Angst (Book 4) (28 page)

There was a brief rustling, and then a light came to life
inside the tent. A moment later, Lieutenant Jarhad gruffly said, “Enter.”

She lifted the flap and stepped inside. Her eyes reflexively
darted around the room and took note of potential exits, hiding places,
valuables—there were precious few of them— Embril’s chest—which was sitting at
the foot of his cot—and finally Lieutenant Jarhad’s appearance. His eyes were
still heavy with sleep as he sluggishly asked, “What is it, Magdel? Has Giorge
worsened?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I have a favor to ask of
you.”

Lieutenant Jarhad yawned and slouched forward.

She released her grip on the cloak and said, “I would like
to store this here,” she said, nodding toward Embril’s chest. “It will be safer
in Embril’s chest.” She paused and added, “That is why we were coming to see
her when you returned.” She turned her hopeful, pleading eyes toward him.
“There is strange magic in it. We wanted to ask her about it, but she left so
suddenly….”

Lieutenant Jarhad looked at her for a moment, and then
shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, laying back on his cot and closing his
eyes. “Blow out the candle when you leave.”

“Thank you,” Magdel said, hurrying up to Embril’s chest. She
frowned. It was unlocked. She had not expected that; wizards were notorious
about protecting their secrets. She cautiously opened it, half-expecting some
spell or trap to assail her, but they didn’t. She lifted the lid, looked
inside, and frowned. There was precious little room in the chest, not nearly
enough for the box and The Tiger’s Eye. But the books were not packed very
well, and rearranging them might free up enough space for them. She set
Symptata’s box down and quickly removed all of the books—and noticed the chest
had a false bottom. A quick search yielded the mechanism to open it, and she
smiled. It was mostly empty, and two of the heavier tomes could be squeezed
into it. She reached for them and replaced the lid of the false bottom. Then
she put Symptata’s box and The Tiger’s Eye inside it and turned to the books.
She studied them for several seconds, rearranging them in her mind until she
found a spatially sound pattern, one that would work around the box and The Tiger’s
Eye and still hold all of the books. When she finished squeezing them in, she
closed the lid and hesitated. The way the patrol talked about Embril led her to
believe that no one else would dare to open the box, but could she take that
risk?

She reached for the ponderous padlock and smiled. It would
be child’s play for her to pick it—her uncle had made sure of that—so she
snapped it shut. Now, even if Lieutenant Jarhad was tempted to look at what she
had put in Embril’s box, he couldn’t—unless he could pick the lock or had the
key. Or broke it open. She sighed and moved over to blow out the candle.
Lieutenant Jarhad was already snoring. She glanced at the path to the tent flap
and then blew out the candle and strode swiftly, unerringly out of the tent.
When she got back to her own tent, Giorge had rolled over on his side and
curled up. Her breath caught in her throat, and she smiled.
He sleeps like
Little Giorgie
, she thought, moving up to gently cover him with the
blanket.

She had one last thing to do before going to sleep. She put
the things back into the pack and carried it outside to the pile of gear
waiting to be loaded on the horses in the morning. She left it there. When
Giorge woke up—and he
would
wake up—it would already be strapped to the
horse, and he wouldn’t find out what she had done until evening—if then.

She went back to their tent and lay down next to her son.
But she didn’t see the man he had become; she saw the little boy curled up in a
ball that she had been forced to abandon. Then she blinked and all that was
there was the strange man she had only just begun to recognize. She sighed and
blew out the candle.

7

Iscara knew there was something wrong the moment she saw
Argyle’s luminescence. A soft emerald green glow enveloped him like a second
skin. She didn’t need to look at the magic to know it wasn’t natural, not after
what she had heard the king say about Argyle. It wasn’t the strange aura that
bothered her the most; it was the manner in which Argyle moved. It wasn’t
fluid, like it usually was, but jerky, as if his muscles were plagued with
spasms. She had seen patients move like that, and there were remedies for it,
but this was different. Those patients couldn’t control their movements, but
Argyle seemed to be fighting against something that
didn’t
want him to
move.

“Iscara!” Argyle rasped. “Flee!”

She instantly, desperately wanted to obey him, but she
couldn’t. The king had ordered her to find out what she could about Argyle, and
that was what she intended to do—and she had already found a way to do it.
“You’re injured!” she cried as she saw the blood caked on Argyle’s right hand.
She frowned and brought the magic into focus as she stepped forward. Then she
stopped abruptly.

Argyle’s aura was the product of magic, which she had expected,
but the golden glow that reached out from Argyle’s heart had changed to a dense
green one that seemed to be coming from far away.
King Tyr said Graylo had
hosted Argyle. Was that the golden core I saw inside him? No, it wasn’t Graylo,
was it. Greyly? No, it was
Grayle
. I have to remember that. But Grayle
isn’t hosting Argyle, is she? It is the other one. What did King Tyr call him?
Sampatu?

“Flee!” Argyle gasped. “No,” he continued in a sweet voice.
“Stay.”

Iscara took a deep breath and asked, “Are you Simpitat?”

Argyle stiffened and his voice was harsh as he said, “I am
Symptata
.
You will do well to remember that, Iscara.”

Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata.
Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata.
“Yes, Symptata,” she replied.
Symptata.
Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata.

“You are a healer,” Symptata said. It had to be Symptata,
since Argyle already knew she was a healer—among other things.

“Yes,” she said.

Argyle struggled against lifting his hand—and failed. He
looked at the wounds and said, “It is fortunate that you have come.” Then he
looked down at her and purred, “I wonder what has brought you here?”

Iscara gulped. They were Argyle’s eyes but not his eyes. He—
Symptata
—looked
at her as if he would peel her skin from her flesh if she didn’t answer well.
She had looked at others like that, and the way they had looked back at her had
always sent shivers of delight through her. Were her eyes doing that for him?
Her playthings had always acted from desperation, knowing there wasn’t any hope
and praying there was. But she wouldn’t look at Argyle—
Symptata
—that
way. She smiled and looked boldly up at him. “I come with a warning, Argyle—I
mean Symptata,” she said. “You are in danger.”

“Truly?” Argyle/Symptata purred again. “But I only just
arrived here.”

“The king is placing men at each of your entrances,” she
said. “He is preparing an assault. Grayle is helping him do it.”

Argyle/Symptata waved his hand and said, “It will fail.”
Then he looked at his hand again and said, “Come with me.” He turned away and
walked over to the gigantic throne in the center of the room. There was a
gaping hole beside it that hadn’t been there the last time she had served
Argyle. And the stench—

She turned toward it and saw Pug’s rotting corpse. Most
people found decay to be a rather repulsive odor, but she had been around death
too much to be overwhelmed by it. Still, it reminded her of Angus’s rotting
foot, and that hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

Argyle/Symptata sat down on his throne and put his right arm
on the armrest wrought from his victim’s skulls. He turned the injured palm up.

Iscara walked up to the point where Argyle’s guests were
expected to stand and stopped. She was still several feet from him, but he
beckoned her forward. When she was closer, he leaned forward and reached down
with his left hand. He held it out behind her and said, “Sit.” Then growled,
“You should have run.”

Iscara gulped and looked behind her. His hand was more than
large enough to hold her—his pinky finger was nearly as large as her arm—and
she carefully, reluctantly sat down. Once she was in place, Argyle lifted her
up to his lap and said, “Heal my hand, then.”

Iscara nodded and focused her attention on Argyle—Symptata’s
hand. He let her be until she was finished, and then asked, “Now, what is this
about an assault?”

Iscara shrugged. “I only know what I overheard,” she said.
“He was talking to one of his captains, and he was planning to send Grayle with
him to station men at each of the entrances to your lair. Once they are in
place, they plan to attack. The king also told Grayle to tell him what
your—what Argyle’s—weaknesses were, and if he has any, she would know them,
since she has been hosting him for years.”

“Ah,” Argyle/Symptata said, sending a fresh wave of
foul-smelling breath over her that made her eyes water. “The king is rattled,
then.”

Iscara frowned and shook her head. “He didn’t seem rattled
to me,” she said. “He seemed confident that he could deal with Argyle—
with
you
—without much trouble. He is the king, after all.”

Argyle/Symptata chuckled and Iscara had to sit down on his
thigh to avoid falling. “A mere king does not trouble me,” he said. “He will
learn that soon enough.” He made a fist with his freshly healed hand and pounded
it lightly on the arm of his throne. “Tell me of this place,” he said. “Argyle
is … reluctant to share with me.”

Iscara nodded. “I will tell you what I can,” she said. “It
will not be much. I have only been here a few times to heal those whom Argyle wished
me to heal,” she continued. If Argyle wasn’t telling Symptata about his lair,
maybe he would keep quiet about her other visits. “Many of Argyle’s minions
have recently died, and…”

8

“What are we looking for?” Hobart demanded of Angus as he
handed him Gretchen’s reins.

Angus looked at the guardsman standing nearby and shook his
head. “Not here,” he said. Then he stepped onto the bench and lifted himself
into the saddle.

Not here?
Hobart wondered as he looked around them.
The only people within hearing distance—other than the guardsman who had
brought the supplies—was Dagremon, who seemed to be determined to go with them,
and the other wizard. Angus had introduced him as Master Renard and said, “He
will ride with us.” He had never met Master Renard before, but he was certain
the plump wizard knew more about what they were about to do than he did.

“We need to go,” Angus said as he kneed Gretchen into a
quick walk away from the lift are. He didn’t bother to look back to see who was
following him before he broke into a gallop and left them behind.

“The fool’s going to ruin that horse,” Hobart said as he
mounted Leslie and chased after him. They were almost to Jagra’s bridge before
he was able to move up beside him and reach for the reins to slow the horse.

“What’s wrong with you?” Angus demanded. “There’s no time!”

“No,” Hobart said, refusing to hand Angus back the reins
despite the hostile glare in the wizard’s blue eyes. They still bothered
Hobart; they should have been a pale, silver-blue. Eyes just didn’t change that
way. “We are going no further until you tell me what we are doing.”

Angus stared at him for a long moment and then looked back
at Hellsbreath.

Hobart turned and saw that Ortis, Dagremon, and Master
Renard were riding at an easy walk—no doubt Ortis wanted to give him time to
talk to Angus. Then he turned back to Angus and said, “There’s no one else
here, Angus, and as the leader of this Banner, I need to know what it is we’re
going after.”

Angus turned back toward him, and some of the anger was gone
from him. Something else was there, instead, and it made Hobart very
uncomfortable. It was almost like looking into the eyes of a fishman when it
knew it was about to die, a kind of haunted resignation mixed with fury. “We’re
going to the Angst temple,” Angus said.

Hobart frowned. Had someone taken it? That didn’t make any
sense, did it? Of course, wizards didn’t make sense most of the time, and if
there was magic involved, the temple could have been taken. But why would King
Tyr want it back? No, this was something different. “We’re going after the
patrol?”

Angus tilted his head and after a moment’s thought, he
half-smiled.
That
, Hobart remembered; it was one of the things about
Angus that had annoyed him. “In a sense, yes,” Angus said. “The patrol should
have reached the temple by now, and if they have, someone took something from
it that we have to find and take back to it.”

Hobart frowned. They hadn’t found anything that special when
they had been there, had they? Surely taking those gems and armlets weren’t
worthy of the king’s attention, but what about the books? Angus had sold them
for a hefty profit, hadn’t he? Was there more in them than he had realized?
“What was it?”

Angus glanced back at the others again, but Hobart didn’t
need to look; they had another five minutes before the others would arrive, and
he would hear their horses long before they were within hearing range. “All
right, Hobart,” Angus said, turning back to him. “Master Renard says I
shouldn’t tell anyone about this, including you and Ortis, but I think you
should know. Do you remember what I said about the nexus we found there?”

Hobart tried to remember and said the only thing that came
to him, “It has something to do with magic,” he said. “You were flustered by
it.”

Angus nodded. “It terrified me,” he admitted. “A nexus is a
very powerful, very dangerous thing. It is a conduit of sorts, a link between
our world and the place where magic comes from. Think of it like the spigot of
a cask of ale. If the spigot wasn’t there, the ale would shoot out from it,
right?”

Hobart nodded. He had seen that before, when an impatient,
drunken soldier used his sword to cut the spigot off. It made a dreadful mess
on the floor. But what does ale have to do with magic?

“The spigot slows the flow of ale and makes it manageable,
right?”

Hobart nodded again. “Sure,” he said. “It can even shut it
off completely.”

Angus tilted his head again, as if what Hobart had just said
meant something different from what he meant it to mean. “Yes,” he said,
nodding. “The spigot can stop the flow altogether.”

Angus seemed to be about to lose himself in his thoughts
again, so Hobart interrupted them by asking, “What of it?”

“Right,” Angus said. “Each nexus that we know about has a
spigot of sorts. It doesn’t stop the flow of magic, though; it only weakens and
controls it. It also breaks the stream into pieces—little streamlets, if you
will—and redirects them in a way that makes them manageable. That spigot is
what makes it possible for us to tie the knots we use to build our spells. It
isn’t quite the same as when a barkeep fills a mug of ale, since the nexus is
never shut off, but the principle is similar.”

Hobart thought for a moment, and then said, “The spigot is
missing, isn’t it?”

Angus nodded. “Yes,” he agreed.

“That’s what we’re looking for?” Hobart asked. “The spigot?”

Angus nodded again. “Someone has taken it away from the
nexus. We need to find it and put it back. If we don’t, it will be
devastating.” He turned to the west and pointed. “See those mountains?”

Hobart glanced at them, but they looked normal to him. He
shrugged and said, “They look like they always do.”

Angus shook his head and said, “Not quite. There is smoke in
the distance.”

Hobart laughed. “There’s always smoke around here,” he said.
“They’re volcanoes.”

Angus turned back to him, and there was a sense of sadness
in his eyes. Then he glanced behind them and shook his head. “No, Hobart,” he
said without looking at him. “They are volcanoes on the verge of erupting.”

That’s what Commander Garret is worried about,
Hobart
thought, looking at them again. But he couldn’t see anything different from
their normal puffs of smoke. “Are you saying the nexus is going to cause them
to erupt?” he asked. “How could it do that?”

Angus turned back to him and nodded. “The nexus I found
there,” he said, “was one of flame magic. As it spreads outward, it will affect
flames of all sorts. Remember what happened to the Lamplight spell I cast? When
it got too close to the nexus, it burned itself out.”

Hobart nodded. He could hear the horses and the muffled
sound of voices. “You said that spell burns out more quickly when there is a
stronger strand of flame magic,” he said.
Whatever that is supposed to mean.

“Right,” Angus said, “and being close to the nexus increased
the potency of the strand of flame magic that I was using. It did the same
thing with the torch.” He paused and then added, his eyes intense, distant,
“And
that
was when the nexus was tamed, when the spigot was still in
place. Without it?” he shrugged and finished, “The last time that happened, it
ended the Dwarf Wars.”

Hobart frowned. The Dwarf Wars had ended because the dwarves
had ceded the land and retreated from the king’s superior forces. It didn’t
have anything to do with the nexus. “I’m not following you,” he said.

Angus sighed. “The volcanic activity in this region started
when the spigot was removed, Hobart, and it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”

Hobart looked at the mountains again, trying to see if he
could tell a difference in the amount of smoke they were belching forth, but he
couldn’t. “All right,” he said. “What’s this spigot look like? Who has it?
Where did they take it?”

Angus tilted his head in thought for a long moment, then
turned and studied the others who had just joined them. “You already know what
the spigot is,” he said. “It’s The Tiger’s Eye.”

Hobart scowled at Angus. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“You told us it wasn’t there.”

Angus shrugged. “I lied,” he said without turning back
toward him. “If I hadn’t,” he continued, meeting Hobart’s steady glare, “one of
you might have taken it.”

It was true. Hobart knew it was true. Even if Angus had told
them what would happen if they took it, they would have done it anyway.
Giorge
would have done it. Hobart
might
have done it. And now someone else had
stumbled upon it. Or had they? The way Angus was acting…. His voice was almost
soft as he asked, “Who took it, Angus?”

Angus turned to face the west again and his voice was soft
as he answered, “When we left to get the fletching eggs, I told only one person
about the location of The Tiger’s Eye. In the event that I was unable to do so,
I asked her to go with the patrol Commander Garret sent to the Angst temple. I
thought I could trust her.”

Hobart studied Angus for a long moment, and then shook his
head. The betrayal of a woman once loved was never easy to accept, and Angus
had only talked about one woman. “Embril?” he asked.

Angus nodded. “She must have been tempted by the power, just
as I was,” he said. He turned back to Hobart with a look that he had sometimes
seen in the eyes of a warrior on the verge of battle lust, one who wasn’t going
to let a single fishmen get past him. “Now can we ride?” he demanded.

Hobart looked to the others and then to the west. “Not just
yet,” he said. “You’re sure the volcanoes are going to erupt?”

Angus nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I have no doubt that it is
already starting.”

“All right,” Hobart said, turning to Ortis. “We will need
extra waterskins. A lot of them.”

One of Ortis nodded and turned back to Hellsbreath. As he
left, Hobart turned to Angus and said, “You should have told us last night,” he
said. He kneed his horse to a steady walk and Angus fell in beside him.

“We need to ride quickly,” he said.

Hobart shook his head. “We need to ride far,” he said.
“Riding like you did will tire the horse out, and you’ll cover less ground than
you will with a brisk walk.”

“This isn’t a brisk walk,” Angus accused.

“No,” Hobart agreed. “We need to talk to Jagra, first. If
those mountains start spitting up ash and smoke and cinders, I want to be ready
for it. We’re going to buy some sheets from Jagra before we leave. That will
give Ortis time to catch up to us with the waterskins, and we’re going to use
Jagra’s bucket to fill them.
Then
we’ll ride.”