The pain was too much for the mantra to deflect, and he passed out. When he woke again, he found himself a few more inches below the rock shelf. But he was on his back, and his right arm was draped across his chest. His left arm was free, and he used it as carefully as he could to loosen the belt holding his robe in place and gingerly shift the position of his right arm until he could tuck his hand and wrist into his belt. Once it was in place, he tightened the belt as much as he dared and reached up for the shelf. It was nearly at arm’s length, now, but it was much easier to pull himself up into an awkward sitting position than it had been to push himself up onto the shelf. His right arm bent awkwardly, but the strain on his shoulder was not as fierce at it had been before—or he was becoming more accustomed to it. His lower back protested and began to bleed again, but there was nothing he could do about that yet. At least there wasn’t much blood, so the wound couldn’t be severe.
His head and left arm were above the shelf, and he looked over at it. The wand was still lying there, and he reached over for it. He secured it in its holders in the sleeve of his robe and then reached for the rock that had jabbed into his back. It was much smaller than he had expected, barely as large as a small nut, but its edges were sharp, like a rough-hewn stone axe. Had it managed to cut through the cloth of his robe? If it had, he would have to repair the damage, and that would take a lot of time. For now, though; he needed to get onto the shelf before the ice beneath him melted any more.
He repositioned his right leg and pushed upward at the same time that he lifted with his left hand. He bent his head to avoid the ice, and eased back onto the edge of the shelf. After a brief rest, he squeezed between the ice until his head leaned against the inner edge of the ice shaft leading up to the surface. He recited the mantra for several minutes before he was able to breathe normally, and then he looked down at his feet dangling over the edge of the shelf. They were both there, and they both looked normal, but he still couldn’t feel his left foot. He could move it and tap it on the surface of the little pool of water until it splashed about, but he couldn’t feel anything below his shin.
He edged back onto the shelf until he could bring up his left knee. He had to watch his left foot as he brought it up to the shelf under him, and then leaned back against the shaft. He pushed up briefly, lifting most of his weight from the shelf, and then sat back down again. At least his foot hadn’t slipped out from under him, and he seemed to be able to use it despite not being able to feel it. There hadn’t been any pain either, so he did it again. This time, he didn’t stop until he was standing upright in the narrow shaft. His right thigh was stiff, but the soreness was negligible compared to the sharp ache in his back and intense, acute pain in his shoulder when he brushed it against the wall of the shaft.
Dislocated? he thought to himself. Pulled from the socket like a cork from a bottle? The elbow is hyper-extended, but it will heal in time if I can get proper treatment. But I need a healer. Soon. What chance do I have of finding one in time?
He looked up the shaft and wondered how far down he had come while his body had melted through the ice, how far up he would have to climb. It was his next obstacle, and it would be so much easier if he could fly. He sighed and tried again to bring the magic within him into focus, concentrating as fiercely as he had done during the first year of his training when it had been so difficult to grasp what Voltari was teaching him. He still couldn’t see the magic, but he did see something.
He was in a small room lying on a bed, smothered in blankets. All about him was an image wrought from shades of black, white, and gray. It was as if a painter had leeched all the color from his canvas before dipping his brush in the paint. A woman with long, wavy, dark-gray hair looked down upon him with charcoal eyes. A frown creased her pale gray lips and punctuated the crow’s feet scratching at her eyes, the dimple in the cleft of her chin. Her skin looked as if it was smeared with ash, and she wore an almost-white healer’s gown. She reached out to touch his chest. The pain of crushed ribs filtered slowly into his awareness as her hand passed over them, but that pain was somewhat softened by her touch. Then the steady, well-defined, rhythmic heartbeat brought on by his mantra was interrupted by the sudden lurching of an inconsistent patter. He frowned; it wasn’t an interruption in his heartbeat—that was as steady as it always was when he used the mantra—the erratic heartbeat was overlain on his steady one. There was something else there, too, something warm and familiar that he couldn’t quite place.
He watched the painting transforming before him for a long time, letting the woman’s gentle touch flood through him as she righted the wrongness of the ribs, feeling each one snapping softly back into its proper position before she welded them back together. It was like watching the minstrel at Dagremon’s as she plucked the chords of her lute to build the song that had reached into his heart and found what had been missing in it for far too long. Then the healer turned to the lungs, and he felt a fluttering in his chest, as if her fingers had reached inside him to tickle his breath to life.
She paused, mouthed something he couldn’t quite hear, and the rhythmic, steady beating of the mantra in his heart stopped completely. It was so sudden that he tottered where he stood and would have fallen if he hadn’t struck the ice shaft’s inner wall. The sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder saved him, drawing his attention away from the magic—if that was what it was he had seen—and back to his immediate surroundings. His heart stammered for a moment and then resumed the normal, steady beat brought on by the mantra. But just before the image had disappeared, she had whispered something into his ear, something he barely heard, something that sounded a lot like his name. But it wasn’t Angus that she had said. It was Typhus.
4
Embril paused to take a breath outside Commander Garret’s door and then smoothed the front of her powder blue robe. Her status had gotten her this far, and her persuasive skills would have to take her the rest of the way. She clenched her teeth: Angus was depending upon her. She had to convince the Commander to let her go with the patrol. If she couldn’t convince him, she would have to get to the temple on her own and she didn’t want to do that. She had never left Hellsbreath and the idea of going into the wilderness by herself was disconcerting. She wouldn’t even be considering doing it if she hadn’t promised Angus she would go with them.
She took another deep breath, lifted her head, and rapped the iron knocker firmly against the reinforced pine door. It was a new door, still reeking of fresh-cut pine, and the sap was a bit sticky as her knuckles brushed against it. She had already gone through six other new doors as her escort led her through the maze of the barracks, and the iron bars bracing each one had been newly forged and completely free of rust. She had even taken a peek at one and was surprised to see the simple pattern of a Binding spell reinforcing it. Why had the old doors been replaced? She had seen a few of them stacked outside, and they looked like they were still quite functional. Perhaps she was overlooking something? She wasn’t a woodsman, after all, or a smithy for that matter, and she hadn’t read enough about either of them to identify potentially hazardous imperfections in wood or iron. Perhaps she should look into it when she returned to the library?
“Enter.” It was a man’s voice, robust even through the stifling thickness of the door. There was power behind that voice, power and authority.
She took another breath, nodded to herself, lifted the latch, and pushed the door inward. The sound of shuffling parchment, softly spoken words—not whispers, exactly, but not intended to carry, either—and the muffled clink of metal on glass. Then the door was wide enough for her to see the men gathered around a large rectangular table. The man at the head of the table was standing, and he pointed at a piece of parchment in front of him. It was held flat on the table by a dagger on one corner, a flagon on the other, and a sheathed sword across the bottom edge. “Here is where you are to go, Lieutenant,” he said.
The man had spoken with the same voice that had told her to enter, and
she studied him as she stepped across the threshold and up to the table. He was surprisingly small, barely an inch or so taller than she was, but he had knotted muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of a simple brown uniform with little adornment to indicate his rank. The tunic was a light shade of umber, the trousers a medium shade, and the boots almost black. The silver studs of the narrow black belt accentuated the color scheme, and the empty sheath at his right side almost blended into the umber background of his trousers. He was older than she had expected, and his face was weather worn and pock-marked with worry lines. When he glanced up, his hazel eyes made a quick assessment of her and then returned to the map laid out before him. “Take this route.”
She looked down and watched him trace a slow pattern over the map, his fingertip hugging the edge of the mountains to the north. She recognized the map instantly—it was a copy of the one Angus had given her—and the route he was outlining was the same one Angus had told her to take. But instead of heading directly for the Angst temple, the man’s finger turned away from the mountains and into the plateau. It stopped at the river and said, “Send a few men here for reconnaissance. They are not to be discovered. I want to know what’s tending to those fires.”
Reconnaissance? That would require stealth and secrecy. She smiled to herself and said, “Perhaps I can help with that?” A quick argument formed, one she had not prepared before coming here.
The man lifted his gaze far enough to reassess her through his bushy eyebrows and then straightened up. “Gentlemen,” he said without looking at the other two men. “This is Embril, the librarian at the Wizard’s School. She is also friend of Angus, the mage associated with The Banner of the Wounded Hand. She has asked to meet with me on a matter of considerable importance to her that also relates to your mission. What that matter is I do not yet know. Perhaps she will enlighten us all?”
Embril stared for a long moment, a bit surprised that he had known of her friendship with Angus and not entirely sure she should speak in front of the other two men. Her request was for the Commander alone, but it was clear that he did not believe secrecy was necessary. She almost frowned, but looked at the map instead. She nodded and pointed at it. “Of course, Commander,” she said, “I would like to join the patrol you are sending to investigate the presence of the fishmen on that plateau. I believe the patrol is to leave tomorrow at dawn?”
The Commander’s eyes narrowed slightly as he said, “Indeed it does.” He nodded to the man on his left, a large man with blonde hair and a moustache whose ends dangled down below his clean-shaven chin. “Lieutenant Jarhad will be in charge of it.” Then he nodded to the man on the left, a portly fellow whose uniform was much too snug on him. He had thin eyebrows, rich brown eyes, dark brown hair, neatly trimmed beard, and a silver loop hanging from his earlobe. “Darby, here, will be with him.” His eyes were steady as he asked, “Why do you want to go with them?”
Embril had prepared for this inevitable question, and her answer—even to her ears—was insufficiently persuasive. But it was the only answer she had. “Is it not enough that I desire it? After all, I am an accomplished wizard with considerable skills that will no doubt be of value to your patrol. Surely you would be remiss to pass on the opportunity to have them at your disposal?”
Commander Garret stared at her for a long moment before responding. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it is a delicate mission, one with considerable risk, and I would be—” he paused meaningfully and smiled “—remiss if I were to send an unproven wizard with them without having a very strong justification for doing so.”
She frowned; she had expected something like this but had not come up with a proper rejoinder. “You mentioned a reconnaissance mission,” she said, grasping at the opening. “I can assist with that in many ways.” She focused on the magic around her and sought out the strands she would need. As she did so, Darby frowned and his eyes dilated. “For instance,” she said, reaching for the magic and beginning the spell, “it would be difficult to discover the patrol if they cannot be seen.” She sensed she was beginning to glow a light blue shade, one that was almost an ephemeral, translucent duplication of the color of her robe.
As she finished the spell and disappeared from sight, Darby lifted his arms and made a series of rapid, familiar gestures and took up a defensive position.
Lieutenant Jarhad reached for his sword and had it half drawn before Commander Garret put out a restraining hand.
“Relax,” the Commander said. “She is no threat. Are you, Embril?” he asked, his tone was even, calm, but his eyes betrayed apprehension and irritation.
“Not to you or your men,” Embril replied, letting the spell go. She had not intended to cast it, but it had made her point better than her words could have done. “I am sure our enemies would think otherwise.” She had almost said your enemies before she remembered they were also her enemies.
Commander Garret put his left hand to his chin and rubbed it for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his tone reluctant and accusing, “I suppose your true reasons for wanting to accompany the patrol are such that you will refuse to tell us.” He glanced to his right and said, “Unless, of course, we compel you to do so.”
She hesitated long enough to look more closely at Darby, trying to assess his confidence, his abilities, but there was little she could discern. When she replied, she tried to sound apologetic. “It is not a question of refusal,” she said. “It is a question of knowledge. I am not entirely sure why I must go with you, only that I must.” It was a half-truth. She knew why Angus wanted her to go, and in a general sense, she even understood the importance of going, but a large part of her didn’t care about the Tiger’s Eye. Let the nexus remain hidden, lost, and it would be no temptation. If it were found, what harm could it really do? Wasn’t Angus overreacting? But what if he wasn’t?
She looked down at the map, at the symbol of the Angst temple, and shrugged. “Angus believes it is important that I be with the patrol,” she said. “I trust his judgment. So should you.”
Commander Garret glanced at Darby, who nodded slightly and wiggled his right forefinger. When the Commander settled his steady stare back on Embril, it was unreadable. Then he said, “Lieutenant?”
“No,” Lieutenant Jarhad said at once. “We have one wizard; we don’t need two. She will be a burden, and whatever benefit we gain from her presence will be offset by that burden. We must ride quickly, and our task is too important.”
“Darby?”
The other man frowned and shook his head. “I only know that she believes what she said. Other than that, I can say little. It may be wise to agree with her request.”
“There is no place for a woman in a patrol,” Lieutenant Jarhad said, “even if she is a wizard. If the fishmen are there, they will see her at once, and they will assume she is either important or powerful or both.”
Commander Garret nodded, considered the advice for several seconds, and then said, “Tell me, Embril, will you cut off that beautiful red hair of yours?”
Embril almost jumped. Cut my hair! Whatever for? “Why?” she demanded.
“Soldiers are men,” Commander Garret said. “They don’t have long luxurious hair; they have sweaty tangles or short-cropped hair. If you want to go with them, you have to look like them. A soldier’s uniform and short hair at the very least. It won’t do for a close inspection, of course, but at a distance, you’ll look like one of the men. You will also have to perform the tasks expected of a soldier, but I’m sure Lieutenant Jarhad will make sure they are not excessive. Won’t you Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Jarhad frowned, but there was no doubting that it had been an order. He stiffened and said, “Of course, Commander.”
“Well?” Commander Garret demanded.
Cut off my hair? she moaned in her mind, and then a fleeting image of Angus smothered the thought and she said, her voice soft, firm, resigned, “If I must.”
Commander Garret raised his eyebrows. “It must be important, indeed,
” he said, his voice softly amused. He set his right hand on the table and tapped his fingers a few times, the last of which was decisive. He snapped off a nod and said, “A cap might work, but we would have to see what it looks like first. Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Jarhad nodded and left the room at a dignified pace, each step a rigid unforgiving one. As he passed Embril, his deep-set brown eyes snarled at her.
“She will need a horse, Darby,” he continued. “Make sure it is a docile one.”
Darby nodded and hurried from the room. He didn’t look at Embril as he stepped past.
When they were both gone, Commander Garret went to the doorway and checked the hallway. He closed the door and locked it, and then returned to his position at the head of the table. He gestured for her to sit and when she had, he sat down as well.
Embril wriggled in the uncomfortable chair. It was nothing like the one she used in the library, which had a cushion and a back that seemed to have been shaped to suit the curve of her spine perfectly. This chair had a hard wood base, and the back was arched in a way that forced her to sit with her neck bent slightly forward. Once she settled into a somewhat tolerable position, she turned to meet Commander Garret’s exasperated gaze.
He shook his head and said, “Now that we’re alone, why don’t you tell me the real reason why you want to go with the patrol.”
Embril frowned. Since she had read the scroll Angus had given her, she had wanted desperately to tell someone about what was in it, but she couldn’t risk it. Angus was right; if a wizard knew what he had found, he would be tempted to go there, to use it, maybe even take it away from its proper position in the nexus. Even she was tempted by it, and she had no desire for power. Most wizards had a strong desire for power, and the Tiger’s Eye would go a long way to fulfilling that desire. Even the Grand Master would be sorely tempted by it, perhaps even more so, since his desire for power only seemed to get stronger as his power accumulated. She had even seen the greed in the Grand Master’s eyes whenever she rediscovered a forgotten spell and told him about it. But what about Commander Garret? He wasn’t a wizard; he wouldn’t be tempted by a nexus point. He wouldn’t even understand what it was. But he could tell someone who would be tempted.
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 3