The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (19 page)

The door began to open….

The second knot was a slow, looping one, and by the time he
finished with it, the wand was pulsing, and the strands within it were
vibrating madly, their brightness almost overwhelming him. He had already begun
the third knot—a swift, sharp, snapping motion that ended with him pointing at
the target—when Giorge stuck his head around the edge of the door and said,
“Angus?”

Angus held his arm high for a long moment—there was no way
to abort the spell! He
had to
choose a target!

“I need to talk—”

Angus brought the wand down sharply, twisting uncomfortably
in his seat as he did so. The tip of the wand passed over Giorge’s head and
shoulder and continued….

“Wait!” Giorge cried.

Angus maintained the motion until his arm could go no
further, and the tip of the wand settled on the adjacent wall. A surge of power
raged free from the wand, shot outward….

Giorge dropped to the floor and rolled backward.

Angus’s eyes widened as he was lifted from his chair and
flung backward, his screech barely beginning as he crashed violently into the
wall….

1

Breathe
.

It was important.

Why was it important?

It doesn’t matter.

Just breathe.

Think later.

2

Pain.

A lot of pain.

The back of his head consumed his attention. Something was
eating it.

No, it was under siege from the relentless pelting of tiny
catapults lofting barrels full of flaming oil.

An army of ants crawled along his back, their feet fitted
with tiny iron spikes, driving them into his spine.

Why were the ants attacking him?

Breathe. Don’t think.

Where were his shoulders?

Had the ants eaten them?

Was the war over?

Did he win?

Breathe.

3

Voltari must be angry.

4

He was breathing.

It was difficult; his chest was impaled on the sentinel’s
poleax.

It was a big poleax.

The hole hurt.

But he could breathe.

Barely.

Why did he go outside?

He never went outside.

Voltari wouldn’t let him go outside alone.

Breathe.

Sharp, stabbing pain.

He should be crying, why wasn’t he?

He shrugged, but nothing happened. His shoulders….

Ants.

No, that couldn’t be it. It had to be something else.

Hungry ants?

Breathe.

Why am I thinking about breathing? It’s boring.

It is important. Stop breathing, and—

Death.

Voltari knows death magic.

Is he angry at me?

He wanted desperately to shrug, but he couldn’t. Voltari had
taken his shoulders and given them away.

Again.

Long, slow, exhale.

It was easier to breathe lightly. The poleax didn’t move.
Much.

No, not the poleax. Too small.

He frowned.

It turned into a wince as the skin of his cheeks tightened
and pulled against the back of his head.

Fire ants with catapults. What did he do to them? Why were
they so angry? He was always kind to ants; he never, ever, held the glass over
them to burn them. Why had they burned him?

No, not ants. Something else. Something—

BREATHE.

It was important….

5

Fingertips.

They were gentle, probing.

He was lying on his stomach.

He didn’t like lying on his stomach; he always slept on his
back.

The poleax was sharp and angry. It didn’t like him being on
his stomach, either.

Don’t think.

Breathe.

It is important.

More fingertips kneading the soreness from his tired
shoulders.

He had shoulders? Voltari—

He tried to scream, but there was no sound.

The fingertips probed his skull, the bones shifting….

Damned those ants! What did he ever do to them?

Breathe.

6

Soft breathing, short, shallow gasps. Panting? A dog?

No. His chest shuddered with each little hiccup.

“Angus?” A kind voice. Feminine. Gentle, probing, like the
fingers. “Try not to move.”

He frowned. Voltari didn’t have gentle fingers. Delicate
ones, certainly; all wizards have delicate fingers. But not gentle. When he
probed….

He shifted his weight, but only enough to learn he was on
his back. It hurt, but not the sharp, agonizing torture of the fire-breathing
ants. It had the dull ache of a heavy burden recently lifted but not entirely
gone.

“It will be over soon.” Whose voice was that? To the left,
five feet away, not far from his head.
I know that voice!

The gentle fingers touched the poleax, sending sharp,
unremitting pain through his chest.

His mouth opened. A scream—soft, distant, little more than a
plaintive whimper.

“Stop moving!”

Her command must be obeyed. There was power behind that
voice….

The poleax shifted. Bones crunched, snapping against each
other like dry bread crumbling to powder.

Breathe.

The pain subsided, and his breathing eased.

He frowned.
What?

“Lay still, Angus,” the familiar voice again. Who was he?
The compassionate, remorseful tone was all wrong. That voice should be
laughing, dancing.

“Giorge,” he muttered, and his body settled into place on
the soft platform on which he had been laid.

“Lay still, Angus,” Giorge said, a spark of energy igniting
his tone. “The healer will finish soon.”

“If you know the mantra,” the woman said as she leaned over
him. “Use it now.”

Mantra?
Angus wondered.
Mantra. Mantra. Mantra.
Oh, yes—

Still the body
.

She rested her palms on his chest as if they had just
enjoyed each other’s company. “It will facilitate the repairs.”

Repairs?
What repairs? Why—

Still the mind
.

There will be time for thinking later.

Still the body
.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He was more acutely aware of his body now, the minor pain of
his broken arm, the stiffness of his neck, the strange newness of the bones of
his skull....

Still the mind.

She had eaten recently, something sweet—or was it perfume?
Giorge was not the only one there; there were others. They breathed heavily,
like Hobart, but they weren’t Hobart. Or Ortis. Or Voltari. They were
different.

Still the body.

Why was his body broken? What had happened to him? He had
been in his room, studying….

Still the mind.

He didn’t know the strangers. Were they important?

No.

Breathing was important.

Still the body.

He let himself drift into the trancelike state, and hovered
there for a long time before finally falling asleep….

7

Breathe.

No, don’t.

The stench is horrendous.

Feces, mold, decay, urine—a range of noxious fumes assaulted
him, driving him from his slumber more swiftly than would a cold bucket of
water or a ringing slap to his cheek.

His bed was harsh stone that someone had tried to cushion
with the long, round stalks of grass, their brittleness jabbing uncomfortably
into his sensitive back.

He sat up and opened his eyes.

It was dark. But it was not the darkness of a moonless night
in the wilderness; it was the darkness of a cave lit by a dim candle too far
away to provide much light.

There were lots of shadows, and one of them moved.

“Alive, then?” the shadow said, huddling up against the
metal grate keeping them apart.

I’m in a dungeon!
Angus thought, his heart simmering
in his chest, his breath tangled up in his throat.
Why?!

“I’m Bug-Eyed Jake,” the shadow said.

“Where am I?” Angus asked.

“Hellsbreath’s hellhole,” he easily replied.

Hellsbreath’s hellhole? No wonder it’s so stifling. We
must be under the city, near the forge tubes.
“Why am I here?”

“No idea,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “But it must have been pretty
bad, judging by how they’ve treated you so far.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” Bug-Eyed Jake said, “they just dumped you in here two
days ago and haven’t come back to check on you once.” He paused and said, “Or
me, for that matter.”

“How do you know it’s been two days?” Angus asked, looking
around the gloom.

“Oh, they change the candle once a day,” he said. “If they
have that swill they call food, they bring it then. Otherwise, they just leave
us here to rot a bit longer. They don’t go so far as to let us die, mind you,
but they aren’t exactly kind to criminals like us. It’s better not to get
caught.”

“I’m not a criminal,” Angus denied—and then wondered whether
or not it was true. Had he done something that violated the rules Hobart had
told him about? Was he a criminal?

“Ha!” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “I
know
you, Typhus.”

“My name is Angus,” Angus absently corrected as he ran
through the list of prohibited activities Hobart had recited as they crossed
the valley to Hellsbreath. “What did I do?” he muttered, dismissing one after
another of the things Hobart had said not to do.

“Now Typhus,” Bug-Eyed Jake pouted, his voice mild and
friendly, “there’s no need to pretend with me. We’ve known each other too long
for that.”

Angus glanced at the shadow, met the huge, pale-white orbs
reflecting the distant flickering of the candle. It was difficult to see
details of his face; he was covered in so much grime that it concealed most of
his appearance, and the shadows distorted the rest. But those bulbous, bug-like
eyes….

“How long have you been down here?” Angus asked, standing up
and brushing the grass stalks from his robe. His left hand slowed, and he
pinched the fine cloth between his finger and thumb.
Why didn’t they take
this from me?
He began checking the pockets, quickly finding them all to be
empty—including the concealed ones.
They were thorough
, he thought.
The
garnets are gone
.

“Too long,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “But I don’t mind. The
longer I am down here, the longer I keep my other hand.” He held up his right
arm and wiggled his fingers in the dim light, as if he were making shadow
puppets.

“Your
other
hand?” Angus asked.

Bug-Eyed Jake grinned, a toothy grin that broadcasted his
lack of dental hygiene, and lifted his left arm. It ended in a fist-like stub.
“They took that last year,” he said. “I think that’s why they’ve been waiting.
It’s one thing to take the hand of a thief who has two of them; it’s another to
take the second one. But they’ll get around to it eventually, unless….” He
shifted his position and peered more closely at Angus but didn’t finish the
sentence.

“Sorry to hear about your troubles,” Angus said, surprised
to hear there was genuine concern in his voice. “But you know what they say: A
thief who gets caught should find another profession.”

“Yes,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “You’ve told me that before,
Typhus. That day you dragged me out of Tyrag’s tomb.”

Angus shook his head. “I told you, my name is Angus, not
Typhus,” he protested. “And I’ve never been to Tyrag.”
Not that I can recall
,
he amended to himself. “We’ve never met.”

“Now Typhus, don’t be like that,” he retorted. “We’ve known
each other far too long for that, and you owe me.”

Angus bristled, reached out for the magic and drew it closer
to him. He reached inside himself, sought out the strands that were primed for
the spell, merged them with those around himself, and made the simple little
knot of the Lamplight spell. It burst into brilliance on his palm, and he
lifted it high above his head.

Bug-Eyed Jake cowered, covering his head in his arms and
hurrying to the corner furthest away from Angus. “Put it out! Put it out!” he
cried, but Angus ignored the little man. He looked almost like a rat curled in
upon itself, but much dirtier.

Angus rose to his full height—a mere five foot six
inches—and stepped up to the metal bars separating the two cells from each
other. “I am the wizard Angus,” he said, his voice controlled, tinged with a
sinister undertone, “and I will not tolerate your insouciant blathering any
longer. Is that understood?”

Bug-Eyed Jake cringed, peeked over the top of his arm and
blinked rapidly. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t know what insouciant means.”

Angus frowned and hissed, “You are much too free with your
tongue. Silence it.”

“Yes, yes,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “Just put that light out.”

“I do not know you,” Angus continued. “We have never met,
and you will not speak to me again. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Bug-Eyed Jake whimpered. “No more talking. Just put
that out.”

“No,” Angus said. “But if you let me be, I will reduce the
intensity. I need time to think, and I do not wish to be disturbed by the likes
of you.” He turned and moved quickly to recapture the Lamplight spell and
reduce its intensity—it was hurting his eyes, as well, but he had prepared
himself for it—and then parked it behind his right shoulder. Then he moved back
to the wall to sit and think.

What happened?
I was studying Teffles’ book and—
No, I was taking a break from it. The shorthand was giving me a headache. I was
going to write it out by longhand until—

The wand. That’s what it was. I was trying to determine
what the wand did. I had found the third sigil in Teffles’ spellbook, and I—

Yes, that was it. The wand’s sigils. Wind. Temperature.
Thunder. But they were vague references. Lots of different winds. Which one was
it? And the temperature? High or low? Low, wasn’t it? High temperatures had the
sphere of flame combined—

But I couldn’t see the inner workings of the spell. The
magic of the outer shell obscured it. I—

No, I couldn’t have—

Angus dropped his head in his hands and muttered, “How could
I have been so stupid? Whatever possessed me to test the wand in there? It
wasn’t a practice room; it didn’t have a protective barrier. There were no
safeguards against—”

Against what?

What did the wand do? He had only intended to release the
first knot so he could see the interior, but—

“Giorge,” Angus said, rubbing his temples. “That fool—”

Stop! Don’t dwell on the past, learn from it. Look to the
present, the future. The present is bleak; there is nothing I can do about it.
But the future
….

Giorge had knocked on his door, but I ignored him. I was
too busy to be interrupted. I needed to focus on the wand.

He knocked a second time, didn’t he? It doesn’t matter. I
ignored that, too; only the wand mattered. I was too close to finding out what
it did. I had to know.

The idiot picked the lock. He was going to rob me, even
after I had joined Hobart’s banner! I—

But I didn’t know it was Giorge. I thought it was someone
else coming to steal from me. Yes, that was it. Someone was breaking into my
room and I—

I defended myself with the wand. It was stupid. I didn’t
even know what the wand did. I
still
don’t know what it does.

The door opened. I was already breaking the last knot,
the one holding the magic back, the point-and-release knot every wand has.

Giorge stuck his head around the door and—

“I almost killed him,” Angus said, shaking his head. “I
should
have killed him! But I redirected the wand’s spell to the outer wall.
Then—”

He frowned; his memory was fuzzy here. “What did the wand
do?” he muttered. “There was the recoil from the spell’s release, and I was
thrust back into the wall.” He shuddered, overwhelmed by the intense image of
giant fire ants swarming over his body.

Bones broke,
he thought.
A lot of them. I lost
consciousness, but just before then, what did I see? What did the wand do?

He thought for a long time, but it was of no use. He
couldn’t remember what happened because there was nothing to remember. He had
lost consciousness when he struck the wall. Then—

Did I almost die?