“Do what Auntie Fie tells you to do. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Then she hugged him again, this time only briefly, and kissed his cheek. She looked at him and smiled, despite the sadness in her eyes, and then put her warm hand on his cheek. The warmth lingered as she turned and hurried out the door. He moved to follow after her, but a tyrannical, unrelenting hand clamped onto his shoulder and stopped him.
“Let her go, Boy,” the fat woman said, her gruff voice almost kind. “I’ve got work for you to do….”
Giorge gulped and eased back on his heels. There was slime on his mother’s image where he had clung to her, and he tried to brush it away. It clung stubbornly to the small folds of her dress, and he rubbed at it. He knew the image wasn’t his mother, but it didn’t matter to him. It was the first time he had seen her since the day she had abandoned him at Auntie Fie’s, and the shock had driven out the spark of hope that she was still alive somewhere. Even after Auntie Fie had told him about the curse, he held onto that hope and refused to grieve. “She’ll be back,” he had told himself again and again until he had truly believed it. Even when the curse struck him and he knew that she was dead, he couldn’t believe it. He could say she was dead over and over, but he couldn’t quite believe it. Until now.
The shock of seeing her here, in this wretched place, had finally destroyed that kernel of hope, and the fine edge of the grief that had been held in abeyance for so long had erupted. Then it was over. The tears had come, and now they were gone. He was no longer Little Giorgie, no longer the boy his mother had left behind; he was Giorge, a man who had lived a lifetime in twenty-one short years. It was a good life, a fun life, a full life, and when the curse had struck, he had accepted that it was coming to an end. But it hadn’t ended. He was still alive. And if he wanted to stay that way, he had to find out more about where he was so he could find a way out.
He struggled to his feet and slipped on the slime-covered floor. He looked once more at his mother, and as he turned slowly to the left, he saw his own image staring out at him from the shadows. It looked exactly like him, the same way the image carved on his mother’s sarcophagus looked exactly like her. But he wasn’t dead.
He wasn’t dead.
Was she?
He turned back to the sarcophagus containing his mother. Was there a corpse in it? Or was she alive, trapped inside it the way he had been trapped inside his? Had she been trapped those many years ago and been unable to get out? He shuddered in horror: Had she died in there?
“Momma,” he whispered, moving close to the sarcophagus and running his fingertips lightly over the surface. There was a thin, almost imperceptible crack along its edge, about six inches back from the front. It ran up and down the side as far as he could reach. The seal, he thought, but there’s no latch, no lock.
He stepped cautiously over to his own sarcophagus and studied the lid in the dim light. About halfway up the lid, a single bolt, rusted and broken, had held it in place. Was it the same for hers? He looked back at his mother’s tomb, slid his short sword from its scabbard, and slowly approached it. It was only a few feet, but he nearly fell twice as he crossed that short distance.
He used the heavy weight of her sarcophagus to steady himself, and lined up the edge of his sword with the seal, worming it in between the age-worn wood. The seam parted easily, and he forced the blade down the seam until he encountered resistance. Then he hesitated. Do I want to know? he wondered, even as he gripped the hilt tightly and twisted. There was a pop, and the lid sprang open an inch and stopped. Stale, dry, dusty air puffed out, and he held his breath and turned his head away. He jumped quickly back and slid to a precarious stop. He exhaled and looked around on the floor for the sling Ortis had used on his arm. When he found it, he shuffled over and squatted down to pick it up. He tried to shake off the muck, but it was pointless and he gave up. But the inside, where his arm had rested, was still clean, and he held it over his nose. He took a breath that smelled of stagnant filth and turned back around—and dropped the sling to the floor again. His mouth fell open and he forgot to breathe. He stared.
The sarcophagus’s lid was slowly swinging open.
3
When they finally stopped for the evening, Embril slid from the saddle and slumped to the ground. Still the mind, she thought as she steadied her breathing. Still the body. The agonizing fire in her thighs felt like a giant blister had formed all the way down to her knees. Still the mind. The pain in her backside felt like she had been sitting on broken glass dipped in itching powder. Still the body. The ache in her lower back was brutal. Still the mind. She glared at the vicious beast that had injured her so and wrestled to regain her composure.
Darby was at her side, asking her what was wrong, but she ignored him. She needed to work through the mantra, to get the pain under control, and the plump soldier’s gravelly tenor wasn’t helping.
Tobar quietly led the horse away to be brushed down and fed, and the mantra was interrupted by a sudden, fierce thought: Why aren’t they brushing me down and feeding me?
Embril’s breathing eased as she leaned heavily against Darby’s thick belly. Her legs were too weak to support her, and it wasn’t until Lieutenant Jarhad was approaching that she finally managed to stand on her own with a little bit of assistance from Darby.
There was genuine concern on the Lieutenants face as he asked, “When was the last time you rode a horse?” Sweat-stained blonde locks clung to his forehead and dangled behind his head.
She ignored the question and continued reciting the mantra in her mind. She was still regaining control and didn’t need the distraction of conversation.
“Well?” he demanded in the no-nonsense command tone he used with his soldiers.
She closed her eyes and hesitated before saying, her voice flat and emotionless, “Today.”
He frowned. “Before today?” he clarified.
She almost scowled at him. Today was the first time she had ridden a horse, and there wasn’t an answer she could give. The mantra was working now, and she stood weakly on her own and leveled her static gaze upon him, avoiding the unfriendly, deep-set eyes. He clearly expected to have an answer and wasn’t used to not getting one. She shrugged. “Never,” she said.
She felt Darby’s belly shudder as Lieutenant Jarhad’s eyebrows shot upward and hid behind his sweaty, dirty blonde hair. “Today was the first time you rode a horse?” the Lieutenant asked, astonishment in his tone. He stared at her for a long moment and then turned to the man beside him and ordered, his voice clipped and fierce, “Erect my tent. Quickly now!”
The soldier nodded and ran toward the pack beasts. As he went, he snapped his fingers at three other soldiers, and they joined him.
Lieutenant Jarhad stepped up to her other side and slid under her arm to give her support. It was an awkward fit; he was much taller than she was, and it hurt her shoulder to lean against him. Now that the mantra was working, she didn’t need his support and let her arm slide down to her side. “I can manage,” she said, “with Darby’s help.”
“You should have told me,” he scolded as he took a step away from her. “By the way you rode this morning, I thought you were just out of practice. If I had known you didn’t know how to ride—”
“I do so know how to ride!” she corrected, a rigid defensiveness creeping into her tone despite the calming effect of the mantra. “I read all about it—”
“Ha!” Lieutenant Jarhad laughed. “You read about it?”
“Certainly,” Embril said. “You don’t think I would come on this venture ill-prepared do you?” Darby was letting her determine the pace as they walked slowly toward the place where the men were rapidly erecting the tent. As she walked, the pain in her thighs subsided, but her backside still stung and her lower back throbbed maliciously. The mantra only diminished the impact of her pain, not the awareness of it, and she knew there was something dreadfully wrong with her back.
Lieutenant Jarhad shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said, �
�I will teach you how to ride. Based on what I’ve seen so far, it may not take long.”
“I know how—”
“Reading about riding,” Lieutenant Jarhad interrupted, “and knowing how to ride are not the same thing. I would think you would have realized that by now.”
She was ready to walk on her own and let her hand slip from Darby’s elbow. It was difficult; the mantra did little to remove the weakness in her legs; it could only help to manage the pain and delay the need for sleep. It couldn’t heal the body or make it work more effectively. Darby stayed next to her, a bit closer than she preferred, but it was comforting to know that he could catch her if she needed him to.
She almost told the Lieutenant that she had absorbed the content of three different texts on horsemanship and noted what all of them repeated, that she had committed these techniques to memory, and that the difference between mental know-how and the physical application of that know-how was not as great as most people thought. She almost told him it was the foul-tempered beast that was the problem because she had not been prepared to deal with an unruly brute. After all, the Lieutenant was supposed to give her a temperate beast that would be easy to manage. She almost said these things, but let the mantra calm her and pushed those thoughts aside. He was right anyway: knowing how to ride and riding were not the same thing.
“You’ll stay in my tent tonight,” Lieutenant Jarhad said as they came to a stop a few feet from the bustling activity of the men erecting it. It was nearly ready for them; the posts were set and the thick, water-resistant cloth was almost in place. Not far away, the furnishings—table, cot, chair—were assembled with soldiers waiting beside them ready to carry them inside the tent.
Despite the mantra, her mouth fell open and she jerked her head in his direction.
He laughed and added, “I’ll sleep with the men in theirs.” Then he looked at Darby and added, “Darby will see to your needs.”
She shook her head. “I can care for myself—”
“No protests,” he said, shaking his head and setting his jaw. “While you are under my command, I expect you to do what is necessary for the success of this mission. You can’t do that in your condition, and I will not let you delay us any longer than is necessary.”
She had been slumped over as she walked, trying to ease the stress on her lower back. Now she stood up straight—and would have collapsed if Darby hadn’t reached out to catch her. She gasped as a new wave of pain radiated out from her lower back and threatened to break through the mantra. She nodded and leaned heavily against Darby. As Lieutenant Jarhad turned to leave, she said, “I’ll need my box.”
He nodded, gestured for a soldier to accompany him, and walked away.
Darby held her firmly, dispassionately until the tent was ready for them. Then he helped her inside and led her to the cot. “I need to get my things,” he said. “Can you manage until I return?”
Embril nodded as she sat down. Of course she could manage. The mantra wasn’t perfect, but it was sufficient for suppressing the pain she was experiencing if it didn’t last too long. But if Darby could do something about that pain, she was more than willing to let him.
The tent was dingy, and the lantern was inadequate. She was accustomed to the brightness of the Wizards’ School library, and the dim lighting was straining her eyes. She could fix that easily enough, though and, almost unconsciously, cast the Lamplight spell to brighten it up. It didn’t help her back any, but it would make it much easier to do what she needed to do.
Not long after that, Lieutenant Jarhad walked in with a soldier in tow. When he saw the Lamplight, he snapped the tent flap shut and threw his cloak at it. The cloak passed through the spell and fell in a heap on the cot beside her. He stepped rapidly forward and grabbed her arm and wrenched her painfully to her feet. “Put that out!” he snarled.
Instead of putting it out, she reached instinctively for the magic around her and snatched up a strand of flame magic. It had been a long time since she had cast the spell, but it was a simple one, so simple that apprentices learned it as an exercise during their first year. She tied the knot rapidly and released the energy it contained. It wouldn’t cause any permanent harm, but the sharp pain it caused made him yelp and jump backward two steps. He had his sword half out of its sheath before he slammed it back into place.
She glared at him, wondering what was wrong. Why couldn’t she use the Lamplight? It was much better for reading than the lamp, and she had some preparations to make for the next day. “Why?” she asked. “I need it.”
His eyes narrowed and sunk even more deeply into his skull and his white-knuckled grip twisted around the hilt of his sword. He slowly eased the tension from his hand and forcibly relaxed his grip. When it snapped free from the hilt, he said, his voice low, almost a growl, “You are fortunate, Embril,” he said. “If you had cast that spell in the open instead of inside my tent, I would have had you flogged for it—even this close to Hellsbreath. The wizards who travel with us never cast magic in the open except in battle, and only then when it is absolutely necessary. You would know that if you were properly trained.” He took a deep breath, and then said through clenched teeth, “Now, will you please put that thing out?”
Embril frowned; she was properly trained. In fact, she was one of the ablest of wizards in the school. She shook her head. She really did need the Lamplight spell, and as long as it was kept in the tent, it shouldn’t be a problem. Why did they have that rule, anyway? What good is a wizard who can’t cast spells? “I need it,” she said. “The lamp is not sufficient. When I have finished with it, I will extinguish it. In the meantime,” she added, reaching for the Lamplight and walking painfully up to the lantern hanging from the tent pole. It was a hooded lantern, and she opened the shutter and blew out the flame. Then she reached in to attach the Lamplight to the warm, smoking wick. She used the shutter of the lantern to diminish its impact, and when she had finished, she turned to the Lieutenant and asked, “Satisfied?”
Lieutenant Jarhad glowered at her for a long moment before he reluctantly nodded. “For now,” he said. Then he snapped, “No more spells!” and abruptly turned around. He opened the flap and let in the soldier carrying her box—a large chest that was almost too large to be carried by one man—and he staggered inside with it. He dropped it heavily on the ground not far inside the entrance, the metal of the padlock clanging noisily against the metal bands wrapped around it.
Embril moved up to it, but when she tried to bend over, she gasped and almost toppled to the ground again. She straightened slowly, and asked, “Would you mind putting it on the cot?”
The soldier nodded and, breathing heavily, bent to lift it up again. He plodded over with the chest and set it heavily onto the bed. The cot shook under the impact.
“Thank you,” Embril said, stumbling over to it. She reached inside the scratchy tunic and pulled out the key to the padlock.
The soldier saluted and hurried out of the tent, but Lieutenant Jarhad lingered, watching Embril.
Embril unlocked the box and opened it, letting the heavy lid fall backward and reaching for the small of her back. She repositioned herself as best she could to minimize her discomfort and removed the topmost book from the chest. It was the first volume of Heatherly’s Taxonomy, a comprehensive treatise on the flora of the mountainous regions bordering the Kingdom of Tyr. It was a wonderful text, fully illustrated, and—
“Books!” Lieutenant Jarhad snapped as he stepped rapidly forward until he was standing next to her. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he looked in the chest. “Books!” he repeated in disgust.
“Yes,” Embril said, reaching for the second book. It was Heatherly’s second volume, the one that dealt with the fauna of the region. It was a thinner, lighter book, but it still put a lot of strain on her back as she set it aside.
The tent flap opened and Darby stepped inside. “Sir?” he said as he moved around them to set his pack on the table. “I will need privacy,” he
said, opening the flap of his pack.
As Lieutenant Jarhad turned to leave, he said, “See to her needs.” He paused with the tent flap open and added over his shoulder, “Make sure you check for a head wound.” He looked at her pointedly, and finished, “She brought a chest of books with her.” Then he went outside and the flap was fluttering back into place.
Darby took a few small jars out of his pack and set them on the table. “I have an ointment that will help with the pain,” he said. “But I will need to do an assessment, first. Where do you hurt?” he asked as he stepped up next to her. His dark brown eyes dilated to become nearly black as he removed her hat and set it on the table. His fingers probed over her skull, lightly touching it here and there, and when he finished, he smiled a toothless smile that barely tweaked the edges of his lips. “No head wounds,” he said. “You will need to remove your uniform,” he added as she turned to the chest of books.
Embril glared at him and made no move to comply.
As Darby reached into the chest and pulled out the next book he said, “I can’t apply the ointment through the cloth.”
“I will apply it myself,” Embril said.
Darby shrugged and asked, “Will you know which ointment will work best?”
Embril glared at him again, and then fumbled clumsily with the uniform and glanced at the book Darby was holding. It was a fairly thin one on mountain climbing that she had included as an afterthought because there was still room left in the chest.
Darby chuckled and ruffled through a few other books before shaking his head and looking at her. “What book were you looking for?” he asked.
Embril struggled to get naked. The cloth clung to her where the blisters had burst, and she had to reassert the mantra to finish. It was uncouth to ask another wizard about their spells, and she had no intention of answering him but found she couldn’t resist. “Barnham’s,” she said. “There’s a spell in it for talking to horses. I want to find out why my horse hates me.”
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 13