The Last Whisper of the Gods (7 page)

Sorial wondered if he would see the Duke, Alicia, and Vagrum again. Logic told him it was unlikely but intuition hinted at an inevitability. Some whim of fate or prodding of the gods had bound them together for reasons Sorial couldn’t begin to guess at. His mother might know but... Sorial felt another surge of frustration at the idea that the answers - at least some of them - were so close.

* * *

The day after the storm brought little traffic to the inn. In addition to the unprecedented heat, there was now a concern among the citizenry that worse things than yesterday’s explosion of hail and lightning might be lurking beyond the horizon. Soothsayers warned of dire omens and a populace already cowed by rumors of the gods’ abandonment became more fearful. With merchant travel having diminished as a result of the city’s lack of saleable crops, Vantok was in danger of becoming isolated from the rest of the continent. Basingham, a mere two weeks’ walk to the northwest, was said to be experiencing normal conditions.

For Sorial, the only thing to matter was that the slackening of trade meant less work to do in the stable. So any animal - even the piebald mare currently occupying the largest stall - received an inordinate amount of attention, if only as a way to stave off boredom. Sorial had just finished brushing her down and was approaching with a bucket of oats when he felt something hard and round pressed into the small of his back.

In the moment of transition between confusion and panic, a harsh whisper hissed close to his left ear: “Don’t turn around. What you feel is the muzzle of my pistol. I have no wish to use it but will if I have to. You and I are going to have a talk.”

Sorial closed his eyes and willed his heart rate to slow. His arms had gone slack from terror. But he obeyed the command and didn’t turn around.

He couldn’t tell with certainty whether the stranger was a man or a woman, but the timbre of the whisper hinted at the latter. Sorial couldn’t think what she might want. No one with the resources to possess a gun could have any interest in stealing as unimpressive a mount as the mare.

The object was removed from Sorial’s back but he remained stock still.

“I’ve watched you from afar,” she said, her voice conversational. “You aren’t what I expected, but I suppose your mother has worked diligently to hide you. Truth be told, she hasn’t done a good job. Your identity is sought-after by some and, for the right price, any information can be bought. If I can find you, so will others... eventually.

“I bear you no ill will, Sorial son of Kara. Quite the contrary. There is risk in my coming here, and some would dismiss this visit as a sentimental folly with no loftier motive than to sate my curiosity. Perhaps they’re right. Yet here I am, making contact rather than merely observing. The future will inform us both whether this was propitious or foolish.”

Sorial found his voice. He was surprised that, when he spoke, it was steady, not the hoarse croak he imagined it might be. “You speak in riddles.”

“I have reasons for not speaking plainly. You and I are pawns in a game started before either of us was born and I’ve come here at great personal risk to provide you with a warning and a gift.

“The world is changing. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now, although perhaps you dismiss it as a part of a natural cycle. It isn’t. This heat will fade with the onset of Winter but it will return with a greater vengeance next year. He who is behind it has extraordinary, almost inhuman, patience. He doesn’t demand results today, tomorrow, next season, or even next year. You’ve been put into play by your mother’s selfless devotion, however misguided, to certain principles, and protected by a belief that your enemies won’t find you if you are hidden in plain sight. I’m sympathetic to your plight and wish to aid you to the best of my abilities but without turning traitor against my allies. I walk a fine line, for there are eyes watching me as well.

“My warning is this: Be wary of everyone, even those you think of as friends. At some time, you will be betrayed and, although many of those around you are true, trusting the false ones could be your undoing. There are powerful forces arrayed behind and against you, and it won’t be easy to differentiate those on one side from those on the other.

“Take this gift. It doesn’t require much skill to use, but keep it close. Few would expect a stableboy to be thus armed. Sleep with it tucked in the straw of your mattress. When you walk the streets, conceal it under your tunic. Your greatest weapon may be your wits, but they won’t save you if someone bigger and quicker comes after you with a knife.”

Those were the last words she spoke, and her sudden disappearance - as if into thin air - left Sorial with a dozen questions he didn’t get a chance to ask. He turned to find himself alone in the stable, but she had left behind proof of her corporeality. At Sorial’s feet was a small dagger with a worn leather pommel and a sharp, serrated blade. Although no longer than the palm of his hand, it was neither a toy nor an ornament. Instead, it was a serious weapon capable of delivering a vicious and possibly lethal blow - the kind wealthy merchants concealed on their persons for protection against thieves who made it past their bodyguards. With the same care he might reserve for a coiled serpent, Sorial retrieved the dagger and turned it over in his hands. When a prick of his index finger with almost no pressure drew blood, he recognized how well-honed the blade was.

Later that afternoon, Vantok was visited by a rare rain shower. Unlike the day before, the skies didn’t turn black as night and there was no thunder. Even though the rain didn’t last long, there was much celebration outside; this was the first gift of any sort the skies had provided in weeks. Inside the stable, however, with only the mare for company, Sorial was too deep in contemplation to notice. His thoughts were dark and jumbled. If he had been confused about his past and identity from his conversation with Kara, how much more uncertainty had five minutes with a faceless stranger added?

Although Sorial’s visitor had burdened him with riddles, she had also provided confirmation that his fears weren’t groundless. Whatever was going on involved him intimately, much as his mother had hinted. An anonymous stableboy, “hidden in plain sight” because of a legacy of which he was ignorant. Dangerous times, indeed. He wished he knew who the mystery woman was, why she had chosen to provide him with a cryptic warning, and whether she felt he would need to use the dagger. It hadn’t been given lightly.

When he was a child, a visiting priest had remarked that the world didn’t change. The gods had made it such - solid, unyielding, and reliable. Men, easily lured astray from the true path, might alter but the world around them remained the same. Sorial no longer believed that precept to be true. The stranger was right - this was not some perturbation in the natural order. The rumors about the gods were not the exaggerations of deranged heretics. It was the only thing that made sense. The priest who had visited the inn in the grip of despair had seen the new reality. Now Sorial would have to find his place in it.

He wondered if he would ever be given a chance to ask his visitor the questions he had formulated since their brief encounter. Would she continue to watch him?  Would she reach out again? If they both survived what was to come, perhaps their paths would cross, but Sorial had no way to determine how likely that “if” might be.

Vantok's heat wave broke five weeks into Harvest, nearly midway between Summer and Winter. Not even the oldest residents of the city could remember such a prolonged period of warmth after the height of Summer. Everyone, from the lowliest of peasants to the highest of nobility, accepted it as a portent of ill things to come. Even the king, who wasn’t inclined to acknowledge supernatural explanations for the vagaries of the weather, conceded that something wasn’t right.

The past year had been a difficult period for Azarak. The death of his wife was followed by a troubled Winter spent quelling the rumors sponsored by anti-religious fanatics. Just as things were getting back to normal and he achieved a reprieve from the constant calls for him to re-marry by naming a successor, there was arson and murder at one of the city’s most popular drinking spots followed by the heat wave and a hail storm that caused widespread damage. Doomsayers predicted the worst was yet to come. This was thunder in the distance, lightning on the horizon.

At least there was peace among the human kingdoms. Recent trade agreements between Vantok and its nearest neighbors, Basingham and Earlford, had resulted in closer cooperation and increased commerce. At the height of the heat wave, few merchants made the trek to Vantok - the returns weren’t worth the journey. Now, with cooler temperatures holding sway, the caravans were returning. A delegation from Obis, north of The Broken Crags, suggested a patrolled highway through the dangerous mountain range that would be jointly manned by the northern and southern cities. Presently, the only convenient route through The Crags was the aptly-named Widow’s Pass, which was treacherous in good weather and impassible for much of Winter. The ambassador from Obis also broached the possibility of a marriage between King Azarak and Myselene, the second princess of Obis, reportedly a great beauty and her father’s favorite. She was too young to be wedded or bedded at this time, but a formal engagement wasn’t out of the question if the king could be persuaded. A date would then be established when she was closer to Maturity. Chancellor Toranim, in favor of the match, was arranging for a royal visit by a contingent from Obis - a complex endeavor considering the great distance between the two cities. While Azarak’s libido was stoked by the possibility of a union with a young, nubile princess, his heart wasn’t in it. He wondered whether the true path to happiness might lie in marrying a harridan. At least that would limit the potential of infidelity. Would the sting of Amenia’s betrayal ever fade?

A meeting with the royal family of Obis was many months - or even years - in the future, and Azarak had other concerns at the moment. As he sat in the sanctuary of his quarters, pondering the circumstances, there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Come,” he called, knowing that if it was anyone other than Chancellor Toranim or his chamberlain, the guards would have stopped the visitor. No one else was allowed unvetted into this wing of the palace.

“Good evening, Majesty.” Toranim slipped into the room. Having not yet seen his bed, he was still dressed in official clothing.

“Good evening, Chancellor. What brings you here at this hour? I was about to write today’s entry in my diary then turn in for the night.” It wasn’t late but, since the death of his wife, the king had become an early riser, preferring the solace of the pre-dawn morning to that of late nights.

“Unconventional as it may be, we have a visitor. The Prelate awaits your pleasure in the private audience room. He begs your pardon for coming at such a late hour but believes it better for him to arrive with the relative anonymity permitted by darkness. The fewer eyes that spy him, the less tongues will wag. At least I believe those were his words.”

“Why has he come?” sighed Azarak. A meeting with Ferguson early in the day, when his mind was sharp, was bad enough, but at night, when he craved rest more than the riddle-solving that accompanied discourses with the prelate, it was torturous.

“I don’t know,” admitted Toranim. “But he wouldn’t be here unless it was important. You know he detests leaving his fiefdom. Coming to the palace offers a reminder that he isn’t the most powerful man in Vantok.”

Azarak nodded. This was the only place in the city where Ferguson couldn’t enforce his will. “Tell the prelate I’ll be with him presently.”

Less than ten minutes later, Azarak swept into the private audience chamber. Although informally attired, he wore a silver circlet on his head as a reminder of his rank. The full crown, in addition to being damned uncomfortable, would have been overkill for this situation. But some form of ornamentation was necessary. When it came to encounters with Ferguson, details mattered.

The prelate was seated comfortably at one of the chairs around the table, sipping a particularly fine vintage of red wine from a silver goblet. When Azarak entered, Ferguson rose and offered a perfunctory bow, which was returned. A servant proffered the king a full chalice of the same wine before disappearing.

“Prelate, you honor the palace with your presence. I wish I’d known you were coming. I would have provided a welcome more appropriate to your rank.”

“The fewer who know of this trip, the better, Your Majesty. I came at this late hour without an escort to assure that my arrival would not be noticed. We have a problem. At the moment, it is merely a nuisance but by Planting, it may become a serious issue.”

Azarak stifled a sigh. This was all he needed. He hoped Ferguson was being overly dramatic, although that wasn't in the prelate’s nature.

“The holy augers have read the signs and believe the weather we are experiencing represents not merely a transitory heat wave, but the beginning of something ominous. During Winter, the mildness will be welcome and may be seen as a benison from the gods; it will save Vantok’s poorest families from the depravations associated with cold. Wells won't ice over and fire wood carted in from the northeast will be plentiful. It will also allow farmers to begin sowing their seeds early. But when later Planting becomes as hot as this Harvest and the Summer’s conditions turn unbearable, we’ll face a major crisis of faith and practicality. As crops wither and food becomes scarce, the rumors about the abandonment of the gods - rumors that have never fully died despite the best efforts of the Temple to quash them - will re-surface with vigor. A year from now, we could face civil and ecclesiastical rebellion.”

“How accurate are the predictions of your holy augurs?” asked Azarak. He had heard of these mysterious beings before, but only in shadowy talk. For Ferguson to mention them in open conversation spoke volumes about the level of his concern.

“The future is difficult for any man to see, no matter how gifted he may be. Unlike the past, which is fixed, the future is fluid, constantly changed by the acts of the present. The further away one looks, the less sure the vision. But I have faith in the augers. When they speak, which isn’t often, I have found it wise to listen. Never before have they predicted something so dire. One of them, in attempting to gaze beyond the norm and glimpse how bad things may become, suffered a seizure and died.”

“What can be done? We have no control over the weather. That’s in the realm of the gods.”

“Indeed. That they would allow this to happen is a sign of great disfavor.”

“Have they abandoned us, then? Are the alarmists and heretics correct?” Azarak was no more religious than the common man, but the thought of being
alone
was worrying.

The question discomfited Ferguson. “We must see what comes to pass, Your Majesty. It is not up to ones such as us to question the will of the gods. We must continue to be faithful and true to them while at the same time seeking our own salvation.”

“What does that mean?” Azarak didn’t expect a straight answer. Ferguson, like all mystics and priests, thrived on speaking in riddles. He sometimes wondered if there was a secret ecclesiastical law that forbade straightforward answers to uncomfortable questions. “How do we regain the favor of the gods?”

“We must pray that any disfavor is temporary. But know that the gods do not act capriciously. The best approach is for each of us to live his life in the most pious and repentant manner possible.”

“That’s it? You have no better advice than that?” The king was incredulous at the prelate’s apparent lack of insight.

“We’ll talk more of this if the predictions of the augers bear fruit. I pray those discussions won’t be necessary. For now, however, I have chosen to provide you with this information so you may prepare as best you can. Consider what Vantok will need to survive a punishing Summer. It may be that next year the seasonal norms could be reversed, with planting occurring when harvests normally take place, growth during Winter, and harvest before the heat of Summer. With the scourge confined to Vantok, we may be able to import vital  resources from the other cities, although merchants will charge a premium. If this seems cryptic, Your Majesty, I apologize. There’s nothing more I can say at this time other than to hope you’ll take my warning to heart and not dismiss it because it lacks specifics.”

Long after Ferguson had taken his leave, Azarak sat alone in the room, staring into an empty goblet. It was warm enough that a fire wasn’t needed, so the only light came from two lanterns, each of which cast monstrous shadows.

The most disquieting thing about Ferguson’s visit was what the prelate had gone to great lengths not to say: the gods wouldn’t help. This was as close as he had come to endorsing the notion of abandonment. If Ferguson had been converted to that way of thinking, all hope was gone. Azarak had long suspected the Temple’s official position wasn’t in lockstep with the private views of many of its servants, but he wondered how long it would be before the continuing denial of abandonment made Ferguson and his subordinates seem obdurate and out-of-touch.

The prelate was correct in his assessment. If the heat predicted by the augers came to pass, it would be a disaster. The usual result of bad planting and growth seasons - famine and disease - would be complicated by the despair that would accompany a loss of faith. Always before during bad times, people believed the gods would relent and lift the punishment if enough acts of contrition and prayers were offered. But if the gods had turned their backs on their creations...

“Your Majesty,” said a voice, soft but respectful.

Azarak started, surprised to discover he was no longer alone. Toranim stood just inside the doorway. “Yes, Chancellor?”

“You have another visitor.”

Azarak raised an eyebrow in startlement and consternation. It had to be nearing midnight.
No one
sought an audience at this hour - at least not without prior notice. “Chancellor, please make it clear that audience hours are over. I’ll see the supplicant tomorrow. For now, I need solitude and sleep.”

“You may wish to see this ambassador now. I don’t think she’ll be here come morning.”

“She?” Azarak was familiar with the ambassadors of the great cities, and none were women.

“She calls herself Ambassador Eylene of the tribe of Farthan from the Deep South. The
elf
tribe of Farthan.” That one word, emphasized ever-so-slightly, removed any possibility that the king wouldn’t accept this meeting.

It had been centuries since the last appearance of an elf in Vantok’s court, and almost as long since the most recent recorded sighting of a member of the ancient, reclusive race by any human being. Long ago, elves and humans intermingled freely across the civilized world but, with their numbers dwindling and their relations with humans becoming fractious, they withdrew from all the lands of co-inhabitation. Some were rumored to have receded to the frigid lands far north of Syre, the so-called “White World.” Others were reputed to have set sail for the distant, uninhabited continents across the ocean. And still others were said to have passed south into, or beyond, The Forbidden Lands. Common belief was that elves - like dragons, trolls, wyrms, djinn, and so many other creatures of the fabled mystical ages - had long ago died out. They lived on in children’s stories but any grown man who spoke of them in a present tense would be scoffed at.

“An elf? Are you sure?” asked Azarak. It was a foolish statement born of surprise; his chancellor wouldn’t have made the assertion if he wasn’t certain.

Toranim shrugged. “Why don’t you meet her? My experience with elves is no greater than yours. My assessment’s based on how she looks, and she could be a drawing from a book of fables come to life.”

For an elf - if she was an elf - to appear at this time…it couldn’t be a coincidence. It was said that at the beginnings and ends of eras, momentous events occurred - events that reformed the foundations of creation. Azarak felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Since being a boy, watching his father rule the city from his great throne, he had yearned to be a king. But he never wanted to be one during a time such as this. Far better to be a commoner living in blissful ignorance when the end came.

“Your Majesty, will you see her?”

There could be no question of his response. “Show her in.”

Toranim withdrew. He was scarcely gone long enough for Azarak to gather the shreds of his composure. When he returned, a slight form shadowed him. Facing the king, she bowed deeply.

From the little he could see of her, Eylene more closely resembled a child than a full-grown woman. She was slender and short, with the top of her head not reaching Toranim’s shoulders. She was dressed in a dark green cowled robe; with the hood up, her features were hidden in shadow. Azarak rubbed his eyes; there was something odd about her appearance. She seemed almost out-of-focus. Perhaps it was the dimness of the light or the tiredness of his vision.