The Golden Key (Book 3)

by Robert P. Hansen

  I need a bath, Embril thought, waddling uncomfortably to the edge of the ledge and looking across the canyon. There was a waterfall cascading down the cliff from the plateau to the west, and it fed a large lake at the bottom. That lake was the source of the river that passed by Hellsbreath, but no one had given it a name. Few people in recent times had even seen it. She flinched as she pried another bit of mud free—along with a few hairs. I need a bath!

  “Um,” one of the men said, his voice hesitant. “Elmer?”

  She didn’t have to turn to know he was close enough to catch her if she fell, but she had no intention of falling. “Yes?” she asked as she brought the magic into focus.

  “Are you sure you want to stand so close to the edge? It’s a long way down.”

  She nodded. “I’m fine,” she said as she reached out for the strands she would need and brought them to her. Before weaving them together, she turned to him—he was close—and smiled. “Please step back. I don’t want you to interrupt me.”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then reluctantly took a couple of steps back.

  Without turning away from him, and without looking at her hands, she quickly wove together the strands of the Flying spell. Her smile broadened as she cast the spell. She hadn’t primed for it, and it had been a long time since she had cast a spell from memory alone, but her fingers acted as if she had just finished priming for it. It always seemed to be that way with the spells she knew well.

  The men gasped as they realized what she was doing, but they had the sense not to disrupt the casting. When she finished, she jumped off the ledge backward and hovered in place in front of them. The man nearest her lunged forward too late, but she held up her hand to stop him. “Tell Lieutenant Jarhad that I will be in the cave at the other end. Bring my things to me there.” She paused, half-turned, and then looked back. “Oh, and tell Lieutenant Jarhad that I will hold him personally responsible for any damage done to them.” She floated out a few more feet before turning. That will keep them in line, she thought, smiling as she flew swiftly toward the waterfall. The air was crisp as it buffeted her, but the chill only made her fly more quickly.

  12

  The stair had nine steps, each one rising about a foot before leveling off and fading back a yard to the base of the next step. By the time Giorge was on the fourth stair, he knew what they had found: The Viper’s Eyes were staring down at him. He paused and, without turning, asked his mother, “Do you recognize those?”

  “Yes,” she replied jumping up to the next step and pausing. “They’re star sapphires. Huge ones. They’re worth a fortune.”

  Giorge shook his head. “No,” he said. “They’re the Viper’s Eyes.”

  “The Viper’s—” she began, turning toward him.

  Giorge nodded. “Yes,” he said. “When we found them, they grafted themselves to me.” His hand went involuntarily to his eyes as he once more wondered how they had been returned to him.

  “We?” she asked. “You mentioned someone named Angus before, didn’t you? He helped you find them?”

  Giorge nodded as he carefully lifted his foot to the next step. It was the fourth from the top, and it had become drenched with water in the time that they had taken to get that far. He could see above the top step now, and what he saw troubled him. There was a copper-plated sarcophagus, and etched into its face was the image of a three-headed snake poised to strike. The head at the top was much larger than the other two, and the Viper’s Eyes, Fangs, and Breath were embedded in it. Beneath it, a flowing script stretched out like the scaly belly of a snake. The lettering was half-concealed in shadow and too small to read from where he was, but he was sure it would be another cryptic poem. “My banner was with me,” he told his mother. “Well, it’s Hobart’s banner, really; I’m just one of its members. Angus and Ortis are the others.”

  “A banner?” his mother asked. “Aren’t those in Tyr?”

  Giorge nodded. “I’ll tell you why I had to leave the Western Kingdoms sometime. Joining a banner seemed like a good way to avoid the kind of trouble I was seeking to avoid.”

  “You reunited the Eyes with the Viper’s Skull?” his mother asked. “I didn’t even make it past the Viper’s Breath.” She looked at him wonderingly and softly added, “I waited too long before I left. I had to make sure you were safe first.” She smiled, and her voice was tender, proud, as she added, “I’m glad I did.”

  Giorge moved cautiously to the top of the stair. Had he really reunited them? He had found all of the gems, but he had died before finding the skull. Unless it was his own skull? Had the fangs grafted to him, too? The water was flowing rapidly out of the seam of the sarcophagus’s lid. He stepped forward and held the torch close to the poetic script and muttered the poem under his breath:

  Welcome to my humble tomb

  encased in bitterness and stone

  beneath the sea, beneath the waves—

  a fitting place for both our graves!

  The curse is lifted; the curse is gone;

  Your life is yours to live again;

  But here forever you shall be,

  until in death, you join me.

  Take the stones—they’re all that’s left—

  my legacy, my parting gift,

  the remnants of a life undone

  enjoy them well inside our tomb!

  Symptata the Beggarman

  His mother chuckled and shook her head. “At least this verse isn’t too bad,” she said. “Some of his poetry is downright atrocious.”

  Giorge looked at her and said, “I don’t think I would go that far. The poems I’ve read have at least been informative. I just didn’t realize what some of them meant until now.”

  “Oh,” his mother said, “I wasn’t talking about the poems about the curse. Some of his other ones are horrid. He lost his wits near the end, and it shows in them.”

  “He wrote other poems?”

  His mother nodded. “A lot of them. When I found out about the curse, I did what I could to learn more about Symptata. There wasn’t much. Didn’t Auntie Fie tell you about them?”

  Giorge shook his head. “We should talk about this later,” he said. If we live long enough. “Let’s see if we can find out what’s behind this thing. There might be a panel we can open, a tunnel—anything that we can use to get out of this place.”

  After a close inspection of the alcove and stairwell, they came back to the front of the sarcophagus. Giorge reread the poem and frowned. Can it be this easy? he wondered, lifting his eyes to meet the Viper’s gaze. When they were grafted to me….

  Giorge stepped forward. The eyes were level with his own, and he leaned forward—

  His mother pulled him back and glared at him. “You fool,” she said. “The curse—”

  “—is over,” Giorge mused. “I don’t intend to touch them; I just want to look through them.”

  The frown creasing her brow was matched by her lips, as she demanded, “Why?”

  Giorge smiled and shook his head. “You didn’t find them,” he said. “I did.” He blinked and pointed to his eyes. “They did what the Breath did, but here.”

  His mother’s fingertips went to her chest and toyed with something that wasn’t there. She gulped and said nothing.

  “While they were in there,” he said, remembering the chaotic patterns of light that had surrounded him, “I could see magic.” He waited, and when she dropped her arm to her side again, he turned back to the viper and took a deep breath. He leaned forward and almost pressed his eyes against the stars embedded in the sapphires. A moment later, a whirling of energy sprang to life just beyond the gems, something that looked very much like eyes of fire staring back at him. He jerked back and blinked until the afterimage was gone, and then squinted and leaned forward again. There was something else, something behind the eyes, and it looked like—

  “A tunnel,” he said, grinning. “It’s magical. Maybe it’s another portal?”

  His mo
ther pushed him gently to the side, stood on her tiptoes, and looked into the gems. “I don’t see anything,” she said. “It’s all dark.”

  Giorge frowned, leaned forward, and looked again. Fiery eyes stared back at him, as if they had gotten closer, bigger. He leaned back again and frowned. Was he imagining things? Or had they really moved? He stepped back and turned to his mother. “It may be a way out.”

  His mother looked at the sarcophagus and said, “That?”

  Giorge nodded. “I think so,” he said. “But it’s the only thing holding back the water.” And there may be something waiting for us inside of it, he added to himself. “If we open it, this place will flood, and we’ll be washed down the stair.” And the thing inside will kill us.

  His mother shrugged. “Do we have a choice?” she asked. She lifted her poniard and wiggled it around for a moment. Then she lifted the tip up to the edge of the Viper’s Breath and pried at it.

  Giorge put his hand on hers and gently pulled it back. “No,” he said. “That’s what started this curse.”

  She looked at him, frowned, and lowered her hand. “You’re right,” she said. “But the curse is over. They’re yours.”

  “Exactly,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “I don’t want it to start up again. If we take the stones,” he shrugged. “It would be something Symptata would do, wouldn’t it?”

  His mother thought for a few seconds before she shook her head. “No,” she said. “The curse is dead. You are Symptata’s rightful heir, and that poem is his bequest. The gems are yours now; you won the right to them when you broke the curse.”

  Giorge frowned. Was she right? Were they his inheritance? Was the curse really over? Or could it begin anew if he stole from Symptata the way his forebear had done? If the curse was rekindled, how many generations would be plagued by the woe Symptata promised? He leaned forward and looked through the Viper’s Eyes again. The fire had congealed into small beads of piercing flame, and beyond them was definitely a magical tunnel.

  He leaned back and asked, “What did you see when you looked through them?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “They were dark.”

  “No fire?” he pressed. “No magic?”

  She shrugged, “Does magic look like shadow on a dark, moonless night?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s like shimmering streams of overlapping rainbows. It’s all around us, but Angus says most people can’t see them unless they have some elf blood in their veins.” Then he sobered and glanced back at the sarcophagus. “I see a pair of flaming eyes staring back at me, and beyond that is a tunnel ringed with magic—all kinds of magic, as near as I can tell. I think it’s another portal, like the ones Angus told me about.”

  His mother frowned. “A portal?” she asked. “Like a doorway?”

  Is that what it is? Giorge wondered. “Something like that,” he said. “Angus didn’t make much sense.” He frowned. “The Fangs were in an abandoned mine. There was a room there, but it wasn’t part of the mine. Angus said the trapdoor we went through was a kind of portal to someplace else, and that was where the room was. I didn’t really pay much attention to him after that.” He shrugged and turned back to the sarcophagus. “I think this tomb may be in the same place as that room,” as he said it, he knew it wasn’t quite right and shook his head. “No, not in the same place, but someplace else, like that room was someplace else. The way out of here is through that tunnel.”

  His mother looked at the sarcophagus for a long time, and then stood on tiptoes to look through the Eyes again. When she leaned back, she shook her head and said, “I still don’t see anything.”

  Giorge frowned. Why couldn’t she see the magic? Was it because the Eyes hadn’t grafted to her? Were they his Eyes now? If so, was she right? Could he take them without giving the curse new life?

  “Why do you think the curse won’t start up again if I take them?” he asked, his voice soft.

  She looked at him and frowned. “It started with him,” she said. “Didn’t Auntie Fie tell you that?”

  Giorge scowled at her and said, “I think you better tell me,” he said. “Auntie Fie seems to have left out a few things—or I’ve forgotten them. It’s been a long time since she told me about the curse.”

  “Did she tell you why it started?”

  Giorge nodded. “One of our ancestors left with his child and his treasure.”

  His mother nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “He was trying to save them from his curse.”

  Giorge frowned. “I thought he bought the curse and inflicted it upon them.”

  His mother shrugged. “The witch who cast it charged a high price,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “He would want the curse to end,” she said. “He was hurt and angry and vindictive, and the witch twisted that anger into something vile. When he learned of what she’d done, he tried to stop it. He sought out the witch, but she refused to undo the magic. She said she couldn’t undo it, but he could. None of us have ever found out how he could have done it, but we know he went insane trying.”

  Giorge digested this information and shook his head. “The witch—”

  “She disappeared not long after that,” his mother said. “There were rumors of other curses, but nothing substantial.”

  “Would she do it?” he asked. “Would that witch make the curse resilient?”

  She frowned. “Maybe,” she hedged, “but I don’t think so.”

  Giorge stared at the gems in the Viper’s Skull and wondered if he should take them. The Eyes were still working, and it would be useful to see the magic. Was it worth risking it? He couldn’t do anything with the magic if he saw it, but what if there were magical traps? And the Viper’s Breath? Would he be able to use it to summon animals to defend himself? Or would they attack him if he tried? Could he use it to control animals? That would come in handy, wouldn’t it? Bring the animals in so he could kill them and eat them. He was almost hungry enough to do that right now. A plump rat or two? Not a very tasty meal, but…. What would the fangs do? He hadn’t really had them long enough to find out. Maybe they didn’t do anything? Even if that were true, they were still valuable gems.

  Giorge shook his head. “No,” he said with a sense of certainty that surprised him. “If the stones are mine, then I choose to leave them here. Besides,” he smiled at her, “you always told me not to take more than needed. Of course,” he grinned, “I’ve ignored your advice more often than I should have, and I already have plenty of treasure.”

  She looked at the gems and shook her head. “Giorge,” she said, “I think you have to take them.”

  “Why?” Giorge asked.

  His mother sighed. “Symptata wanted you—you—to have them,” she said, looking back at the remarkably quiet room. “If you don’t take them, one of the others will. That will almost certainly reactivate the curse.”

  “But my children—” Giorge began.

  “You have children?” his mother asked as her head snapped around and her eyebrows disappeared under her curvy black bangs.

  Giorge shrugged. “Probably,” he said. “I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to find out.” He turned his gaze back to the main tomb and saw that his ancestors were nearly to the corner where the fungal growth was heaviest. The fungus was taking its toll on them: a few had fallen and there was no telling how many others were infected by its spores. “We should warn them,” he said. “They will need time to cross the chamber.”

  His mother shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “If there’s no tunnel behind the sarcophagus, there’s no point in telling them about it. We’ll all drown or suffocate before we find another way out.”

  “Just like Symptata’s prophesy says we will,” Giorge added

  His mother nodded. “How do we open this thing?” she asked, scanning the seam and probing it with her poniard.

  Giorge turned to the other side, but before he could do more than draw his short sword, he stopped. There was already water coming
through the seam, and it seemed to be seeping through it everywhere. There wasn’t any latch, lock, bolt—nothing was holding it back. He tried to wedge his short sword’s edge into the opening, but no matter how hard he pressed, it didn’t give. He stepped back and frowned; there wasn’t even a mark on the copper, and there should have been. Copper was softer than iron.

  Giorge stepped around to the front of the sarcophagus and asked, “Anything?”

  His mother shook her head. “No,” she said. “Whatever is holding it in place, I can’t find it.”

  Giorge sighed. “We won’t open it that way, then,” he said.

  His mother joined him at the front of the sarcophagus and asked, “How do you think it’s set up?”

  Giorge frowned. He already knew what would open the sarcophagus, but he didn’t want to do it. All he had to do was follow the directions in the poem. Take the stones—they’re all that’s left…. “You’re right, mother,” he said. “I have to take the stones.” He handed her the torch and reached for the Viper’s Breath. It fell into his hand as if it belonged there. A stream of water shot from out the opening, striking him in the chest and pushing him backward. He slipped on the slick stone and the current caught at him. He squatted and barely avoiding sliding down the stair. The water was cold as it flooded into his breeches, and he squirmed to his feet.

  “It moved forward,” his mother half-shouted over the crashing water. She stood to the side of the sarcophagus, avoiding the thickening wall of water fanning out from the lid’s seam and striking the wall to either side.

  While he steadied himself and moved sideways, his mother reached up for one of the Fangs and tried to pull it free. It didn’t budge. He slipped the Viper’s Breath into a pouch and approached the sarcophagus at an angle to avoid the water shooting out from it. When he reached out for the Fang, it came free so easily that it seemed to jump into his fingers. This time he had prepared himself, but only a little water dribbled out of the hole it left behind. A moment later, the other Fang was in his other hand and the lid grated forward. The wall of water thickened and crashed against the wall.