The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (34 page)

His hands were shaking, and he turned suddenly and looked at
Ortis, his eyes wide, the magic dancing in them. “Remember the Lamplight? The
power of the strand that is used to create it affects how long it will last.
You saw what happened when it came in contact with the nexus; the surge of
power burned through the spell in moments.”

What he had said so far was true, as far as it went, but he had
left out The Tiger’s Eye’s role in the fracturing of the nexus stream.

“We need to get out of here,” he gasped. Then his voice
softened as he corrected himself, “
I
need to. The closer I am to the
nexus, the stronger its influence is on me.”

Join us!
a resurgence of vigor, a gentle, soothing
appeal.

“You saw what happened to the fishmen,” Angus continued, his
voice rushed, harsh, rasping. He was beginning to sweat. His left hand was
shaking. “You said that flare could be seen for a hundred miles.
That
was only a fraction of the power that’s down here.” Tears were forming at the
edge of his eyes. His ears were ringing again. His voice rose almost to a
shout. “
One strand
,” he lied, holding up his finger for emphasis. “
One
.
If I cast
any
flame-based spell down here, there is no telling how
destructive it will be.”

Ortis continued to stand there, looking back over his
shoulder. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

“You wouldn’t,” Angus said, giggling frantically as he
staggered away from the opening. “Unless you can see the strands of magic,” he
accused.

Join us! Join us!

His heart was pounding.

He struggled for breath.

He longed to lunge past Ortis, to dive down into that
unfathomable depth of magic and wonder, to lose himself there….

He turned back, took a step.

Slap
. Angus’s hand went to his cheek where his master
had struck him.

Run
.

He blinked and shook his head. He was panting heavily now.

“Come with me,” Angus said as he stumbled up to the column.

There was another red shadow, this time missing the third
teardrop. He pressed the missing section, his thumb slipping as he did so.

Run
.

His breath came in strained, painful gasps. Sweat poured
down his forehead.

There was a click.

The floor began to rise. It was too slow….

“This nexus,” Ortis said as he stepped out of the entryway
before it crushed him. “What—”

“It’s why they built the temple here,” Angus said, shuffling
impatiently from foot to foot. “The Tiger’s Eye is a myth,” he lied.

“How do you know that?” Ortis said.

Angus turned and grabbed him by the shoulders. His tone was
intense, almost manic. His grip painfully tight. “How did Giorge describe it?”
he demanded. “A gift from their god they used to focus energy and turn it into
a weapon, right?”

“Something like that,” Ortis agreed, trying to free himself
from Angus’s grasp.

Angus let him go as the floor settled back into its original
position. He was talking rapidly, his tongue tangling up with itself as he said
the words in a mad rush. “That’s what a nexus does. It focuses energy, makes it
more powerful.” He was almost shrieking, his head bobbing up and down.
Suddenly, he turned and ran toward the opening and leapt across the gaping hole
in the floor. Hobart reached out to catch him, but he barely paused as he
nearly ran down the corridor.

“We’re leaving,” Angus shouted as he briskly walked through
them, pausing only long enough to pick up a torch. He cast the friction spell,
and a flame a foot high erupted from between his fingers as he lit the torch.
“See?” he said, turning. “That spell should barely produce a
spark
. We
have enough treasure!” He turned abruptly and half-ran down the passage.

“Leaving?” Giorge said, falling in behind him. “But there
are so many places to explore!”

Angus stopped at the corner and turned toward Giorge, forcing
him to sidestep in order to avoid running into him. “The Tiger’s Eye is a
myth!” he gurgled. “It doesn’t exist!”

“But—”

Slap
.

He blinked.

Run
.

“Leave, stay, I don’t care. I’m going.” He turned and ran
down the tunnel. He ran….

21

Still the mind.

Still the body.

Still the mind.

Still the body.

Still the mind.

Still the body.

22

By the time the others reached the top of the stairwell, Angus
had composed himself. His panic was gone, except for its fierce memory.

He had walked around the octagonal chamber again and again
and again.

His heartbeat had steadied.

His breathing was slow.

His legs were sore.

His back ached.

And he had found something interesting.

Giorge was the first to arrive, quickly followed by the
three Ortises. Hobart slogged up last. They threw down the gear they were
carrying and sat on it or by it. All of them were breathing heavily.

“Why did we have to leave?” Giorge asked.

How could he explain it to them? He
still
felt the
nexus drawing him to it, but it was more like a dull ache, a craving. How could
he explain intoxication? The surge of power, the desire for more, the enticing
loss of control? He shook his head. He didn’t have to. A half-truth would do.
“I have a spell,” he said. “I call it Firewhip.” He held up his hand in the
shape of a claw. “When I cast it, whip-like flames snake out from each of my
fingertips. Normally, those flames will only go out ten to twelve feet. If I
had cast it down there, those whips would have stretched all the way down the
corridor. Even up here,” he made as if he were about to cast the spell. “It
would be more powerful than usual. I don’t dare cast it, though,” he continued.
“It would probably burn my fingers off.”

“So,” Giorge said. “Don’t cast any spells.”

Angus half-smiled and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t,” he
said, “but a nexus is like—” He paused, reached into a pocket, and brought out
one of the dried mushrooms he had collected on the plateau. “It’s like this
mushroom. It distorts the mind. It makes a wizard see things, feel things, hear
things. If I had stayed down there, I would have happily jumped into that
abyss.”

“Ortis said something about the nexus,” Giorge said. “You
think it’s The Tiger’s Eye. But how can it be that? The Tiger’s Eye is a ruby.”

Angus sighed. “There is no Tiger’s Eye,” he said. “It’s just
a story, a distortion of the truth that comes from the passage of centuries. Be
satisfied with the rubies we
did
find,” he added.

Giorge frowned and shook his head. “There has to be more
here,” he said. “The Tiger’s Eye—”

“It’s a dream, Giorge,” Angus said. “But you are right.
There is something else here.”

“What?”

“Look over here,” he said, walking briskly up to where two
of the walls met. “See that?” he said, pointing at a pair of indentations.
“What are they?”

Giorge frowned as he studied them, and then said, “Something
was stuck in them, I suppose. They kept it in place.”

Angus nodded and held up the torch. “Now, look up. What do
you see?”

Giorge looked up and said, “Nothing.”

Angus nodded again. “Exactly,” he said. “But I see a red
shadow in the shape of the insignia. It has to be a trapdoor, and it can only
lead to one place.”

“One of the rooms up there,” Giorge said.

Angus shook his head. “No,” he said. “The secret compartment
you found.”

“Why?” Giorge said. “It might just lead to another tunnel
like that one.” He pointed at the rope dangling from the trapdoor they had
found.

Angus shook his head again. “No,” he said. “Think about it,
Giorge. Why would they mark it like that? They had to keep something very
valuable up there, something that needed an extra layer of protection.”

“Like what?” Giorge asked, feeling the wall and testing the
corner for leverage.

Angus shrugged. “It could be nothing,” he said. “They may have
taken it with them.”

“What are those red shadows, Angus?” Ortis asked as he
joined them. “Why is it that you’re the only one who sees them?”

“I don’t know what they are, exactly,” Angus said, “but they
are touched by magic. It’s not the same kind of magic I use, but it must be
close enough for me to see its mark.”

“All right,” Giorge said. “I can’t climb up this wall and
it’s too high for a pyramid, so how do we get up there?”

“Not we,” Angus said. “Me. I’m the only one who sees the
insignia.”

“You can tell us where it is,” Ortis suggested.

“It will still have to be me,” Angus said. “I’m the only one
who can fly.”

“Then do it,” Giorge said, grinning.

Angus shook his head. “I need to prime for it first.”

“Why?” Giorge asked.

Angus sighed. “I’m tired, Giorge. I don’t feel like
explaining it again. But tomorrow, after I sleep and prime the spell, we’ll
take a look at what’s up there. Then we’ll leave. Agreed?”

Giorge’s grin diminished. “This is a pretty big temple,” he
said. “There has to be other places to look.”

“Angus is right,” Ortis said. “We’ve already been here too
long. We still need to get back to Hellsbreath before winter, and each day will
make it more and more difficult. We may have had an easy time going across that
plateau on the way here, but that doesn’t mean the way back will be easy.”

“He’s right,” Hobart said. “We need to report the fishmen to
Hellsbreath.”

“But—”

“Giorge,” Hobart said. “Those gems are enough to finance the
Banner for years. Isn’t that enough?”

Giorge grinned. “There’s never enough,” he said, laughing.
“But I’m outvoted, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Hobart said, quickly echoed by Angus and Ortis.

“Fine,” Giorge said. “After we find out what’s up there, we
leave.”

23

The next day, they returned to the octagonal chamber and
Angus flew up to the insignia. He pressed it—there were no missing parts—and
the trapdoor slid easily upward. He kept pushing until it flopped open. Then pushed
the Lamplight spell through the opening and lifted himself up.

It was a narrow vertical shaft that went up for several
feet. There were iron rungs embedded in the stone to form a ladder, and he
gripped one of them and gently pulled. When it held, he lowered himself and
said, “Throw up a rope. There’s a ladder, and it seems to be sturdy enough to
hold us.”

When he had the rope, he carefully tied it off before using
the rungs to propel himself quickly upward, the Lamplight in tow. At the top, the
shaft opened up into a wide, long chamber with a short ceiling. There were rows
and rows of cubicles, each one covered with dust and cobwebs. He went to the
first one and sat down on the low bench lining the wall. His knees pressed
against the underside the table. Within easy reach was a dried up silver inkwell,
a quill, and the fragile remains of a scroll. He didn’t bother to lift the
scroll—it was too fragile, and he didn’t recognize the language.

Giorge stuck his head up through the shaft, and Angus turned
to him. “Stay there for now,” he said. “These scrolls will crumble easily, even
in a slight breeze.”

“Scrolls?” Giorge said, pausing with his torso half into the
chamber. “Magic?”

“I don’t think so,” Angus said. “At least not this one. I
don’t recognize the language, and there are no sigils or runes with which I am
familiar.” He reached for the inkwell and tossed it to him. “This should be
worth something to a collector,” he said. “It’s probably a thousand years old.”
He glanced down the line of cubicles. “There are probably a dozen more
inkwells, but they may not be silver.”

“Well,” Giorge smiled. “It’s something. I might be able to
get a few gold coins for it. But that ink is a problem. How am I supposed to
get it out?”

“Fill it with water,” Angus said. “If it doesn’t soften, go
to an alchemist and get some help. There should be one near the Wizards’ School
in Hellsbreath.”

“What else is up here?” Giorge asked.

Angus slouched as he went down the aisle picking up silver
inkwells. He glanced at each scroll as he passed, but he didn’t touch any of
them. After the fourth one, he realized they all held the same patterns—the
same
words
. When he reached the end of the corridor, there was a podium
but no inkwell. On the podium was a thick tome, opened to a page that had the
same incomprehensible series of symbols. The book was thick, old, and heavy.
The pages were dry, but they weren’t as fragile as the scrolls he had seen. He
reached out, gently picked up a page and turned it. It came loose from the
binding, but the leaf didn’t tear. Several more broke free of the binding as he
gently closed the book. The cover was of old, cracked leather, but it held when
he lifted the tome an inch above the podium and gently set it back down. The
teardrop insignia was on the cover, but he didn’t recognize the runes beneath.
He left it on the podium and made his way back to Giorge.

“I need a sack and a blanket,” he said.

“I have a sack with me,” Giorge said. “But we didn’t bring
any blankets. They’re still with the horses.”

“Would you mind getting one for me? I want to wrap up that
book before we move it. I’ll need some rope, too. Two sections, each about
three feet long.”

Giorge frowned. “For a book? Why?”

“It’s valuable,” Angus said. “The historians at the Wizards’
School will pay well for it.”

“How well?” Giorge asked.

“I don’t know,” Angus admitted. “It’s bound to be a very
rare text. I’m going to study it first, if I can decipher the language.”

“All right,” Giorge said, reluctantly climbing down the
ladder. Once he was out of sight, Angus returned to the podium and began a
careful search of the area. There had to be more to it than a scribe’s chamber.
No, not a scribe’s chamber, a
classroom
. The Master would read from the
text and the apprentices would copy whatever he said. Voltari had done that to
him many times, and if he made an error….

There had to be something else. The text—a sacred
text?—might be enough to make the room secret, but why make
the classroom
secret? It should have been out in the open. What were they learning? Something
heretical enough to warrant secrecy? Something powerful? Whatever the text was,
it had to be important. But was it important enough by itself?

Possibly. Probably. But….

Where could they hide something? What would it be? Where
would they put it? He sat down as if he was a master looking out at his
apprentices, diligently bent over their little tables in the cramped quarters.
I
would read from the book
. He looked down, gently opened the cover, and
pretended to read from it.
The students would write.
He imagined them
sitting there, quills dipping into their inkwells, the only sound the
scratching of their quill tips on their scrolls.
I would stand up to
evaluate their progress.
He stood up—slouched; the ceiling was too low for
him to stand fully erect.
No, I wouldn’t need to do that. They weren’t
novices; novices would be taught elsewhere. These were the priests, the ones
who would be sent out to spread the word, to build the temples. They would need
the sacred text, the text they were copying. I am their high priest, the holder
of the Sacred Truths. They reside in my book, in my—

My what?
He reached up to his chest as if he was
groping for something.
An amulet? A necklace? Where would I put it?
He
looked around the room.
This is my room. I own it. I would have my symbol of
authority, here. Or would I always carry it?

He ran his hands over the podium. It was a short stone
structure, much thicker than the ones the students had.
Why? He didn’t need
quill or ink. He had the text.

Angus studied the edge of the podium, the underside. He even
lifted the book to look under it—and that was when he saw the familiar red
shadow in the center of the podium. He smiled and set the book down.

“Here’s the blanket,” Giorge said from the opening. “And the
rope.”

Angus looked up. “How long have you been there?” Angus
asked.

“Long enough to know you found something,” Giorge said.
“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Angus said. “Why don’t you bring them here
and we’ll find out together?”

Giorge grinned, scurried out of the shaft, and walked
quickly over to join him. Even he had to slouch. “Whoever used this room had to
have been short like me,” he said.

“It may have been dwarves,” Angus suggested. Then he
frowned. Was this a remnant of the Dwarf Wars? Had the other volcanoes held
similar temples? Were they also nexus points? He shook his head; such
speculation could be endless, and he didn’t have time for it at the moment.
He
held out his hand and said, “Let me have the rope.” Giorge handed it to him,
and his fingers rapidly unraveled the individual strands that had been braided
together to form the rope. There were three such threads, and when he finished,
he handed the strands to Giorge and said, “When I lift the book, put three of
the threads lengthwise and the other three along its width. Then slide the
blanket over the top of them. Then I’ll set the book down and wrap it up. When
it’s secured, we’ll find out what’s in the podium.”

They set to work and about fifteen minutes later, Angus was
satisfied they had secured the book so that the pages would not come free. It
was a large book, and there was little excess string. He tied the knots so they
wouldn’t come loose; when he was ready to study it, he would have to cut them
and find a better binding for the book.

He handed the book to Giorge and said, “Put it in the sack
gently. I’ll carry it when we leave.”

While Giorge did as he had been asked, Angus pressed the
insignia on the podium and the top sprang upward a few inches. It was hinged,
and Angus lifted it the rest of the way. Inside the small chamber was a place
for the heavy tome to rest, another book—a smaller one with leather covers
reinforced with metal binding—four small bottles, a gem-studded ceremonial dagger,
and a pendant. It was a heavy gold pendant, and in its center was a gaudy red
stone in the size and shape of an eye. He held it up for Giorge to see, and
said, “Maybe this is The Tiger’s Eye? It won’t buy a kingdom, but it is awfully
large, isn’t it? What do you think it’s worth?”

Giorge took it from him, cradled it in his palm, weighed it,
looked closely at the gem, and sighed. “Not much,” he said. “It’s not a ruby.
It’s just a red crystal. There’s about a pound of gold, though. What else is in
there?” He leaned past Angus and took out the dagger. “Now, this is worth more
than the pendant. Maybe a few hundred gold. Are those potions?”

“I don’t know. They could be holy oil or something like
that. We can take them with us and find out later. Here,” Angus said, handing
them to Giorge. “You should pack them so they won’t break.”

Giorge nodded and set them on a nearby scribe’s bench.

Angus picked up the book. It was about six inches square but
only one inch thick. He unclasped the metal and opened it. It was written in
the same language as the larger one, but it was in much better shape. It didn’t
matter, though; he still couldn’t read it. “Here,” he said, handing it to
Giorge. “Pack that with the other things. I’ll take the larger book and go tell
them what we found.”

“I’ll take a look around before I join you,” he said,
putting the book in the bag with the inkwells. He had cut another sack into
strips and begun wrapping the bottles up with them when Angus disappeared down
the shaft….