Angst (Book 4) (24 page)

22

Voltari glanced over the equipment assembled on the table.
He had spent decades building the device, imbuing its components with magic,
reinforcing its structure…. The only thing that had been missing was sufficient
magical energy to power it. He smiled—a toothless, ruthless smile—until now.

Angus has done it,
he thought with satisfaction.
The
stopper has been removed.

He reached out and began weaving together the intricate
parts of the spell. Soon it would take him and the machine to that fount of
energy, and from there…

1

The servant girl was waiting for Grayle when she stepped
through the mirror and into her room. “Milady,” she said. “The king—”

Grayle ignored her and hurried up to the table and chairs.
She paused: it wouldn’t look right without a complete set, would it? Three chairs
spaced around a square table didn’t have the appropriate symmetry; the table
needed
the fourth chair. But so did she. Without that chair she would not be able to
get the Gem of Transformation back.

“Milady,” the servant girl repeated with too much confidence
for a servant addressing one of the royal family. “The king bids you join him
in his chambers.”

Grayle ignored her and slid the cumbersome chair out from
the table. Perhaps if she took two chairs that opposed each other? She decided
to test the theory and turned to the servant girl. “Take this chair over to the
mirror,” she said, holding it out to her.

The servant girl hesitated. “The king—”

Grayle scowled at her and used her—
Argyle’s
—most
sinister tone as she said, “Now, please.”

This time the servant girl—she was a dainty little thing,
really, but her drab gray-white gown was atrocious—accepted the chair and
carried it awkwardly toward the mirror. As she did so, Grayle went to the chair
opposite the empty space at the table, picked it up, and set it aside. After
studying the arrangement and deciding it would do, she picked up the chair and
joined the servant girl at the mirror.

“Follow me,” Grayle ordered. “Bring the chair.” She
shouldn’t be taking the servant with her down to Argyle’s lair, but that didn’t
matter. The girl could be killed later if need be. For now, she needed to get
the Golden Key back so that she could find out what had happened to Argyle, and
that meant she had to take both chairs. It simply wouldn’t do to leave a lonely
little chair sitting in a despondent corner of her room, would it?

She was nearly halfway down the stair when she suddenly
stopped.
What am I doing?
She asked herself.
She doesn’t deserve to
die.
She turned back to the girl and smiled. “I’ve changed my mind,” she
said. “Take that chair back up to my room and wait for me there.”
As long as
I don’t
see
the chair out of place, it should be okay.

But it wasn’t. The rest of the way down the stair she
thought about all the different, strange places the girl could put the chair—and
the only thing that kept her going was her concern for Argyle. She paused only
a moment at the bottom of the stair to peek around the mirror and confirm that
no one was waiting to waylay her in Argyle’s private room.
If she puts the
chair in my closet
… She hurried up to Argyle’s bed and carefully set the
chair down with its back pressed firmly against the edge of the stone slab. She
backed away to see if it was centered, and then moved it three inches to the
left. She checked it again, nudged the chair the other way, and was finally
satisfied. She stepped onto it.

Her head was high enough to see over the top of the bed, and
the Golden Key was still nestled haphazardly in the crease where the stone slab
grew out of the wall. She gripped the edge of the bed, bent her knees, and
jumped up. It took three attempts before she finally had enough momentum and
the right balance and leverage to lift herself onto the bed. She crawled
quickly over to the Golden Key, ignoring the harsh rigidity of the stone beneath
her knees. Once the Golden Key was in her hand, she returned to the edge of the
bed, sat down, and slid back over the edge until her feet were firmly planted
on the chair. Then she jumped down and ran back to the stair to retrieve the
box.

She put the Golden Key in the box, closed it, and turned the
key to lock it. Then she returned to Argyle’s room and set the locked box on
the chair and wondered if she should open it. Something had happened to King
Tyr when he had hosted Argyle, and it had gone badly for him—
for
them
.
What if it had been worse for Argyle? What if when she hosted him, Argyle’s
injuries would become hers? Was that possible? She didn’t know; Argyle had
never been seriously injured while she hosted him. There had been threats,
assassination attempts, and even a near miss or two, but nothing major had
happened to him. He had had minor injuries, of course, but no one but Grayle
had hosted him since she had been trapped in his form. He had had to heal
naturally—or had ordered Iscara to heal him.

She reached for the key and opened the box—and paused.

What if I get trapped again?
she wondered as she
slipped out of her gown and shoes. Then she dismissed the possibility. Her
uncle hadn’t been trapped, had he? Besides, she had the key back, and there was
no way she would lose it again. She abruptly snapped up the Golden Key in her
palm and—

Nothing happened.

Where’s Argyle?
she wondered.
Why didn’t I change?
She frowned and stared at the yellow diamond resting on her palm.
What did
you do, Uncle?
she fiercely thought, dropping the Golden Key back into the
box. She bent down and methodically put her gown back on, wondering why Argyle
hadn’t appeared to her, why she hadn’t
felt
Argyle.

Is Argyle dead?
she wondered with sudden dread as she
grabbed for the Golden Key, hoping that this time it would work.

It didn’t.

She picked up the box and tucked it under her arm and turned
to the open mirror. The facets of the Golden Key bit into her fingers as she
squeezed it much too tightly, and she nearly screamed in fury as she hurried
over to the mirror and into the tunnel. She didn’t bother to close the
mirror-door behind her as she leapt onto the first step. The soles of her bare feet
slapped against the stone steps as she rapidly ascended, and their echoes bounced
around her. She ignored them. Her mind was focused on a single, fierce thought:
What did you do to Argyle!

2

Where is Grayle?
King Tyr wondered as he carried King
Urd’s journal to his desk.
I sent the servant for her nearly an hour ago.
He
frowned as he set the journal on his desk. Would it have any useful
information? After skimming through a half dozen of King Cyr’s successors and
finding no mention of Symptata or the Gem of Transformation, he had his doubts.
Oh, they had written plenty about how Argyle had callously, cleverly
consolidated his power in the capital city under the just and wise counsel of
the king; how Argyle’s network had expanded outward as the kingdom stretched
its domain into new lands; how with each new village inevitably yielded more
eager agents for Argyle—but nothing about Symptata or the Gem.
Nothing
.
It was as if the kings had already forgotten the source of King Cyr’s
discovery, even as they relished in the expansion of its influence.

Captain Blanchard should be returning soon,
he
thought as he carefully thumbed through the fragile, thick, heavy leaves of the
old tome.
He has had time to send the runners.
He glanced down at the
blood-stained towel still wrapped around his right hand. The blood had dried,
and the throbbing had dulled a little bit, but it needed a healer’s attention
soon. Perhaps he should return to Grayle’s room and check on Phillip instead of
waiting for Iscara?
Where is Grayle?
he thought as he skimmed through
the pages looking for references to Argyle, Symptata, or the Gem of
Transformation.

He was on his way back to the library for yet another
journal when he heard a door open and a soft scraping on the floor. It was
followed by a muffled call, “Milord?”

King Tyr frowned. The voice was faint, hesitant, but he was
almost certain he recognized it. He turned away from his library and hurried to
the entrance of the anteroom where he met his less scrupulous agents. The
screen edged forward slightly, and another “Milord?” issued out from behind it.

“Rascal?” King Tyr replied.

The screen stopped moving and Rascal said, his voice firm,
“Yes, Sire.”

King Tyr scowled at the screen and imagined the
foul-smelling, hideous figure standing behind it. He would have to have the
cleaning wenches scour the floor and walls in that part of the chamber, and
then do the same in the corridor beyond.

“There was no one at the door,” Rascal added. “I have news.”

King Tyr tried to ignore the intrusion into his private
chambers as best he could as he said, “Well?” he snapped. “What news is that?”

“Milord,” Rascal said in a suddenly shaky voice, “Argyle has
returned.”

King Tyr stared at the screen and a sickening feeling nearly
overwhelmed him as he remembered how close Argyle—
Symptata
—had come to
killing him. He
shouldn’t
have been able to do it, though. Argyle
should
have
returned to the Gem of Transformation when it was returned to the box.
But he hadn’t gone back, and now—

“Tell me what you know,” King Tyr demanded. “Others are
coming.”

“Yes, Sire,” Rascal answered. “He came out of his private
rooms and—” there was a rustling behind the screen, and then Rascal blurted
out, “He’s a ghost, Sire!”

King Tyr blinked and stared for a long moment before he
repeated, “A ghost?”

“Yes, Sire,” Rascal said. “A green one, from what I hear.”

There was a green aura around Argyle,
King Tyr
thought.
It should have been yellow. Symptata….
“What else?” he
demanded.

“Sire?”

“Is that all you have to report?” King Tyr asked.

“Well, Sire,” Rascal hesitated. “You wanted to know what was
happening down there, and that’s all I know. Barely more than an hour ago, he
burst out of his private rooms glowing green like a ghost and cackling away
like a witch. Mind you, I wasn’t down there, but that’s what those who
were
down there had to say when they ran out of his tunnels. They aren’t the kind to
make things like that up, either, Sire. Well, Dibble is that kind, but you can
tell when he’s fibbing by the way he tilts his head to the left side and tries
to look like he’s thinking about something else. It wasn’t tilting this time,
and his eyes were as big as eggs. He
saw
something
, and it made
him run. The others did, too, and it didn’t even take a pint to get it from
them.”

“They ran from Argyle?” King Tyr prompted.

“Oh, no, Sire,” Rascal corrected. “They ran from his ghost.”
He paused and then added in a very somber tone, “Argyle’s dead, Sire. That’s
what they’re saying now. He’s dead and his ghost has come back to haunt his
lair. Nobody wants to go back down there. Of course, it only just happened a
little while ago, so they might change their minds. That and others might not
believe them and go down there to see for themselves. It was a funny thing,
really, seeing them bursting out into that alley without a care in the world at
all about who saw them doing it.”

“I see,” King Tyr said, remembering his own reaction to
Argyle’s apparition—but that was because Argyle should have returned to the
Gem, not because he was a ghost. “Rascal—”

There was a firm knock at the main entrance of his private
room, and a moment later the door opened and Captain Blanchard stepped in.
“Sire,” he said as his head swiveled until it settled on King Tyr. “I have—”

“A moment, Captain,” King Tyr said.

Captain Blanchard stared for a long moment, nodded crisply,
and backed out of the room. Once he was gone, King Tyr turned back to Rascal
and said, “I want you to go down there yourself. If Argyle is there, tell him
you are the king’s messenger and that I wish to confer with him. Return here
with his reply.”

“Now, Sire,” Rascal protested. “A ghost—”

“He is no ghost,” King Tyr scolded. “Of that, I am certain.”

“But, Sire—”

“Rascal,” King Tyr soothed. “You have nothing to fear from
Argyle.” That much was true, but what did he have to fear from Symptata? “I
will reward you handsomely upon your return,” he added. “Now, go. I have kept
the Captain waiting too long already.”

There was a long pause before Rascal said, “Yes, Sire.” His
gnarled, dirt-encrusted fingertips appeared at the edge of the screen and it
began scooting backward over the floor. King Tyr waited until it had
disappeared into the corridor beyond and the door was shut before he went over
to the main entrance and opened that door.

“Captain Blanchard,” he said in an icy tone. “In the future
you will wait until I have given leave for you to enter before doing so.”

“My apologies, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. He was
standing straight and his eyes were fixed on a point over the king’s left
shoulder.

King Tyr stepped aside and let him into the room. “I trust
you have carried out my instructions?”

“Sire,” Captain Blanchard began as he stepped inside and
removed his cap. “I have sent word to the Grand Master, but the messenger has
not returned with his reply. The healer Iscara should be arriving soon.”

“And the redeployment of the men?” King Tyr asked.

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied. “I have placed the
city guard on alert and have increased the patrols. My men are securing the
castle and are preparing for any potential incursions that may occur. I have
men inquiring—delicately, of course—into the whereabouts of this Rascal you
seek.”

“There is no need for you to summon him,” King Tyr said. “I
was speaking to him when you so rudely interrupted us.”

Captain Blanchard tried to stand even more erect, and his
knuckles were white on his sword as he said, “My apologies, Sire. I had thought
your orders were urgent.”

“So they are, Captain,” King Tyr said. “Now, there is
something I wish to—”

His door burst open and Grayle barged into the room. “What
have you done to him?!” She screeched, holding up the Gem of Transformation as
she stomped toward him.

Captain Blanchard whirled and had his sword in hand, but she
ignored it—and him—as she stalked up to King Tyr.

“Put that away,” King Tyr muttered as he turned to Grayle.
“You should have been here some time ago,” he accused her. Why did she have the
Golden Key in her hand? And the box? He had left them—

“Where is he?!” she bellowed as if her tiny, high-pitched
voice had come from Argyle’s booming lungs.

“Now, Grayle,” he began, trying to calm her down. “You
should not have gone down there.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “What did you do to Argyle?” She
held out the gem and said. “He’s not here!”

“Argyle?” Captain Blanchard said, turning to face the king.
“He—

A breathless Iscara hurried into the room. She had her eyes
lowered as she said, “Sire, I was sent—”

“Silence!” King Tyr shouted.

Grayle glared at him, her lips pressed tightly together and
her grimy arms folded across her grotesque gown.

Captain Blanchard snapped around and slapped his sword to
his shoulder as if he expected to be sent into battle.

Iscara stumbled forward and bumped into Captain Blanchard
before she was able to stop.

“Now,” King Tyr said, lifting his injured right hand up.
“Let’s have some order, shall we?” He turned to Iscara and said, “Iscara, join
me at my table in the study. I would like to be seated while you tend to my
hand. You two can join us there.” As he walked through the door and over to the
table—which had his predecessor’s journals neatly stacked on it in
chronological order, except for King Cyr’s, which was spread out to the passage
on Symptata—he thought about the implications of what Rascal—and now Grayle—had
said. Argyle should have returned to the Gem of Transformation but he hadn’t.
Why not? Because Symptata had somehow released him—or was controlling him with
the master gem. The latter was more likely, since Argyle had a green aura and
that was what King Tyr had seen when he had released Argyle. It should have
been a yellow aura. But that didn’t matter at the moment; he needed to figure
out what he should do about it.

He sat down heavily and set his hand on the table. Iscara
turned to it and gently unwound the bandage. King Tyr turned his eyes away and
tried to ignore the resurgence of pain as the cloth peeled away from the wounds
and reopened them. He winced, and she put her hand on his wrist. It was a
surprisingly gentle touch, and within moments, the pain was gone—so were all
the other sensations beneath his wrist. He was tempted to look down to make
sure his hand was still there, but he shifted his attention to the other two,
instead.

Grayle’s eyes were fierce as she glared accusingly at him,
and he did his best to ignore that accusation. Captain Blanchard’s eyes were
also accusing, but behind them was not anger but a shrewd calculation. “All
right,” he began. “Captain Blanchard, what you are about to learn must be held
in the strictest of confidence.
No one
must be told of it. Is that
understood?”

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said, fixing his eyes above
the king’s shoulder again.

“Good,” he added. “I trust by your reaction that you are
familiar with who Argyle is?”

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied. “He is rumored to be
the head of an organization of thugs, but we have never been able to confirm
it.”

“Consider it confirmed, Captain,” King Tyr said. “But Argyle
is not the one who is in charge of this organization, I am.”

Captain Blanchard blinked several times and said nothing.

King Tyr smiled and glanced at Grayle. “Rather, Grayle has
been in charge of it these past few years, with some guidance from me.”

Captain Blanchard’s eyebrows rippled and his lips tightened,
but he kept his gaze fixed on the same distant point above King Tyr’s shoulder.

Iscara sucked in a sharp breath and King Tyr
almost
glanced
over at her. His hand was still numb, and it wouldn’t do to have her get
distracted away from healing it.

“The stone Grayle is holding is one of three Gems of
Transformation. It holds within it the essence of Argyle, and when it is worn,
the wearer hosts that essence. My ancestor found that stone and made use of it
to maintain order in our kingdom.”

He turned to Grayle and said, “I did exactly what you told
me to do, Grayle, but something went wrong. I was not alone in hosting Argyle.
Someone else was there, and he took control of Argyle away from me.”

“What?” she demanded. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” King Tyr said. “I have been reading King Cyr’s
journal—” He glanced at the open book on the table and quickly turned away.
Iscara had put his hand on it, palm up…. “King Cyr was the one who found that
stone, and what he says about it troubles me greatly. The Gems of
Transformation were created before The Taming by a wizard named Symptata. He
also created another stone to control them, but that stone was lost. Someone
must have found it. When I attempted to host Argyle, Symptata was there. He
took control of Argyle, and I was not prepared for it. But Argyle and I were
able to return the Gem of Transformation to the box. I completed the procedure
for returning Argyle to the Gem, but something went wrong. He and I were
separated and I fell to the floor, but Argyle remained.” He shuddered and shook
his head. “He was standing over me, bathed in a faint green aura, and Symptata
spoke to me through him.”

He paused and glanced at Captain Blanchard. “Rascal believes
Argyle is dead and his ghost has returned to haunt his warren. It has
frightened Argyle’s men away, but if they knew the truth, they would run
further.”

When he turned back to Grayle, his voice was soft, as he
said, “Symptata has returned, Grayle, and he has used the master gem to free
Argyle from his prison. He has set him loose and has control of him. What do
you think he will do?”

Grayle paled and bit her lip like she had done when she was
a little girl trying not to cry. “But Argyle!”