bridegroom. If it turns out that Sorial can’t or won’t come, then we can discuss how to convince her to replace him.”

  “You don’t listen, Your Majesty. The Lady Alicia isn’t within your jurisdiction and is no longer your subject. She is a servant of the Temple. Your royal commands are meaningless where she’s concerned. She’ll remain under my protection and far from Vantok. If you attempt to pursue this matter further, the consequences will be grave. Good day.”

  The silence in the wake of the prelate’s abrupt departure was prolonged. Finally, Tornaim spoke. “Your Majesty, this can’t be allowed. He refused a royal command and made an unambiguous threat to your reign.”

  And he is perhaps the only man in Vantok who could do that with impunity. “I know, my friend. I know.”

  “He’s a menace to your rule and to the city’s potential future - a more immediate one than what’s brewing in the Deep South.”

  And if I don’t act, I don’t deserve to be king. Azarak straightened his posture and swept aside the charts he had been studying before Ferguson’s arrival. “Prepare an arrest warrant for Prelate Ferguson.” That would be the easy part. The hard part would be trying to execute it without igniting a civil war.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: TWO QUESTIONS

  Wakefulness came gradually to Alicia. Once the fever broke after having ravaged her mind and body for two weeks, lucidity was slow to re-assert itself until the afternoon when she opened her eyes and found her thoughts to be clear.

  She didn’t recognize her surroundings. She was alone in a windowless, one-room hovel with a hard-packed dirt floor and low ceiling. Aside from the bed in which she rested, the only furnishings were a couple of sturdy chairs and a small writing table. A cheerful blaze in a fireplace provided the room’s light and heat, but imperfect ventilation made the air smoky. Despite the fire, it was chilly; if Alicia took a deep breath and exhaled, she could see the mist. Three layers of heavy blankets trapped her body’s heat under the covers, keeping her warm, although they were rough against her naked skin.

  Her memories were so fragmented and unreliable that she couldn’t hazard a guess at her circumstances. Little was clear from her sickness when impressions of real events were entwined with fever-dream visions. One horrific event seemed impossible to dismiss as a conjuration of her illness: Vagrum’s death. His being shot point-blank in the face then toppling lifelessly from the path wa
s an image she couldn’t shake. It was too clear, too precise to be false. And, although she remembered seeing Kara, Rexall, and others she didn’t know hovering during her confinement, Vagrum hadn’t been there. His absence reinforced the reality of that memory. Had he lived, he wouldn’t have left her side; he would be there, watching over her and worrying as had been the case throughout her entire life. One of the two unadorned, functional chairs in the room would be occupied. That both were empty bespoke Vagrum’s fate as forcefully as a grave marker.

  So she wept, silently but from the heart, tears leaking from her eyes to run down her cheeks into the folded wool blankets that acted as pillows. Only now, when he was gone, did she fully recognize what an important part of her life he had been. Always there, ever constant, seemingly indestructible and indefatigable, he had been her rock. Even his death had been an act to save her life and give her a chance at more days and nights.

  Alicia recognized that Vagrum would have considered his death to be a worthy one. When electing to confront their pursuers, he had understood the likely outcome. He had been as pragmatic a man as had ever lived. Weakened by the poisoning from which he had never fully recovered and hampered by treacherous conditions, his chances for survival had been slim. It would have taken a miracle of the gods to save him, and the gods were no more. He had acted to save his mistress and her presence in this bed validated his death. Given an opportunity to choose the means of his passing, Vagrum would have selected something like this. Dying abed of old age would have held no appeal for him. Unfortunately for Alicia, this recognition did little to salve the grief. Dead was dead. With no gods to shepherd souls to another place, it was truly the end. Vagrum was no more. The finality of it forced her to appraise what it meant to exist during a time of divine abandonment.