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

by Berardinelli, James

  Chancellor Toranim rounded out the group gathered for the nuptials. Including the king, the bride, and the groom, there were only ten people in the assemblage. The missing and the dead nearly matched that number: Rexall, Kara, Lamanar, Vagrum, Brendig, Darren, Annie... With those faces in attendance, it would have seemed more like a wedding and less like a necessary formality. Still, Sorial couldn’t complain. He was getting his heart’s desire. How often in the past year since being disappointed in Carannan’s study had he doubted this day would come?

  Toranim announced the king’s arrival and the group of four occupying the front pew rose. Wearing the full robes of state and the heavy, jewel-encrusted crown, Azarak walked between the pews, his pace measured. Everyone except Sorial executed a deep bow or curtsy. Sorial’s indication of deference, a lowering of his head, was restrained: a sign of respect but not obeisance. Equals or nearly so. Technically, the king outranked him, but they both knew that was a formality. Soon, when the truth about Alicia’s abilities was disseminated... It then occurred to him that Azarak must already know.

  He and Myselene had seen Alicia work and neither could have missed the significance of her accomplishment. Nothing had been said but they knew. The royal couple had respected their secrecy, probably recognizing the tactical advantage of having an unacknowledged wizard in Vantok. At least Sorial hoped that was the case.

  “Honored guests,” began Azarak, standing in front of his throne with the bride to his right and the groom to his left. “We come together on this most auspicious of occasions to renew a happy tradition that has lain dormant for 930 years, when Lady Jayne III was joined to Bartolomu, the last Wizard of Vantok... until the mantle was taken up by His Magus Sorial this week. Though the gods are no longer with us, we can gain succor knowing they left our stewardship to men such as Sorial, who will hereafter be granted the title of ‘Duke’ to go along with ‘Wizard.’

  “Let us take a moment’s silence to honor those whose sacrifices have brought us to this day in which, had circumstances been different, they might be here among us. Chief among them are Duke Sorial’s parents, Kara and Lamanar, and Lady Alicia’s lifelong guardian, Vagrum.”

  Nine heads bowed and, as the moment’s silence lingered, Sorial found himself thinking not of the dead but of a more grim consideration: How many of those attending today’s ceremony would be alive in another year’s time? If The Lord of Fire attacked soon, as seemingly everyone in Azarak’s inner circle expected, would Vantok even be standing at Midwinter next year? Therein lay Sorial’s greatest challenge as the city’s principal defender. He felt inadequate to the task.

  “Antiquity doesn’t inform us what pomp may have attended the marriage of a wizard to his bride. Likely, it was marked by a city-wide celebration - a grand holiday repeated once or twice per generation. In keeping with the wishes of the couple and the demands of necessity, today’s ceremony has been kept private, although it will be acknowledged throughout the city following its conclusion.

  “Duke Sorial has bound himself to Vantok. Let now Vantok’s favorite daughter finalize that agreement by giving herself to him, both in body and in spirit.”

  Azarak turned to Alicia. “Lady Alicia, do you willingly give your troth to Duke Sorial and vow to be his true and steadfast wife and companion until death takes one of you from the other?”

  “I do so vow, Your Majesty, with my body, my mind, my heart, and my spirit.” Alicia’s voice was clear and certain. Her eyes were locked with Sorial’s. She didn’t look away from her groom as she said the words.

  “Let it be acknowledged by all present that Lady Alicia has consented to the marriage.” The king shifted his attention to Sorial. “Duke Sorial, do you willingly give your troth to both Lady Alicia and Vantok, the city she represents? Do you vow to be true and steadfast to both? Do you vow to give your services to no other city while this one stands and to seek no other wife while the Lady Alicia lives?”

  “I do so vow, Your Majesty, with my body, my mind, my heart, my spirit, and my magic.” Sorial’s voice, in contrast to Alicia’s, was thick with emotion and husky as a result. She smiled broadly when he said the words and he found the corners of his lips turning upward as well.

  “Of all the duties permitted to me by my status as king, the joining two people in marriage is one of the most fulfilling. Nothing in our daily existences, except perhaps the birth of a child, is more life-affirming than a marriage. It is the ultimate expression of optimism. With this in mind, I affirm that Lord Sorial and Lady Alicia are joined. Let the record show that, after more than nine lean centuries, the Wizard has once again found his Bride.”

  Sorial and Alicia stepped toward one another until they were less than a foot apart. At this point, tradition called for them to clasp hands in confirmation of the union. In deference to Sorial’s infirmity, they skipped that part of the ceremony, instead gazing at one another for a long moment before leaning forward to brush lips in a brief, decorous kiss.

  More than five years after their first encounter in the stable at The Wayfarer’s Comfort, Sorial had become the “great man” Alicia had boasted she would one day marry. Whether he would continue to meet those lofty expectations was a matter for the future to determine.

  * * *

  The rest of the day was a wearying whirlwind for the couple. It was especially tiring for Sorial, who had not yet fully recovered from the effects of his injury. Although there were no evident or long-lasting physical marks, his loss of blood produced a lassitude that grew as the day progressed. Following the wedding, there was a private reception in the main throne room, where Sorial and Alicia greeted several dozen of the city’s most influential nobles (including some who were technically in rebellion) and citizens. After that came a six-course wedding dinner attended by seemingly everyone who had been at the reception. Finally, as the clock ticked close to midnight, an exhausted Sorial and Alicia were allowed to retire to their shared bedchamber.

  Alicia doffed her shoes and dress and lay on the oversized bed in only her underclothes. “It’s done,” she whispered, almost wonderingly, watching as he undressed. “What did Warburm say to you before he left the dinner?” She had noticed the innkeeper come up to Sorial and whisper something in his ear before laughing and departing.

  “He said the easy part is over. Now things get really hard.” He lay down beside her, naked except for a broadcloth covering his midsection. It was a warm night but not unpleasant. The floor-to-ceiling windows, which opened onto a south-facing porch, were open and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains around the bed.

  “Not hard enough, apparently,” said Alicia, her hand working its way under his lone garment. Her fingers, cool and nimble, began to dance and her lack of experience wasn’t an issue when it came to eliciting a response. Perhaps he wasn’t that tired after all...

  Was it any less exciting now that it was longer illicit? Nothing would ever match their first night in the water and mud by the riverside but there was something more satisfying about this. Alicia might no longer be the so-called “forbidden fruit,” but that didn’t mean he wanted her any less.

  Within the confines of the palace, Alicia was quieter but no less energetic. Sorial rapidly discovered that his wife was intent on making up for lost time. Once was not enough for her nor was twice. She rode him like she might ride the sea, with the same undulating motion. Even outside of water, Alicia could make it seem like she was immersed. The experience was delirious. Up and down, up and down. By the time she was sated, Sorial was depleted. As he drifted off to sleep, he was conscious of her curled against him, her damp flesh pressed against his in all the right places. So this was marriage...

  * * *

  Ariel wasn’t in camp when Justin returned, which was probably a good thing for her. He was in a black mood and it was possible he might have said or done something they would both later regret. He no longer wanted to kill her - his rage had diminished during the return trip - but he was angry and bitterly disappointed. Her misin
formation had cost not only a young man’s life but had dealt a crushing blow to Justin’s overall plans. Either Sorial wasn’t dead or someone had immediately taken his place. It was almost certainly the former; not even Ferguson could move fast enough to get someone to and through a portal in three days. Yoel, the boy Justin had been grooming for a half-decade to claim The Lord of Earth’s mantle, had been pulverized in a gruesome way that left no doubt that his element was claimed. Somehow Sorial had avoided Ariel’s death-blow and that was worrying. Justin had expected this untried stableboy to be an easy victim once he was located. If that wasn’t the case, the situation would become messier than he had envisioned. He had never expected to use Ariel in combat; her role was to be one of intelligence-gathering and intimidation. But if Sorial remained a factor when the armies met, he might have to re-think that.

  He no longer had a stand-by for Earth. Even if he killed Sorial, which was an immediate goal, he lacked a candidate to fill the position. He doubted the same was true of Ferguson. He would have to set up guards around the perimeters of all three portals to eliminate anyone approaching them. Justin could ill afford to trade Sorial for another of the prelate’s puppets. There were only three possible wizards remaining in Justin’s small stable, none with an aptitude for water or earth. There was, however, a potential Lord of Air. At times like this, Justin wondered whether it might be better to replace Ariel. Did reliability trump experience?

  This situation reintroduced the necessity of entering single combat against the efreet. If Vantok was protected by magic, he would need more than himself and Ariel to ensure the city’s rapid fall. Justin couldn’t risk a slim victory or worse. If his advance stalled at Vantok, it might never move forward again. Anything less than a resounding triumph in the first battle was as good as a loss. All of Justin’s plans, everything he had worked toward for more than a decade, would be in shambles if he failed at Vantok. He would never see the endgame. Access to The Otherverse would be forever blocked. And, in the end, breaking through that seemingly impregnable gate was all that mattered. He needed chaos and order and the power of all four elements. Only by crushing and uniting humanity could he achieve that.

  Justin wondered if Ariel had learned of her failure and departed before his return in order to avoid facing him. It was a possibility. More likely, she was looking for her mother, an obsession she did little to deny. He shrugged although there was no one to see the gesture. There was little else for her to do at the moment. They knew where Sorial was but eliminating him would be nearly impossible and worth neither the attendant risk nor effort. Not only was he alerted to the seriousness of their intentions, but he would choose to be in a location that maximized his advantages and minimized theirs. Ariel wouldn’t be needed until after the Royal Wedding and he was sure she would be in place on the appointed day. He likely wouldn’t see her until it was time to advance the next phase of his fragmented and reworked plan.

  This is what it meant to command an army and formulate a campaign. Not for the first time, Justin wished he had selected a life of quiet contemplation. Now it was time to prepare to confront the efreet. If he lost that battle, it would render his other concerns moot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE IRON KING

  His Majesty King Rangarak of Obis was one of the biggest men Azarak had ever encountered. Perhaps a hair’s breadth shorter than seven feet and weighing well over 300 pounds, he was a bull of a man and, dressed in the iron plate armor that represented his normal public costume, he looked larger and more imposing. If one looked beyond the broken nose, scarred chin, and thinning, graying hair, it was possible to see an afterimage of the dashing young man who had once caused every princess in the North to swoon.

  The Iron King, as he was known far and wide by friends and foes alike, looked the part of a fearsome, implacable ruler. It was said no one had seen him smile in more than a decade. He sat astride an impossibly large midnight destrier. Azarak was a fair horseman but he wouldn’t want to face this pair on the field of battle or even in a tournament.

  Rangarak rode at the head of a seemingly endless line of men, with his immediate entourage in front, followed by ten score cavalry and one hundred score infantry. Of those he had brought with him, only a quarter would be given to Vantok as part of the wedding arrangement. The others were there because the King of Obis never went anywhere without a portion of his army. This was only a fraction; nearly two thousand horse and another sixteen thousand foot soldiers had remained behind. The Broken Crags bottled up Obis’ military might in the North - the most compelling reason why none of Rangarak’s predecessors had attempted a conquest of the lightly defended southern cities.

  Myselene’s calm expression slipped when she saw who had accompanied her father. In addition to his usual group of hangers-on, concubines, and “advisors” was her brother Grushik, the heir apparent, and Sangaska, the husband of her older sister, who was second in line for the throne, at least until Grushik and his shrew of a wife produced a male child. In a patriarchal society like Obis, women were good for three things: fucking, breeding, and being married off in advantageous matches. Myselene didn’t like either Grushik or Sangaska, who were cut from the same cloth as her father but with a sadistic streak that Rangarak deemed counterproductive. To host them at her wedding, and defer to them because of their rank and position, was galling.

  Azarak and Myselene greeted the visiting party at Vantok’s northern border, riding out to meet the force from Obis with only a light honor guard. Throngs of citizens gathered near the meeting point, but they were kept in check by the large contingent of the Watch on duty specifically for this purpose. Fully one-third of Vantok’s population lined the thoroughfare to the palace along which the Iron King and his entourage would pass. Visiting dignitaries were rare, and it had been decades since a northern king had graced Vantok with his presence.

  The words used by Azarak were proper and traditional rather than heartfelt. “Beautiful Vantok greets Mighty Obis and welcomes you to enter and share our fires, break bread with us, and sleep under our roofs. While you are here, let us be as brothers with no acrimony to disturb our fellowship.”

  Rangarak uttered the proscribed response, his deep voice precisely what one might expect from a man of his size and bearing. “Mighty Obis thanks Beautiful Vantok for the invitation. We humbly accept the offer of fire, bread, and shelter. While within, we will be as brothers, leaving behind anything that could disturb our fellowship.” Having spoken those words, he gestured to the mass of men behind him and they drifted from the road, fanning out across the nearby grasslands in an orderly fashion.

  “I hope it won’t inconvenience Your Majesty if my escort settles here. I’ve instructed them not to venture within the city limits without strict permission. They’re a disciplined force and will conduct themselves in a way that reflects well upon their city and king. There will be no trouble.” Rangarak’s request was a formality; there was nothing to be done if Azarak didn’t want two thousand men camping just outside his city. They were here and couldn’t be sent away until their king was ready to depart. Until then, they were tinder. He hoped there was nothing to provide a spark.

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll make couriers available to provide them with anything they might need from the city.”

  “They should need little enough. We have sufficient provisions and our dowsers will get the wells dug. They can find water in places far less hospitable than these plains. We’ll use the river for bathing, but only downstream from the city. We brought along our own whores, so there will be no need to visit your brothels. My officers will remain out here with the men; only those in my immediate party and twenty members of the King’s Guard will require accommodations within the city.”

  Azarak was surprised; it was fewer than expected. He had ordered sufficient room cleared in the barracks for fifty men and prepared two dozen rooms in the palace for guests. Only half of those would be used. On the occasion of the previous royal visit there hadn’t been s
ufficient room in the palace to house all the foreign dignitaries and Azarak’s father had been forced to rent out two of the city’s highest class inns, paying double room rents and draining the treasury.

  “Father,” said Myselene by way of greeting, advancing her horse to come alongside Azarak’s. Her head was bowed in an expression of respect, although the king couldn’t ascertain if it was feigned or genuine; he knew his bride-to-be was deeply conflicted where her father was concerned. She didn’t love him but she feared him. Azarak had little doubt which emotional response the Iron King preferred. He maintained his rule by the harshest means possible. He cowed his people and his retribution was pitiless to those who did not submit.

  “Myselene.” Rangarak inclined his head perfunctorily. “When I sent you down here, I hoped this is how things would turn out. Now the blood of Obis will be in the royal line of Vantok. Well done.” His attitude was that of a man speaking to a prized hunting dog that had retrieved a pheasant.

  For reasons he couldn’t quite identify, Azarak felt insulted by the Iron King’s compliment to his daughter. Even though he knew Myselene’s campaign to become queen had been motivated by politics and ambition, it seemed crass to acknowledge it so openly. He hated to think of his marriage as just another victory for the king of Obis.

  “Greetings, Sister,” said Grushik, his tone thick with condescension. Azarak disliked him on sight, perhaps because he knew how deeply Myselene hated and feared her brother. There was something dark in their past that Myselene hadn’t revealed in detail - some instance of abuse that had left its marks on her psyche. The most she had said was that Grushik derived an almost sexual pleasure from causing pain to children. Azarak surmised she had been his victim on at least one occasion.