Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (22 page)

“Tell him I’m all right,” she said. Perhaps Sorial would tap into its mind and read her words. “Tell him I love him, I’m making progress, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Tell him to be careful.”

Almost as if it understood, the rock wyrm melted into the ground, leaving behind a large patch of churned-up dirt. How long would it take to reach Sorial, halfway around the world? How long ago had it left him?

Later that morning, she arrived at the library feeling refreshed and renewed. The sensation had nothing to do with her bath and everything to do with remembering why she was here and how important this mission was to those she cared about. Her stableboy had reached out to her from half a world away using a stallion like no other. She wouldn’t fail him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE CANDIDATES

Skulking - that’s what it felt like to Sorial. Myselene used more appealing terms like “spying” and “intelligence gathering” but, no matter what she called it, it felt like skulking to him. Dressed all in black, burrowing into houses from beneath, and hiding in shadows… Sorial couldn’t think of a more appropriate description than skulking.

Of course, it was necessary. Myselene’s plan called for her to align with one of the contenders for the throne and it was critical that she choose the right one. Based on more than a week’s worth of time spent in taverns, Sorial had ascertained what they had suspected on their first day in Obis: the four men they needed to focus on were Duke Otto, General Greeg, Count Clairmont, and Brother Rathbone.

Otto was the easiest of the four about whom to procure information. He was the peasants’ choice to take the crown but, of course, the peasants didn’t have a say in the matter. The process decreed that in the absence of a clear successor, the Council of Nobles would vote and their choice was final and binding. Of the candidates, Otto was the only one who traveled the city streets freely, although he was accompanied by a quartet of impressive-looking bodyguards - men who reminded Sorial of Vagrum. According to what he had learned, Otto had been elevated to the level of possible king-to-be as a result of a backing coalition comprised of a variety of Obis’ most influential interests, both legal and illegal. Many who couldn’t gain power on their own sought to gain it by having the king’s ear. The consensus opinion was that Otto would be the next king if he wasn’t assassinated before ascending to the throne. The odds of that happening were put at about 50/50.

It was difficult to gain much information about General Greeg, who lived and worked in The Citadel. It was obvious that he had the support of a large contingent of the army. Within the closed society of the military, he was widely respected, although not much loved. His leadership position meant that, if he elected not to make a try for the throne, he could be instrumental in determining which of the other candidates would emerge victorious. Greeg was said to be hard-working and humorless. Rumor whispered that he had beaten his first wife to death after suspecting her of “an inappropriate flirtation” with another man, although it was unclear whether that was a truth or an exaggeration embellished by one of Greeg’s enemies. The only ascertainable fact about the matter was that the general had once been married to a Syrene girl but no longer was, and no one had seen her in years.

Count Clairmont was an unpleasant individual with a large number of friends at court. He also sat on the Council of Nobles and was openly politicking for the support of his fellows. He was suspected by some to have been behind the elimination of Myselene’s sisters as well as an earlier front-runner, Rangarak’s bastard son, Duke Edmund. Clairmont was rarely seen in public, preferring instead to remain sequestered behind the strong walls of his Ox Road mansion. Of the candidates, he was the most bloodthirsty and well-connected. The aging chancellor, who currently ran the city, was said to be a close ally. If winning the throne came down to money, Clairmont could outspend his rivals combined by ten times and still have plenty to spare.

Finally, there was the elusive Brother Rathbone, who bided his time behind the temple walls, possibly waiting for a candidate to eliminate one or more of his rivals. Sorial had been able to get close to Otto, Greeg, and Clairmont, but he had never even seen Rathbone. The man was cloistered out-of-reach, one robed figure among hundreds. Sorial might have discounted him as a phantom if Myselene wasn’t so certain that her half-brother had designs on occupying their father’s seat.

The queen of Vantok was dressed as a common Syrene courtesan. With her normally straight hair curled into ringlets, her eyes enhanced by subtle face paint, and her lips turned bright red by the application of rouge, she looked the part. She had told Sorial that her mother, like his, hailed from Syre. She was dressed in a rose-colored gown slit up the leg nearly to her hip. The material was sheer, clinging to her body like a second skin and leaving little to the imagination. She had elected to cover her breasts although it was common practice for some Syrene women to bare them. This was the role Myselene had chosen while they stayed in the farming village. It was unusual for a priest to be found in the constant company of a courtesan but not so odd that it would be remarked upon, especially with rules on celibacy recently having been relaxed for servants of the Temple.

She was rubbing her blistered feet when Sorial entered the room they shared. Her garb required that she wear sandals that looked to Sorial like torture devices. The strap marks were visible across the tops of her feet, her ankles, and the lower portion of her calves. “I’ll be glad when I can drop this pretense and go back to good, honest boots.”

Sorial, who had just returned from another day immersed in the sights of Obis, sat next to her on the bed, his stone leg stretched out in front of him. “Nothing new on Rathbone. I spent several hours inside the temple. I got some strange looks but no one stopped me. No sight or sound of him, though. The only reason I accept he’s there is because you insist on it.”

“I think we’ve gone as far as we can go with this strategy. Tomorrow, you have to take me in. No more delays.”

Myselene had been suggesting this almost since their arrival. Thus far, Sorial had rebuffed the request, primarily because he was concerned something might go wrong. Having never transported another person through the ground, he wasn’t sure how things would turn out. In preparation, he had experimented with a few animals and they had survived the journey unharmed (although frightened almost to death). But a person was very different than a mouse or a cat. Myselene was right, however. The time had come for her to enter the city and she couldn’t do it through the gate. The chance of recognition wasn’t high but any chance, no matter how small, was too great.

“Who are we going to visit first?”

“Even if you found Rathbone, he wouldn’t be a viable choice for my purposes. I need a marriage to seal the bargain and, even though incest isn’t unheard of in the history of Obis’ royal family, it would create complications and delays. Besides, Rathbone and I are incompatible. All we really have to offer each other is what we already have: Rangarak’s blood. The backing of the priesthood, which I assume he has, is of little matter in the succession. As far as I know, only Obis’ prelate sits on the Council of Nobles, so that’s not much advantage.”

“So we’re down to three.”

“Two actually. I won’t align with Clairmont. The man’s dangerous and untrustworthy. He’d have my assassination planned for our wedding night. Plus, like Rathbone, he doesn’t offer enough. His connections are overrated. His fellow council members don’t like him. He’ll need to buy every vote and, since you have access to unlimited wealth, I can spend just as freely. The nobility only has power when the government is functioning normally. Right now, all the power is with the military and that means either Otto or Greeg. The sycophant or the prig. What a wonderful choice for my next bed-partner.”

* * *

Had someone been present in the cellar of Duke Otto’s mansion when Myselene and Sorial emerged from the stone floor, he might have pissed himself from laughing so hard. The pair looked nothing like the queen of Vantok and The Lord of Earth. Myselene clung to Sorial’s back with such tenacity that her nails left marks. They were both naked - Sorial believed the skin-to-skin contact would make it easier for him to shepherd Myselene through the traveling process - and her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. Ironically, this was probably the most intimate contact they had experienced despite their numerous nighttime assignations: full body to full body. It wasn’t dignified but it had worked.

When she realized she was once again surrounded by air and not the claustrophobic rush of dirt and rock, the queen breathed deeply, released her death-grip on Sorial, and disentangled herself from him. Wordlessly, he handed her the small satchel he had brought to carry their garments. He was already putting on the priest’s robe. Her hand was trembling when she took the sack from him.

He was pleased with how things had gone. As best he could tell, Myselene was uninjured. She had flowed through the earth like an extension of him. Their nakedness, although a prudent precaution, had proven unnecessary, and that would make future spontaneous trips practicable. Because the queen was unharmed, it stood to reason that the tiny embryo growing within her was also fine.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” she said, barely finishing the words before emptying the contents of her stomach onto Duke Otto’s cellar floor. Sorial was disinclined to believe the traveling was the primary cause for her nausea. Since arriving in Obis, vomiting had become as regular an activity for her as pissing.

The cellar was lit by a single torch hung in a sconce near the staircase leading up to the main story. It was scant illumination for such a large chamber but it was better than nothing. It at least meant Sorial wouldn’t have to lead Myselene to the exit by holding her hand.

“That’s not something I’m eager to try again,” she said. “I suppose it’s second nature to you, but all that dirt and rock… pressing in from every side… almost caressing my skin.” She shuddered then doubled over and rode out a series of dry heaves. Sorial waited patiently. He wondered if Alicia would have a similar reaction or if her familiarity with magic might convey a kind of immunity. He hoped to learn the answer soon.

Once Myselene was dressed in what she described as “simple garb favored by the nobility for non-ceremonial occasions,” which looked to Sorial much like clothing that ordinary citizens wore in Vantok, they ascended the stairs. The door at the top was unlocked and unguarded - not surprising since there was no normal egress through the cellar. The mansion was relatively quiet at this early hour.

He trailed Myselene who seemed to know where she was going. When they passed a maid, the mousy young woman regarded them with wide eyes but didn’t go scuttling off to raise the alarm. Sorial wondered if she recognized Myselene or if the queen’s aura of authority was such that she supposed the woman belonged here.

“We’re approaching Duke Otto’s receiving room. Odds are that’s where he’ll be at this hour if he’s not still abed. If he’s there, there will be two guards outside.”

They rounded a corner where, at the end of the corridor, there stood a magnificently ornate door with the crest of Otto’s family etched into its polished surface. As Myselene had predicted, there was one guard to either side of the door. Their postures were attentive but non-threatening, their hands near but not on the hilts of their swords.

With Sorial a half-step behind her, she strode down the hall as if she belonged there. The guards watched her carefully but didn’t move to intercept her. She stopped a pace away from them and demanded, “Tell your master he has a visitor.”

One of the guards, the older of the two, offered an impudent grin. His fellow remained as still as a statue, staring directly ahead, his eyes unblinking.

“You’re early, but he’s expecting you.” The smile tweaking his lips didn’t reach his eyes.

Myselene raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sorial’s expression of confusion was hidden by his cowl.

The guard opened the door a crack and called into the room. “The whore’s here, Your Grace. She’s got some sort of priest with her. Probably on hand to bless her before she gets to work.” A nasty laugh followed.

A cultured voice came from within the room beyond. “Let them both in. Might be fun having a priest in attendance. I’ve done plenty of things with an audience but never with one so august. But I guess his sort needs a new occupation now that things have changed.”

The one guard’s smile widened. Gazing at his features, Sorial guessed he wasn’t a nice man. There was something cruel in those eyes.

The situation changed markedly the moment Myselene entered Otto’s receiving room, where the duke was sitting at a table with the remnants of his morning meal in front of him. When he looked up, the broad smile slipped from his face and his skin became as pale as the grave. The guard outside might have mistaken the queen for a courtesan but Otto knew exactly who was standing in front of him.

“Shut the door, you lout!” he shouted to the guard, stumbling to his feet and executing a bow made clumsy by surprise. The door clicked shut behind Sorial and Myselene. Other than Otto and his guests, the room was empty.

“Your Highness, this is most unexpected.”

“Surely not, Your Grace. Obis must have been anticipating my return for some time now.”

“Rumors from the South spoke of your death when Vantok was sacked. We didn’t dare hope you might have survived.”

“When I heard of the situation in Obis, I decided that my presence was more valuable here than leading a ragtag hoard of refugees.”

“Then you’ve come to claim your father’s throne?” Having gotten over his initial shock at Myselene’s appearance, Otto’s wits were beginning to function. Sorial could almost see the duke calculating what this might mean for him.

Otto did not cut an imposing figure even wearing the perfectly tailored finery of a member of the nobility. He was an aging man closer to death than birth, with once thick, black hair graying and thinning, and a pasty face that, like his midsection, evidenced the pudginess resulting from a lifetime of indolence. Sorial didn’t miss the spark of intelligence in the man’s dark eyes, however. He sensed that the duke’s ordinariness didn’t extend to his mind. What Otto lacked in physicality he compensated for in intellect.