The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (4 page)

He walked downstream in the moonlight until he found a place
where he could climb up the steep bank and clear an area for a cooking fire. He
gathered some small branches for the fire and used a few of them to construct a
make-shift spit. Once the fire was going well, he speared the carcass on the
spit and set it over the fire. He banked the fire so it would burn with a low
flame for several hours and sat down.

Almost at once, fatigue settled on him, and he lay down. But
sleep was reluctant to join him; instead, his mind whirled from one unanswered
question to another. When had he learned to throw a stiletto? He had never used
one while he was with Voltari—there was no need for it—but it had felt as
natural to him as the leather tunic he had on beneath his robe. And what about
skinning the animal? He had not been the least bit squeamish about it, and his
hands seemed to know exactly what to do even though he had no recollection of
ever having skinned anything before. It was so
cold
, so
dispassionate
….
And what about the fire? He hadn’t built a fire like this before, either;
Voltari’s tower held a constant temperature—except when spells went wrong. Why
did he feel so confident and comfortable in the wilderness one moment and
completely at odds with it in the next?

The answers didn’t matter for now; he was alive, and he
needed to focus on staying that way. There were dangers in the wilderness, and
not just bears and wolves. Other things more sinister than them could also be
lurking in the darkness, and the sooner he made it to a well-traveled road, the
better it would be.

As long as there weren’t any bandits….

It took a long time for him to fall asleep, and when he
finally did, he was plagued by dreams of shadowy, smoke-like, vaguely human
figures with glowing red eyes emerging from knotty maple trunks. They circled
him, probing for weakness, stretching out sooty tongues that tasted of roast
furnumbra….

He woke just before dawn, the fire little more than
smoldering embers. He stirred it back to life and broke off one of the charred hindquarters.
It was overcooked almost to the point of being wasted, but he gnawed at it
anyway. It tasted mostly of maple smoke, but he didn’t care. While he chewed,
he relieved himself and went back to the stream for a pouch of water to douse
the fire. He ate the second hindquarter before turning to the flesh on the
back, which had escaped much of the flame. It was tender and gamey, but there
wasn’t much of it. By the time he had finished eating, there was only the
tough, leathery flesh of the breast and abdomen left, and he cut it into thin
strips, wrapped each one in a leaf, and put them in one of the pockets of his robe.
Then he resumed his journey downstream.

He had only gone a short distance when the stream merged
with another one and the water depth made it impractical for him to continue walking
in it. The banks were steep, and he had to backtrack almost all the way to
where he had camped before he could climb out of it. The maple trees now
outnumbered thickets, and the going was easier. He made better time, but at a
cost: by midday there were sharp pains in the soles of his feet, and when he
stopped to remove his boots, he immediately realized his mistake. When he had
stepped into the deeper water, it had seeped into his boots. He had felt it, of
course, but had dismissed it as a minor inconvenience. He was wrong. The water
had softened the calluses on the soles of his feet, and they had cracked open.
It wasn’t that bad, but he didn’t have anything he could use to tend to them. He
also couldn’t wait for them to heal on their own. All he could do was dry his
boots and hope for the best.

He built a small fire near a fallen log and draped his boots
over the log so the heat from the fire could go into them. He watched it
closely for several minutes to make sure the flames didn’t ignite the boots or
the log, and munched on the last of the meat.

Later, when he tried to put his boots back on, he found his
feet had swollen, making it difficult. The open wounds scraped against the
leather as he forced his feet past the ankle joint of each boot, and by the
time they were both on, tears were leaking from the edges of his eyes. His feet
were throbbing. He had difficulty putting weight on them at first, but he had
to keep going. He needed to get to a village. He could rest there. He could
heal there.

Still the body,
he thought, feeling an immediate
sense of comfort from the mantra.
Still the mind. Still the body…

Ten minutes later, the pain was still there, but it had
settled into the background as a manageable bit of static that he could ignore.
It helped, and he made good time for the rest of the afternoon. But when he sat
down for the evening and let the mantra slip from his mind, it was all he could
do to keep from screaming as the repressed agony flooded through him.

He fainted.

He slept.

He dreamt a dragon had caught him; it was dangling him
upside down over a pool of crystal clear water. In the reflection, he saw the
dragon—a fierce-looking, scaly blackish-red brute—snorting thin streaks of fire
across his feet, its forked tongue flicking out to see if they were done….

7

It took Angus four days to reach the first village.

Still the body.

He was limping severely and leaned heavily against a
makeshift staff.

Still the mind.

He was feverish and only vaguely aware of his surroundings.

Still the body.

But he was alive.

Still the mind.

He had made it to the village. Did it have a name?

Still the body.

Fellwood. That’s what he decided to call it.

Still the mind.

Did Fellwood have an inn?

Still the body.

Yes. That was his goal. An inn.

Still the mind.

He needed to find the inn.

Still the body.

He wandered through the village of Fellwood—a small patch of
perhaps a dozen thatch-roofed houses—as a scattering of villagers stared at
him.

Still the mind.

Why were they staring? They surely must have had visitors
before.

Still the body.

Pain shot up through his leg, and he blinked away the
questions, the eyes of the villagers.

Still the body.

Still the body.

Still the body.

They were distractions.

Still the mind.

What was he doing?

Still the body.

The inn. He needed to find the inn. How could he do that?

Still the mind.

One of the villagers approached, said something. He ignored
it.
It wasn’t about the inn.

Still the body.

An inn would have a sign.

Still the mind.

That was what he was looking for: a sign. A sign like an axe
cleaving a slab of meat? Yes, that would be the inn. Food for woodsmen. Beds….

Still the body.

He turned toward it, and the villager—a young, stout fellow
taller than himself—put his arm around his back, his hand circling under his
armpit.

Still the mind.

Angus turned to him. He was supposed to do something, wasn’t
he? What was it?

Still the body.

The villager guided him toward the largest building in the
village, one that had two stories and a slate roof. It was the one with the
sign, so he followed where the boy led.

Still the mind.

He frowned. He wasn’t supposed to let him do that, was he?

Still the body.

The villager opened the door, yelled “Nargeth!”

Still the mind.

A foreign language? It sounded like one. But then he yelled
it again, and a doughty old matron waddled quickly to his other side. Together,
they led him to a chair at a table near the door and helped him into it.

Still the body.

“Can you help him?”

She touched his forehead. She wasn’t supposed to touch his
forehead. He was supposed to do something. What was it?

Still the mind.

“Fever,” she tutted, shaking her head. “Find Ulrich.”

The inn. He needed to find the inn. He tried to stand up—
Still
the body.—
but she gently held him down.

“Quickly!” she said. “He’s addle-minded.”

He smiled.

Still the addled mind.

His mantra slipped, but the pain did not overwhelm him.

Still the broken body.

The pain had become so much a part of him that he simply
accepted it as if it were a pair of comfortable boots: always there but seldom
noticed.

Still the idle mind.

He blinked and shook his head. Addle-minded? Who’s
addle-minded? He could help them.

Find the addled mind.

He looked around the room, trying to find the addle-minded
one. He tried to rise again.

Still the body.

“Now you be still,” the old matron said.

Still. Still. Still the mindbody.

She was at least fifty if a day, her face plump with
concern.

Still her rattled body?

“I am looking for the inn,” Angus said, his voice calm, clear,
and drained of energy. “I need rest.”

Still the tired body. Tired
….

Her eyes were brown, the kind of milky brown that you could
find in a not-quite-ripe walnut. He smiled at her.

Steal her body?

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “This be the
inn,” she said.

Steal her mind?

He reached into a pocket and brought out a gold coin. He
held it out to her. “How long?” he asked.

She barely hesitated before snatching up the coin.

Will she mind?

She smelled it, licked it, pinched it, and nodded. “Long
enough,” she said. “You need mending.”

Mend the body.

He chuckled softly. The sound was hollow and weak at first,
but gradually bloomed into a full-blown guffaw that left him so exhausted that
he slumped forward.

Mend the mind.

He would have fallen to the floor if Nargeth had not caught
him.

Mind the body.

He sagged against her shoulder as the world slipped quietly
away….

8

Angus rolled over on the straw mattress, the dry stalks
grating noisily against each other. He sighed. It was warm in the comfortable
little cocoon he had hollowed out from under the coverlet, and he wallowed in
it for several minutes before sitting up.

He frowned. This was not his bed or his room. Everything in
Voltari’s Tower were drab shades of black and gray, and the coverlet was a
lively array of homespun wool squares dyed indigo, forest green, and red ochre.
It was beautiful, and if it hadn’t been made from wool, he would think it
ostentatious. Voltari was strictly practical with his adornments; he had no
aesthetic sense whatsoever.

Where am I?

He eased his feet out from under the warm cocoon and set
them on the cold floor. A slight twinge of pain ran through both soles, and he
gasped. He looked down at them and discovered they were covered in bandages.

He lifted his right foot to his lap and gingerly tested its
sole. It was tender, but the pain was little more than a reminder of what it
had been.
The inn
, he thought.
I must be in the inn
. He tested
his left foot and frowned.
How long have I been here?

He began unwinding the bandage—but stopped almost
immediately. He wanted to find out how bad his feet looked, but if the bandages
were ready to be removed, whoever had put them on would have already removed
them. Besides, what could he do about it? He was no healer. He gingerly let his
foot fall back to the floor.
Still the body
, he thought, slowing his
breathing and heartbeat.
Still the mind.
He wanted to reconstruct his
memory of what had happened, and needed a clear mind to do it.

His feet had been injured in the stream. He remembered that
much. It was a foolish mistake, one he vowed never to make again. Then he
compounded the mistake when he had kept walking. He should have waited for the
soles to heal instead of aggravating them. But he hadn’t. He had kept walking,
and the wounds had gotten infected.

Then he found the village. Fellwood? Isn’t that what it was?
Voltari’s map didn’t show the village, but it was there.
He
was there.
And it had an inn. Nargeth…. He had given her a gold coin! How could he have
been so foolish?

He was naked.

Where were his things? His heartbeat quickened, despite his
efforts to calm it, and he stood up. He surveyed the room quickly, finding his
backpack next to the table—which had a basin, ewer, loaf of bread, and slab of
cheese placed on it. He paused only long enough to rip some of the bread free
before tossing the empty basin on the mattress and putting his backpack in its
place. He opened the backpack and was relieved to see the scrolls Voltari had
given him still there, seemingly undisturbed. He took a breath and drank from
the pitcher to wash down the dry, crumbly bread crumbs before biting into the
cheese. It had a tangy, peppery flavor and bits of it pasted themselves to his
teeth as he chewed. He quickly counted the scrolls—they were the correct number—and
took the first one out. He unrolled it far enough to recognized it, and then
moved on to the next one. He continued checking them until he had confirmed
that all of the scrolls were still there. But his map was missing, and so were
his clothes.

He looked under the bed and in the bedding, and walked
around the small chamber three times before he conceded it was a waste of time.
At least there was a chamber pot, and the air was warm enough that he didn’t
need any clothes. Still, he felt almost trapped in the room without them, and
he needed to leave the room to find out what had happened.

He draped the coverlet over his shoulders and wrapped it
around himself. It was still warm from his body heat, and it trailed behind him
a few feet as he hobbled up to the door. He tried the latch—It was locked! He
tried it again, rattling the door on its hinges. He stood there trying to
decide what to do until he heard footfalls on stairs.

He backed away from the door and concentrated, bringing the
magical energies around him into focus.

There was a key in the door.

It turned.

He dropped the coverlet and reached for a soft crimson
strand and wrapped his right index finger around it. He felt the weak,
quivering of its power, and prepared his mind and body to receive it and
redirect it into the simple knots of the spell.

The door opened inward, and a frumpy old woman stepped in.
In her arms were Angus’s robe, tunic, leggings, undergarments, and boots. She
almost dropped them when she saw him standing there naked, his right arm
craning outward toward her, his left apparently ready to pounce on something
that wasn’t there.

“Goodness,” the old woman gasped, coming to a stop just
inside the door. “You are a sight, aren’t you?” She smiled, a jovial smile with
an undertone of irascibility. “My yes, a sight indeed!” she chuckled, moving
past him to lay the clothing on the mattress. When she turned back, she
ordered, “Sit you down, now.”

He let the magic slip away as he reached down for the
coverlet and wrapped it around himself again. “Nargeth?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” she said, giving him a firm but friendly nudge
toward the bed. “And you be?”

“Angus,” he replied.

“Sit, Angus,” she said. “Let me tend to those feet.”

He studied her for a long moment. She wore her gray hair in
a bun beneath a bright orange scarf that contrasted wildly with her simple gray
homespun dress, food-spattered apron, and mud-colored leather boots. He sat
down on the mattress next to his clothes and slid his hand into the folds, of
the tunic.

She stepped forward, put her hands on his knees and knelt
down in front of him. He braced himself to resist her weight, but it was a
surprisingly light touch. Once she was on her knees, she slid back and reached
out for his calf. She lifted it until it rested on her thigh, and then deftly
unraveled the bandage. She let it slip to the floor and did the same with the
other foot. When she finished, she levered herself up again.

“You will be as good as new by morning,” she said. She
turned, walked out of the open door, and came back a few seconds later with a small
clay pot in her hands.

“What’s that?” Angus asked.

“Healing balm,” she replied. “Now, pick up the bandages and
move you back. My back is too old and crinkled for bending like that.”

Angus did as instructed, and she set the pot beside his feet
and pried open its lid. A pungent, almost floral aroma arose from it, and when
it struck him, he wrinkled up his nose.

“That’s a fierce smelling concoction,” he said.

She chuckled as she reached into the pot with two fingers
and plucked out a small glob of thick, yellow-brown goo. “Ulrich makes it,” she
said, spreading the paste-like goo over his feet. “He has an herb garden outside
the village. What he can’t grow himself, he gathers from Maple Wood. If it’s not
there, he buys it on his annual trip to Hellsbreath. Sometimes he loses himself
in the mountains for a while.” She wiped her fingers around the lip of the pot
and replaced the lid, pressing it down until it sealed. Then she began rubbing
the ointment into his soles.

“It seems to work well,” Angus said.

Nargeth nodded. “Best healing balm outside Hellsbreath’s
temples.”

Angus frowned, “How much do I owe you for it?”

“Already paid for,” she said.

Angus frowned and started checking his pockets; they were empty.

“You need not worry,” she said. “Check the boots.”

Angus frowned, picked up a boot, and heard things rolling
around inside it. He upended it, and the garnets fell out in his palm. The
other held the coins he had brought with him from Blackhaven, all but the gold
coin he had given her. He looked at Nargeth and raised his eyebrows.

She shrugged. “Only fools cross wizards,” she said. “And you
paid well enough when you arrived.”

Angus nodded. “How long have I been here?” he asked.

“Two days,” she said.

“Two days?” Angus repeated. “My feet healed that much in two
days?”

“Aye,” she said, smiling as she began wrapping up the
bandages. “Best healing balm north of Hellsbreath.”

“I’ll say,” he agreed. “How much will it cost me for a pot
like that?”

Nargeth shrugged. “Ulrich doesn’t sell it to outsiders.”

Angus frowned. “Perhaps if I talk to him?”

Nargeth shook her head.

“Well,” Angus said, pointing to the pot next to his feet.
“What about that one?”

Nargeth frowned, sighed, and said, “You paid for it.”

He smiled. It would no doubt come in handy wherever he ended
up.

“You come from the south?” Nargeth asked as she picked up
the pot and set it on the small table.

Angus shook his head. “No. Northwest. Blackhaven Tower.”

She turned from the table and and eyed him shrewdly. “You
know that foul wizard?” she asked.

“Voltari? He was my mentor.”

“Don’t speak his name!” Nargeth half-shouted, wringing her
hands and looking about the room as if she thought Voltari was about to appear.

Angus straightened his posture and waited. When Voltari
failed to appear, she took a deep breath, squinted at him, and said, “I don’t
allow magic in my inn.”

Angus relaxed and smiled at her. “No worry there, Nargeth,”
he said. “Once I’ve recuperated, I’ll be heading south. From the look of it, I’ll
be leaving in one, maybe two days.”

“Hellsbreath?”

He nodded. “How long does it take to get there from here?”

“Three, maybe four weeks by foot,” she said.

He frowned. It hadn’t looked that far on the map. In fact—

“My map,” he said suddenly. “It wasn’t in my backpack. Did
you take it?”

Nargeth nodded. “Ulrich wanted to see it.”

Angus frowned. “I need that map—”

“He’ll bring it before you leave,” she said. “He said it was
an old map and wanted to study it while you slept.”

Angus frowned a little longer, and then shrugged. There was
nothing he could do about it now, and if Ulrich brought it back, there was no
loss. He sighed and asked, “Can I walk on these bandages?”

“Certainly,” Nargeth replied as she moved toward the open
door. “Get you dressed and come down to the common room. There’s a fine stew
waiting for you, and I’ll send word to Ulrich that you wish to see him.”

“Thank you,” Angus said. “You have been kind.”

She grinned, looked him over again, and said, “For a gold
coin, you can have more, if you like.” She pushed out her ample chest and
laughed, noisily closing the door behind her.