Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (9 page)

“What have you heard?” Unfortunately, security in the camp was poor. Gossip and rumors were the currency people used to buy their way into the good graces of others. Given long enough, a social order would develop in which those with the most “inside information” would be the most powerful.

“That I’m to be sent to a portal to become a wizard.”

It was a surprisingly accurate rumor and Carannan suspected he knew its source. Ferguson would leak information of that sort if it served his purposes. What those might be, only the vice chancellor knew, but there were few other likely candidates. Was this a preemptive attempt to begin exerting influence over the woman who might be the next Lady of Air?

“Then it’s true?” asked Lavella when her brother didn’t respond.

“Something along those lines has been discussed. But it’s probably a moot point now. The way it works with wizards is there can only be one master of any element at a time. Until the current air-wizard dies, there can’t be a new one. And Sorial’s sister, the current Lady of Air, is very much alive.”

“Why do they think I can be a wizard? Because of Alicia?”

“Mainly. I guess any close relative might have the potential.”

“You?”

“No, although it would have made things simpler. Apparently, when someone with the potential gets near a portal, it calls out to them. I’ve been in close proximity to the Ibitsal portal and didn’t feel a thing. It was proposed that you be taken there to test whether you’re a viable candidate.”
Something that might no longer matter if Ariel is released
.

After Lavella departed, Carannan collapsed on his bedroll but sleep proved elusive. Finally, unable to do more than toss and turn, he rose, splashed some warm water on his face, and headed for Warburm’s tent. Much to his surprise, the innkeeper was awake and Gorton was already present. Both were sitting in crude chairs next to the wizard’s prone form. Warburm motioned Carannan toward a third, empty seat.

“I got a visit from my sister a few hours ago. She wants to know whether she should prepare herself for a trip through a portal.”

“Would that the answer could be ‘yes,’” said Gorton. “It would be simpler to be faced with the dilemma of a week ago, when the question was whether it was safe to keep Ariel alive long enough for Lavella to be tested and put into position. Unfortunately, we’re beyond that point now. I think it’s safe to say your sister won’t have to worry about learning wizardry in the near future. Anything from Alicia?”

Carannan shook his head. “Nothing. Rexall has a man watching the mirror night and day. If it became active, he would have let me know.”

“I spoke to Ferguson before coming here this morning. He feels it’s best if he’s not present when Ariel awakens. He thinks she may harbor ill will toward him - imagine that!  But he concurs we no longer have a choice in the matter. The die has been cast. This used to be when we’d put our trust in the gods. Now, I guess, it’s just a matter of fate.”

“How much longer?” asked Carannan.

“Two hours, maybe less,” replied Warburm. “You can tell by her breathing when she be starting to come out of it. Deeper breaths. That usually be the sign to give her the next dose. Today, we’ll just let her wake up and see what happens then. I got the flask ready in case we have to drug her but there’ll come a point when that no longer be an option.”

“So we wait,” said Gorton. And they did.

* * *

Lying on the floor in a haze of agony, Myselene sincerely hoped it had been worth it. She had followed Sorial’s instructions, filling her cupped hands with the indeterminate substance that coated the floor and tossing it in the general direction of the flask once the guard had removed the stopper. Her aim had been good; a fair amount of the dried muck had reached its goal. Unfortunately, some had hit the gaoler on the chest and face. To say he hadn’t been pleased was an understatement. Now, all she could do was weep softly as she lay on the cold stone, hoping the pain and humiliation hadn’t been in vain.

She had lost track of time but believed it was late in the day. The only way to estimate time was by listening to the changing of the guards and counting the times someone came in to dose Sorial. By those measurements, she guessed it was about forty-eight hours since they had sat down to dine at Uthgarb’s repast. So far to fall in such a short time… She supposed that was the way of things. After all, it had taken less time for Vantok to be transformed from Azarak’s seat of power to Justin’s plaything.

Footfalls outside the door heralded the return of her captor. Uthgarb entered with a none-too-pleased expression blackening his countenance. To Myselene, it was less disconcerting than the false, unctuous smile that represented his typical mask. He began by “tsk tsking” her in the manner one might scold a wayward child.

“Very unfortunate, Your Majesty, and such a pointless gesture. According to the guard, you heaved a handful of dried shit at him - not a very gracious thing to do. But I ask myself why you might do such a thing. You’re not the kind of woman to act on impulse; I’ve seen you up close and know you to be shrewd and calculating. Understanding, as I’m sure you did, how the guard would react, there must have been some reason for your action, but it eludes me. Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me?”

Myselene said nothing. She wasn’t going to give Uthgarb the satisfaction of answering. The blood in her mouth was salty. She had lost at least one tooth to the gaoler’s brutality. She worried at the gap with her tongue.

“Perhaps you thought you could distract him from giving the wizard another dose of the drug? Or maybe you thought to knock the flask from his hands? Yet neither of those things rings true, do they? You had something else in mind, didn’t you? Something that made you willing to experience the beating you knew would be the result.”

Myselene closed her eyes but eliminating the image of the ambassador didn’t make him go away.

“Come now, Your Majesty. Is your secret really worth the kind of pain you’re courting? The man who thumped you was an unskilled thug. It shows in the nature of your injuries. Justin, I think, will not be pleased by the lashes but maybe we’ll be able to make a case to justify them. But there are some experts in Basingham who can cause excruciating pain with little in the way of visible marks. These are people who have devoted their lives to the skill of torture and who pride themselves on being grandmasters. I’ll send one to you if you’d like. I have just the man in mind. He’ll delight in the opportunity to wring a few truths from the mouth of the former queen of Vantok. A prize subject indeed.”

Uthgarb stepped closer and bent down. Myselene could smell his fetid breath as he leaned toward her. Something cold brushed her left nipple. She opened her eyes to see it sliced off - a clean, precise action executed by a well-honed blade. Blood seeped from the open wound and dribbled down her breast. She let out a ragged scream.

“Have it your way, Your Majesty. Torture is so undignified, but it’s very effective. Whatever truth you’re guarding, I’ll delight in hearing it revealed. You’ll survive this ordeal, I promise. But you may wish you hadn’t.”

The period between Uthgarb’s departure and the arrival of his torture-skilled minion was less than an hour. It was perhaps the most unpleasant hour in the queen’s young life as the wound from the amputated nipple blended with her other injuries in a symphony of suffering. Growing up in Obis, she had become used to beatings. They were administered regularly for a variety of infractions and even a princess wasn’t immune. But this was pain of a sort with which she was unfamiliar. Worse, there was no indication the “secret” she was safeguarding had value. Sorial remained limp and unmoving, a prisoner of the drug.

The newcomer was the most unprepossessing of men: small of frame, garbed in black, and with the pockmarked face of a weasel. He carried a leather satchel and his features were frozen into a bland expression. After dismissing the guards and closing the door behind him, he executed a courtly bow to Myselene. There was no mockery in the action.

“Your Majesty. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”  He moved close and examined her injuries one-by-one. He smelled of lye. “Amateurs.” There was disgust in his voice. “Brutes who replace finesse with force.” He drew a container from his satchel. It contained an ointment that he applied liberally to Myselene’s breast, buttocks, back, and areas of her face. The pain-dulling effects of the cool substance were instantaneous. With a grunt of satisfaction, he replaced the salve and withdrew what appeared to be a long needle.

“I’ve been charged with eliciting certain information from you regarding the reason why you attacked your gaoler. Ambassador Uthgarb is of the opinion that it was something more than a momentary fit of rage. I have no opinion on the matter but intend to learn the truth. I’ll procure this information without causing irreparable damage to your person. However, some of what you endure will be excruciatingly painful. There are many areas of the body sensitive to pain and it’s in those soft, fleshy areas that I do my most expert work. Imagine, if you will, having a hot poker as a lover. Or having your fingernails removed one-by-one and the raw skin treated with vinegar and lemon. Cutting out your tongue isn’t an option but no one said anything about your teeth. And I can make it so the only scent you smell for a long time is your burnt nostrils. But let’s start with your eyes. You certainly don’t need two. A needle through one, as long as it’s carefully manipulated so as to not damage your brain, can be a very effective…”

His voice trailed off. His eyes went wide and an expression of befuddlement crossed his features before he toppled over forward. Since he made no attempt to break his fall, his face hit the ground with surprising force; Myselene heard bones cracking. She also caught sight of a small, bloody wound in his right temple where a pebble had blasted into his skull.

Sorial was struggling upright, hampered by the restraint of the chains. “I hate torturers.”

CHAPTER NINE: SIBLING RIVALRY

The first thing Sorial did upon regaining consciousness was to delve deeply into his body with his mind. While it was difficult for him to discern organs and fluids, focusing on traces of dirt and waste allowed him to develop a picture of what was going on inside of him. It took an inordinately long time to isolate the molecules of the drug and bring as many as possible into contact with specks of dust so their potency could be neutralized. He was a farmer caring for individual crops in a field that was planted for acres upon acres. Gradually, however, his thought processes became clearer and he was able to work with greater confidence and aptitude. His intuition about the beneficial capabilities of earth to counteract the drug had been correct.

By the time he had mollified the drug’s effects, he became aware that he and Myselene weren’t alone in the dungeon chamber. The small man hovering over his queen wasn’t harboring friendly intentions. Killing him, unprepared as he was for hostile action from an apparently insensible man, required almost no effort. Sometimes the smallest actions of magic could be the most effective.

Only after the torturer was dead did Sorial see the marks on Myselene’s body. One nipple had been severed. Her face and body showed the bruising of a merciless beating. There were wheals on her back and buttocks where the whip had bitten. She had paid a dear price for complying with his request.

His next action was to sever the metal of the chains imprisoning them. Without his prosthetic leg, his movement was restricted. He could make a new one but even a crude replacement would have to wait. Of greater immediate concern was finding a way out. He could escape through the rock in his usual manner but transporting Myselene was a chancy matter. He thought he understood how it might be possible to transport objects without exposing them to impact damage from the solid material he passed through, but he didn’t want to make the first attempt with Myselene. If he was wrong, the price would be her life.

If he had been at full power, he could have blasted a tunnel through the earth - a clean, clear path all the way to the surface - but he was too addled and weak to be able to command that kind of energy. But there was still a way…

Myselene rose unsteadily, surprised to discover how badly her legs were shaking. Indeed, it wasn’t only her legs. Her entire body was trembling, although whether that was from delayed fear, relief, or weakness, she couldn’t say. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Sorial, sitting on the cold floor because his infirmity preventing him from standing, spared her a glance. “As well as possible. What about you?” In terms of physical abuse, she had suffered worse than him.

“Now I understand a little of what you went through in Havenham. It wasn’t pleasant but you saved me from… I’ll admit to being scared shitless of what was coming next. What’s in that bag?”

Sorial glanced at the leather satchel but didn’t make a move to open it. He had seen enough of Langashin’s tools to guess and he didn’t need a stark reminder of one of the darkest periods of his life.

“We have to get out of here,” said Myselene, one hand cupping her injured breast protectively. “They’ll come if they don’t hear what they’re expecting.”

“Scream a little. Make it sound like he’s doing his job. It’s gonna take me a while to arrange our escape.”

Myselene did as requested. Sorial was surprised at how genuinely frightened and hurt those half-sob/half-screams sounded. Given her current state, he guessed not a lot of acting was required. When they got back to the camp, she would need a healer’s care. Too bad Alicia was far away. These were the kinds of wounds she was becoming an expert at salving. Unless there were broken bones, which didn’t appear to be the case, there was little Sorial could do. And he was useless when it came to abating pain.

He summoned the rock wyrm. Establishing the communication was more difficult than it had been at any time since their first connection; it was as if something in his mind was sluggish. The drug continued to impede him, and that would be the case until it worked its way through his system. For the moment, he was operating under significant limitations.

The creature arrived with its characteristic lack of stealth. The ground shook, gently at first then violently as it approached the surface. There was an explosion of rock and dirt as it broke through the crust. The noise was deafening. There was no way every guard in the dungeon could have failed to notice something was amiss. The alarm was raised almost immediately: a cacophony of shouts, a bell ringing, and booted footsteps running down the hall.

“Get on!” demanded Sorial, gesturing toward the wyrm’s back. He did a little magic on the door to ensure it wouldn’t be opened quickly or easily. Moments later, there was a lot of shouting just outside the cell and the sound of keys turning ineffectually in a lock that was fused beyond repair.

A nonplused Myselene was frozen in place, gazing into the impenetrable depths of the wyrm’s eyes. To most people, this was a figment out of a fable or a nightmare: a huge, serpentine creature with a sleek, reptilian body and a prehensile tail. It was intelligent, although not as smart as a dragon. And, while it couldn’t fly or spit fire, it could travel through earth as easily as its aquatic sea serpent cousin could cleave water. Myselene’s reaction was similar to that of others who had encountered it, but he didn’t have time for her to adapt to its transformation from beast of fiction to creature of reality. He needed her to focus and act.
Coping
could come later, if there was a later. If those men got through the door, Sorial couldn’t fight them all, at least not in his current state. And the rock wyrm’s retreat would be slow and awkward since it had to take into account Myselene’s vulnerability. It couldn’t just burrow into the ground the way it would if Sorial was its lone passenger.

“You’ve got to mount,” said Sorial, his tone insistent. Myselene nodded and moved hesitantly toward the creature, which remained immobile, gazing at her impassively. The overlapping obsidian scales that covered its body were large, cold, and hard - just like stone. Once she was on its back, Sorial hopped over to join her and, with some difficulty, clambered up behind her. Riding the rock wyrm with two good arms and legs was difficult enough; doing it with one of each missing was more than a challenge. It wasn’t the first time he had done it, however.

Rather than just communicating a voiceless command for the rock wyrm to go, Sorial constructed a mental picture of how he wanted the trip to proceed. Rather than passing through soil and stone, as was its usual practice, Sorial needed the creature to dig out a tunnel with an exit beyond the city walls. The most important instructions were to keep the ride smooth, lest Sorial fall off, and to make the tunnel sturdy, lest it collapse and kill Myselene. The rock wyrm chafed at being given so many instructions, but there was no alternative.

As they were about to move, an unpleasant feeling touched Sorial’s consciousness. At first, he didn’t know its cause or meaning then, with growing dread, he figured it out.

“Shit,” he muttered, wishing he had misinterpreted the sensation and its meaning but knowing he hadn’t. “She’s free.”

* * *

Naked hostility burned in Ariel’s eyes as she stared into the faces of the three men surrounding her.

“You propose that I betray the only person who’s stood by me in order to save the brother I’m sworn to kill?” Her voice was like the wind through a reed, thin and sibilant. She hadn’t moved. Her frail body, covered by a threadbare blanket, lay supine on the dirt floor of Warburm’s tent. Her hands were still folded over her chest.

Carannan avoided directing his gaze at Ariel’s face; what he saw there haunted him. In those desiccated, ravaged features, he could detect hints of a beauty that had long since been eaten away by poxes, the cruelty of harsh years, and the rigors of magic. According to Warburm, she had been pretty in her youth - lithe and ripe on the cusp of adulthood when she had disappeared. Was this what lay in store for Alicia? Already, his daughter showed signs of premature aging. According to the calendar, Ariel had seen thirty-three years. Based on her appearance, she might be twice that - an old, palsied woman near to her deathbed.

“I propose you save your life so, in the future, you’ll have an opportunity to rejoin The Lord of Fire and attempt to carry out Sorial’s death sentence,” said Gorton, who had made the offer to Ariel as soon as she had appeared lucid enough to understand its meaning and implications.

“You must be desperate indeed to make such a magnanimous offer. But then you need both my little brother and your little queen back in order to continue this foolish stand against Justin. With or without Sorial, you’ll fail. Still, I suppose you don’t see it that way.”

“Will you do it?” asked Gorton. Time was running short. They had agreed beforehand that Ariel would be given only a matter of minutes in which to make her decision before she was dosed. None of them knew how long it might take between consciousness and the return of her powers but they intended to err on the conservative side. Lengthy procrastination wouldn’t be tolerated.

“I’ll make you a counter-offer. I’ll agree to your terms if, in addition to my freedom, you present me the head of Prelate Ferguson - divested from his body, of course.” A rictus twisted her ghoulish features.

“Lass, you know that ain’t possible,” said Warburm, speaking for the first time since Ariel’s awakening. Thus far, Gorton had done all the talking.

“My dear Warburm, nothing is impossible. I broke your back yet you walk. When people are desperate enough, sacrifices can be made. Do you all love Ferguson so deeply that you wouldn’t give him up for Sorial and your queen? Isn’t the price I ask for my cooperation surprisingly mild? The life of one very old man in return for a temporary truce in which I rescue two important people from certain death?”

On the surface, Ariel was right: it wasn’t an unreasonable demand. Considering their current precarious situation, operating without a queen and wizard, it was a price she could extort without fear of refusal. Carannan bore no love for Ferguson but this seemed somehow wrong. He knew that Sorial and possibly Myselene would agree to it without blinking an eyelash, but neither was here. Ferguson’s value lay in the knowledge locked in his mind. Surrendering him might be a bigger sacrifice than any of them realized. The central danger remained, however. Even if they agreed, there was no guarantee Ariel would abide by the bargain. How likely was it that she would forswear herself?

“If I agree to this condition, will you…” Gorton’s words died on his lips. His body became immobile; he stood rigidly in place, the only sign of life being the continued rise and fall of his chest. Recognizing the danger, Carannan reached for his sword only to find himself similarly paralyzed, every fiber of his body frozen into position. He screamed a silent curse in his mind. They had waited too long.

“I find this conversation tiresome,” said Ariel, sitting up with the slightly tortured movements of an old woman. Perhaps in an act of modesty, she pulled the blanket around herself, hiding her emaciated form from view. “You people think yourselves clever. Through these long days in and out of consciousness, I’ve awaited an opportunity such as this. I dared not act while Sorial was present, but now… Even the little dribble of magic at my command is enough to neutralize the likes of you. Three senseless half-wits. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

She rose to a standing position, seeming to relish the moment. There was something almost predatory in the slow, deliberate way she moved. Carannan recalled something Sorial had told him shortly after he returned from Ibitsal with Alicia in tow. When the then-duke had remarked that his daughter looked and seemed no different, Sorial had responded: “Never judge a wizard by how he or she looks or acts. If you do that, you’ll be deceived.” They had put too much faith in the drug and Ariel’s physical feebleness. And they had been deceived - not necessarily by her but by their own expectations.

So focused was Carannan on Ariel that he hardly noticed the commotion outside the tent, but she did. Her attention shifted from her prisoners to the entrance just as the flap was thrown back to reveal one of the last people the overcommander might have expected to see: Sorial - naked, pale, and very much at liberty. A crude spike of rock was in place below his left knee, allowing him to walk. It was obvious he had undergone an ordeal but, like Ariel, he had found a way to escape. Apparently, his captors in Basingham had made a mistake.

“Apparently, my services are no longer needed,” said Ariel, her eyes meeting her brother’s. “No need to free someone who has found his own means of escape.” Carannan felt the bindings slip away but, before he could, act, he was slammed violently to the ground. The concussion was so forceful that it knocked everyone to the floor except Sorial, its architect.

From her knees, Ariel counterattacked. Carannan couldn’t determine precisely what she did, just as he didn’t grasp the full ramifications of Sorial’s attack, but her brother staggered back a step, his hand clutching his breast. Almost immediately, he overcame whatever she had done. Sorial straightened and took a step forward. Ariel’s twisted features expressed surprise; she hadn’t expected his response to be so quick or decisive. A hail of tiny pebbles erupted from the ground around Ariel, but they fell away before striking her, deflected by something Carannan couldn’t see.