The Last Whisper of the Gods (12 page)

This was perhaps the plainest noble’s house Sorial had glimpsed. Most members of the landed class liked to show off their wealth by building lavish homes that looked more like temples than houses. Absent from Carannan’s mansion were a columned front porch, frescos adorning the walls, and frozen gargoyles or other macabre creatures standing watch from the ramparts. This was no monument to excess.

Sorial looked toward the door and saw the duke walking briskly in his direction, the guard trailing him by two or three paces. He was dressed less formally than Sorial was used to seeing him, wearing a loose fitting shirt and overalls. His hair was tousled and sweat stained the underarms of the shirt. His face wore a welcoming smile.

“Good Maturity, Sorial,” he said by way of greeting.

As his hand joined the duke’s in a mutually firm grip, his face registered surprise that Carannan knew the significance of the day to him.

The duke chuckled. “Warburm told me some weeks ago. This day has been weighing on his mind for some time. Even though he managed to secure your services for another year, he’s beginning to fret what will happen to his stable when you move on, likely sooner rather than later now that you’re no longer beholden to him.”

“I’ve thought of traveling,” ventured Sorial.

“Of course you have! Every young man’s fancy, to see the world. I know it was mine when I was your age. Not that it will be an easy task if this weather persists. I suppose you’re here to see Alicia. It’s saved her a trip. She has a gift and intended to travel into town later to give it to you.”

“I wondered why I haven’t seen her since… that night. Is she okay?”

“Yes,” said Carannan. “Thanks to you. But she’s embarrassed. Mortified that you saw her like that. Alicia has always been a headstrong girl and it galls her to think she had to run to a stableboy for help. I told her you wouldn’t think any less of her for it, but she won’t listen. That’s how women are. They don’t think about things the same way we men do. Once you’re married, you’ll learn the hard way. Keeps life interesting, though.” He winked.

Sorial was baffled by the informality and he could tell by the guards’ expressions that they were too. Here was he, a lowly stableboy, being addressed as an equal by one of the most powerful men in the city. During their previous encounters at the inn, Carannan had been cordial, but there had always existed a clear separation of class.

“Come inside,” invited the duke. “Alicia will be pleased to see you, even if she won’t admit it.”

A quarter of an hour later, Sorial was sitting alone in a cozy receiving room, awaiting Alicia’s attendance. Even the illusion of coolness suggested by the abundance of light blue couldn’t dispel the unpleasant stuffiness of the chamber. The walls were adorned with tapestries that depicted waterscapes. The drawn drapes were the color of the clear sky. The plush carpeting was a darker hue, as were the overstuffed cushions of the padded chair in which Sorial sat.

“So you’re a man now, stableboy.”

At the sound of Alicia’s voice, Sorial rose. She had slipped into the room behind him, entering through a side door.

She was dressed in a simple blue frock that seemed designed to match the room’s décor and her feet were unshod. Her blond hair hung loosely, framing her face as it spilled over her shoulders. Even Sorial’s untrained eye didn’t miss the traces of rouge on her cheeks and lips. He wondered if he kissed her now whether the color would smear onto his own mouth. Not that such a thing was going to happen…

“You’ve grown a lot since we first met.” She moved toward him, her hands behind her back, concealing something. “Hopefully,
all
of you has grown equally. Not that what I saw that day at the river made it appear anything was… underdeveloped.”

Sorial wondered if his face was coloring. “I see you’ve recovered, M’lady.”

“Obviously. I wasn’t hurt, though. It was Vagrum who took the beating.”

“How is he?”

“Grumpy. He’s my shadow. Everyone’s being excessively careful… paranoia and hysteria. I can’t even go to the river unaccompanied. I’m stuck here.”

Sorial looked around. “That don’t seem so bad.”

“Compared to a mouse-infested stable, perhaps not. But a prison is a prison, stableboy, no matter how comfortable it may seem. Don’t forget that. Anyway, you have my thanks for that night, but it’s something I’ve put behind me.”

“I’m glad there ain’t no lasting effects.” He didn’t necessarily believe her but he was mindful of Carannan’s words.

“As a token of my thanks and in honor of your reaching Maturity, please accept this.” The words sounded formal, as if they were rehearsed. She revealed what she was hiding behind her back by offering a dagger to him hilt-first.

It didn’t take a trained eye to mark this as a singular weapon, far superior to the one he already possessed. The style was simple, as might befit one of his class, but it was a first-rate blade - strong and sharp. It was the length of his forearm and as wide at its widest point as two of his fingers. One edge was smooth, the other serrated. It could kill, cleanly and quickly, if wielded by someone with skill. He stared at it in awe.

“Boys and blades,” noted Alicia. “You’re all the same. It was Daddy’s idea. He commissioned the best blacksmith in the city to make it and it probably cost more than you’ll earn in your lifetime.” She paused before adding, “You’d better take this too, or you’ll cut yourself.” In her other hand, she held a worn leather scabbard. “And don’t use it to skewer your dinner with. It’s not a table knife.”

Sorial turned the dagger over in his hands, feeling its weight. It was surprisingly light. There was no comparison between this weapon and the one given to him by the stranger. That was a competent, well-honed blade; this was a masterpiece.

“Thank you, M’lady. I don’t know what to say.”

Alicia shrugged, although Sorial could tell by her concealed smile that she was pleased by his reaction. “Thank Daddy. It’s really his gift. I’m just the messenger. If it had been up to me, we would have given you some coins to spend as you saw fit in the market. Maybe I could have gone with you and gotten a few bargains. I doubt your haggling has improved since you demonstrated it to me all those years ago.”

They continued idly chatting for a while, with Alicia trying to bait Sorial into a verbal sparring match. She seemed almost desperate to return their relationship, such as it was, to where it had been before the night of the assault: light, breezy, and inconsequential. However, he was so entranced by his gift that his responses were muted and she eventually gave up in disgust.

After nearly an hour sitting awkwardly in a chamber whose opulence dwarfed anything he had previously experienced, he decided it was time to be on his way. The room was uncomfortably close and he was eager to get into the open air, even though it wouldn’t be cooler; only Alicia’s company had kept him here this long.

As he rose to leave, she approached him, stood on tip-toe, and gave him the Maturity salute - a kiss on the left cheek, a kiss on the right cheek, a kiss on the forehead. Or at least that’s what it was supposed to be. Alicia improvised, letting her warm breath tease the hair follicles on his left cheek before brushing her lips across the skin. She repeated the process with his right cheek. Finally, after only a moment’s hesitation, she concluded not with his forehead but with his lips - long, lingering, and unquestionably arousing, at least for Sorial. Her arms snaked around his torso and she pushed her body tightly against his. He didn’t know if she was aware of the effect she was having on him, although he suspected she couldn’t miss the telltale signs.

She stepped back with a saucy smile. Her green eyes were bright with something he had never before seen there. “Happy Maturity, stableboy.”

After leaving the house, he encountered the duke on the path back to the main road.

“I see you got it.” He indicated the sheathed knife Sorial was carrying. “I’m sure my daughter relished giving it to you. She’s been talking of nothing else all week. It’s a nice piece of work. Hopefully, it’ll serve you well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Your daughter said you chose the blade. I’m grateful.”

“Me? Alicia gives credit where it isn’t due. This is her gift. It’s true I made a few suggestions, but she gave the blacksmith his instructions and paid for it using her own coin. I suggested something a little more modest but she would have none of it.”

“I… must have misunderstood,” said Sorial, although he knew he hadn’t.

“Modesty from Alicia,” murmured the duke. “I didn’t think my daughter had a shy streak in her. Perhaps the gods are still working miracles. Anyway, add my wishes to Alicia’s gift. Happy Maturity, Sorial. I’ll drink to your health tonight.”

Carannan wasn’t the only one drinking to Sorial’s health that night and when eight or nine rounds had been consumed and Rexall stumbled out of The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s common room to head home to his bed, Sorial’s view of the place was spinning.

“Happy Maturity, Sor,” purred a voice to Sorial’s right.

He groggily tried to focus. Eventually, Annie’s smiling features swam into view, accompanied by an enticing view down her loose blouse. He hiccupped. “Thanks. Wassabout my present?”

She observed him critically. “Somehow, I don’t think you’d get the full benefit of it tonight. You may have overcelebrated. From experience, I can guarantee you’re going to have a very bad day tomorrow, and you probably won’t remember anything after Warburm gave you that free fifth round.”

“No present?” pouted Sorial.

“Not tonight, Sor. I want you to be in a state where you’ll enjoy it. Don’t worry, you’ll get what’s coming to you. Now let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”

To accomplish that feat, Annie practically had to carry Sorial, even though he outweighed her by a half. She was an expert at this sort of thing, having done it numerous times before with inebriated guests. She dumped Sorial, by now nearly unconscious, on his bed and divested him of his boots. She went to leave, then changed her mind. Even if Sorial wasn’t up to his initiation into manhood, there was no reason for her to spend the night alone.

She removed her work clothing but left on her shift then lay down next to him. It wasn’t a large bed, but by molding her body to his, she was able to arrange things so there was enough room. They fell asleep that way.

Thus ended Sorial’s day of Maturity. When he awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and noticed that Annie was sharing his bed, he was sure he had missed something very important.

If Azarak hadn’t been a man of honor, he would have abdicated his position as king of Vantok and ceded control to his hand-picked successor. Under normal circumstances, the necessities of governing never disturbed Azarak, but he was aware that the city, and perhaps the entire world, stood on the brink of an abyss. He didn’t want to be accountable for the deaths of hundreds or thousands of his subjects. Better to let someone less burdened by personal grief take that responsibility. Yet there was too much honor in Azarak to allow him to traverse such a cowardly route. When he had accepted the crown in the midst of the pomp of his coronation, he had promised to respect what it represented to the day of his death, and for better or worse, his body hadn’t breathed its last.

Ruling the city during this time when nothing was normal was an ordeal, and none of his advisors were better prepared than he was to cope with the circumstances. Commoners were robbed, beaten, murdered almost daily and it was difficult to apprehend the culprits. Eight weeks earlier, Duke Carannan's daughter had been set upon in an open street. There were reports like that every day. Much as Azarak disliked the idea, he realized the time was fast approaching when he would have to conscript able-bodied men into the Watch to increase its numbers. Order had to be restored or there was no hope.

It had been nearly two years since Azarak had received the elf ambassador and he still had no answer to the request she had made of him, nor had she returned to press the matter. Yet every day he delayed making the decision brought the reckoning that much closer. Although the subject had weighed heavily on his mind for these past seasons, he had spoken to no one about it except his chancellor, and then rarely. The time had come to broach the matter with Ferguson. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation but recognized it could no longer be delayed. It was too serious a matter and he had already put it off for too long.

It seemed there was no good resolution to the situation. If Azarak acceded to the request, he would be forced to raise and train an army - an expensive proposition that could bankrupt the city and result in his ouster from power when the royal coffers ran dry. If war didn’t come, Azarak would lose the throne and perhaps his head. Yet, if he refused the elves and a threat emerged from the Deep South, Vantok would face the danger unprepared. Azarak wished he possessed the decisiveness of the kings of legend but he found himself delaying and wavering, hoping something would occur to force the decision. Yet nothing stirred in The Forbidden Lands - or so said the few scouts Azarak had sent on exploratory missions. They saw signs of nothing other than a mountainous, largely uninhabited wasteland. No elves. Only nomadic human tribes, snakes and scorpions.

This afternoon’s public audience had been tedious since nearly every complainant coming before the throne was embroiled in a dispute over water rights or access to the river. After handling a dozen of these cases, Azarak cut short the audience and retreated to his sitting room for a moment’s peace and a goblet of chilled wine, his patience strained to the breaking point. The beginnings of a headache throbbed between his temples, but such migraines had been a constant companion recently. With all the larger issues looming, he didn’t have time to adjudicate disputes over who had the better claim to a patch of land next to the city’s main waterway.

“Shall I reduce Your Majesty’s public appearances to twice a week?” Toranim entered the room quietly, shutting the door behind him. He handed Azarak a small pouch filled with a powdery substance effective at muting the headaches.

“No.” The king sighed, dumping the medicine into his drink. “It’s just a bad day today. My mind is elsewhere. There are times when all these petty rulings seem pointless.”

“Yet to the people, they’re everything. They don’t see the bigger picture; all they see is how events twist their small world. Concerns about getting clean drinking water trump worries about a war that may or may not happen in the years to come. So they look to you.”

“Sometimes I think you’re my conscience.”

Toranim chuckled. “Hardly that. I’d make a poor conscience for anyone, myself included. I indulge too many pleasures of the flesh.”

              “The day you’re guilty of indulgence, my friend, is the day I take another wife.”

Azarak shrugged out of the heavy robes of state and donned a lighter cotton tunic. He had to remember to have the palace seamstress fashion less cumbersome garments. The current ones had been designed for a climate when it was cold at least some of the time. In the Summer heat, he was sweating off more weight than he could replenish with a full meal and two mugs of ale.

“I’ll be in the library,” announced the king.

Unsurprised, Toranim nodded his acknowledgment.

For more than a year, Azarak had spent nearly every free hour sitting at the single reading table in the royal library, surrounded by piles of rolled and bound parchments. The room contained the greatest collection of written works in Vantok, exceeding even what was available in the temple. The library was a repository of literary wealth - everything from the histories and philosophies of men dead for two millennia to the fictions that had become popular less than a century ago when writing became seen as a respectable pastime for those who were suited to, but didn’t enter, the priesthood.

Azarak confined his studies to three areas: elves, prophesies, and wizards. The more he read, the more convinced he became that the world might be on the brink of some great change, although he didn’t yet know whether to accept Eylene’s explanation. By their nature, the words of augers and mystics were couched in riddles, open to multiple interpretations. The art of prediction was so inexact that those practicing it couldn’t afford to be specific.

Azarak’s readings about wizards were enlightening. Those men once had walked the lands in actuality and weren’t merely part of ancient legends or tied to long-held traditions, such as Vantok’s persistence in naming one young woman of each generation as the “Wizard’s Bride.” They had been revered - even worshipped - because of their great powers. Wizards, however, were more apt to consider magic a curse than a blessing because the usage of their abilities ate away at their flesh, leaving them twisted and weak. Few lived to an old age. Most died before they saw thirty years, their bodies desiccated and broken. Once used, magic was said to be an addiction whose application couldn’t be slowed or stopped. The greatest wizard of all time, the feared and revered Malbranche, had vanished two days short of his thirty-fifth birthday. No one knew what had happened to him but there were stories aplenty, few of which Azarak considered plausible.

Then, some 900 years ago, the magic died. No more men were born with the innate capacity to channel the energy. All who underwent the trial to activate their powers perished. People became so frightened of the sacred portals that they destroyed them. It was said that the gods removed magic from the world because men had begun to do more honor to wizards than to them. Was it possible that, upon their deaths, they had re-instated magic as a parting gift? Eylene had counseled against such a belief, calling it superstitious. There was sense in that advice, but what if the unnatural heat plaguing Vantok was magical in nature? The more he studied wizards, the more intrigued Azarak became by them. Despite Eylene’s warning, he wasn’t eager to summarily dismiss the possibility of magic’s return.

Azarak had never been a scholar, as a boy preferring weapons training to studious pursuits. Consequently, his perusal of the ancient scrolls, many crumbling with age and nearly indecipherable, often led to frustration. The repeated use of the term “Otherverse” was one example of a cryptic word or phrase; he encountered it dozens of times but had no understanding of its meaning. But there were times when he experienced a flash of insight, as if the documents chose to reveal something to him. It was never sufficiently definitive to offer the king a solution to his most pressing dilemma, but it kept him from giving up his quest for hidden knowledge.

The time had come to bring the matter before the prelate. Although Ferguson’s public stance hadn’t wavered, Azarak was certain the high priest’s personal faith in the everlasting favor of the gods would be found wanting. He knew more than he had revealed and the king wondered whether, faced with Eylene’s pronouncement, Ferguson might be prompted to provide additional insight.

Less than an hour after entering the library, the king emerged, sought out Toranim, and ordered his carriage to be brought.

“Where are we going?” asked the puzzled chancellor.

“The temple. It’s time we paid our respects to the gods and their chosen representative among men.”

* * *

Vantok’s temple was the most grand structure in the whole of the city. Towering high above all other buildings, even the palace, it was a destination that attracted tourists from across the continent. Pilgrims from as far away as Andel and Syre came to the city to admire what was claimed by some to be the pinnacle of human architecture.

The walls were formed from interlocked blocks of white marble and black obsidian, the colors alternating to suggest a balance between light and darkness. Of the four giant steeples topping the edifice, two were white and two were black. They surrounded a translucent golden dome that formed the ceiling of the main worship hall. The high-set windows, of which there were many, were circular panes of colored glass - blue for air, green for water, red for fire, and umber for earth. Each block of marble or obsidian depicted a scene out of mythology. The walls of the temple told the entire history of the gods and their interaction with men. Even in an era when religion was losing its importance in the day-to-day lives of Vantok’s citizens, no one approached the temple with anything less than reverence. Its appearance encouraged humility, if not necessarily piety.

The king arrived with minimal ceremony, but his emergence from the palace had generated enough interest that word of his approach preceded him to the temple. Flanked by two dozen of the palace militia, he was met at the gilded double-door main entrance by the prelate himself, dressed in full ecclesiastical regalia. Wearing the robes of state and the crown of Vantok, Azarak dismounted and inclined his head in respect. The gesture was reciprocated. Then, with the growing throng gaping, for this was the first time since the death of his wife the king had visited the temple, the two most important men in the city vanished inside, followed by various aides and guards.

Thirty minutes later, Azarak, Toranim, and Ferguson gathered in the Prelate’s private study. The form and function displayed in public, as well as the bulky robes and uncomfortable accoutrements of rank, were cast off.

“Your visit surprises me, Your Majesty,” began Ferguson after they were seated in upholstered chairs around a circular wooden table with a map of Vantok carved into its surface. His tone was neutral, not indicating whether the surprise was a welcome one.

“You’ve come to the palace often enough, Your Eminence. I thought it was past time for me to return the honor. A conversation between the two of us is overdue. Since we last spoke, the grim predictions of your augers have borne fruit.”

“For all that I might wish you were incorrect, Your Majesty, you are not. But if you’ve come seeking additional wisdom about the future, I am afraid there’s little I can offer. The augers have been silent for more than a year now.”

“You mistake the meaning of my visit. I haven’t come to ask about the future but to reveal it.”

The prelate’s reaction was characteristically impassive, as if he had expected such a pronouncement. “Very well,” said Ferguson, one eyebrow lifting.

“Some time ago, I received a most unusual visit for a late night audience at the palace. She came and left in secrecy. She identified herself as an elf, ‘Eylene of the Farthan tribe,’ and her appearance was consistent with what we know of the elves from historical descriptions and paintings. She offered her people’s insight into our current situation and what may be to come. Unwilling to take her claims on faith, I began a systematic program of research that has kept me sequestered in the royal library for long hours. Although my studies haven’t enabled me to verify her statements, I’m convinced the peril she hinted at may be real.”

“A most unexpected development indeed. I shall, of course, rely on your identification of this ambassador as an elf. It doesn’t seem as unlikely to me as it might to others; I have long doubted their rumored extinction even though they have absented themselves from human congress for centuries. Of greater interest is that they have chosen this time to reveal themselves.”

“Then you believe her to be legitimate?”

“I didn’t meet her, Your Majesty, so I cannot say for certain. But why would anyone go to the trouble of impersonating an elf? What would be the point and purpose?”

Azarak had considered this argument and, despite the seeming unlikelihood that a creature of children’s stories had walked into the palace and requested an audience, he had decided to accept Eylene as what she claimed to be unless evidence to the contrary could be produced. Her motives, however, were inscrutable. There almost certainly was a purpose to her visit beyond inquiring about a potential alliance and warning him about a threat to the south.

“What information did the ambassador offer?” Ferguson’s voice betrayed only a mild curiosity.

“She said the gods haven’t abandoned us, at least not in the traditional sense. They’re dead.”