Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (16 page)

“So this is all about one girl?”

Sorial bristled. “One girl who was very important to me and who ended up dead by the side of a road because she had the great misfortune of forming an attachment with the wrong person.”

“If Annie had lived, would you have become a wizard? Settled down with her in a comfortable life, would you have heeded the call to visit the portal?”

It wasn’t a straightforward question, but Sorial knew that his decision to make the journey to the portal was largely based on the potential it offered for a future with Alicia. Once he’d had Annie, all paths to that future, no matter how remote, would have been closed. “No,” he admitted after a lengthy pause.

“And if you hadn’t become The Lord of Earth, how much more devastating would the Battle of Vantok have been? How many of those refugees would have survived? Likely both you and Annie would have perished. And probably me as well. Ferguson’s solution was ruthless but his reasoning was sound and the legitimacy of his actions has been borne out by events. Annie was a martyr to the future. Her death, like the deaths of the men who accompanied you to the portal, was the price in blood necessary for you to become a wizard. Ferguson isn’t the devil you make him out to be. He’s single-minded to a fault and coldly practical. If we’re going to defeat Justin, you’re going to have to learn to work with him. Next to you, he’s the most important survivor of Vantok. He’s a member of my council on merit. He offers qualities and capabilities no one else possesses. You’re going to have to come to terms with that. You have the power but he has the knowledge and foresight. As difficult as it might be to orchestrate, there can be another Lord of Earth. There can only be one Ferguson.”

Sorial recognized a royal command when he heard it. He supposed it was pointless to continue to argue against Ferguson. He believed that Azarak, who had contended endlessly with the prelate, would understand, but Myselene was too new to Vantok. Ferguson was
valuable
but he was also
dangerous
. He acted out of zeal and there was nothing he wouldn’t do if it forwarded his cause. Killing Annie was an example - the one that impacted Sorial the most directly, to be sure - but there were others. Ferguson believed himself to be a law unto himself, beholden to none. Sorial feared that, unless the prelate was kept under tight control, there would be many more Annies in the future.

* * *

Sorial passed a poor night, tossing and turning so much that Myselene moved away from the warmth of his body in order to get some sleep. It was a restlessness like none he had previously experienced. His dreams were strange and, although he didn’t remember any of them upon waking, their lingering impressions triggered a realization: the portal was again calling to him.

Once a wizard passed through a portal, the connection was severed and attempting a second passage was certain death. Portals didn’t call back wizards… yet it was happening. He was being drawn to Ibitsal for a reason he couldn’t understand or guess at. This time, it was more subtle than the
comecomecome
he had experienced in Havenham but it was no easier to dismiss or resist. During his waking hours, it was an itch he couldn’t scratch that became more insistent any time he used magic. At night, it manifested itself in a more demanding way in his subconscious.

The pull was strong and Sorial wasn’t of a mind to resist it. He needed to understand what was happening. Were Justin, Ariel, and Alicia experiencing the same thing? Was this related to his inability to locate his wife? And would he be feeling the same call from the Havenham portal if he was closer to it or was it only the Ibitsal portal?

“Night terrors?” asked Myselene as they were preparing to mount the rock wyrm and head deeper into the mountains. They both knew this would be a physically challenging day. They were going places where no human could venture on foot.

“Of a sort. We’re gonna make a detour,” said Sorial. “Swing around Obis then come back to it.”

“We don’t have time.”

“We’ve got to make time. This is too important.”

An expression of annoyance flickered across Myselene’s features. Once again she felt her authority was being challenged. “I decide what’s important and what isn’t.”

Sorial inwardly sighed. Myselene was entirely too used to getting her own way. He assumed it was a result of being brought up a princess and then becoming a queen. At the moment, he lacked the patience to coddle this woman or pamper her ego. “I’m being summoned, Your Majesty. By who or what, I don’t know. But it may be of the utmost importance that I respond.”

“It’s a trap. Something concocted by Justin.”

That had occurred to Sorial, but he didn’t think it likely. It was too sophisticated and lacked the signature of anything associated with fire. Nevertheless, he would be more cautious this time than on the last occasion when he had blundered into a situation without full awareness of what he was facing. “I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t think Durth’s banquet was a trap and look how that turned out.”

“It’s different. I don’t know of any kind of magic that can create the pull that’s urging me to Ibitsal.”

“Ibitsal? Why Ibitsal? And I thought there were gaps in your understanding of what can and can’t be accomplished by magic. Isn’t that why Alicia ventured across the ocean - to fill in those gaps?”

Sorial wondered whether these were serious concerns on the queen’s part or whether she was just being argumentative. “There’s a portal in Ibitsal. That’s where the summoning originates. I’m not sure why but it at least bears investigation.”

Myselene was quiet for a moment. She nibbled on her lower lip as she considered. Finally, she shook her head decisively. “No. Obis is more important. But if you’re determined to go on this fool’s errand, you can drop me off there and come back whenever you’re done.”

Sorial could feel the slow burn of anger. His wellspring of patience, although surprisingly deep for one of his age, wasn’t inexhaustible. “That ain’t gonna work, Your Majesty, and you know it. There’s very little you can accomplish in Obis without me. You need magic to stay in the shadows as you lay the groundwork for your plan. A detour to Ibitsal will cost us no more than two days. But if I leave you alone at Obis, you might be dead by the time I arrive.”

“So you’re kidnapping me?”

“Hardly. If you’re adamant about going to Obis, I won’t stop you. It’s not my place to do so. But I won’t help you, either. As soon as we’re out of the mountains, you can head there on foot. After I’m done at Ibitsal, I’ll come back to pick you up since you won’t have gotten there by then. Or you can continue with me and see what’s happening at the portal that demands my attendance.”

Storm clouds gathered in Myselene’s expression. This wasn’t a woman who appreciated being thwarted but Sorial instinctively knew that facing her displeasure was preferable to ignoring the urging to make haste to Ibitsal. In many ways, she was like Alicia, although his wife had a sharper tongue. Both were domineering. He suspected it had something to do with their upbringing. Or maybe his stubbornness brought out the worst in women.

“Since you choose to present it in those terms, I guess I don’t have a choice. Is this how you fulfill your oath of obedience to The Crown?”

“My oath was to protect Vantok - a duty at which I failed. It was never an oath of personal service to Azarak or you. At this point, my intention is to restore you to your throne. Once that’s been accomplished, we can discuss the nature of my future service.”

The day passed slowly as the rock wyrm bore them deeper into the mountains. Myselene was wrapped in a cloak of uncommunicative silence, although conversation while riding the creature was difficult because of the noise it made slithering snake-like along the ground, sometimes dislodging enough boulders to cause small avalanches. Occasional questions to her were met with one-word answers or icy glares. Sorial discovered another common trait shared by the queen and Alicia: they nursed grudges instead of letting them go.

That evening, as they huddled around warm stones on a sheltered ledge, Sorial learned that anger wasn’t a barrier to Myselene’s expectations of his continuing to work to provide her with a child. In fact, her ire seemed to fuel her desire; their coupling was the most energetic since they had escaped from Basingham’s dungeon. Still, as physically satisfying as it was, it left Sorial feeling more empty than usual. He missed Alicia and the gnawing worry that something bad had happened to her continued to haunt his waking moments. More than anything, he wanted her to be sharing his bedroll instead of the queen.

The summoning force was waiting for him when he slipped into slumber. Perhaps because of the decreased proximity, it was more insistent than it had thus far been. When Sorial awoke, his head ached. He tried without success to go back to sleep. By the time dawn arrived, he looked like he felt: exhausted.

Myselene awakened, stretched, and took a long look at her companion. Although she couldn’t read his features, hidden as they were behind the mask, his posture spoke of his lack of energy.

“All right,” she said. “We’ll go to Ibitsal.”  Those were the only words she uttered the entire day.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: A DELICATE TREASON

Even if he’d had the imagination of a troubadour, Rexall didn’t think he could have come up with a more unlikely narrative for the trajectory of his life. Not that many years ago, when he and Sorial were bosom mates, he had somehow assumed his day-to-day existence wouldn’t change much until he passed away quietly in bed, hopefully at a ripe old age with a ripe young girl by his side. Although he and Sorial frequently had mentioned the possibility of leaving Vantok for the great, wide world, Rexall had taken it as idle talk - a bit of foolishness to pass the time. After all, the average stableboy was born in Vantok, married a Vantok girl, had Vantok kids, and then died in Vantok. That was the way of things. As for joining the militia, Rexall couldn’t think of a less likely occupation for one such as him, who was more fond of breaking the law than upholding it. The former was frequently fun; the latter was an exercise in tedium. Yet here he was, older but not necessarily wiser, having improbably survived the destruction of his city, on his way back to the North, and second-in-command of what remained of Vantok’s army. He didn’t know whether to consider himself charmed or cursed. Perhaps a little of both.

Thus far, thankfully, it had been a mostly uneventful pilgrimage. The number of dead was still in the single numbers, with four of those resulting from the ineptitude of a group of men who had somehow managed to get run over by a fully loaded wagon. In Rexall’s view, people that stupid didn’t deserve to survive. No bandits had attempted a raid and the weather, while not ideal, had avoided the extremes that kept Gorton awake at night. Two weeks out of Basingham, they had made good time, or at least as good as could be expected with dozens of slow moving wagons and slower moving pedestrians. They had covered more than two-hundred miles and were about a third of the way to Widow’s Pass. With luck they would be in the mountains in another four weeks, only three weeks past the first of Harvest and well before the worst weather hit even that far north.

There was no sign of pursuit, which was fortunate since Rexall’s post was at the rear. He and Warburm were holding things down behind the slowest of slow wagons while, some two miles ahead, Overcommander Carannan and Chancellor Gorton were at the fore. Somewhere in between was Prelate/Vice Chancellor Ferguson, out-of-sight riding in a wagon. The most important members of the Vantok contingent weren’t with this ragtag convoy of refugees. By now, Rexall assumed Sorial and the queen had reached Obis. And who knew where Alicia was or whether she was still alive?

As darkness crept over the world, spreading its all-enveloping cloak across the Southern Plains, the column stopped and people went about their assigned duties for making camp: lighting fires, cooking what was euphemistically referred to as “supper” - a thin stew of roots and berries, and locating the nearest source of freshwater for drinking and bathing. Rexall turned over command of the rear to one of his underlings and, along with Warburm, urged his horse forward so as not to be late for Gorton’s nightly council meeting. The tedium of those gatherings made him long for the simple existence of a regular soldier: sitting around a cook fire trading bawdy stories and maybe sneaking off into the brush with a willing girl. There were more than a few of those around but his position disallowed him such basic pleasures he might have once taken for granted.

As usual, Gorton and Carannan were waiting for them in the cramped quarters of the chancellor’s traveling tent, which had none of the amenities of the more permanent one he had used outside Basingham. This utilitarian one offered two things: some degree of privacy, which was desirable when discussing logistics and tactics, and protection from the weather. For Gorton, who had developed a chronic, persistent cough that showed no signs of getting better, this was the more important characteristic.

Ferguson wasn’t present but that was usual; the prelate typically only appeared at Gorton’s meetings when he had a request to make or when his presence had been specifically ordered. For the most part, he allowed others to cope with the minutia of leading the refugees north while he secreted himself away from his fellow citizens to read, study, and meditate. When Gorton raised the matter with Ferguson that it might be more appropriate for him to keep a higher profile, the older man merely noted that he hadn’t asked to be named vice chancellor and the “needs of men” would be better served by his continuing to do his divinely assigned task. The attitude didn’t surprise Rexall, nor was it unexpected to Carannan or Warburm, but it was a source of irritation for Gorton, who hadn’t known the prelate of old. In terms of dealing with others, Ferguson was nothing if not consistent.

The most momentous item on the evening’s agenda was a change in course. Tomorrow, Gorton intended for the column to leave the narrow road upon which they were currently traversing and go across country. This would lead to several days’ unpleasant travel but would eventually be worth it. The course would take them to the North-South Road which was designed to handle high volumes of traffic. It would speed the trip and reduce the likelihood that a Harvest rainstorm, not uncommon in this part of the world, would cause half the wagons to get stuck in the mud. Having traveled the road twice in the last year, Rexall was of the opinion that Gorton’s faith was misplaced. Although it was true that the road was wide and well-maintained in these parts, it became narrow and rough past the eastbound cutoff leading to Earlford.

“Now, since he has again elected to absent himself from our discussions, I’d like to broach the subject of what to do about Ferguson,” said Gorton. He appeared ready to say more but a violent bout of coughing put an end to his statement. The handkerchief he raised to his mouth came away spotted with blood.

“What to do?” asked Carannan. “Is there something to be done?”

“He be a strange one, to be sure,” said Warburm. “But I done think we all prefer it if he keeps ta himself rather than bothering us.”

Rexall didn’t venture an opinion. He had learned through experience that unless he had a truly valuable comment to make, it was better to keep his mouth shut than come across as an ignoramus. When it came to providing input into conversations like this, he felt about as informed as Old Tugg the washerwoman, who used to shoo him away with monosyllabic grunts when, as a child, he had played too close to her domain.

“There’s something predatory about the man I don’t trust - a core of arrogance that not even Sorial’s chastisement has broken. Her Majesty shared some of my misgivings but believed him important enough to warrant not only his freedom but an official appointment. The question we need to ask is whether I should revoke it. Master Warburm, you know him better than any of us. What say you?”

“There be little doubt that Ferguson’s high-handedness makes him as distant a person as you’re like to find in this company. He can be a right bastard and keeps his own counsel. In all my years working with him, I done never heard him ask a question he didn’t know the answer to. But at heart, I believe him ta be a good man. Or, if not ‘good’ then at least ‘righteous.’ I’ve never known him to act purely out of self-interest. Everything he does, he does because he believes in his divine calling. He be devout and’ll sacrifice everything in service of his mission. Sometimes it ain’t the most comforting consideration but it makes him more predictable than some find him ta be.”

“What of Lord Sorial’s misgivings?”

“The way Ferguson approached Sorial’s transformation were ill-advised and clumsy,” admitted Warburm. “There was mistakes aplenty, some of which done fall on my shoulders. Looking back, there was a lot of things that shoulda been done differently, especially how Annie was handled. That were a bad business all around. There shoulda been a way to keep the lass alive but I didn’t fight hard enough and Ferguson weren’t interested in examining alternatives when killing her were the cleanest and simplest way to remove her. None of us recognized how deeply that would poison Sorial against Ferguson. But what’s done be done. Ain’t nothing none of us can do about it now.

“To understand Ferguson, you got to see the world through his eyes. The life of one girl be of no consequence to him. In fact, no single life means anything to him if it impedes his work. He done have a higher calling - the salvation of all men in the wake of the gods’ passing - and he’ll pursue that with the whole of his being. I don’t see that as being a danger to this company but we should also be careful about trusting too much in his goodwill. If our aims diverge from his, a break wouldn’t just be likely, it would be ordained.”

“Do you believe in this ‘calling’?” asked Gorton. The tone of his voice indicated skepticism.

“Not sure that matters,” replied the innkeeper. “I can assure you he believes it. It done motivated him for longer than I’ve known him.  For longer than I’ve been alive. He once told me the gods approached him when he were barely past his maturity. That would be eighty years ago. As for whether I believe him… yes, I do. I wouldn’t have followed him if I didn’t. I think the gods entrusted things to him and gave him the long life to pursue them. Now that they’ve been gone for twenty-five years, maybe he be irrelevant but that ain’t how he sees it. And, ’less someone sticks a sword in his gut, he’ll live long enough to see his work complete.”

“Much as I admire Sorial, he has a blind spot where Ferguson is concerned,” said Carannan. “I can’t say I blame him. He’s manipulated and abused Sorial for his entire life but Ferguson has sacrificed more than most to this cause. If I was in Sorial’s position, I think I’d hate him, but I’m not Sorial and I can see a little more clearly. When I first met Ferguson, he said something to me that I’ve never forgotten: ‘My son, in order for mankind to continue, those of us who have been gifted with knowledge, power, and foresight must give all that we have to give, then dig deep and find more. That’s the creed by which I live and which all who follow me must adopt.’ I think he was sincere when he spoke those words to me and I think that remains his doctrine to this day. The prism through which he sees the world is one of men and women sacrificing for the greater good.”

“Very well,” said Gorton. “We’ll leave Ferguson in his current position and continue to watch him carefully. I wish I could say this discussion has lessened my concerns but it hasn’t. When I look into Ferguson’s eyes, I don’t see the zeal of a fanatic. I see the cold, steely determination of one who acknowledges laws and allegiances only for as long as they suit him. Mark my word: before all this is done, we may regret having elevated him to a position where he once again wields power and influence.”

* * *

A week later, Rexall found himself entering one of the many simple buildings dotting the North-South Road that functioned as taverns and places where travelers could spend a night. He thought he had perhaps stayed in this one with Alicia, Kara, and Vagrum but he couldn’t be certain. There was a disconcerting sameness to all these structures that defied differentiation. As Rexall passed through the front door, the refugee column continued its slow, steady progress forward, hampered only slightly by the persistent drizzle that had been falling since the predawn hours.

He was here in response to an urgent summons from Carannan. Apparently, Gorton’s steadily worsening condition had taken an alarming turn. The Overcommander had ordered him to make haste to this “inn” where Gorton was being attended by the best available healers. It was bad news. Last night, Gorton had been barely able to talk, the cough having left him horse and out-of-breath. His normally impeccable appearance hadn’t been kept up; he had looked haggard and disheveled. For the past few days, he had been riding in a wagon. All attempts to alleviate the condition had failed. The healers were baffled, never having seen a cough so persistent and malicious. Their best poultices and nostrums had been ineffectual.

Rexall knew the situation was grave before crossing the room’s threshold. The whiff of corruption, overlaid with the stench of voided bowels, assaulted his senses. Three men were gathered around the single bed in the cramped room: Vice Chancellor Ferguson, Overcommander Carannan, and Warburm. The leadership hierarchy had gathered to pay final respects to one of their own. Rexall, however, had arrived too late. The waxy, bloodless flesh of Gorton’s face greeted him when he looked down at the form lying on the bed.

Carannan cleared his throat. “Lieutenant, thank you for coming. As you can see, we’ve lost Chancellor Gorton, a blow none of us saw coming even yesterday. We now follow the command of Chancellor Ferguson.”

Rexall looked from face to face and was struck by a strange realization. All of them, himself included, had been accountable to Ferguson not that many seasons ago. The circumstances were different but the names were the same. Rexall’s eyes strayed to the pale form lying on the bed and a chill ran down his spine.
No single life means anything to him if it impedes his work
. Had Gorton become an impediment? Was this all a twisted attempt by Ferguson to create a power structure populated by old allies with himself at the pinnacle? Carannan’s face betrayed sadness but no misgivings, but Warburm’s expression revealed that he was thinking similar thoughts. It was too much of a coincidence that the one “outsider” standing between Ferguson and command should die so suddenly and mysteriously for it to be accepted as a natural occurrence.

“It doesn’t appear to be contagious, whatever killed him,” said Carannan, pulling a threadbare blanket up to cover the chancellor’s face. “No one else has reported similar symptoms.” Poison, of course, was not contagious.