The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (2 page)

3

“You have progressed at an acceptable rate, Angus,” Voltari
said one day, his voice crisp, lacking his normal tone of impatient derision.
“Soon it will be time for you to leave.” A hopeful upturn of tone? A bit of
pride for having turned an empty mind into a finely honed weaver of magic? Or a
touch of gladness for finally getting rid of an unworthy burden?

It didn’t matter. Praise of any sort from Voltari was a
rarity, and Angus felt a gentle warmth rising up his neck, threatening to become
a crimson cascade. But it turned and buried itself in his beard, as if it were
uncertain of its presence. He was not ready to leave. Despite the rapid
progress he had made over the past year, Voltari and Blackhaven Tower were the
only things he knew, the only things he could remember. His memory of
everything prior to his training was still a complete blank.

At first, he had often asked Voltari about who he had been, but
his master only waved away the questions and said, “The past means nothing;
only the present and future matter. Focus on them.” Whenever he pressed the
issue, whenever he
demanded
answers, Voltari would turn his stony gray
eyes upon him, an icy fury raging deep within them, and punish him. Or
disappear, if he were feeling particularly generous. Angus
knew
the
answers were there, but Voltari simply refused to provide them. And Angus was
not nearly powerful enough to risk truly angering his mentor, so he focused his
mind and energy on the magic. He delved deeper into it, striving to gain a
better understanding of it. But he never stopped wondering about his lost past,
and rarely a day went by when he didn’t have the thought:
Magic caused my
loss of memory, and magic can restore it
. He was certain Voltari knew that
magic—or at least where to find it—and when Angus left there would be no more
chances to get it out of him. If—

“Now,” Voltari said, interrupting his thoughts. “You must
perfect this spell.” He held a scroll out to Angus.

“What is it?” Angus asked, reaching for the scroll.
Perhaps
later
…. He cordoned off the thought to focus on the scroll and the magical
threads surrounding him. It would be a challenging spell, a powerful spell, one
that would require all of his attention. He unrolled the scroll carefully, his
excitement tempered by the healthy sense of dread that every new spell brought with
it.

Voltari’s gray eyes narrowed as he ordered, “Tell me.”

Angus gulped—another test, another opportunity to disappoint
him. He examined the runes and sigils drawn from spider-thin streaks of burnt
umber ink streaked with a deep, almost black shade of red. “It’s obviously a
complex, powerful spell from the spheres of flame and earth,” he said. Knowing
Voltari would demand a more detailed explanation, he looked more closely at the
order of the runes, the pattern of the sigils, how each line had been sketched,
and the interconnectedness of the threads of ink with the threads of magic. “This
is strange,” he muttered. “It seems to be a spell that produces balls of
flaming earth rising up to the sky. But,” he paused and shook his head.

“Yes?” Voltari demanded.

Angus did not look up from the scroll as he replied, “I
would expect there to be runes and sigils related to the sphere of air, but
there aren’t any. It’s as if the flame is bubbling up from the earth like—like
geysers of molten rock. I’m not sure, though, since the nuances are beyond me.”

Voltari held his hand out for the scroll and Angus handed it
to him. “I disagree,” he said, his voice level, impartial. “You understand the
nuances far better than your training would suggest.”

“Thank you, Master,” Angus said, lowering his gaze and
fighting back the urge to smile.

Voltari hesitated a long moment, and then said, his voice
uncompromising, “Tomorrow, Angus, you will leave. Your apprenticeship is at an
end. Come to my chamber at dawn.” Then he tweaked a nearby strand of carefully
modulated magic and vanished.

Angus stood still for several minutes, his breathing barely
noticeable, his thoughts paralytic. He wasn’t prepared to go outside, into a
world he couldn’t remember. What was it like? Where would he go? Who would he
talk to? He had read a great deal about it, of course, but
reading
and
being
are quite different things.
Who am I?
he wanted to scream as his
fingertip went unconsciously to the scar on his neck and traced its outline,
feeling the fluttery pulse raging beneath the surface.
And who wants me dead?

4

Darkness.

Silence.

They were his friends.

Light and sound were his enemies. He fought against them,
an endless battle that he could never hope to win. But the struggle was
important. He didn’t need to be perfect; he only needed to try to be perfect.

He took a slow, deep breath, and held it. He stepped forward,
gently lowering the toes of his right foot into place. The heel settled
soundlessly behind them, and he exhaled softly over a fifteen count before
shifting his weight. He inhaled slowly and picked up his left foot, moving it forward,
toward the shapely silhouette of the young woman lying on her side. Another
breath, another step.

There was a half moon. Half moons were better than full
moons. A little before or a little past the new moon was best. The dim glow
provided ample lighting for him to see the shadows within the shadows, to know
what they were. A quarter moon would be better than a half moon.

He took a third step—four more to go. The
maids-in-waiting sprawled about the floor around the bed, sleeping on pillows
and cushions, but there was a path. If he was careful. If he stepped with perfect
delicacy.

His foot fit snugly between one maids’ rumpled hair and
another’s dainty ankle, her shiny silver anklet glistening where the moonbeams
struck it a glancing blow. There wasn’t room to lower his heel, but that didn’t
matter; he could balance precariously on the toes of one foot for many minutes if
he needed to. But he didn’t need to.

He took a fourth step, placing his left toes in the space
between another maid’s forearm and bicep, barely avoiding her nose, her elbow. He
was glad he had cleansed himself and his clothing, ridding them of their normal
subtle pungency
…
.

Then the path was clear.

He stepped rapidly, silently up to the side of the bed.

She turned toward him in her sleep. Her eyes fluttered,
opened. She smiled.

His hand snaked out. The stiletto—

Angus burst upright, a muffled scream clinging to the back
of his throat. His breathing was rapid, sharp, almost painful. His heart was
pounding like a woodpecker trapped in his chest. He closed his eyes and mouthed
the silent mantra that would calm his body, his mind.

Still the mind.

Still the body.

Still the mind.

Still the body.

He couldn’t recall when he had learned the mantra, but it
worked; within seconds, his breathing and heartbeat had calmed considerably,
almost stopping altogether.

He opened his eyes and looked around the dark room,
wondering at the fleeting impressions of the nightmare, wondering why it had
been so potent, so
real
. It was as if he had actually been there….

Then it faded to less than a memory, less than even a
forgotten memory….

He frowned. It had been months since his last nightmare, and
it troubled him greatly that they had returned on the eve of his departure….

5

Angus woke before dawn. He was far from rested but found it
impossible to return to sleep. He got up and dressed in the outfit he felt most
comfortable in: the padded leather tunic; the strange, form-fitting trousers;
and the high, soft-soled black boots. He filled his pockets with spell-casting
paraphernalia—the mnemonic fragrances that enhanced his recall—the gold coins,
and the garnets. He slid his dagger into its scabbard on the belt and the
stilettos in their boot sheaths. He filled his backpack with the rest of the
gear he would take with him: tinder and flint, candles, quill and inkwell, a
handful of loose-leafed parchment, the scrolls containing his spells, a few
days worth of food, fishhooks and string, and the strange, ill-fitting black
robe Voltari had given him. There was still room, so he put two of the
apprentice robes on top of what he had already packed. Then he focused and
tugged on the strand of magic that would transport him to Voltari’s
antechamber.

Voltari rarely allowed him into his antechamber, and never
unsupervised. It was a small room with a desk, robes, boots, water basin, and
other amenities. Angus had never been in Voltari’s living chamber, and he
didn’t expect to be asked in now.

Voltari was waiting for him at the desk, a pile of scrolls
carefully stacked before him.

“Master?” Angus said, his voice catching in his throat.

Voltari looked up at him, nodded, and picked up the pile of
scrolls—there were about a dozen of them. “These are yours,” he said, holding
them out.

Angus hesitated for only a moment—he had long ago learned the
painful lesson of obedience—and set his backpack down on the floor. He accepted
the scrolls and began unrolling one of them. “Thank you, Master,” he said, a
touch of reverence in his voice.

“Not now,” Voltari said, putting his hand on Angus’s to
prevent him from opening the scroll. “Stow them in your pack.”

Angus frowned, bent to his pack, opened it, and
unceremoniously pulled out the extra robes. When it looked like he might pull
out the black robe, Voltari put his foot on his hand to stop him.

“You should wear that robe at all times,” he said. “It is
not a gift I gave lightly. Its magic will provide some measure of
protection—much more than that getup you’re wearing now.”

“Yes, Master,” Angus said, reaching for the ties of his
tunic.

Voltari sighed and shook his head. “The choice is yours,
Angus,” he said. “Stow the scrolls for now. You will have time to change later
if that is what you wish to do.”

“Yes, Master,” Angus said, carefully securing the scrolls in
his backpack. Once he had done so, Voltari uncharacteristically held out his
hand and helped him to his feet.

“Here,” Voltari said, pointing at a map spread out on his
desk and weighted down with smooth, walnut-sized black stones. “You should
travel here,” he pointed to a spot on the map labeled Hellsbreath Pass. “There
will be many opportunities for wizards of your ability there.”

“How far is it, Master?” Angus asked, trying to memorize the
contours on the map.

Voltari shrugged and slid the stones aside to let the map
roll back up into its natural position. He handed it to Angus.

“Thank you, Master,” Angus said, putting the map into his
backpack.

“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” Voltari said, his voice
surprisingly soft. “It is customary for the Master to bestow a gift of spells
upon his apprentice when he completes his training. These scrolls contain those
spells, both ones you have mastered and others you have not. The latter spells
are selected by the Master with the expectation that the student will be able to
learn them without further guidance. This gift is intended to assure the
survival of the magic and, indirectly, the apprentice. One day you will continue
the line of wizardry I have taught you by passing this knowledge on to your own
apprentices. These spells are the foundation of that tradition, one on which
you will build your own repertoire of spells.”

“Yes, Master,” Angus said.

Voltari nodded. “From here on, you will be on your own,” he
said. He gestured at Angus’s backpack and waited for him to pick it up. His
voice was stern and unrelenting as he finished, “My service to you is over. Do
not return here.” Then Voltari’s anteroom disappeared and Angus found himself
standing outside Blackhaven Tower for the first time.

Blackhaven Tower was a single twisted spire faced with smooth,
curved obsidian blocks that captured the dawn and sprinkled it about in all
directions. It was fairly narrow—perhaps twenty feet in diameter—and rose only about
thirty feet above the ground, tapering as it rose until it curved sharply
inward near the top. Angus frowned; the interior was much larger than the
exterior. Was Voltari’s complex underground? Was it somewhere else, entirely?
With Voltari’s penchant for teleportation, it wouldn’t surprise him. Still,
there was a large wooden door in front of him with a towering figure standing in
tall, deep recesses at either side of it.
Does it open?
he wondered,
taking a step forward. He stopped abruptly and sighed.
Do not return here
….

The sentinels guarding the door were draped in shadow, but
the morning sun flickering on the dingy yellow-white of old bone. A pair of
simmering red orbs near the top of each form shone like eyes held in a silent,
deathless vigil.
Did they move?

Angus gulped and concentrated until he brought the magic into
focus. Blackhaven Tower and the surrounding hillside faded into the
background—still visible as a shadow world at the periphery of his
attention—and a maelstrom of writhing strands of magic erupted in the
foreground. The magic centered on the guardians and the door, which looked like
it had been carved from wood but was wrapped with the pulsating strands of
sienna and brick red—a powerful, explosive earth- and fire-based magical trap.
Anyone attempting to breach it without magic would almost certainly be killed
by the blast, while the door would remain completely intact.

Beside the complex braids woven through the door, the
sentinels oozed black tendrils of death magic, its power fluctuating as the
tendrils came into contact with their surroundings, sometimes advancing,
sometimes retreating. The sentinels were dead, the animated dead Angus had read
about while he was exploring Voltari’s library for a way to regain his memory.
But Voltari hadn’t taught him very much about that aspect of magic; he had merely
let him know that it existed and described the basics of how to draw upon the consumptive
energy when necessary. He hadn’t taught him anything about death magic, the
kind of magic that draws heavily upon the gray and black strands to animate the
dead and destroy the living. He hadn’t even taught him how to defend against
such magic; Angus had had to find that out for himself, and he wasn’t entirely
sure he understood it.

One of the sentinels lowered its flickering red gaze and
fixed it upon Angus. A gigantic poleax grated as it dipped downward and pointed
at him. “You are unwelcome,” the sentinel said in Voltari’s rough, guttural
growl.

“But—” Angus began, taking a step back.

The other sentinel lowered its poleax, and they both stepped
forward, their armor clattering noisily against the fleshless bones. They were
the skeletons of giants nearly half as high as the tower, armed with poleaxes
and wearing mirror images of incomplete plate armor. The one on the left wore
the right half of the suit of armor, while the one to the right wore the left
half. They moved another step forward.

Angus turned and hurried south, looking backward several
times until the two sentinels had finally given up their pursuit and resumed
their position by the door. He slowed and looked for a comfortable place to sit
down, a place where he could study the map Voltari had given him. The scrolls
would have to wait.

What am I to do now?
he wondered, looking at the
black tower jutting above the small maple trees threatening to reclaim the
land.
How could you do this to me?

His lips trembled as he fought back the urge to cry. Was he
angry? Afraid? Grief-stricken? Or was it just self-pity? Maybe all of them, he
decided, as he sat down on the fallen trunk of an old maple and recited the mantra
to calm his mind….