“The boy is set to leave on the morrow,” said Ferguson.
“I’ve arranged to see him before he departs.”
Ferguson frowned, the sign of disapproval rippling across the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. “I’m not sure that’s wise, Your Majesty. There’s a reason why I refused his request for an audience. Many eyes are watching. For you to meet with an uneducated stableboy for no particular reason could arouse suspicion that would place young Sorial under scrutiny. His carefully constructed anonymity may already have been compromised.”
“I can assure you the meeting will be very private. Other than the boy, his companions, and Chancellor Toranim, no one knows about it. I’m aware who the ‘eyes’ are within the palace.” Most of them belong to you, prelate.
“It’s a gamble, Your Majesty.” The frown hadn’t lifted.
“A gamble that needs to be taken. If Sorial is to be Vantok’s wizard, he needs to know that we support him at this early juncture. He has to hear from my lips that this city will honor all of its obligations to him if he agrees to take us under his protection. I’m sure you’ll agree the last thing any of us wants is for him to turn rogue once coming into his power. You’ve manipulated him, Your Eminence. If I was in his position, I’d resent you for that and, perhaps by extension, everyone associated with you. He needs to be told that the Crown will respect his independence. We seek to be his ally, not his puppeteer.”
“The final decision is yours, Your Majesty. But it’s my counsel that you cancel, or perhaps defer, the meeting and let Sorial slip from the city unmarked and unnoticed. It’s the watchers you may not know about who are the most dangerous.
“Sorial’s part in our struggle will be played out in the future, far from here. There’s little we can do beyond what we’ve already done. Now it’s up to Warburm and his company to keep the boy safe and guide him to the place where the legacy of the gods will let us know whether we’ve chosen wisely.”
“And if you haven’t?” challenged Azarak.
“Sorial isn’t our last hope, just our best one. I am continuing to analyze the bloodlines of the wizards of old. Sorial has the best potential by far, being linked to both Malbranche through his mother and Altemiak through his father, but there are others who can trace their genealogies to other great wizards. If the portal rejects Sorial, we’ll move to them.”
“Who are they?”
“I’m researching that, Your Majesty. Should the need arise, I’ll provide you with a name. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Azarak steeled his features so as not to display the depth of his irritation. It was plain that Ferguson already had multiple options in place but was unwilling to reveal them. So much for the man’s previous promise to be forthcoming - not that Azarak had ever truly believed it.
“There’s another matter I wish to discuss, Your Majesty.”
Azarak nodded his assent.
“I’ve been thinking much of late about the supposed ‘elf’ who visited you some years ago. I assume you’ve had no further contact with her since we discussed the matter?”
“None.” As remarkable as Eylene's visit had been, he had since become enmeshed in more immediate concerns. The ambassador might have indirectly set the engines of war into motion, but they had long since taken on a life of their own. If a representative of the Farthan came to Vantok seeking an alliance today, he or she would be welcomed, but Azarak didn’t think that would happen. Everything about Eylene's visit had been suspicious; her purpose was no less ambiguous today than on that Harvest night four years ago.
“I believe she may have been an imposter sent to sow disinformation.”
Azarak indicated his agreement with the slight inclination of his head.
“My best guess, and it’s only a guess since I didn’t observe her personally, is that she wasn’t an elf.”
Azarak thought back to his encounter with Eylene. “She wasn’t human.”
“That may or may not be. Appearances can be altered, especially if magic is involved. In the dark of night, seen by none other than you, your chancellor, and perhaps a few guards, she could pass for something she wasn’t, especially if ensorcelled. It’s of little matter except to those of us curious about the survival of any faction of the elf nations. Whether she was human or something else altogether, I’m convinced she was playing us false. She had an agenda. What it was, I don’t know. We would do well to assume it was sinister until proven otherwise. Whatever the case, it’s doubtful we’ll encounter her again. The ‘Farthan’ is likely no more real than she was.”
“Then she most likely was an emissary, but one sent by our adversaries as a spy. Appearing as an elf would guarantee a private audience with me - something unlikely if she came as a common supplicant.”
Ferguson nodded. “That would be my assumption. If correct, it’s further evidence that we face a force bolstered by magic. Although the future will reveal the truth of these things, it’s best to be prepared for the worst.”
“And now?”
If Azarak was hoping for some carelessly revealed nugget of wisdom, he was disappointed. “We wait,” said Ferguson. “For our enemies to make their move. But more importantly, for the boy to meet his destiny.”
* * *
Sorial, the future savior of Vantok, was as nondescript as Azarak could envision - a clone of nearly every strong young laborer within the city. Whatever made him special didn’t show in his features or form. The king had seen the boy once before, at the Lady Alicia’s betrothal ceremony, and his opinion hadn’t changed. Sorial looked out-of-place in the palace. The king had little doubt he would be more at ease in a stable or a field.
Knowing Sorial might be uncomfortable with the trappings of royalty and wanting to maintain as much secrecy about the meeting as possible, Azarak was dressed simply and had chosen his private audience chamber as the venue. It was late afternoon and the day’s duties were over. Traffic in the palace’s halls was at a low ebb, although it would increase shortly in anticipation of the evening’s dinner. For now, however, things were as quiet as they ever became between sunup and sundown.
Only four were present: Azarak, Sorial, Warburm, and Toranim. Thus far, they had engaged in small talk while drinking wine. Warburm already had re-filled his goblet twice but his charge sipped distractedly. Whether that was because of nerves or a desire to remain sober, the king couldn’t say. He sensed, however, that Sorial was more shrewd than a quick glance might reveal. It would be a mistake to underestimate him. Azarak judged that an open and honest approach would serve him best in these circumstances. Sorial wouldn’t be impressed with flattery. In fact, he might be insulted.
“Sorial,” began the king, switching topics from the weather to the matter at hand. “Although I don’t claim to know the particulars, I’m aware the journey you’re about to embark on has been thrust on you rather than undertaken out of a duty to the city. Am I correct?”
“You are, Your Majesty.” Sorial’s words were as guarded as his expression. Azarak took note of that. This one isn’t as caged as his handlers believe him to be. Ferguson thinks this boy is his tool; he’s mistaken.
“You have my word on this: whatever you’ve been promised will be yours if you complete this task and return to Vantok to serve us with your magic. You’ll be given autonomy, freedom to marry as you wish, and the gratitude of all who live in this city. Furthermore, regardless of whether you succeed or fail, I’ll ensure that the Lady Alicia and your mother are cared for in perpetuity. They shall want for nothing.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. All I want is to finish this thing, one way or t’other. Reckonings, if they are to come, will wait.”
Azarak felt Toranim stiffen by his side. Recognizing that Sorial’s words could be interpreted as a threat, Azarak spoke quickly to preempt an unfortunate response by his chancellor. “I’m aware, Sorial, that you haven’t been well-treated in this matter. If there are punishments to be meted out, we’ll discuss them - you and I - upo
n your return.”
This time, it was Warburm’s turn to appear discomfited, but Sorial seemed satisfied.
Azarak took a long look at the young man, sitting across the table as calmly as the king could imagine in these circumstances. He had a toned body and a comely face. Two scars added character to his features. If he failed, he would die as he was, but if he succeeded... Magic exacted a price. That much Azarak knew from his long hours shuttered away in the palace library. The forces that imparted arcane strength to wizards eroded their vitality, crippling and deforming them. Sorial might never see another day when he was as hale and healthy as he was today. Azarak wondered if anyone had informed him of the full scope of his sacrifice - how wizardry had once been referred to as a “curse” long before the gods withdrew it.
For Azarak, Sorial would be a weapon - a rare and valuable one, to be sure - but he would use him like a warrior wielded a blade. And, as with any sword, each strike would mar the edge until it was dull and pitted. For a wizard, there was no whetstone for honing. Eventually, he would break. It would be Azarak’s duty, as the king of Vantok, to employ Sorial until he had nothing left to give. And, much as he hated that duty, he would do it.
The open question, however, was how biddable Sorial the wizard would be. The worst of all circumstances would be for him to turn his powers against Vantok. Capitulation might be unavoidable if the admittedly meager rewards currently on offer proved insufficient. Alicia’s hand in marriage, a noble title, a seat on Azarak’s council, and a luxurious house might be adequate temptation for a penniless stableboy, but would it be enough for a wizard? Azarak worried that the manipulation used to bring the young man here might have left deep scars.
“Be that all, Your Majesty?” asked Warburm. The innkeeper was in a hurry to leave. No doubt he wanted to get as far from the city as possible before the evening light failed. Azarak didn’t blame him. The one thing no one spoke of was that with all the dangers of the road and in the wilds, reaching the magical portal was no sure thing. If Sorial died along the way, cut down by bandits or felled by one of the dangerous critters said to inhabit The Forbidden Lands, the bitterness of the irony would be bile to Ferguson.
“May you go in peace, Sorial, and return before our greatest hour of need is upon us. And remember my vow: whether you fail or succeed, those you hold dear will be safe as long as I sit on Vantok's throne.”
A short time later, after Warburm and Sorial had left to join the rest of their group, Azarak and Toranim drained their goblets while discussing Ferguson's chosen one.
“He’s unremarkable,” said the chancellor.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s steel in him. He’s more formidable than either Ferguson or Warburm gives him credit for.”
“But will he help us?”
“If he survives, I believe he will, unless the portal changes his fundamental character. But I wouldn’t want to be either the prelate or Warburm once he comes into his power. He may well kill them both. And if he does, I’ll offer him a full and unconditional pardon. At this juncture, one wizard is worth hundreds of their kind. Whatever will appease him, we’ll do.”
“Now we wait.” Toranim’s words matched Ferguson’s from earlier.
“For Sorial. In his absence, there are countless other things to do, starting with tonight’s dinner feting the vice chancellor of Obis, followed by your closeted negotiations with him on the morrow. Let’s get this thing done as expeditiously as possible. If the winds of war start blowing, we’ll want our domestic business completed - and we’ll need the troops Obis will provide as a dowry.
“Do your best to finalize the agreement within a week. Then we can send the vice chancellor home to fetch his king and I can make an official proposal to Myselene.”
“And you can get down to the business of making an heir.”
“Things of that nature don’t have to wait for a betrothal or a wedding, my friend.”
* * *
If it wasn't improper for a woman of her standing, Myselene would have tossed decorum aside and given way to giddiness. Although the “official” betrothal hadn’t yet been announced, it was a formality. Her father’s emissary, the vice chancellor (a more trusted advisor than the doddering old fool who bore the “chancellor” title), had arrived earlier in the day. He would be the guest of honor at a celebratory dinner tonight. After that, he and Chancellor Toranim would be locked together in negotiations for several days. The waiting would be tedious, but since Myselene outpaced all the other contenders, she was confident that the result would be what she had worked for: Queen Myselene of Vantok.
One thing that remained unclear was whether she had any serious rivals. When it came to hearing unfiltered palace gossip, she had long since learned the simple trick of befriending the servants. Many high-born people thought of them as background objects and would talk freely in their presence. They knew more than most suspected and it required only a little kindness to draw them out. Many were just waiting for a friendly ear.
It was acknowledged that at one time, within a year after the first queen’s death, nearly every noble girl of age had been brought before the king... and rejected. Azarak had shown neither interest in nor partiality for any of them, and had gone so far as to name a successor not of his blood, leading to speculation that he intended to live out his life as a bachelor and die without issue. Such a thing was not unheard of, but it was unusual.
By her own assessment, Myselene’s campaign had been inspired. It was hard not to view Azarak as a conquest; she now knew how great warriors felt upon deflowering a notoriously virginal maiden. There was satisfaction in achieving the goal; the simple taste of victory was a nectar to be savored.
Initially, she had been circumspect in her interaction with Azarak. She had used their first few encounters to show off her mind. However, when his early interest had waned, she decided that what couldn’t be accomplished with talk might be achieved through other means.
She had begun by wearing the most daring dress in her traveling wardrobe - something favored by the courtesans of Syre. Designed to be worn without undergarments, it was sheer, with the left shoulder cut beneath the breast. Azarak had gaped the first time he saw her in it (as did nearly every other man, and a few women, at dinner that night), and his eyes didn’t leave her for the entire evening. The next time they met, she had come to the encounter modestly attired and with her previous demure attitude restored, but she had salted their conversation with double entendres. By the end of the evening, she had felt the heat from his gaze. She had her opening; now she had to deliver the final thrust.
The next night, he had summoned her to his chambers for a “private discussion.” The courtesan’s dress had been shed as soon as the door was closed behind her. For a man who hadn’t made love in more than a half-decade, there was no evidence of fumbling or rust. He had been skilled and patient and, once the pain had subsided, she had found pleasure in their joining. Lying in his arms afterward, still breathing hard after he dozed off, she had reflected that she might grow to like this. Sex had never held much fear for her, despite the tales of terror related by some of the noble ladies in Obis, but she now understood why some women devoted their lives to it.
Myselene hoped she was with child, but it would be a time before the conception sickness would let her know. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, at least as far as her aspirations were concerned. Azarak was a man of scrupulous honor. He would marry her whether or not her womb was home to his royal child; he would take her as his wife because he had deflowered her. That night had sealed her future.
That night, Azarak had allowed her to remain in his chambers until dawn’s light - something unheard of with courtesans and unusual with mistresses. In the morning, he hadn't bundled her out through a secret passage or sent her scurrying back to her room in a disguise. Instead, he had summoned her maid and allowed her to leave with dignity. Their interaction at their next encounter, a supper for a wealthy merchant from Basingham, had been formal
with no hint of intimacy, but she had sat at his right hand, opposite the guest of honor. The table placement had ignited widespread speculation; those present had sensed the sands of influence shifting under their feet. Most had chosen to flatter her, recognizing that the king might have found his new queen.
Azarak had sent for her thrice more since then, with each experience more enjoyable than the previous one. Now, it was just a matter of formalizing the relationship. There was one thing more Myselene wanted from Azarak: his trust. It wasn’t her intention to be a trophy smiling from a throne beside his, dancing with guests at dinners, and riding next to him in companionable silence through the streets of Vantok. She wanted to share his rule, to aid his decisions. To achieve that goal would require him to trust and believe in her. He was familiar with her intellect; he knew she was no vapid ornament. Now, Azarak had to be convinced that she could use her intelligence for the betterment of his governing. Convincing him to cede even the smallest measure of his power wouldn’t be a simple task. She might have captured Azarak the man, but Azarak the king remained elusive.
Myselene’s ruminations were disturbed by her maid, who announced the arrival of Vice Chancellor Gorton. The girl had barely finished saying the name when Gorton swept into the room like a force of nature, his strides long and purposeful, his black cape billowing behind him. His handsome face with its carefully manicured salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee lit up with pleasure upon seeing Myselene. He offered her a perfunctory bow, as was demanded by custom, then wrapped her in a bear hug.
“Uncle!” she squealed with delight. Of all the dignitaries and functionaries at court who had raised Myselene from a babe, none had been more doting than Gorton, the confirmed bachelor who loved children. A notorious womanizer, Gorton was rumored to have sired more than a dozen bastards, all of whose upbringing he generously paid for. Myselene didn’t care about such things, however; she had adored her “Uncle” Gorton as a child and was no less enamored of him now that she had achieved her Maturity. Viewed from the vantage of a woman, she could see what made him so appealing to adult members of her sex: the deep, dark brown eyes, the ready grin, and a full head of dark hair that, despite showing signs of graying around the temples, was neither receding nor thinning.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Page 32
