Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (11 page)

Uthgarb raised the goblet as if in a toast but, instead of drinking from it, he flicked his wrist and flung the contents full in Sorial’s face. A moment’s irritation at the ambassador’s effrontery turned to panic as a burning, searing sensation erupted across the left side of his face. As the pain intensified, a childhood memory flared in the back of his mind. Occasionally, as part of his duties in the stable, he had been asked to etch markings into a horse’s shoes. This had been done using a caustic acid. One time, Sorial had dribbled a little on his apron - just a few drops, not enough to fill a tiny spoon. In seconds, it had eaten through the cloth and into the skin below. He would still bear the scar if Langashin’s ministrations hadn’t replaced it with a bigger one. The feeling of his skin being afire left him little doubt that the liquid in Uthgarb’s goblet wasn’t wine or poison. It was acid - more than enough to incapacitate or kill him.

Through the burst of fear, a solution suggested itself. Although it was true that a normal person in this situation would have little hope, Sorial’s resources were considerably more varied than those of some hapless victim. He plunged into the earth, burrowing deep and searching for a particular substance even as the acid continued to eviscerate his flesh.

He found a pocket of limestone before the acid had taken his vision or done significant bone damage. Immersing his head in it, much as a person might plunge his face into a pond, Sorial was able to neutralize the ravages of Uthgarb’s attack. He could determine by feel, however, that the damage to his flesh was considerable. His features, considered comely by many including his wife, were ruined.

Once the danger was past, Sorial directed his course back to the throne room, where Uthgarb remained on the throne. The man no doubt thought he had won, although Sorial knew that Justin would accept nothing less than a body for proof. This time, there would be no words. Engaging the ambassador in conversation had been Sorial’s first mistake. Not erecting a shield around himself had been his second. Both errors had been born of arrogance. He would learn a lesson from this encounter as he had from others in the past.

This time, Uthgarb’s reaction wasn’t marked by the calm, mild surprise he had evidenced upon Sorial’s previous arrival. His expression of shock at seeing the floor erupt in an avalanche of pulverized stone was quickly transformed into one of naked horror when he gazed at his handiwork. In some places, where the skin had been completely stripped away, bone was visible. In others, the blackened, twisted residue of flesh was more unnerving. A white eyeball with its dark brown iris stared out of a lidless socket. Sorial was aware of how he must look and he used that to his full advantage to cow the would-be king. He wanted Uthgarb to be in a state of abject terror when the death blow came.

Sorial had thought that, when he lost his arm and gained the ability to wield magic, he would never again kill a man with his hands. The idea seemed… primitive. Uthgarb would be the exception. The rod of rock he used in place of an arm normally ended in a blunt knob. By focusing his will, Sorial was able to transform it into a crude blade with a serrated edge and a sharply pointed end. One step brought him into proximity for a thrust to Uthgarb’s left breast. The killing tool easily cleft through fat and bone but, by the time it was as deep as it could go, it hadn’t emerged from his back. The arm was only so long and Uthgarb’s girth was enormous.

“This is a quicker and easier death than you deserve,” hissed Sorial, his face inches away from his adversary’s. “But I don’t have the time or patience to do it right.”

A crimson foam bubbled from Uthgarb’s parted lips and his eyes rolled back in his head. Sorial suspected the man hadn’t heard those last words or, if he had, his dying mind hadn’t processed them. It didn’t matter; the deed was done. Uthgarb was dead but Sorial had paid a terrible price for what was supposed to have been a straightforward task.

* * *

His cowl hiding his face, Sorial pushed aside the flap and entered Myselene’s tent. This was the last night they would be at this location. In the morning, the refugees would begin the long trek to Widow’s Pass and Sorial would guide Myselene through the mountains to Obis.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” she noted as he pulled back his hood. After returning from his encounter with Uthgarb, he had fashioned the stone mask now affixed to the left side of his face. “It makes you look more intimidating, more like a wizard of the stories.”

Myselene, Gorton, and the queen’s personal healer had been the only ones to see the damage to Sorial’s face. The healer had prescribed an ointment to dull the pain but a repair of the injuries was beyond his capabilities. Sorial hadn’t expected anything different. It was a minor miracle that his eye had escaped intact, although his vision through it was blurred.

The mask would make Sorial a less approachable figure but it was a better alternative than showing the ruin of his face in public. Like the stone appendages, it could be manipulated using his magic, although there was little cause to change its shape or form.

“It makes me instantly recognizable,” said Sorial. “That ain’t necessarily a good thing where we’re going.”

“I’m sure there are ways you can use your abilities to stay hidden.”

Sorial pondered that possibility. He knew his sister could change her appearance; he suspected she did it by manipulating the layer of air just outside her skin. That would account for the shimmering that occurred when one looked directly at her guise. He wondered whether there was something similar that could be accomplished with dirt.

“Earth magic has its limits.” Still, maybe there was a way the mask could be made to mimic his old features…

“You’re worried about how Alicia will react,” said Myselene.

Sorial silently acknowledged the accuracy of the queen’s assessment. Alicia would return from her overseas excursion to find a husband who looked little like the man she had last shared a bed with. What was it she had said shortly before her departure?
Every time we separate, you lose some part of your body. I’m wondering how much will be left when I get back.
Ultimately, Uthgarb’s attack had done no lasting damage except to Sorial’s vanity. He was surprised how much that stung and how fully it had fueled his anger. Would Alicia recoil in horror? That was unlikely. The superficiality that clung to her personality as a child had long since been wiped away. Yet, in the span of less than a year, there were so many elements of intimacy he had lost where she was concerned. He could no longer hold her close in a two-armed embrace. Their legs couldn’t entwine as they lay together in bed. And now her fingers would no longer be able to trace his left cheek and chin as they often had. His body was being stripped away piece-by-piece, and that was independent of the slow, corrosive damage being done by his repeated use of magic. It wasn’t hard to understand why most wizards enjoyed such short life spans.

“It won’t make a difference,” said Myselene, interrupting Sorial’s thoughts. “Any more than what we’ve been doing in the dark of this tent will make a difference. She loves you. Not your face or your arms or your legs. She loves
you
. I wish there was someone I could say that about for me. Oh, it will surprise and dismay her, at least at first. But it won’t make a difference about how she feels. Nor does it change things between us. Now, close the tent flap and douse the lanterns. We have some incomplete work we need to continue.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A QUESTION OF ALLIES

For Ferguson, things had not gone as expected but life was always about making adjustments and he was probably in the best position that could be expected given the problems that had beset him over the course of the past year. He had anticipated the ascension of Sorial and Alicia to the status of Magus to herald a turning point but the boy’s stubborn short-sightedness had created yet another obstacle. Somehow, Sorial had proven unable to come to terms with the regrettable necessity that an inn slattern with whom he dallied had become an impediment to plans in place since before his birth. During those eventless years when Sorial had been growing up in anonymity, Ferguson had envisioned that their eventual relationship might be one of stern mentor and eager pupil but the boy’s misplaced anger had poisoned the well, making their every interaction ugly and adversarial. All four living wizards owed their existence to Ferguson in one way or another yet none felt beholden to him.

It had all seemed so simple those many years ago when the gods had communicated their intentions to him. His memory of
the moment
remained vivid a lifetime’s years later - the honor and glory of being singled out among all men to shepherd the world through a dark and dangerous transition. From that hour to this one, doing his task had motivated every action and consumed every waking moment. It galled him when anyone dared to question the means by which he accomplished his sacred aim. People, even wizards like Sorial, saw him as an ancient relic obsessed by power and self-aggrandizement. They failed to grasp the truth - that he, Ferguson, was all that stood between this world and oblivion. He had always known his path would be a hard and lonely one but he had never imagined how difficult, verging on impossible, the task would be. He stood alone; there were no longer any gods behind him.

He was ninety-six years old. No one alive today had been around on the day of his birth. He often wondered if the gods had gifted him with immortality. Certainly, his lifespan had thus far exceeded that of a normal human by a great many years. He had never heard of another person living beyond eighty, and one who died at fifty was considered to have lived a long, full life. For his part, Ferguson felt as hale as he had a quarter century ago - perhaps a little slower and with some soreness in the joints, but he didn’t believe himself to be tottering at death’s doorway. Everyone assumed he would die soon, but Ferguson didn’t agree. He would die when his mission was complete and, as recent events had proven, it was far from done. In fact, some things might have to be
undone
before the work could move forward. He might need another hundred years. Would his body last that long?

Queen Myselene believed him to be a faithful subject, which showed surprising naiveté for one so supposedly shrewd in politics. Then again, she was very young. Her husband had known better, but Azarak’s hostility had been bequeathed to him by his father, who had always distrusted Ferguson. Ferguson had never sworn fealty to Vantok’s Crown and never would. In other circumstances, he might have viewed the queen’s appointment of him as Vice Chancellor to be an insult, but it was an improvement over his previous situation as Sorial’s prisoner. Myselene recognized that he was too valuable to be allowed to languish but she was wary of him.

At this point, it was all about biding his time. His original plans were in shambles but Ferguson had always believed not only in contingencies but contingencies for contingencies. Things had started to unravel on that bitterly cold Winter’s day thirty-four years ago when Craddock had succumbed to a nasty strain of influenza. Had the babe and his twin, Braddock, enjoyed successful rendezvouses with a portal, Ferguson would have been able to better plan the conceptions of two other wizards, perhaps using a different mother than Kara. It was almost as if a curse had been laid on every wizard Ferguson helped create. Braddock had died because he’d had the misfortune of being blocked. Ariel had fled. Sorial’s self-absorbed worldview had caused him to focus on irrelevant trivia. And Alicia had become so besotted with Sorial that she was lost as well.

“Dark thoughts for a dark night.”  The words, which sounded strangely insubstantial, startled Ferguson out of his reverie. He turned to face the speaker who had entered his tent silently and unannounced and found himself to be alone. Yet the flame in his hooded lantern burned more brightly than normal and gave off an acrid smoke. He knew the timber of the voice, although he hadn’t heard it in many years.

“It’s been a long time, Brother Justin. Actually, I’m surprised it’s taken this long for you to contact me. I expected a much earlier visit.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be there in person but to cross over to an unfamiliar flame would use far too much energy. I’ve done it enough times in the past to know firsthand how draining, bordering on debilitating, it can be. Not all magic has short-cuts.”

“You’ve come for a conversation?”

“As you indicated, one that’s long overdue. How many years has it been?”

“Twenty-five, but I suspect you know the exact number of days since we parted on the eve of what turned out to be an ill-fated journey.”

“‘Ill-fated’ is one way to put it. I prefer to think of it as ‘eventful.’ At any rate, I find little value in reliving the past,” said Justin, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “We can’t change it. The die is cast. Whether or not I’m better for it is a matter of conjecture and debate. The simple truth of the matter is that we face each other today no longer as master and acolyte but as rivals in the greatest struggle this continent has known. In a way, I’m surprised you stand against me. I was never privy to your deepest secrets but I knew enough of your plans to recognize that the unification of the cities was a milestone. And since that’s precisely what I’m in the process of doing, it seems odd to find you on the other side.”

“It’s not the goal I object to; it’s the means by which you’re achieving it and what you intend to do once it’s accomplished.”

“I wonder how much of
my
plans you know. Oh, I’m sure you
think
you understand everything but things are not always as obvious as they might appear.”

“I’m aware of enough to recognize that you represent a danger to the entire world now that there are no gods to curb ambition like yours. This war you’ve started is an example…”

Justin bristled. “This war I’ve started is a necessary thing in the development of this world now that the gods are gone. We cannot continue as we did before; no one knows that better than you. I never doubted your divine inspiration, Prelate. I believe now as I did all those years ago that the gods spoke to you and revealed their plan. But I’m not convinced you ever had the best management of the situation.”

“And you do?’

“I have what you lack: innate power. Natural ability. What I need, however, is something you can provide. That’s why I’m here tonight. That’s why I expended precious energy to reach out across the miles.”

Ferguson’s smile was thin. “I didn’t think this was a social call. You’ve come to me because I have something you want.”

“Of course. Blunt honesty is the best form of diplomacy in a situation like this; we know each other too well to try something else. But I’m willing to offer something of value to you in return. By now, you must realize there’s no future for you in your current alliance. Look how it’s brought you down: from prelate of the greatest temple to a refugee trudging around after a deposed queen whose ‘militia’ is so sparse that it would have trouble skirmishing with a good-sized group of bandits. Your base of power is shattered, your reputation scattered to the four winds. You’re farther from achieving your goals than you were when this all began. I can offer a remedy, a way for your voice again to make a difference.”

“You want me to change sides. But why now? Why come to me with this offer when you appear to be winning. I might have understood the overture a decade ago but it makes little sense now that Vantok has fallen and Basingham stands primed to follow. No doubt in another half-season the entire South will be yours. Of what value could one ancient priest be to you now?”

“As I’m sure you surmise, my time grows short. The curse of being a wizard is that the power eats away at the body and eventually my heart will stop and my eyes grow cold. That time is approaching faster than I would have wished and I no longer have the luxury of waiting to see careful plans gradually unfold. My actions must be bold and immediate. Despite your advanced age, you will likely outlive me, Prelate. I’m under a death sentence that will soon be carried out.”

“You seek to commute it?”

“Perhaps. I seek to challenge it if such a thing is possible. And you know what that means.”

“The Otherverse. You believe by entering it, you’ll gain immortality.”

“It’s one of many possibilities. The worst, I think, is oblivion, but I’m headed in that direction at any rate. The Otherverse offers me… hope. Getting there, however, is a problem. My many visits to the Yu’Tar Library have allowed me to uncover the possible means by which entry
might
occur. It’s unproven magic; no one has returned to write of its success or failure. It’s a gamble of the highest order but one that I long ago resolved to take when the time was right, and that moment is fast approaching. Yet I find myself less prepared than I hoped. Perhaps we’re alike in that regard. When we hatched our plans, we expected them to mature more fully than they have over the years. Now we find a widening divergence between what we envisioned and what’s come to pass.”

“You haven’t said anything I don’t know. What is it you want from me? And what price are you willing to pay for it?” Despite his inherent mistrust of Justin, Ferguson’s curiosity had been piqued. He sensed there was real substance to what his old pupil was about to offer and Justin was right: Ferguson’s current trajectory didn’t appear to be leading him closer to the end goals he had long ago established for his life.

“In order to succeed, I need a group of loyal wizards committed to a common goal. Needless to say, that doesn’t exist at the moment. I have Ariel but the divide between Sorial and me is too great for me to hope for a reconciliation. Even if he was less determined to oppose me, his streak of intransigence makes him unsuitable as a partner in this endeavor. He and his wife must be replaced by candidates who are more… biddable.”

“You expect me to turn against the wizard I’m responsible for creating? Eighteen years of hard work cast aside?”

“I doubt there are any paternal feelings here and, even if there are, they aren’t returned. I’m not entirely ignorant of the dynamic that’s evolved between you and Sorial. At best, he dislikes and distrusts you. Whatever purpose you envisioned for him won’t be possible. Unruly children can sometimes be brought in line by punishment but those who enter open rebellion against their parents must be removed. Such is the case here. Yes, it’s a waste. I’ve admitted as much to myself on many occasions. But I need a Lord of Earth and Lord of Water who owe their allegiance to me.”

“And you believe I can procure them.” Ferguson now understood why Justin had come to him on this night. His decades-long studies of genealogies made him uniquely qualified to identify prime wizard candidates. There was no one else in all of the six cities who had a fraction of Ferguson’s knowledge in this area.

“Over the years, I’ve ‘collected’ a group of possible candidates. From time-to-time, I brought them near a portal to see if they heard it. Most didn’t but there were a few happy exceptions. Unfortunately, all but one were attuned to air or fire - the two elements I don’t need. I uncovered a single promising earth candidate but he died as a result of a miscommunication between Ariel and myself. I never found someone with a water connection. If Ariel dies, I have a replacement. But even if I kill Sorial and Alicia, I know of no one I can elevate to put in their positions. It might take me years to find another earth-wizard and water-wizard - time I don’t have. I look to you to shorten the search. Can you do that?”

“You know I can. Not every name on my ‘list’ will be viable but if you take enough of them to a portal, you’ll find what you need. And now that I know what you want from me, what are you offering in return? What bauble do you dangle to lure me from my current alliance?”

“Precisely what you want: authority. You’d be answerable to no one except me. Not even the other wizards would outrank you. Your rank would be the Supreme Cleric of the New Order, whatever that turns out to be. The role of the Temple in human affairs would be yours to decide. Religion for the entirety of humanity would be yours to shape and define. You’d have a seat on the Council of Wizards with a voice of equal weight to that of my three fellows. This, I think, is more than you could ever hope for in a world where Sorial speaks for my kind. In that eventuality, a life of quiet contemplation might be the best you could envision, but a knife in the gut in the middle of the night would be more likely.”

“So you feel more kindly disposed toward me than Sorial does?”

“Sorial dislikes you.
Detests
might be a more apt descriptor. He probably also fears you - an irrational holdover from the days when you wielded seemingly unlimited power. And he certainly doesn’t understand you. My feelings toward you are neutral although, as an enemy, you can expect no favorable treatment unless we make an accommodation. Unlike Sorial, however, I know and understand you, and I believe we can work together. I don’t make this offer lightly. I make it out of necessity, but I trust you recognize its sincerity. Many things have changed about me since I called you ‘master,’ but my devotion to honesty isn’t one of them. I don’t prevaricate. I say what I mean and mean what I say. You taught me the value of truth; it’s one lesson I took to heart.”