“Now, if that’s all, gentlemen, we have work to do. Tragic as the chancellor’s death may be, it doesn’t change things for the thousands of men and women struggling northward. It’s our duty to serve them and make the transition as seamless as possible.”
Ferguson departed to leave instructions with a group of his priests about how to dispose of the body. Warburm followed with a hopeless shrug, temporarily leaving Rexall and Carannan alone in the room with Gorton’s corpse.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Overcommander,” said Rexall when he felt reasonably certain his words wouldn’t be overheard by Ferguson or one of his minions.
“It’s a little too convenient to be a coincidence,” agreed Carannan, his voice and face expressing consternation. “Poison, I suppose, although it’s a mystery how it was administered. Toward the end, I think Gorton suspected his symptoms were too extreme to be natural but I’d wager he never supposed the culprit to be Ferguson. There had to be an accomplice. Maybe more than one. There are men and women in this camp whose personal devotion to their prelate might lead them to commit any act, even murder.”
“Before they left, Sorial warned the queen about putting Ferguson in a position of authority. I don’t think this would have surprised him.”
“No, but as we told Gorton, Sorial isn’t the best man to consult about Ferguson’s character. He blames our new chancellor for the death of his lover, his mother, his two friends in the Watch, his adopted father, and my daughter’s protector, Vagrum. Gorton’s just another name on the list and, to Sorial’s thinking, probably the least important one.”
“We’ve spent a lot of time defending Ferguson and excusing his actions. Those defenses ring hollow at the moment. Sorial’s characterization of him as a monster in priest’s robes seems just about right. Back when I took coins in exchange for doing little services, I thought he was a doddering old fool with nothing better to do than throw away his money. The more time I spend around him, the more I realize he’s the most devious man I’ve ever met.” Rexall glanced at the covered body. Of the four of them, Gorton had been the true skeptic when it came to Ferguson. Now he was dead. In death, however, his skepticism had spread. Would the prelate make a move against the rest of his fellow leaders or would he count on old ties to bind them?
“Well, regardless of whether or not Ferguson was complicit in Gorton’s death, we have a duty to the queen to protect the refugees. And that means working with the new chancellor.”
Rexall didn’t reply because he wasn’t sure he agreed. Perhaps the best way to safeguard the future of Vantok’s surviving populace was to do to Ferguson what he had done to Gorton. Not with poison but with something more simple like a sword through the belly. But Rexall wasn’t the sort of man to act alone. For now, he’d wait and see whether the others came around to his perspective. Then it would be time to act.
Over the next few weeks, however, there was nothing to indicate that Rexall’s concerns about Ferguson were legitimate. Although there had been some initial sadness among the survivors when the news about Gorton’s death became known, the chancellor’s status as a foreigner limited sympathy for him. Most of the refugees felt comfortable with Ferguson taking control. After all, they had all lived in a society where he had commanded respect for decades until his mysterious withdrawal from public life. To the average citizen, it felt right to follow the prelate, perhaps even more right than to follow a woman who had only been their ruler for two seasons.
Ferguson had gone to great lengths to become approachable. No longer did he hide away in the wagon that had been his chariot for the early portion of the journey. Now he sat astride Gorton’s mount at the head of the group. Rexall was impressed by Ferguson’s horsemanship; he had never expected a man that old to be able to endure the rigors of riding for hours on end with only occasional short breaks.
With Ferguson serving as both spiritual and secular leader, it took the refugees about three weeks to reach the lower foothills of The Broken Crags. They were delayed only once, when a torrential rainstorm blew in from the west, pelting the travelers with wind-lashed sheets of water and washing out sections of the road. Four wagons were lost and another half-dozen seriously damaged. Eight horses and six men were killed. By the next day, however, the sun was out and the road was drying. The weather had been fair since, with temperatures slightly above normal except on those days when the morning cloud cover persisted past noon.
For Rexall, there was a sense of déjà vu about the journey. He had made this trip twice before, once with Alicia, Vagrum, and Kara then in reverse with Aiden when he had returned from the North after wearing out his welcome in Sussaman. It was strange to see how little had changed on this road in comparison with how completely the building blocks of his past had been undone. Vagrum and Kara were dead. Alicia, like Sorial, had been claimed by magic. And Vantok, the final southern destination of so many who journeyed on this road, was a broken, conquered city.
They were only a few days south of The Gateway Inn and Widow’s Pass when Ferguson instructed Carannan and Warburm to stop the northward progression around noon and gather all the people around. He selected a large hill atop from which to deliver what he called “a message of comfort about the future.” He wanted all the refugees to ring the area so his words could be heard firsthand by as many as possible. Criers were enlisted to echo the message to those on the fringes.
“I wonder what this be about,” grumbled Warburm as he and the two military leaders waited for Ferguson to emerge from a conclave with the two-dozen priests who had become his close confidants since his ascension to the position of chancellor. The mood of the gathered crowd, several thousand surrounding the clearing atop the hill that Ferguson would soon occupy, was expectant. If nothing else, the break to the daily monotony of travel was welcome.
“Somehow, I doubt it will be the simple benediction many think it will be,” said Carannan. Earlier, he had warned Rexall to be ready for anything. The men of the militia had been placed on alert in case Ferguson, by word or act, did something to enflame the crowd.
A hush fell over the gathering as Ferguson emerged from his wagon and approached the hillside, flanked on either side by a dozen priests. The prelate was resplendent in the white robes he hadn’t donned since Sorial had stripped away his rank. Rexall had no idea where they had come from; they certainly hadn’t come to Basingham with the prelate. His snowy hair and beard, neither of which had fully recovered from being shorn, were groomed to lend him an austere appearance. His face beamed with beneficence. He radiated trust, honesty, and, above all, caring.
Absolute silence greeted him. It was hard to believe that such a large crowd could make so little noise - no coughs, no clearing of throats, and no rustling of garments. All eyes were focused on the white-robed figure and every ear strained to hear what he would say.
“My children, I greet you on this day as we prepare to embark upon the most challenging leg of this journey. I know none of this has been easy on any of you - leaving behind all that you’ve known, sacrificing loved ones to the defense of our city, and suffering the death of King Azarak. Rich or poor, great or small, we’ve all endured the same tribulations. But the fact that you’re standing here is evidence of a stoutness of character. The instinct to survive is strong in you all and to soldier through the dark times and emerge into a new era of prosperity, you’ll need that instinct to remain firm. You mustn’t despair, no matter how bleak things look, and it’s my unfortunate duty to tell you that we have entered a period when a great shadow of uncertainty lies upon all of Ayberia.”
Rexall held his breath. He knew what was coming next and he couldn’t believe that Ferguson had chosen this time and place to reveal it. Yet, on reflection, it made sense. The prelate was bonding these people to him. He was stealing them away from Myselene - a foreign queen they hardly knew - and forging a new relationship with them. Ferguson was building a nation of devotees. A glance at Warburm and Carannan revealed that they had reached the
same conclusion.
“For a time now, I have borne the weight of a great and tragic secret that I must now reveal to you all. My children, the gods - those loving beings who have nurtured us through good times and bad - are no more.” Ferguson spoke the words simply and quietly in a voice heavy with grief. Rexall didn’t know whether the prelate’s emotion was real or feigned but the reactions of all who heard it were as genuine as they were predictable.
A collective gasp emerged from the crowd, followed immediately by screams of denial, fainting, and weeping. Some stood stolidly in place, staring as if poleaxed. Others collapsed to their knees. Carannan’s soldiers, although as stunned as the rest, made ready in case violence erupted in the aftermath of Ferguson’s statement, but the response was orderly. There was no evidence of widespread doubt. Ferguson was, after all, the highest religious leader on the continent and disbelieving his word was unthinkable. It might also be true that many of those gathered had already suspected this - the rumors, after all, had been circulating for years and the truth was accepted in some of the other cities. For a sizeable percentage of Vantok’s refugees, this was merely confirmation of a half-acknowledged reality.
“It’s a hard thing to digest, I know. I myself have spent many long hours in prayer and contemplation coming to terms with this. But I can offer a measure of solace and comfort. I communed with the gods before they allowed their souls to merge with the universe. They assured me they had made preparations for the continuation of humanity. They named me as their interim caretaker and allowed magic to return to Ayberia so that the wizards, guided by my hand, might show the path to a prosperous future.
“Join me now, my children, in bowing our heads that we may thank the departed gods for their mercy and pray for the strength and courage to forge our way ahead through this period of uncertainty and into the new and glorious future promised to us by the gods through me, their humble servant.”
Even Rexall had to admit it was a masterful performance. Sorial my friend, this is what you feared. This is what you warned us against. Treason had been committed, of that Rexall was certain, but it had been accomplished with abnormal delicacy. Ferguson might still call himself chancellor but there was little doubt that he was no longer Myselene’s subject. And, although he might not have the crown of Vantok upon his brow, he was the ruler of these people.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE GHOSTS OF IBITSAL
Sex had never been as arduous for Sorial as it had become during the course of this journey with Myselene. Even though Alicia had given her permission, there was residual guilt every time his body found pleasure in his coupling with the queen. Familiarity, however, didn’t enhance intimacy. The more he got to know Myselene, the less he liked her. It wasn’t that she was a bad person, but she had been bred to a kind of cold, emotionless duty that was foreign to him. She was his sovereign not his comrade. Fucking her was about fulfilling a political mandate that would help justify her hoped-for return to the throne in Vantok. After all, this would never be his baby. It would be Azarak’s in every way that mattered, although it was getting to the point where the timing was problematic. Eight weeks had passed since the king’s demise. Myselene would have to go into seclusion a half-season before the child’s delivery to maintain the illusion. Of course, all this presumed she won the war and that was far from assured. If Justin triumphed at Obis, Myselene’s dream of returning to Vantok would die with her.
These were his thoughts as he lay next to her in the quiet darkness of the woods surrounding Ibitsal. They could have pressed on after dark and spent the night in the city’s ruins but Sorial preferred approaching the place by the light of day. He wasn’t frightened of Ibitsal’s haunted reputation but this had been an armed camp for mercenaries the last time he was here and, although his arrival and Maraman’s death had scattered them, some might have returned. For those unafraid of the ghosts, it was a practical place for shelter. The living were more to be feared than the dead.
As had been his custom during this journey, any time he couldn’t sleep, he had let his mind delve into the ground beneath him. Down he went, deeper and deeper, leaving his recumbent body far behind. First and foremost, he was seeking some sign of Alicia but, as had been the case for more than a week, there was nothing - no indication she had died but no way to determine whether she was alive and, if so, where she might be. When she had departed, he had taken it for granted that he would always be able to locate her, if not communicate with her. The worry gnawed at him, making him surly toward his companion. There were times when the desperation of not knowing verged on panic. His impotence galled him. When they reached Obis, he intended to dispatch the rock wyrm to search for Alicia but it was an imperfect solution at best and it would rob him of a weapon he might need. He should go himself but circumstances wouldn’t afford him the weeks the trip there and back would demand. He couldn’t cede Obis to the enemy and that meant, when the time came, Myselene had to be in charge. To seize the throne, she would need him. If Alicia didn’t return, Sorial would eventually search for her - he just hoped it wouldn’t be a quest for an unmarked grave.
His mind also sought the elusive presence of other earth creatures of strength. From time-to-time, he found traces of them, often many days old. It was concrete evidence of their existence although he knew from his rock wyrm that there were others of its kind as well as beings of greater puissance. Once again, the lack of time was an adversary. Given days - perhaps weeks - of solitude, he felt certain he could locate those entities hidden in the deep places where none but a human earth-wizard could travel, but the only option provided by circumstances was a few hours each night to continue a fragmented search.
Come morning, he was as sandy-eyed and unrested as he had been for the better part of a week.
“Bad dreams?” asked Myselene. It was one of the few times she had deigned to speak to him since his decision to temporarily bypass Obis. Apparently, some of the ice was beginning to thaw. This close to Ibitsal, perhaps curiosity was overcoming indignation.
“To dream, you have to sleep,” he said.
“Is it because of the portal?”
Good question. He didn’t know the answer. The invisible pull, so unlike the gentle comecomecome prodding, was stronger than in the mountains. But in its forcefulness, he sensed something that could almost be described as clumsiness. The compulsion was crude and unsophisticated and he had no notion what that might mean. He assumed he would learn the answer soon.
Sorial had dismissed the rock wyrm the night before, intending to complete the journey to the city afoot. The trek from their campsite to the edge of the forest was less than a mile and the morning mists hadn’t fully dissipated when they got their first view of the ruined city. Gazing at the jagged remnants of once-proud Ibitsal’s walls and the crumbling remains of buildings beyond, it was easy to understand why the locals believed it to be haunted.
“Ain’t hearing a voice, are you?” asked Sorial. “Saying something like ‘come come come?’”
Myselene favored him with a strange look. “No. Are you?”
“Just checking. Those with magical aptitude hear the portal calling this far out. Happened to me and Alicia.”
“Apparently, I don’t have any magical aptitude. Not that this comes as a surprise or a disappointment.”
“No. If you’d been a likely candidate, Ferguson would have had you vetted long before this.”
“Unpromising looking place,” said Myselene. “Despite having lived my entire life about 300 miles to the west, I’ve never been here. I don’t believe in ghosts but I can understand why the superstitious might believe it to be haunted.”
“It’s the influence of the portal. A lot of people died here trying to become wizards, both before and after the city was abandoned. Why was that, anyway? I know Havenham’s history, but not Ibitsal’s.”
“It’s not that different, actually, although less dramatic. The kind of thing that used to happen a lot in the North, although rarely to places as
large and well-fortified as a city. While the plague that infected Havenham did so with incredible rapidness, the disease that struck Ibitsal took years to whittle down the population to a shell of what it was at the city’s height. That’s when the local nomads banded together and attacked. Aided by traitors from within, they breached the walls and looted the city, raping and killing as they went. Then they moved on, leaving behind a shattered husk. That was hundreds of years ago. No one ever tried to rebuild or repopulate Ibitsal in part because of the rumors of ghosts.” It was a terse history lesson; Sorial knew there was a lot more to the story but he didn’t have time to learn the particulars at the moment.
A large annular area between the city’s walls and the forest had been cleared by Maraman’s army when they had camped there the previous year. Evidence of the occupation remained these many weeks after Sorial’s intervention had driven the mercenaries away. The remnants of tents, torn and degraded by the long period of exposure, hadn’t yet toppled completely. Pits for the giant bonfires that had provided light and warmth seemed strangely undisturbed, some containing half-charred logs and cast-iron cookpots. And there were skeletons. The bodies of men who had tried to stop Sorial lay where he had felled them, their flesh peeled away and consumed by the scavengers that had emerged for the promise of an easy meal.
Sorial ignored the residue of his previous visit with one exception. He located Maraman’s remains with ease - they were lying just outside the largest and most intact of the tents. Sorial had little difficulty discerning the small hole in the skull where a pebble traveling at a high speed had put an end to the man’s life. So much trouble ended so cleanly and quickly. He had expected to feel some sense of grief, loss, or regret at this moment, gazing at the result of his handiwork, but there was nothing. Patricide, some would call it. For Sorial, it had never been more than a matter of necessity. The man’s blood relationship to him hadn’t come into it. Maraman had threatened Alicia; his death had ended the threat.
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