The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (9 page)

He was still in this state when he heard a footfall just
outside the tent flap.

It was a familiar footfall.

He opened his eyes and brought the magical threads into
focus.

The thief had pursued him.

He was not alone.

13

The footsteps—almost as silent as walking on butterfly
wings—made their way slowly around the tent’s exterior, as if the man
accompanying them was studying the thick cloth of the tent wall for some sign
of weakness.

In the distance, barely audible even in Angus’s highly
attuned state, a horse snickered. There were other horses with it, but he
couldn’t tell how many. Someone dismounted, metal softly clacking against metal,
muffled by a layer of cloth.
Armor?
They were near the boulder.

Angus slid the blanket from him, the cloth brutally rough
against the hypersensitive skin of his hand. As he sat up, he quickly brought
the magic closer to him. He reached for a deeply crimson strand of flame—a
strong one full of energy—and wrapped it gently around his right forearm. The
energy pulsed, its barely constrained incendiary force writhing furiously over
his skin and trying to break free. Once it was firmly anchored, he sought the
second strand. He avoided the deep navy blue strands—too much moisture in
them—in favor of a thin, sky blue one. It would have less sky magic in it,
which would help to contain the explosive force while feeding it just the right
amount of air. He didn’t want to kill Giorge; he only wanted to warn the thief
and his companions away. But if it wasn’t Giorge, if his memory of Giorge’s
footfalls was flawed, he wanted to be prepared.

He started intertwining the two strands, alternately
knotting the sky around the flame and then the flame around the sky. They were
simple knots, ones that would come apart quickly when he released them. He kept
making knots until the two strands were fighting against him so strongly that
it became difficult to contain them, to keep them from breaking free and
releasing their energies. He gripped the last knot in his right hand and held
it as tightly as he could as the complex chain wiggled about his arm as if it
were an angry.

He eased himself slowly upright, balancing on his left
knuckles.

The thief was almost directly across from the tent opening,
and Angus walked as softly as he could to the flap. He opened it a crack and
peered out. It was dark, but the kind of light darkness that can only happen in
the mountains on a cloudless night. The unimpeded starlight was more than
enough for him to see the vague shapes of a handful of horses and four men
gathered next to them. Three of the men had bows ready at their sides; the
fourth was a towering silhouette of armor. Angus let the flap fall back into
place and turned toward the sound of Giorge’s quiet breathing, just beyond the
tent wall. He walked swiftly through the tent to within a few feet of the
sound, not overly concerned about the noise he knew would be heard. When he was
in position, he said “Hello, Giorge.” His voice low, steady, calm.

The breathing paused.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Angus
purred. “Or shall I introduce myself?”

The boy stirred in his sleep, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and
asked, “What is it?”

Angus held up his left hand for silence. “Well Giorge? Which
will it be?”

Giorge was breathing again, but he wasn’t moving. A few more
seconds passed, and then Giorge softly asked, “Angus?”

Angus smiled; he hadn’t told him his name. “Yes,” he said,
“and I am prepared.” The spell was fighting against him, and sweat was beading
on his forehead from the effort to control it. He would have to release the
spell soon or the knots would begin to unravel on their own, releasing an
unguided torrent of flame….

Giorge’s footfalls moved quickly away. Angus followed after
them until they stopped just outside the tent opening. Giorge slid his fingers
through it and lifted it slowly outward. When he saw Angus, he said, “We’ve
been looking for you.”

A few of the workers woke up, saw the stranger at their
door, and began waking their comrades. They tried to move quietly to their
tools, but the sounds they were making shouted out their activity. Angus and
Giorge ignored them.

“For what purpose?” Angus asked, letting the spell slip a
little closer to release.

Giorge glanced back at his friends and said, “We’d like to
make you a proposition,” he said.

Angus felt the sweat trickling from the furrow of his brow
as he tilted his head. “What kind of proposition?” he asked. His right hand
began to tremble.

Still the body.

“Our banner needs a wizard,” Giorge said. “We’d like to
offer you the position.”

Angus frowned in surprise, and the spell almost slipped free
before he could pinch the last knot tightly between his fingertips. He winced
and thrust his right hand—flickering crimson flames engulfed it—through the
tent flap.

Giorge leapt backward and retreated several steps.

Angus ignored him. He had to; the spell sizzled violently
along his fingertips as he stepped forward and opened his hand. He had no time
to aim, and the first explosive burst struck the edge of the road before he
could raise his arm high enough to send the explosions skyward. He
half-screamed, half-grunted when the last knot loosened and the strand of flame
snapped free from his arm and slashed against his palm like a whip.

The horses reared, turned, and fled.

Giorge had his knife out in front of him.

Angus dropped to his knees and gasped, blinking back the
tears as the last of the magical fire sputtered out. He took a slow, deep
breath—
Still the body.
—and pushed away the sharpness of the pain.

Still the mind.

He fell forward, caught himself with his left hand.

“Giorge!” the armor-clad warrior called. “The horses!”

Still the body.

Giorge looked back, hesitated, and then glanced at Angus.

Still the mind.

Angus ignored him.

“Giorge!” the man called from further away, his armor
clattering loudly as he ran.

Still the body.

Giorge turned, sheathed his knife, and ran after him.

Angus focused on the pain, captured it—
Still the mind.
—and
cast it away. His breathing was slow, steady, rhythmic.

Still the body.

He sat back on his heels and pressed upward, rising to his
feet in a single graceful motion.

Still the mind.

Angus held his hand out in front of him, palm up, and looked
at it with a clinical, detached eye. The fingertips had blistered, and a wide
welt ran across his palm from the wrist to his pinky. It had burned through the
skin and most of the flesh was charred. He flexed his hand, but the fingers
weren’t moving properly. If the damage were permanent….

Still the body.

Angus turned, entered the tent, and walked past the throng
of workmen. They had their picks and mallets out before them, but when they saw
it was Angus, they relaxed a bit and let him past.

“What is it?” Billigan demanded as he approached.

Angus ignored him and walked steadily to the water barrel.
Still
the mind
. He stuck his arm in it up to the elbow. It was the laundry
barrel. There was a film of grit floating on it, but he didn’t care; the water
was cool on his skin.

Still the body.

The boy whimpered from behind the laundry barrel. Angus ignored
him.

Still the mind.

“Fire!” one of the workmen called from the tent flap.

Billigan cursed and hurried up to the tent flap.

Still the body.

“Water line!” Billigan ordered. “We have to put that fire
out before it spreads!”

The workmen tossed their tools aside and rapidly formed a
line from the wash barrel to the tent flap.

“Yes,” Angus said, his voice calm as he took his arm out of
the laundry barrel. “Use the laundry water first,” he suggested, moving along
the line until he reached the wash barrel.

Still the mind.

The workmen passed ewers and basins of water along in quick
procession until two of the men decided to lift the barrel and carry it out
through the tent flap. The line began to reform at the wash barrel as the
empties were handed back.

Angus shook the grit off his arm and dipped it into the
barrel before they started siphoning off the water. Then he went to the corner
and picked up his backpack. He made his way through the men and up to the
table. He set the backpack down next to the bread, opened the flap, and began
removing the scrolls, stacking them neatly as he went.

By the time he had them all removed, a man near the entrance
shouted, “It’s out! Let’s stomp the ashes to make sure it stays that way.” The
other workmen dropped the basins and hurried outside.

The boy started picking up the ewers and basins, and as he
passed the table, Angus said, “I need your help.”

The boy paused, cradling a couple of ewers and three basins
in his arms.

“When you finish, bring a lantern to the table,” Angus
added.

Angus slid the sleeve of his robe back to see how far the
burn went up his arm, but the damage stopped abruptly at his wrist.
The robe
will protect you
, Voltari had told him when he left.
Is that what you
meant, Master?

The boy brought the lantern up to the table and set it down
next to the scrolls.

“Not there!” Angus cried as the hot glass nestled against
his precious magic. The boy pulled it rapidly back, and Angus continued, “Come
around over here, and set it on the other side of the backpack.”

The boy complied and turned to leave.

“There’s a pot in my backpack,” Angus said. “I need you to
take it out for me.”

As the boy brought the pot out, Angus reached across his
belly with his left hand and withdrew the dagger from its sheath. The boy set
the pot down and Angus handed him the dagger. “Use this to pry it open. Do it
gently,” he warned. “I don’t want the lid broken.”

After a few seconds effort, the lid popped up, followed by
the rush of air and a tart, not-quite-completely-unpleasant odor.

“Thank you,” Angus said, lifting the lid and setting it
upside down on the table beside the pot. He dipped two of the fingers of his
left hand into the pot and brought out a small glob of the ointment. He dabbed
his tormented fingertips with it, and the pain from the blisters lessened
immediately. Then he spread it liberally over the welt on his right palm. He
spread the goo over it, braced himself for the pain, and began rubbing it into
the trench cut into his palm. But instead of searing, raging pain, there was
only a pleasant tingling sensation. Once the ointment had been absorbed, he
spread another layer over it and asked, “Are there any clean bandages?”

The boy nodded, hurried to the back of the wagon, and
rummaged for several seconds in a compartment Angus had not seen before. When
he came back, he had a six-inch-wide swath of cloth in his hands. “There are
accidents, sometimes,” he said. “I can wrap it for you. I’ve done it before.”

Angus nodded and held out his hand.

The boy rapidly secured the bandage over the wound, and when
the boy finished, Angus used his left fingertip to wipe a thin layer of the
ointment around the lip of the pot before replacing the lid. Then he pressed
down firmly on the lid to seal it.

“What is that stuff?” the boy asked.

“A healing salve,” Angus said.

“Is it magical?”

Angus shook his head. “No,” he said. “But it works almost as
well.”

“It smells funny,” he said.

Angus chuckled. “Why don’t you put it back in my pack,” he
said. “Then you won’t have to smell it any longer.”

The boy did so, and then reached for one of the scrolls.
“Are these more maps?” he asked.

Angus’s left hand snapped out and grabbed the boy’s wrist in
a tight grip. “Don’t touch those,” he hissed in his most severe tone.

The boy winced and tried to pull his hand back.

“They are my spells,” Angus said, letting go. “They are
quite dangerous for anyone not trained in their use.” Then he held up his
injured right hand, and smiled. “Even for those who are trained, there is
sometimes a hefty price.”

The boy leaned back and said, “I should help them stomp the
ashes.”

Angus nodded as he started to return the scrolls and map to
the backpack. When he was done, he secured the flap and waited.

Several minutes later, the workmen returned, stomping and
grumbling. One of them carried the empty water barrel, and another went to the
wash barrel. “We’ll have to fill these tomorrow,” he said. “There isn’t near
enough for the day.” He glared accusingly at Angus but didn’t say anything
more.

Billigan entered and took a seat opposite Angus.

“All right, Angus,” he demanded. “Why the devil—”

“It was an accident,” Angus sighed. “Giorge startled me.”

“Giorge?” Billigan repeated. “Who’s Giorge?”

“A thief I met in Wyrmwood,” Angus said. “He was outside the
tent with his friends.”

“Do you know them?” Billigan asked.

“No,” Angus said. “My encounter with Giorge was brief. I
never met any of the others.”

“Will they be back?” Billigan demanded.

“I suspect so,” Angus said.

Billigan turned to two of the workers. “Guard duty,” he
said. “Keep an eye out for them.”

Angus stood up and put his backpack on. “They’re here for
me,” he said. “You’re in no danger from them.”
You have nothing worth
taking, anyway,
he thought.

“What about you?” Billigan asked.

Angus half-smiled. “I don’t think they’ll risk testing my
patience overmuch,” he said. “Not tonight, at least.” Angus walked quickly over
to the tent flap and opened it. Giorge and his friends were nowhere to be seen.
He turned back to Billigan. “After all,” he finished, “they did invite me out
for a chat.”

He stepped outside and let the tent flap fall back into
place. He barely looked at the scorched patch of hillside to his left as he
walked rapidly up to the boulder blocking the road. He stepped around it and
still couldn’t see them. He climbed one-handed up the scaffold and took another
look. From his perch, he saw the glint of moonlight reflecting off metal in the
valley, well away from the road. It was the armor-clad warrior lumbering along
at a sluggish pace. Once he saw him, he was able to pick out the other running
shadows. There were five of them, and the metal-clad warrior was lagging
considerably behind the others. Then he saw the horses his visitors were
chasing after. Even if they caught up with the horses quickly, it would take
time for them to return.
If
they were still interested in returning. He
sighed and went back to the tent.