He admitted there was something enticing about the lure of power. All his life, he had been a servant, one who existed to do the bidding of others. His greatest acts of freedom had been stealing swims in the upstream river and spending hot, sweaty nights under the sheets with Annie. Being a wizard would change that. He would have authority and respect. He would give the commands, not receive them. Wasn’t such a reward worth the gamble of a life that, if lived on its current trajectory, might lead to long years of toil and hardship, possibly ending in an unmarked grave?
Sorial wanted to live. Truth be told, he was frightened of death, especially if the gods had cast men adrift. He could understand why so many despaired. It was a terrifying possibility, the bleakness of oblivion. He suspected this quest to awaken his powers would kill him. He lacked the faith that others had. Deep down, he didn’t believe in monsters or magic. The world was what he saw around him. But the die had been cast. He would do what they asked, what they required, but it would be done on his terms.
The sun had cleared the eastern horizon, heralding the beginning of another scorching day, when Sorial pushed aside the flap of his master’s tent and entered the close quarters within. He had just completed his final shift working for the merchant Drazir, a grueling sundown-to-sunrise stint that had seen Sorial load the man’s six wagons for the long trip north. Drazir was leaving on the morrow for more profitable cities. During Summer, Vantok offered little to buy and less to sell. This would be his last stop here until the heat abated.
Drazir glanced up from coin counting when Sorial entered. “Ah, Mansab,” he said in a heavily-accented voice, using the name Sorial had given him when entering his employ. “Come to collect your last wages? Sure you won’t change your mind and come north with me? I could use a man like you in my guards. Pay good. Twice what you make here, and ’twill be cooler in Basingham. Here, it’s hell. There, paradise.”
This wasn’t the first time Drazir had asked. Sorial knew the man was concerned about the trip, even though he had recruited six mercenaries to protect him from the dangers of the road. Bandits were becoming more brazen and even well-protected caravans had been attacked. One reason Drazir had lingered for so long in the unprofitable markets of Vantok was that he feared he wouldn’t survive the journey to Basingham.
“Sorry, Master Drazir. I hafta clear my name.”
“Which is not Mansab, we both know. In Basingham, you could be whoever you want. No one cares what you did in Vantok.”
“All the same...”
Drazir grunted his disappointment, then extended his hand and dropped a dozen brass studs into Sorial’s calloused palm.
“May the gods guard your path.” Sorial mouthed the traditional departure wish.
Drazir snorted. “If there were gods to guard my path, I wouldn’t be having to take the path.”
Immediately after leaving Drazir’s tent, Sorial headed for Lamanar and Kara’s farm. He had decided to confront his mother first, then Warburm. It would be telling to note discrepancies in their stories; there was no guarantee that, even at this late date, they would be forthcoming. They had been keeping secrets for so long he suspected it had become second nature.
It had been a year since Sorial had been to the farm, and he was shocked at its condition. The fields had turned into flatlands of packed and baked clay as if no planting had taken place during Winter. Even from a distance, the house looked dilapidated, with wall timbers rotting and in need of chinking and the thatched roof in disrepair. Whatever Lamanar’s faults as a father and husband, he had always been rigorous about his crops and house. No longer, apparently.
Kara answered his knock and her weathered expression brightened. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on each cheek, tears in her eyes. She looked older than Sorial remembered; the lines on her face were deeper and there was gray in her hair. She might have been thinner as well, although her simple, homespun dress hid any weight loss.
“Mother.” Sorial’s voice was carefully neutral.
“Come in,” she motioned, stepping aside to let him in out of the sun. The main room showed the same signs of neglect as the outside. The fireplace had partially collapsed and there was a hole in the ceiling where the thatch had rotted and fallen through. The chamber was stuffy and smelled of mice and rats; Sorial knew the odor from his years in the stable. There was no evidence of them, but there could be dozens lurking out of plain sight.
“What happened?” asked Sorial.
She sighed. “Lamanar has given in to despair. After you disappeared, he stopped caring. Instead of tending the fields and fixing the cabin, he spent his waking hours going from tavern to tavern, drinking away the days. How he’s been paying for it, I don’t know; we’re probably deep in debt, although Warburm may be subsidizing his binge. Those two were once like brothers. The house looks worse than it is, though. With so little rain, there’s not much concern about the weather getting in. The hole in the roof lets the cooler air in better at night.”
There was no accusation in Kara’s tone, but her words were plain enough: After you disappeared, he stopped caring.
“Have you returned for good or is this just a visit?” asked Kara. Apparently, she assumed he had left Vantok following the day.
“That may depend on what you tell me. You and Warburm.”
“You intend to see him?”
Sorial nodded. “As soon as I leave here. The Wayfarer’s Comfort is my next stop.”
“I shouldn’t say this, but unless you intend to submit to Warburm, don’t go there. Once he has you in his power, he won’t let you go. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
Sorial expected no less.
“Tell me your story, Mother. All of it. Open every secret. I want plain speech and I want to know everything. Anything less, and I’ll disappear back to where I’ve been for the past two seasons and you’ll never see me again.” It was an idle threat, but Kara didn’t recognize it as such. His disappearance had shaken her. He wondered if the same was true of Warburm. Somehow, he doubted it. The innkeeper knew him too well. Far better than his mother did.
They sat across from one another near the ruined fireplace, occupying the same worn chairs they had used so often in the past.
Kara began. “It started when I was a child in a small village between Obis and Syre. My mother was a courtesan of Syre who died giving birth to me. My father was a sergeant in the military of Obis. I was left in the care of relatives who treated me like a slave. My father would visit from time-to-time, so there was some necessity for my guardians to see to my general well-being, if only to avoid his wrath. He was a kind man although often sad and distracted and he genuinely loved me. When he died in a border skirmish with barbarians from The White World, my cousins began to ill use me. I knew that when I flowered, I would be raped and sold as a whore, so I ran away.
“A priest found me begging by a roadside inn near the border of Obis, seeking a crust of bread from any who would spare it. He cleaned me up, gave me a meal, and offered to take me back to his town to learn the ways of piety and truth. I wasn’t much interested in his gods but the thought of having a warm place to sleep and a full belly was appealing. So I went.
“The place he brought me to was more of a camp than a town. It was run by the priest and several of his fellows who represented a sect devoted to the ‘last whisper of the gods.’ They followed the teachings of a man named Ferguson who, although not yet a prelate, was highly placed in the distant city of Vantok. Everyone in the little village - peasants, adventurers, and merchants - shared the belief of the priest: the days of the gods were numbered and they were making preparations for the future survival of the faithful by returning magic to the world.”
Apparently, the abandonment of the gods wasn’t a new idea. It had existed long before Sorial’s birth. That it had come to pass led credence to the beliefs and actions of those who had taken his mother in. Another thought came to mind, and he voiced it: “Was this priest my father?”
> Kara smiled, perhaps a little sadly, but continued her story without answering. “Ferguson came to see me shortly after my first woman’s bleeding. By then, I’d been in the village for four or five seasons, and was perhaps thirteen years of age. I learned it wasn’t happenstance that the priest encountered me outside the inn; he’d been sent to fetch me. According to Ferguson, I was the one they were seeking. I was asked if I would pledge myself to their cause and, having seen nothing but kindness from them, I agreed. Would that I understood at that young age the sacrifices I’d be required to make.” Her voice trailed off and her eyes took on a faraway look. Sorial knew she was no longer in the room with him. She was back in the camp, promising herself to Ferguson.
“I was placed in the joint care of the priest and a young adventurer named Warburm who frequently stopped by the village. What he lacked in chivalry he made up for in bluster, but I took a liking to him. Together, those two taught me what my duty would be. Magic was returning to the world, they said, and it would appear in the next generation. I’d been selected because my bloodline could be traced back to one of the ancient magicians of the last age. A man from another strong blood line would be chosen to lie with me and sire a child. That son or daughter would grow up to be a great hope of the world - one of the cabal of four wizards who would maintain balance once the gods were gone.
“The first time your father came to me, I didn’t see his face. He visited me every night in the darkness for a full moon’s cycle. He was neither gentle nor cruel; to him, it was a duty. By day, he remained out of sight in a shuttered cabin and, once the new moon came, he left the village. Three seasons later, I was delivered of twin boys - your brothers. There was much rejoicing that day, but it didn’t last.
“The oldest boy was sickly and died when a mild bout of influenza swept through the village; he was only four years old. His brother survived but Ferguson decreed that ‘a spare’ was needed, so my lover was recalled from wherever he was journeying. Our ‘courtship’ proceeded as before; the result this time was a girl.
“For nearly ten years, life progressed as it always had. Toward the end of that peaceful decade, the priests became urgent. Ferguson issued a decree that the time had come. Warburm and several others escorted my son, just past his Maturity, to a portal located in the nearby ruins of the ancient city of Ibitsal. He didn’t return. The portal rejected him and he was incinerated in a flare of fire. There was nothing left of him to bring home.” She paused again, a tear trickling down her cheek. Sorial said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
“No one could explain what went wrong. There was speculation: magic hadn’t yet returned, the portal was damaged, or my son simply lacked the innate ability. Whatever the case, he was dead and my daughter, who was next in the line of succession, would be expected to undergo the same ordeal once her Maturity arrived. She was only ten at the time, but she understood she would follow her brother, possibly into the grave.”
“Around this time, there were rumors of other factions - groups that shared Ferguson’s core beliefs but disagreed with him about how to proceed. Some saw this as an opportunity to profit and prosper if they could raise one of the four wizards. Ferguson’s dream of unity among the quartet was shattered, as Warburm had always predicted would happen. Now it was a matter of producing one and hoping he or she would be able to reach out to the others and convince them of the need to work together.
“One year shy of her Maturity, my daughter fled. She had grown so fearful of her fate and so certain that death awaited her at the portal that she packed a satchel of provisions and sneaked off in the night. Her trail was located the next morning but vanished at a river. We spent weeks searching for her but she was never again seen. To this day, I don’t know if she’s alive or dead.”
But I do. She has warned me against the day when I might be turned against her. Sorial nearly spoke these words aloud, but stopped before they crossed his lips. As cruel as it might be, the time had come for him to have his own secrets. If he told Kara he had twice encountered his sister in Vantok, that information would reach the ears of Warburm and Ferguson.
“The days were growing short. My child-bearing years were coming to an end,” continued Kara, “and we had no heir. So your father was found and brought back. This time, I was granted an opportunity to see him. He was older than I expected and looked weary and beaten down. I had the impression he returned under duress and our sessions weren’t as successful as in the past. Arousing him was difficult and many of our nights ended in failure. After a fortnight, he was gone, but his visit proved fruitful. You were born three seasons later; I haven’t seen your father since then, although Warburm claims to have met him on at least two occasions. It may be they’re still in contact.
“Once you were born, Ferguson decided you needed protection. He said forces opposing you were too dangerous for you to remain in an isolated village. Since his seat of power was in Vantok, far to the south, he wanted you here. He assigned three of us as your guardians: myself, Warburm, and Lamanar, the priest who for so long had been my protector. The rest of the story I believe you know.”
Sorial digested what he had been told. Little was surprising; most confirmed conclusions he had reached on his own, although a few details were different. “So Lamanar is the man who cared for you, and you came to Vantok as husband and wife?”
Kara nodded. “We aren’t married. He can’t perform as a man. He became a eunuch to honor a vow of chastity. It’s not my place to discuss that further. You must ask him about it.”
“But he hates me.”
Kara sighed. “No. He’s embittered. Once, he was full of passion and energy. But he’s found his time in Vantok to be unfulfilling. And I’m unsure as to whether he still believes in the cause as he once did. He needs something to give his life the relevance it had when we were in Sussaman and he had charge of me. Today, he’s a shell of the man who raised me.”
“Have you contacted Ferguson since moving here?”
Kara shook her head. “He’s met many times with Warburm during those secret gatherings at the inn, but there’s no plausible explanation that would allow him to speak with me, either here, at the temple, or elsewhere. Your life was already in danger; my meeting him would serve no purpose beyond arousing suspicion and possibly placing you in greater jeopardy. There’s nothing unusual about a penniless stableboy. But a penniless stableboy whose mother meets with Vantok’s prelate...” She paused before asking, “What now?"
“If I said I was leaving, would you hurry to the inn to tell them?”
Sorial studied her face carefully; her flat expression betrayed nothing. But her lack of a response told him all he needed to know. Sorial believed his mother loved him but her devotion to her cause was greater than her maternal affection. He didn’t begrudge her that; she had surrendered everything for the cause. If it proved false, her life would be meaningless, an endless chain of pointless sacrifices. Sorial was sympathetic but only to a point. “That’s what I thought,” he said.
“What will you do?”
“Don’t worry. I’m gonna do what I said: go to Warburm. You and them others made sure my attachment to Alicia is too strong for me to leave her. I love her so much that it aches to think of being apart from her. So I’ll do what you want and probably die because of it.” He bent to kiss her gently on the forehead. “Farewell, Mother. I ain’t sure we’ll meet again.”
Surprisingly, there were no tears on either side, but the gulf of sadness was tangible. The lingering moment when they gazed at each other across the threshold was funereal. Then Sorial was gone.
Less than an hour later, with the sun approaching its mid-day zenith, Sorial stood outside the stable that had served as his home for the better part of his youth. He stepped inside and was instantly taken aback. The place, which he had kept rigorously clean during his tenure, was a mess. The stalls were all empty - not surprising in the middle of the day at Summer’s end - but it looked like there were no caretakers. Mice
roamed freely through the clumped, manure-clotted straw, showing no fear of people. The place stunk so badly that Sorial, no stranger to foul odors, nearly retched. The stableboy, a lad of perhaps twelve or thirteen, lounged on a bale of hay, stripped to the waist but looking like he hadn’t done a moment’s work. Watery brown eyes turned toward Sorial, but the boy showed little interest or curiosity. Above the reek of shit, urine, and rot, Sorial caught a whiff of opium.
“Go tell your master he got a visitor in the stable.”
The boy gazed at him blankly, as if he didn’t understand.
“Quickly!” The anger in Sorial’s tone provoked a reaction. Frowning, the stableboy stumbled to his feet and ambled out the door, heading for the inn.
With a sigh, Sorial picked up a pitchfork and began turning over the straw, sending mice scampering everywhere. Old habits died hard. He had been a good stableboy not only because he worked hard but because he cared about the results of his work. Those traits had been hammered into him by Warburm and others. After no more than a few pitchfork throws of straw, Sorial’s muscle memory kicked in and it was as if he had never left the stable. With a pang of nostalgia that surprised him, he found himself wishing he had stayed. He had never been “happy” here, at least not in the conventional sense, but life had been uncomplicated. Annie had been here and his relationship with Alicia had been playful and flirtatious. He still watched the sun rise every day, but those once promising minutes lacked the magic they had once held. He mused and remembered as he worked. That was the state in which Warburm found him.
“You know, lad,” said the innkeeper, “I never found anyone near as good as you. It be a shame, but you done got a bigger pond to swim in. Why don’t we go inside, where it be a mite cooler and we can sip something chilled in the cellar?”
The Last Whisper of the Gods Page 29
