Like Uthgarb, Vikon was a big man but he substituted muscle for the ambassador’s fat. As was the case with many warriors into their later years, he had begun to go soft around the middle, but he still cut an imposing figure in his burnished plate armor. Not many years ago, Vikon had been a frequent tournament champion and beloved romantic figure. Now, with his era of derring-do in his wake, he had traded in his long, flowing mane for a shaven scalp. His features, once thought handsome, had turned severe and pinched as age pursued its inevitable work to despoil what had once been admired.
Myselene had never been face-to-face with the overcommander but this meeting was necessary. She knew he represented a significant problem for Azarak. Probably the finest military mind in Vantok, he had earned his position on merit. Unfortunately, he had a loose tongue and a penchant for aligning himself with malcontents. He had resigned from the king’s council and Azarak was considering dismissing him from his position and perhaps even imprisoning him for statements that, depending on one’s point-of-view, could be considered either unwise or treasonous. Myselene believed, however, that there couldn’t be a worse time for a change at the top of the militia’s chain of command. She intended to present Vikon with an offer that would cement his loyalty.
“Welcome, Overcommander,” said Myselene after the man executed a stiff bow. In his clunky armor, he couldn’t sit, so he remained standing. The queen, who briefly rose, retook her seat, poured herself another goblet of wine, and sipped thoughtfully, allowing the silence to extend to where she knew it would make Vikon uncomfortable. Because it would be a gross breach of protocol for him to speak or move without her leave, he was forced to stand stock still as the pause lengthened.
“Are you aware why I have summoned you here today?”
“I assume I’m to be relieved of my command.” He had obviously been listening to the city’s prolific gossip mill.
Myselene feigned surprise. “Why, no. Of course not. Do you believe yourself to be unfit for duty?”
Taken aback by the queen’s reaction, Vikon stumbled to recover. “No, Your Majesty. I mean, I’m as fit as I ever was. But I’ve heard that King Azarak was...displeased... with my reaction to his sentencing of Lieutenant Horspath.”
“It’s true that His Majesty believes you to have been less than judicious in your criticism of him in the wake of his judgment, but he values your leadership and grasp of tactics. As I’m sure you’re aware, there are rumors of war and, should those come to fruition, we need dedicated men like you in command. To that end, I want to reassure you that your past indiscretions are forgiven and you’ll be allowed to stay on in your current position of overcommander. Your ranks have been swelled by 500 hardened soldiers from Obis and I’m hopeful we’ll soon be able to add garrisons from Basingham and Earlford to the mix.
“With the growing danger to Vantok’s civilian population in this time of unease, the king and I have decided that, in order to calm your mind and allay any worries you might have about your family’s security, their quarters will be relocated into the palace, the safest place in the city. They’ll be provided with lavish accommodations and, most importantly, they’ll be looked after day and night by guards with personal loyalty to His Majesty.” The unspoken words were the most important: Guards who follow only the king’s orders and are not under your command. Guards who will act decisively should you say or do anything that could be construed as disloyal.
Vikon was no dunce. He had played politics for most of his adult life and understood the meaning of Myselene’s gently-phrased “invitation.” His face blanched but he managed a tight smile when responding, “My thanks, Your Majesty. My wife will be thrilled at the thought of living under the same roof as Your Majesties.”
“And she will be most welcome at court. Of course, you may visit her whenever you desire, but we recognize you won’t want to abandon your men, so you can continue to live in the apartment adjacent to your office.” Myselene favored the aging soldier with her most winning smile. “That will be all, Overcommander. It has been a pleasure to finally meet you. Please inform your charming wife that soldiers of the King’s Guard will be along later today to help her with her move.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: RUTHLESS ENOUGH
The damnable heat had returned - an oppressive, searing reality from which only sundown offered a measure of incomplete relief. Sweat dripped, energy waned, and eyes burned. Not yet at Planting’s mid-point, Vantok and its environs had turned into an inferno the likes of which would be rare on the hottest days of a normal year. If the current weather was an indication, this year would be worse than the previous one with the temperature baking earth, drying up wells, and sending all but the most loyal citizens fleeing Vantok for more hospitable climes. This was The Lord of Fire’s most crippling weapon. In this situation, knowing that worse conditions were inevitable, the war might be won without a single engagement: the first city taken entirely by magic in more than a millennium.
Doing nothing more strenuous than pacing the halls of the mansion where he and Alicia lived, Sorial was sweating profusely. To keep his vision clear, he wiped his brow. He didn’t enjoy this weather but he was used to it, having spent many summers sweltering in Warburm’s stable. Alicia, however, was wilting. At the moment, she was where she now spent most of her days and some of her evenings - swimming. Only in the water could she be refreshed and rejuvenated. For his part, Sorial longed to burrow into the earth, but he refrained from indulging the whim. There was too much that needed to be accomplished.
Tonight, they would sleep in the cellar, the only level of the house untouched by the broiling ravages of the sun. In years past, Duke Carannan had moved his offices below ground but had kept his sleeping quarters on the second floor. Sorial’s preference was to spend his nights in a cool, windowless, unadorned space rather than a stylish, heat-drenched bedchamber. Alicia, initially unwilling, had relented after several nights spent tossing and turning.
The problem of where to sleep was minor. The bigger issue, the one Azarak had commissioned Sorial to solve, was ending the heat wave and its associated drought. Thus far, he had no idea how to accomplish that. Understanding the problem didn’t present an obvious solution. He couldn’t devise a way to use earth or water to counteract it, at least not one that would leave the ground intact or avoid crippling expenditures of magic. Soil and rock could be employed to leech heat out of the air, but that would require a constant shifting of earth - moving the lower layers to the surface to absorb the heat then transferring them below to disperse it and cool before again being brought to the top. It would be exhausting and would devastate the terrain. Houses would be broken, streets obliterated, and farms destroyed. Worse, it was only a temporary fix and would have to be repeated every few weeks as the heat reasserted itself. Attempting something similar with water was potentially less devastating to the land, but would tax Alicia’s stamina, making her unfit for other duties.
Sorial fretted that his inability to find an elegant solution was a failing of his imagination. His thinking was concrete - that’s what came from a lifetime spent doing straightforward work that demanded little in the way of improvisation. Mucking stalls and brushing horses didn’t encourage creative thinking. An innovative approach was needed. Unfortunately, no matter how he twisted the situation, the result was the same: there were some effects of air and fire that earth and water couldn’t counteract and this might be one of them. But a solution existed and, daring as it might be, Sorial had come to believe it couldn’t be avoided.
Gathering the strands of his resolve, he exited the house and set his feet on the path leading to the river. The secret of Alicia’s identity was a valuable weapon but, with war approaching, it would soon be necessary for her to work in the open. In addition, with every passing day, there was a possibility their enemies would discover that she was the fourth wizard. So perhaps the time had come to employ the weapon of surprise in a bold pre-emptive strike. He hated the idea of placing her in harm’s way but
, if his embryonic plan developed, he would ultimately be in far more danger than she would.
* * *
“You have a solution?” asked Azarak, unable to keep hope from his voice. After receiving a note from Sorial earlier in the day requesting an audience to discuss ending the heat wave, he had commanded Gorton to clear an hour on his afternoon schedule. He, Myselene, Gorton, and the two wizards were now gathered to discuss the matter as the dinner hour approached. The king’s sanctum, situated as it was deep within the palace and insulated from the worst of the heat, was only mildly close at the moment, although that would change as the days grew longer and the nights shorter.
“Of a sort,” said Sorial. “It addresses a larger problem but a side benefit will be the end of the heat wave.”
“A side benefit?”
Alicia had spent as much time as her husband studying the matter and was better able to articulate the root cause. According to her research, something similar had been employed long ago in the North for beneficial purposes. As a result of the combined efforts of the air and fire wizards, a heat bubble had allowed Syre to establish a flourishing agriculture. It had lasted only a dozen years but a discussion of it in an obscure history volume provided insight into the possible techniques being employed in this situation. “The problem is the stale air. The heat, which we presume to be a product of The Lord of Fire, infuses the air. It sits over Vantok and is energized by the sun and worsened by the natural heating of the season. Because the air doesn’t move, the heat expands as the days lengthen and the sun rises higher in the sky. That block also prevents moisture-bearing clouds from releasing rain over Vantok - they’re pushed off to the north or south. A sustained period of rain would at least provide temporary relief, but I can’t wring water from a dry sky. I need clouds and there are none in the vicinity.” She had tried creating rain but proved unable to do more than develop a brief, isolated drizzle.
“So you’re saying clouds are the solution?” asked Azarak.
“More than that. We need clouds but we also need the air block to break. Once it’s no longer in place, Sorial and I can use our powers to drain the heat from the air and cause the bubble to come apart. It may take a while but, even without magical effort, the climate will eventually return to normal. The problem is there’s nothing we can do while The Lady of Air is holding the heat in place. She’s the source of the problem not The Lord of Fire.”
“In order to end the heat wave, you need to stop her?” Azarak was incredulous. His expectation was that Sorial would somehow be able to use his brand of magic to counteract the heat. It was deflating to learn that wasn’t the case. “There’s nothing you two can do on your own?”
“No. At least not with the knowledge we’ve got now. If there was time to study, to practice, to understand... but there ain’t.” The admission galled Sorial.
“My reading, limited as it has been, indicates there are two levels of magic, and Ferguson has confirmed this. Sorial and I are operating on what’s called the ‘surface’ - obvious actions and tricks that involve gross manipulation of our elements. But there’s another, deeper level that we haven’t touched. The path to it has proven elusive; without experienced wizards to guide us, it might take years before we understand enough to access it. So, for the moment, we can do little more than use surface techniques while hoping that one or both of us makes a discovery that allows us to unlock the secrets of deep magic.”
Thinking back on the long days he had spent in the library researching wizards, Azarak remembered words to that effect. Two levels of magic - one readily accessible, the other requiring deep understanding and insight. Some wizards never attained control over the latter because they were too lazy or their thinking was too limited.
Sorial added, “My sister is the root of the problem, but we’ve got a plan that needs no more than what we’re currently able to do.” He briefly outlined the strategy he and Alicia had devised while sitting on the river’s bank this morning.
Once Sorial was done speaking, Azarak pondered. He could see that the scheme was audacious but he also recognized it to be extremely dangerous. If something went wrong, he could lose one or both of the wizards and, if that happened, Vantok would fall when The Lord of Fire came north. On the other hand, if the heat wasn’t stopped, Vantok might be abandoned by the time the enemy army arrived. There were no good choices, only less bad ones. If he presented the scheme to his military commanders, they would approve it. If war was certain, better a pre-emptive strike than letting the enemy dictate all the terms.
“What do you think, Gorton?” asked Azarak of his new chancellor.
“When it comes to magic, I’m not the most qualified to make a determination. But these are the things we know: seven weeks into Planting, the city is already suffering from heat and an increasingly worrisome lack of water. Many shallow wells are running dry, putting greater stress on those that remain productive. The unharvested Winter crops are burning up in the fields, and it wasn’t a bumper yield to begin with. Disease and famine are likely to become epidemic even if the heat wave is broken immediately. Vantok hovers dangerously close to becoming unviable as a human habitation, at least in the short term. Meanwhile, scouts have confirmed a building army ten days’ hard march to the south that will be formidable if faced on even footing. We don’t have the luxury of being cautious. We must risk and do so boldly. If this plan can achieve success, it will give us two great victories to start the war. If it fails, I don’t see that it will worsen an already bleak future.”
“Very well,” said Azarak. The chancellor’s words were logical; it was the same kind of assessment Toranim would have provided. Turning to Sorial, he asked, “When can you begin?”
“I’ve got two things to do. Once they’re done, we can leave. Hopefully, no later than tomorrow evening. If I’m gone more than three weeks, it probably means I’m dead.”
Myselene, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the exchange, spoke for the first time, “I’ll leak to the gossip mill that you’re departing for Basingham to provide a demonstration to seal the treaty we’re working. I’ll press Ambassador Uthgarb for a response to our latest counter-proposal. That will force him to leave for Basingham which will give further credence to your supposed mission. If The Lady of the Air is listening…”
“She is,” said Sorial. “Voices on the wind. She’ll hear them. And she’ll come.” And she’ll be ready. It won’t be like her failed assassination attempt. This won’t be haphazard and sloppy. It occurred to Sorial that, even when a trap was successful, the bait often didn’t survive. And, in this case, that was him.
* * *
It was well into the small hours of the morning when Sorial pushed open the solid wooden door and entered the inn where he had spent so many hours of his life. He was unprepared for the wave of nostalgia that accompanied the cologne of stale beer and unwashed bodies. It was nearly closing time but the common room was still active with men hurriedly downing pints so they could order another before Warburm closed the place down for the night. They were the usual clientele: merchants, farmers, soldiers. No foreigners, though, although Sorial recognized a couple of men who had arrived from Obis as part of the queen’s dowry. Visitors had been plentiful in Vantok until after the wedding. The growing heat combined with the concern of an attack by the North had thinned out traffic on the inbound roads to a trickle. Vantok wasn’t yet isolated but it was getting there.
Things were just as Sorial remembered them - even some of the faces were familiar. Sitting in a dark corner was a grizzled ex-soldier who had been one of The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s regulars since Sorial’s childhood. He looked the same: humorless and completely absorbed by the contents of his mug. Three of the barmaids serving new rounds and picking up old ones had been close friends with Annie. The youngest was Warburm’s daughter. They were a few years older but no less lusty. He had bedded none of them although, after Annie, there had been opportunities aplenty. Of course, there was Warburm, who
was holding court at large table near the unlit fireplace as was his tradition toward the end of the night, after all the cooking was done and the last kegs of ale and beer had been watered down. His once-white apron bore old singe marks and new stains from fat and meat drippings. His midsection was beginning to regain the girth shed during the trip to and from Havenham.
Sorial pushed back his hood, revealing his face. Had he expected gasps of recognition, he would have been disappointed. No one took any notice of the newcomer. He sat down at a small empty table with a good view of the entire room. A barmaid Sorial didn’t know approached him and took his order for a pint of “cellar” ale. That was the code word for the undiluted stuff.
He was here for a reason, but he couldn’t help absorbing the atmosphere. It was indulgent but he didn’t know anyone who would begrudge him a drink and a few memories. Sorial’s generous tip earned him a glimpse down the gaping front of his server’s blouse. A smile touched his lips. How many times had Annie provided him with that same view?
By the time he was done, Warburm had issued the last call and the crowd had started to dwindle, men leaving the sweltering interior of the inn for the cooler outside. A few staggered up the stairs to rented rooms. One was half-accompanied, half-supported by a barmaid Sorial had known in his younger days. She saw him and gave him a long stare, as if to jog her memory, then shook her head in consternation and left the room. Sorial rose and approached the table where Warburm was wrapping up a story that held a small audience of half-drunk men entranced.
Noting Sorial’s approach with surprise, the innkeeper curtly ended the tale and shooed away the four who were listening to him.
“I be honored, Yer Magus,” he said with a lopsided grin. There was no hint of mockery in his voice or manner. Same Warburm - the trip to The Forbidden Lands hadn’t changed him at all.
The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) Page 38
