He shook off his questions and turned to the mountain. He was already drained, and he still had a long way to go before he reached the mountainside. He covered the distance quickly, traveling as fast as he dared—and much faster than he wanted. He didn’t know if he was really in control of the spell or not, and he didn’t want to get trapped in the ice by it. What if Typhus was in control of the magic and quit looking at it? Would Angus also lose sight of the magic? Would the spell suddenly end? For that matter, how long could he maintain it on his own? The knots had been shakily made, and he only had one good arm—and he was already so tired he was having difficulty concentrating.
He propelled himself through the ice at an alarming, reckless rate. If a rock suddenly appeared, he could move sideways and slow down. He hoped. But if the spell ended abruptly, without any warning, he didn’t know what would happen. Would he be forever embedded in ice? Would the ice eat through his body as it solidified around him? He didn’t think the robe could save him from that so he scooted through the ice as fast as he could and only slowed when he saw the upslope of the mountain approaching. It was a good thing, too; managing the spell had sapped away almost all of his energy. He would have to rest, soon.
He glided sideways along the surface looking for a place to climb up the mountainside. If he was right, if it was the mountain with the bridge to the lift, there would be a road on it. There probably wouldn’t be anyone on the road, but at least it would be easier than climbing slowly along the mountainside like a spider with only three legs. It would also provide some relief for his arm, since he wouldn’t bang it up against the rock face if he was walking down the road.
Angus selected a place with a steady slope whose upgrade wouldn’t be too demanding. He would still have to climb, but he could lean forward to prop himself up with his good arm and avoid bumping his bad one. When he reached it, he got as close to the edge of the ice as he could and then dragged himself out of it. Once he was on the mountainside, he released the Flying spell. He was tempted to rest—he desperately needed it—but forced himself not to; he had to reach the road first, and then find shelter.
The breeches took hold of the incline and made it a simple matter to scamper up the slope. He lasted about fifteen minutes before he was gasping for breath and had to stop. He sat down and let the back of the breeches keep him from slipping. As he labored for breath, he glanced around to see where he was. The valley was some distance below him, and not far above him—perhaps a few more minutes of climbing—was some kind of ledge. Was it the road? He hoped so; he couldn’t go much further without sleep. Dawn was approaching, and the first inkling of twilight had blossomed around him. He looked west and saw the cliff leading up to the plateau. It was not more than a few miles away, and he could see for a long way around the mountain to the south. There was no sign of the lift anywhere. It had to be connected to this mountain, and if it was, then that was where Hobart and the others might still be. Unless they had left him for dead. How long has it been? he suddenly wondered. Days, surely; it would take that long to melt that shaft. But how many?
What would they have done after he had disappeared? Would they have looked for him? Would they have gone on to try to free Giorge from his curse? They had been close to finding the skull; all they had to do was go around to the other side of the mountain. There was a road, and they would have followed it. He frowned and looked again at the ledge. If that was the road, they might have left tracks….
His frown deepened. Yes, he thought. They would have kept going until Giorge died or the curse was broken. Hobart would have seen to that; he cares more about Giorge than he does about me. He turned his gaze eastward. He was close to halfway around the mountain; how much further would he have to go to catch up with them? Should I follow them? Or go back to the cave?
He didn’t need to make the decision yet, so he climbed slowly up to the ledge above him. His unsettling passage through the ice had unnerved him; if he couldn’t figure out what color the gray strands really were, how was he to cast spells properly? He had been lucky so far; the Lamplight had worked almost like it should have, and the Flying… He shook his head. No. They had not worked like they should have, and that was dangerous. He was only fooling himself if he thought otherwise. But they had worked well enough, and they hadn’t killed him. This time.
When he reached the ledge, he slumped over onto it. It was smooth, like a roadbed hewn from the rock. He half-crawled across to the other side and sat down with his back braced against the mountain. He wiggled around until he found a halfway comfortable position and settled into place. How much longer can I last? he wondered. Some sleep, first, and then I’ll decide which way to go. Maybe they’ll find me, first?
The hopeful thought calmed him somewhat, despite the misgivings of being stranded alone with a minimal ability to use his magic—and that relied upon Typhus, didn’t it? He shrugged and tried to bring the magic into focus again to make sure. Instead of seeing the strange patchwork of magical strands, he saw a door opening and an ash-colored man looking through a crack between it and the stone-gray frame. He didn’t recognize the man, but it didn’t matter; a moment later, he was grabbing at his throat as a dark, almost black stream spurted out of it. Then his image lurched closer, just before it abruptly staggered back away from him. There was another man beside him, this one draped in a wizard’s robe, and he wondered what color it was, what kind of magic he had. The man lifted his hands—
Angus blinked as the man took in a sudden breath as if he had been punched in the stomach, and then the man’s eyes grew wide and fluttered. They drooped as he slumped weak-kneed to the floor, but Angus’s gaze didn’t linger on him; it turned sharply to the left. The woman he had seen before was there, still wearing her white healer’s gown. She was running away, and his eyes shifted quickly to the right. There was another man there, but before Angus could do little more than realize it, he was circling in behind him and the man’s sword seemed to come unbidden from its scabbard, thrusting itself up through his side. “Easy, Gregor—” it was Typhus’s voice, like it had sounded in Angus’s mind when they were joined. The man gently lowered to the ground as Typhus said, “Leave the blade in and don’t move around. A healer can save you if one gets here in time. I missed all the important bits.”
Then he was running down the corridor after the screaming woman. At the corner, he careened off the walls as if he were just learning to fly again. A moment later he was upon her, pinning her face against the wall. He was so close that he imagined he could smell a faint trace of lilac in her dark hair. It wasn’t black hair, though; it wasn’t a dark enough gray for that. Was it brown? Red?
Her body quivered against the wall, and then he heard a gruff, almost sweet voice half-whisper, “Hush, Iscara. Be still.”
Angus frowned. Where were they? Sardach had taken Typhus with him, but to where?
“I need your help,” Typhus muttered in her ear. “Give it, and you will live.”
Iscara turned toward him but did not look directly at him as she said, “Typhus?”
After a moment, Typhus asked, “See this?”
Angus frowned; he saw nothing. Then, with a start, he realized that was what he was supposed to see. He cast the Cloaking spell! Angus thought in amazement. How could he do that? Voltari had said Typhus couldn’t see the magic.
He frowned as he half-listened to the conversation. Who is this Argyle they’re talking about? Are they in his castle? Where would this castle be?
It wasn’t much of a conversation, really. Mostly it was threats. The threat of Argyle finding them, and Typhus threatening to kill Iscara. It was a strange turn in the conversation, one he didn’t quite understand. If Typhus had the advantage, why wasn’t he pressing it? Why hadn’t the healer caved in when the gash appeared on her breast and began to ooze blackish streamlets down the front of her bodice? Didn’t that tell her Typhus was serious about killing her? What could Argyle do that could be worse than that? Then it turned to bargaining, a
nd it was Typhus who made the first offer. What he wanted in exchange for not killing her seemed simple enough to Angus—healing and an escort to help him get out of Argyle’s castle—but Iscara wasn’t satisfied with having her life spared, she wanted something more than that. It was that something more that brought Angus’s attention into sharper focus and pushed away the curious train of thoughts jumping through his mind as he listened to the pale gray woman seemingly talking to herself. She wanted to know where Typhus had hidden a golden key.
It was Typhus’s response that troubled Angus most. He said he no longer had the key. Argyle could find it in Angus’s backpack, and he would have to send someone to get it. Angus tried to swallow, but his mouth was uncomfortably dry. He knew who Argyle would send: Sardach.
12
It took over an hour to make their way through the tunnel complex to the Grain Street entrance. Only one of the guards they passed seemed to take notice of the new scar on her breast, but he didn’t ask about it; he simply leered at her for a few seconds before letting them pass by. It was after dawn when they emerged into the alley, and after they passed the last guards—a pair of drunks Typhus knew to be quite deadly adversaries—they walked in silence until they reached Grain Street.
It was a long, busy street, and on either side of it were businesses related to the grain trade. Seeders, reapers, mills, flour merchants, bakers—anything related to the grain they harvested in Tyr could be found here and nowhere else in the city. King Tyr, like his forebears, had imposed a very methodical, ordered structure onto the city, cordoning off the various businesses into sections of the city and not allowing anyone to cross boundaries with their businesses. Grain businesses were along Grain Street. Live animals, beasts of burden, wild game, and meat were on Meat Street. The same with Textile Street, Wizard’s Street, Herb Street, Army Street, Army Boulevard, Army Avenue, King Street, and so on down to the smallest industry having its own little side street or alley strategically placed to give it access to the ones who needed it most. Even Argyle’s enterprises were cordoned off with the same efficiency, with thievery in one place, blackmail in another, assassination in a third, and so on down the line. Some even believed the structure of Argyle’s illicit organization suggested the king had a hand in it, that the king sanctioned it in some way.
Typhus hurried along a step behind Iscara to avoid running into the people she passed as she made her way to Herb Street, where the healers lived. It was a silly thing to have the healers all in one place and not distributed throughout the city, and most of the businesses on Herb Street sent healers around to the other streets to deal with what was needed. The king frowned upon it, but even he had to accept the sense of it. So, instead of forbidding the activity of the roaming healers, he assigned them to specific areas in the other quarters with the same obsessive diligence as the rest of Tyrag’s design. He assigned them by name. If their name began with a G, they went to Grain Street, an M went to Meat Street, and so on. A lot of the healers named their children to ensure a continuation of their trade in those same areas, and a few even changed their names to gain a better location. There were a lot of B’s vying for a place on Bank Street, I’s for Inn Street, and especially P’s for Peddler’s Street (a misnomer if there ever was one, since it also housed the wealthy merchants, but there was only one street that could start with M).
Iscara turned into a large shop, greeted in passing the old man tending the counter, and made her way into the back room. Once there, she went directly to a shelf, pausing only long enough to pick up a large jug. She carried the jug to a stairwell leading down, and Typhus followed after her.
Typhus smiled, remembering the last time he had been in her private chamber, just before he had made his escape from Argyle. It hadn’t been a regular occurrence, but whenever they worked together, it aroused her to the point that she couldn’t stop herself, and he was quite willing to oblige. Perhaps, after she healed his fingers, he’d use them—
She set the jug on her table and said, “I can’t heal you if I can’t see you.”
“Of course,” Typhus began as he moved up next to her. But as he reached out for the magic to release the spell, he froze. The spell wasn’t there! The knots were gone!
“Well?” Iscara said, looking sort of in his direction.
He ignored her. He had completely forgotten about the spell when he emerged from the torture chamber, had completely forgotten to maintain control over it. The magic confined by the spell should have broken free at that point but it hadn’t. Then he hadn’t even thought about the spell while they had made their way through the tunnels, the streets, the shop. How was it that it hadn’t unraveled on its own already?
“Umber,” he whispered, a sudden chill swarming over him. “What does umber look like?” he demanded, reaching out and twisting Iscara to face him. “Show me umber!”
Iscara winced, but something in the urgency of his tone, the tightness of his grip, must have registered, and she cast her gaze around the room. At length, she nodded and said, “That weathered chest is close.”
Typhus looked at the grey chest and violently shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “The magic. Show me an umber strand of magic.”
Iscara’s brow furrowed as she said, “You can see magic?”
“Show me!” Typhus hissed, twisting her around to face away from him. “Draw it to you. Now!”
Iscara bit her lip and her eyes dilated as she looked around her. At length, she reached out and tentatively grasped one of the brown strands near her. “This is the closest one,” she said. “It’s a bit too light—”
“No!” Typhus gasped, cringing and drawing up against her back. “It has to be this one,” he said, reaching out for one that was almost the same color as the one he had used in casting the spell. He gripped it tightly and held it in front of her eyes. “Do you see it? It’s umber, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” He almost shook her as he asked the frantic question.
“That’s sienna,” Iscara said as she stiffened against him, “not umber.”
Sienna? Typhus gulped, squeezing her arms until she winced. Angus had been clear: it couldn’t be any other color of brown. It had to be umber. Anything but umber and the spell would go wrong. Angus hadn’t known how it would go wrong, but it would go wrong. Typhus had used sienna, not umber, and when Thaddius hadn’t seen him, he had thought the spell had worked. It had! He was still cloaked from Iscara’s vision, but—
He tried to find the spell and couldn’t. The magic had escaped long ago, probably when he had forgotten about it, but the spell’s effects had not gone with it. What had it done? He gulped and shuddered against Iscara. He had no idea what had happened, no way of knowing, no one—
Iscara wrenched herself from his grasp and turned toward him. She smiled and put her hand on his chest. He backed quickly away.
“No,” he said, scowling. “It can’t be.”
“What is it?” Iscara purred, a smile playing at the edges of her lips, a disturbing glint in her dilated eyes. “Can’t you show me the burns?”
Should he ask her? Would she know what happened, what had gone wrong? Healers had magic—everyone knew that—but the magic they had was different from the magic Angus had. Wasn’t it?
Suddenly, her head jerked and she stared directly at him. A smile blossomed on her lips and the familiar sadistic glow erupted in her eyes. “What’s wrong, Typhus?” she teased. “You didn’t use the wrong strand of magic, did you? Surely you know better than that.” She paused for a long moment, and her voice dropped to a husky whisper as she finished, “Don’t you?” She giggled for a few seconds, and then chortled with the same little trills that had sent shivers through him when she had last used that fishhook.
He stepped to the side—and her eyes followed him.
13
Angus rested his body as he watched Iscara, but he didn’t sleep. Even with the strange, corpse-like skin tone, she had a kind of sinister beauty to her. Still, after a few minutes of watching her walking
down dark-gray passage after dark-gray passage, the novelty dissipated and he grew bored. Sleep snuck up on him, threatened him, but he used the mantra to set it aside so he could watch her some more. It seemed important, if only because it was his only connection, his only confirmation that Typhus was there, lingering unseen behind her, hovering, glancing occasionally over her shoulder or down her bodice. They talked infrequently, and only in hushed tones, and Typhus’s eyes darted about him as if he thought every little patch of shadow held a gray monster waiting to swallow him up. His paranoia made it easier for Angus to remember the turns in the corridors and the location of the sentries they passed, and after a few minutes he decided it wasn’t a castle.
They’re underground, he thought, and it is a large complex. It has to be beneath a city or town. The tunnel system is like a sewer. Then they emerged into the early dawn bustling of a busy city street and quickly made their way through what could only be a large city. Tyrag? Angus wondered. The roads are constructed along a grid-like pattern, just like in Hellsbreath. He studied the unfamiliar shops as they hurried by, recognizing the purpose of many of them but none of their signs. Their journey absorbed him, despite its simplicity, its repetition, and he soon found himself on the verge of dozing despite the mantra. But a part of him—perhaps the part linked to Typhus’s hypervigilance—kept him alert despite the depths of his body’s repose. So, as they entered an apothecary’s shop, Angus heard the stones shifting below him. Something was creeping up the slope toward him, and it was moving with the cautious, careful, sure-footedness of a predator.
Angus didn’t move as he let the magic—the peculiar image of Iscara—slip to the edge of his awareness. He reduced his breathing to a sliver, a bare shiver of movement in his chest, and eased the beating of his heart. The yiffrim had not yet attacked, and it might not attack at all if it thought he was already dead. If he were lucky….
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 8