The Last Whisper of the Gods (29 page)

“And you can get down to the business of making an heir.”

“Things of that nature don’t have to wait for a betrothal or a wedding, my friend.”

* * *

If it wasn't improper for a woman of her standing, Myselene would have tossed decorum aside and given way to giddiness. Although the “official” betrothal hadn’t yet been announced, it was a formality. Her father’s emissary, the vice chancellor (a more trusted advisor than the doddering old fool who bore the “chancellor” title), had arrived earlier in the day. He would be the guest of honor at a celebratory dinner tonight. After that, he and Chancellor Toranim would be locked together in negotiations for several days. The waiting would be tedious, but since Myselene outpaced all the other contenders, she was confident that the result would be what she had worked for: Queen Myselene of Vantok.

One thing that remained unclear was whether she had any serious rivals. When it came to hearing unfiltered palace gossip, she had long since learned the simple trick of befriending the servants. Many high-born people thought of them as background objects and would talk freely in their presence. They knew more than most suspected and it required only a little kindness to draw them out. Many were just waiting for a friendly ear.

It was acknowledged that at one time, within a year after the first queen’s death, nearly every noble girl of age had been brought before the king... and rejected. Azarak had shown neither interest in nor partiality for any of them, and had gone so far as to name a successor not of his blood, leading to speculation that he intended to live out his life as a bachelor and die without issue. Such a thing was not unheard of, but it was unusual.

By her own assessment, Myselene’s campaign had been inspired. It was hard not to view Azarak as a conquest; she now knew how great warriors felt upon deflowering a notoriously virginal maiden. There was satisfaction in achieving the goal; the simple taste of victory was a nectar to be savored.

Initially, she had been circumspect in her interaction with Azarak. She had used their first few encounters to show off her mind. However, when his early interest had waned, she decided that what couldn’t be accomplished with talk might be achieved through other means.

She had begun by wearing the most daring dress in her traveling wardrobe - something favored by the courtesans of Syre. Designed to be worn without undergarments, it was sheer, with the left shoulder cut beneath the breast. Azarak had gaped the first time he saw her in it (as did nearly every other man, and a few women, at dinner that night), and his eyes didn’t leave her for the entire evening. The next time they met, she had come to the encounter modestly attired and with her previous demure attitude restored, but she had salted their conversation with double entendres. By the end of the evening, she had felt the heat from his gaze. She had her opening; now she had to deliver the final thrust.

The next night, he had summoned her to his chambers for a “private discussion.” The courtesan’s dress had been shed as soon as the door was closed behind her. For a man who hadn’t made love in more than a half-decade, there was no evidence of fumbling or rust. He had been skilled and patient and, once the pain had subsided, she had found pleasure in their joining. Lying in his arms afterward, still breathing hard after he dozed off, she had reflected that she might grow to like this. Sex had never held much fear for her, despite the tales of terror related by some of the noble ladies in Obis, but she now understood why some women devoted their lives to it.

Myselene hoped she was with child, but it would be a time before the conception sickness would let her know. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, at least as far as her aspirations were concerned. Azarak was a man of scrupulous honor. He would marry her whether or not her womb was home to his royal child; he would take her as his wife because he had deflowered her. That night had sealed her future.

That night, Azarak had allowed her to remain in his chambers until dawn’s light - something unheard of with courtesans and unusual with mistresses. In the morning, he hadn't bundled her out through a secret passage or sent her scurrying back to her room in a disguise. Instead, he had summoned her maid and allowed her to leave with dignity. Their interaction at their next encounter, a supper for a wealthy merchant from Basingham, had been formal with no hint of intimacy, but she had sat at his right hand, opposite the guest of honor. The table placement had ignited widespread speculation; those present had sensed the sands of influence shifting under their feet. Most had chosen to flatter her, recognizing that the king might have found his new queen.

Azarak had sent for her thrice more since then, with each experience more enjoyable than the previous one. Now, it was just a matter of formalizing the relationship. There was one thing more Myselene wanted from Azarak: his trust. It wasn’t her intention to be a trophy smiling from a throne beside his, dancing with guests at dinners, and riding next to him in companionable silence through the streets of Vantok. She wanted to share his rule, to aid his decisions. To achieve that goal would require him to trust and believe in her. He was familiar with her intellect; he knew she was no vapid ornament. Now, Azarak had to be convinced that she could use her intelligence for the betterment of his governing. Convincing him to cede even the smallest measure of his power wouldn’t be a simple task. She might have captured Azarak the man, but Azarak the king remained elusive.

Myselene’s ruminations were disturbed by her maid, who announced the arrival of Vice Chancellor Gorton. The girl had barely finished saying the name when Gorton swept into the room like a force of nature, his strides long and purposeful, his black cape billowing behind him. His handsome face with its carefully manicured salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee lit up with pleasure upon seeing Myselene. He offered her a perfunctory bow, as was demanded by custom, then wrapped her in a bear hug.

“Uncle!” she squealed with delight. Of all the dignitaries and functionaries at court who had raised Myselene from a babe, none had been more doting than Gorton, the confirmed bachelor who loved children. A notorious womanizer, Gorton was rumored to have sired more than a dozen bastards, all of whose upbringing he generously paid for. Myselene didn’t care about such things, however; she had adored her “Uncle” Gorton as a child and was no less enamored of him now that she had achieved her Maturity. Viewed from the vantage of a woman, she could see what made him so appealing to adult members of her sex: the deep, dark brown eyes, the ready grin, and a full head of dark hair that, despite showing signs of graying around the temples, was neither receding nor thinning.

“So, little one, you’ve caught yourself a king.” His voice was soft, strong, and full of unabashed affection.

“Did you doubt I would?” challenged Myselene.

He laughed. “I didn’t, but others did. When your father first contemplated sending you here to woo His Majesty King Azarak, there were many at court who believed you were doomed to fail, and would return humiliated. ‘Let her go,’ I counseled. ‘One look at her pretty face and King Azarak will be smitten.’ Once His Majesty agreed to host you, the outcome was never in doubt.”

“It took a little more than my face to convince him.”

Gorton raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Tell me no more. There are some details better kept from uncles and fathers.”

“You’re here to negotiate the wedding settlement?”

“That’s the duty I’ve been entrusted with. I know Chancellor Toranim of old. It will be a challenging negotiation. He knows how to wring water from desert sand.”

“This wedding
must
take place.” Myselene was adamant. Although rare, there were times when seemingly promising marriages were scuttled in this phase.

“You need not fear, little one. We’ll yell at each other, call each other unspeakable names, and challenge each other’s manhood. I’ll stomp my feet and storm from the room, shouting that I’ll take you back to Obis immediately. He’ll spill ink all over the provisional document and yell that you aren’t fit to be his queen. Then, in the end, we’ll shake hands, get drunk together, and emerge with an agreement both sides can live with.”

“You mustn’t go
too
far, Uncle. I won’t see my marriage ruined by an ill-chosen remark or because of some small difference in compensation.”

“Toranim and I are both good at this. We enjoy the game. And your father has given me a great deal of latitude. As long as King Azarak doesn’t demand half the army of Obis, you’ll be queen. Speaking of which, do you have a sense of what your bridegroom might want?” The question wasn’t normally asked of a girl, but Myselene wasn’t a normal girl.

She considered. “More than anything, Vantok needs a change in weather. This heat wave has been unrelenting. Since all the gold in Obis can’t produce a cool breeze, I believe His Majesty will be more interested in troops than treasure. He recently started a conscription to build a working army. Incorporating well-trained soldiers from Obis into their ranks would be a boon.”

“Is King Azarak expecting to go to war?”

“He looks with concern to the Deep South. There’s something brewing in The Forbidden Lands, or beyond there, that causes his brow to furrow. He wants a strong force in place in case it’s needed to repel an invasion. I haven’t been privy to the meetings where such matters are discussed, but he’s whispered some of his concerns when we’re alone.”

“Pillow talk,” said Gorton.

Myselene nodded.

“Very well. Men over gold. I shall be generous in my final offer, if not my initial one. After all, it’s only fitting that a princess of Obis be well protected by her former vassals when she assumes her new position.”

“They must live in Vantok and come under my husband’s authority. Those who arrive must renounce Obis and become citizens of Vantok.”

“Of course,” said Gorton. “Otherwise, King Azarak wouldn’t agree. He doesn’t want an occupying force here; he wants a veteran core for a green army. But you must understand that these men will revere you even as they pledge obedience to your husband. He’ll gain their immediate loyalty through you. Such is the way of things.”

“It’s good to have you here, Uncle. I know my future is in capable hands.”

“Wait until the negotiations are complete before investing me with that faith.” Any doubt in those words was belied by a cheerful expression.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night, with the waxing moon bathing the surroundings in its soft glow, that Warburm called a halt to the journey. Thus far, their pace had taxed Sorial’s stamina. Although no stranger to hard labor, he wasn’t accustomed to extended periods of walking over uneven terrain. As he unfurled his thin bed roll and sat down on it, relief flooded through his overtaxed muscles.

“We’ll stop here for a while.” Warburm’s wheezing forced him to pause between each word. Sorial couldn’t see the innkeeper in the semi-darkness but he had little doubt Warburm was sweating profusely and perhaps doubled over from exhaustion. Of them all, he was by far the least fit to make a demanding journey. Once, he might have been a great adventurer, but the years in Vantok had softened him. He had admitted as much to Sorial shortly before their departure. “We’ll start again just before first light then travel till it becomes too hot to continue.”

They were off the east-west thoroughfare that connected Vantok to several small trading outposts and towns to the east. After traveling for about an hour, Warburm had led them south of the route, angling their course in the general direction of the ocean. Their intent was to follow the coast all the way to The Forbidden Lands, since Warburm claimed it would be suicide, “or near enough,” to pursue an inland path. The hills marking the boundary to The Forbidden Lands were gentlest near the ocean. They grew into monstrous mountains the farther east one went. Finding passes could take days and there was an elevated risk of falling or getting caught in a rock slide. There were rumors that some of The Forbidden Lands’ most unsavory creatures lived in those mountains, and they were likely to be hungry after a long, parched Summer. Even if the dragons and trolls of legend no longer roamed among those peaks, a pack of wolves or a single big cat could make easy work of a small band of humans.

Since they were without horses, they carried all their provisions - primarily non-perishable food and clean water - in packs strapped to their backs. Brindig and Darrin had advocated making the trip mounted, claiming that not only would it greatly reduce their transit time but it would allow them to carry more water. Lamanar had argued for bringing along a pack mule or two. In overruling everyone, Warburm had claimed that animals would limit their freedom and could slow them down if the terrain became too rugged. Sorial believed there was another, unspoken reason for the innkeeper’s reluctance: it would be easier for Sorial to mount an escape if there were horses or mules he could ride. During the day’s journey, Warburm’s watchful eye rarely left him.

Soon, everyone was snoring except the affable Darrin, who had agreed to take the first watch. Sleep didn’t come easily to Sorial. For so long, this trek had been an amorphous future
thing
, but now it was here and real. It was unsettling to acknowledge that his life might be numbered in days, not years. In a way, though, it was easier to accept that the journey might end in death than the other thing. Death at least was natural. Magic, on the other hand...

“Strange out here, ain’t it?” said Darrin, startling Sorial, who hadn’t heard him approach. He was squatting on his haunches next to the bedroll. “You get so used to the sounds of a city that when they’re gone, it’s hard to relax. But all this silence ain’t natural. I was born in a town out in the middle of nowhere, far from Vantok. There should be night sounds - insects, animals,  and other things. But there’s nothing. Heat’s killed everything. We’re all alone out here.”

“Is that supposed to make me more confident?” asked Sorial.

Darrin chuckled. “No, but it makes the job of taking the watch easier. Normally in a place like this, I’d have one hand on the hilt of my sword at all times, worried we’d seem easy prey for a pack of hungry wolves. Not tonight.”

“Is there anything to worry about?”

“Stinger-snails and snakes. They barely make a sound. If you take off your boots to sleep, make sure you shake them out before putting them on again. You never know what might crawl into them. In these parts, it shouldn’t be much of a problem. South of the mountains, though... I’ve heard tales of serpents so large in The Forbidden Lands they’ll eat a man whole. You never know if there’s truth in stories like them. Brindig scoffs, but I’m more open-minded.”

“The only thing I know about The Forbidden Lands is I was always told to avoid them, that ain’t no one went there ever came back.” Children were commonly threatened that if they misbehaved, they would be sent to The Forbidden Lands.

“It’s true they’re a bad place, but their reputation’s exaggerated. Them’s harsh environs but men live there, mainly nomads and loners who don’t like cities or large settlements. When I was a lad, I met a group of traders come north from The Forbidden Lands. They were much like you and me, except maybe rougher and more hardy. They said they lived down there because the women were willing and there wasn’t no kings and nobles to answer to.”

“What about all the lost expeditions?”

“Feeding and watering a legion in climate like that, surrounded by unforgiving terrain and hostile tribesmen... Over the years, there’s been single explorers and small groups entering The Forbidden Lands and returning. Many went there seeking their fortunes, hoping to find gold or gems or rare goods in trade with the natives. None reported anything worthwhile. We avoid The Forbidden Lands not only because they’re dangerous but because there ain’t no reason to go there. And since this heat started, dying of thirst along the way became a bigger concern than getting eaten by a giant snake or stung by a stinger-snail.”

“Did Warburm tell you why we’re going?”

“Because we’re damn fools,” said a gruff voice from out of the darkness. Brindig was awake, although Sorial didn’t know how long he had been listening.

“Because we’re good soldiers and friends to you,” said Darrin. “We don’t know the mission, if that’s what you’re asking, but we’ve been assigned tasks and we’ll do ’em. We was given a choice, not conscripted. But the king himself made the request, and who’re we to refuse a royal commission?”

“The extra pay didn’t hurt neither,” added Brindig.

“There’s that. Our duty is to protect you.”

“And make sure you don’t run off,” said Brindig. “So don’t try it. If’n you do, we’ll tie you up. Not that anyone’s given much thought to how we’re supposed to move someone your size if you’re trussed up. I ain’t carrying you, that’s for sure. Fool thing, not bringing horses.”

“Warburm said it wasn’t likely you’d try to escape,” said Darrin. “Whatever it is you got to do down there, you’re going willingly. We’re supposed to see that you get there unharmed. Nothing was said about bringing you back, so we assume you’re going to live in one of those native settlements.”

“Can’t think why they’d be so desperate for a stableboy that the king would get involved,” opined Brindig.

Sorial wondered how the two would react if he told them he was traveling into The Forbidden Lands to find a portal that would either turn him into a wizard or kill him. They’d probably think he was making sport with them. No rational person believed in wizards these days. He wondered if people still believed in the gods and whether it was more difficult to accept their absence than the return of wizards. There was ample evidence of both things.

“The king ain’t paying you to talk or keep others awake with your gossip,” said Warburm’s testy voice from out of the darkness. “Whoever be on watch keep a lookout and everyone else get some sleep. Or at least keep quiet so I can.”

* * *

Over the next few days, the group settled into a comfortable routine, traveling from pre-dawn until late morning, breaking when the day was hottest, then resuming in the late afternoon and continuing until well after dusk. Although the absence of rain might be a bane for farmers, the clear skies and dry ground aided Sorial and his companions. As Warburm, a veteran of many roads and trails, remarked, they were being spared the difficulties of trudging through mud and being unable to get dry at night. Since it was cooler in the open grasslands, sleep came more easily. In fact, with the path of the sun drifting lower in the southern sky and the days shortening, the temperatures were becoming bearable. Their chief concern had less to do with the climate than with the necessity of procuring fresh water. Even rationing, they would run out long before they reached their destination. Thus far, the three watering holes Warburm led them to had been bone-dry - they hadn’t been viable sources of water for seasons and perhaps years.

It took only two days for Sorial to admit he was hopelessly lost. Perhaps that might not have been the case had his knowledge of geography extended beyond the walls of Vantok, but he doubted he could find his way home if left to fend for himself. The position of the sun told him north from south, east from west, but he was no longer certain which direction led to the city. Their path through the knee-high grass had been circuitous and Vantok might as easily be directly north as west.

There was no difference in the terrain from horizon to horizon and, once they left the immediate environs of Vantok, they encountered no other travelers. Warburm exuded an air of confidence about their path, never pausing or seeming confused and rarely consulting the maps stashed in his pack. He claimed they were near the ocean but Sorial saw no signs of that - not that he would know for certain, having never seen a body of water larger than the Vantok River.

During the first three days of travel, Sorial’s closest compatriot was the garrulous Darrin, who seemingly never ran out of topics of interest and was willing to discuss anything from theology to a strange colored stain on his white shirt. Darrin was good at delivering monologues, so he kept up a constant stream of chatter even when Sorial, sunk in his own thoughts, was disinclined to engage him. Brindig rode with them, but mostly in a cocoon of moody silence. Sorial reflected on the bond between the two watchmen and marveled how individuals with such different dispositions could be so close. Maybe it was like a marriage in which they complemented each other.

Without much on the journey to interest him and with little required beyond the process of putting one foot in front of the other, Sorial’s mind was free to wander. Unwilling to look too closely at the single event defining his immediate future, he resorted to daydreaming about what might be if he succeeded. The Alicia of these thoughts was more docile than the real one and was inclined to gaze at him with complete adoration. Wryly, a part of his mind recognized that of all the conjurations of his imagination, this was the one least likely ever to happen no matter how great a magician he became.

Sorial was jolted out of his reverie when Warburm ceased his forward movement, raised a hand in warning, and ducked down. The rest of the group followed his lead.

“There be something, or someone, ahead,” he whispered.

They crept slowly forward, hidden by the high grasses. Eventually, after an interminable crawl, Sorial heard what had alerted Warburm: an indistinct noise that resolved into the guttural conversation of men. The faint smell of a smoky fire and something roasting hung in the air.

Warburm halted and motioned Lamanar to scout ahead. The priest, moving with a stealth Sorial didn’t expect, slid soundlessly forward, disappearing without a trace into the grass. Ten minutes later, he was back to report in hushed tones. “There are four, all traders by the look of them, in a crude camp. They have a pair of mules and a wagon and set up two large tents. I’d guess they’ve been there for at least a day or two, perhaps more. They’re eating a meal - some kind of animal roasted whole over an open fire. They may be waiting to rendezvous with another group before moving out. Or they could be itinerants who routinely move from place-to-place. Usually, such a group would have a least one woman with them, though.”

“Forbidden Lands folk?” asked Warburm.

Lamanar nodded. “They have that look about them. At the very least, they aren’t city dwellers.”

“Can we take them if need be?”

“We outnumber them five to four and are better armed and likely more skilled. Your pistol is worth at least two of them. We could beat them in a fight but it would risk injury and possibly death to one or more of us. We might be better advised to avoid them. It could be easily accomplished with little delay.”

Warburm shook his head. “We need information. This be our chance to get a first-hand account of the goings-on to the south. The key ain’t to alarm them or make them feel threatened. They got no more want to sell their blood than we do. We should be safe as long as we keep our weapons in their sheaths.”

“So you mean to approach them?”

“Making as much noise as possible. And we stick to the story we talked about in Vantok - we be fighting mercenaries fleeing sickness in the cities and seeking employment to the south.”

So they rose and began marching ahead, talking loudly among themselves and making an inordinate amount of collateral noise. By the time the camp came into sight, there were four ragged men blocking their path. Their stance was wary but not overly aggressive. Their cudgels - rough wood-hewn clubs - were conspicuously tucked in belts at their sides, readily accessible if the need arose.

Warburm slowed his pace but continued forward. His ruddy face broke into a wide grin. Sorial, Lamanar, and Darrin followed suit, with varying degrees of success when it came to looking cheerful. Brindig did his best not to scowl.

“Ho, the camp!” called out Warburm in greeting. He extended his hands palm-forward in a universal gesture of peace and goodwill. The others did the same, although it would be apparent to the traders they were all armed and their weapons were more sophisticated than clubs.