Ortis glanced at him and said, “We were fortunate they didn’t follow us.”
Hobart nodded and walked to the edge of the cliff to urinate. When he finished, he turned back to the pond and shook his head. It stretched almost to the edge of the cliff, and the water was funneling down the streambed at a rapid pace. It would be a dangerous current to travel through, especially when the ledge narrowed and steepened. Parts of it might be impassable. “Is there anything left to eat?” he asked.
Ortis shook his head. “The last of the food was with Sam. So were the cleats for the horses.”
Hobart frowned; there had been at least four days worth of food left. No matter; he had experienced hunger often enough to know how to cope with it, and at least they would have plenty of fresh water. The cleats were another matter; without them, the horses would have a lot more trouble going down the slope. Perhaps we can wrap something around the hooves? He thought as he knelt before the pond, rinsed his hands and face. He drank a few mouthfuls of the crisp liquid to get the grit off his teeth and tongue and shook his head. It will get wet too quickly.
“I think we’ll be able to make it down,” Ortis said, staring up at the cliff face. “There is a cold wind from the west. The water is freezing. See how it’s only trickling down the cliff face? Earlier, it was a deluge.”
“Good,” Hobart said. “The sooner we get down, the sooner we can find some food.”
Ortis shook his head. “It isn’t that good,” he scoffed. “The streambed is freezing too. It will be dangerous if we go quickly. We’ll have to lead the horses and test the footing as we go. It should be all right at first, but you know how narrow this ledge gets down there. There will be ice curling over the lip when it does.”
Hobart looked at the glistening cliff face and marveled at the ice as it captured the moonlight in a strange dappling of glitter. Ortis was right; the footing would be torturous when it froze, and it would freeze quickly. “We best get going, then,” he said.
Ortis hesitated and said, “By the time we reach the bottom, I should be at Dagremon’s. I’ll bring supplies, but it will take a few days to rendezvous. At least the horses will have plenty of fresh grass down there.”
Hobart nodded. “If we need to, we can find out if Ned’s cache of food is still in that cave he took us to. He won’t mind if we eat some of it if we replace it with the supplies you get from Dagremon’s.”
Ortis nodded. “We will have to reach the bottom first.”
“Let’s go, then,” Hobart said, impatient to get started while he was still feeling strong enough to endure the difficult journey down the ledge. It would be bad enough at full strength, and he didn’t know how long his reserves would hold out. Ortis roused the horses and lined them up single-file with lead ropes linking them together. The ropes were loosely tied and would come undone if one of the horses plunged over the side, and Hobart took up his position in line, leading Leslie a few paces behind Gretchen, Angus’s horse. He frowned, wondering what had happened to the wizard and fearing that he was long dead. But Ortis had said he hadn’t seen him when he went back to the cave, and if Angus’s plan had worked—whatever plan that was—he would be waiting for them in Hellsbreath. If Hobart and Ortis made it that far. If not, would Angus come looking for them?
Hobart shook his head. He needed to concentrate on his footing as they started down the slope. The stream was wide and furious, but for now there was still room beside it for themselves and the horses. It was rough ground, but that was better than the smooth, slick surface of the streambed. It was surprisingly easy going for the first hour, and then the ledge narrowed, forcing the stream into a deep, narrow channel. Even so, there was too much water coming down the cliff, and it jumped its bank and washed over the side. It wasn’t freezing yet, but it made the footing treacherous. Fortunately, that part only lasted for only about twenty feet, and then the ledge widened and the streambed flattened out to span almost its full width. That was a problem; its current was much slower here, and the edges were already fringed with ice. But it was fairly level, and that made it possible to walk in the water without slipping too much, and when they did slip, they didn’t slide very far.
Ortis reached the end of the long flat stretch and stopped. The horses stopped behind him, forcing Hobart to a stop. He was glad for the rest, but it was ill-advised. He needed to keep moving while he still could, and any delay now might prove deadly later. Then the Ortis behind him half-shouted above the soft murmur of the stream, “There’s a steep stretch coming, and there’s ice everywhere except in the stream itself. I don’t know if we can make it.”
Hobart shrugged. “We have to,” he called back to him. “We can’t stay here, can we?” He held onto the lead rope and made his way to his saddle. He lifted the axe from the holster in the saddle; he seldom used it, and only when he lost his sword in battle, but it might be useful here. He gripped it firmly—it felt heavier than he remembered—and he realized the exhaustion was starting to set in again. “We can break up the ice if we need to,” he called. “And crawl if it gets bad enough. The horses….” He looked at Leslie and shook his head. “They can deal with the ice better than we can.”
He hoped it was true.
5
Giorge sat beside his mother and looked across the fire at the rubble pile, patiently waiting for the next question. To a certain extent, he was content; the rubble pile had healed his broken bones and let him eat some of that foul-tasting but much appreciated bowl of gruel before beginning the interrogation. It had only begun asking questions when Embril sat down next to it. She looked exhausted, but carefully controlled the haggard expression by muttering something under her breath. Her lips quivered rhythmically, steadily, as if she were repeating the same thing over and over again. She probably was; Angus had done something like that a few times, and Giorge assumed it was a wizard-thing. Then the questions started.
The interrogation infuriated him. He was a member of a banner protected by the king, and they were treating him like a prisoner. He understood why they were asking the questions, but there were so many of them. It seemed like every time he answered one of the rubble pile’s questions it inspired a half dozen more from Embril. They had started with a simple-enough question: How did you come to be in that tunnel? “We came through a magic portal from Symptata’s tomb,” Giorge had replied, a helpful smile on his face. Then he spent a great deal of time describing what had happened to them in the tomb. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he couldn’t help himself; he felt an irresistible compulsion to answer them. He had experienced that kind of power once before, when the Truthseer had come to ask him about Angus, and he resented Embril for it now. How dare she use that magic on him! The readiness of his tongue frustrated him, but he couldn’t even express that frustration; he just placidly answered each question as truthfully as he could. So did his mother when she confirmed what he had already told them.
Then the rubble pile asked, “How can you be his mother? You do not appear old enough.” His mother’s eyes narrowed in anger as she helpfully, pleasantly answered, “We were both twenty-one when Symptata’s curse struck us.” That answer had led to scores of questions about the curse, and there seemed to be no end to them. Giorge had even told them what he could about the Viper’s Breath, Fangs, and Eyes. He had tried not to tell them about their magic, but Embril was quite specific in her questions, and he had been compelled to answer them in detail. She didn’t even seem surprised when he told her the curse had killed them, as if being brought back to life was routine. Then her questions turned to Angus.
He told her what he could, and was happy to do so. He didn’t even need to be coerced into telling her about him; Angus would have wanted Embril to know. But he didn’t know very much. He described how strange Angus had been acting before the elementals had struck and how Angus had threatened to kill him or abandon him to the curse. Giorge didn’t blame Angus, of course; there was something wrong with him when he said it, and if Giorge hadn’t been t
he one struck by the curse, he would have wanted to get away from it too. He told her what he could remember about the elementals attack, describing how the first one seemed to be ripping Angus in half when Giorge was attacked by the second elemental. He even described how it felt to be frozen to death and how strange it felt to wake up alive in the sarcophagus….
She asked a lot more questions about Angus before she finished, stood up, and walked carefully, slowly back into the tunnel leading to the cavern. When she was gone, the rubble pile turned to him and asked, “Very well, Giorge, is there anything else we need to know?”
Giorge smiled and his tone was helpful, pleasant as he answered, “Yes. The Tween Effect is caused by mushrooms. When they are dried and burned, the smoke makes you feel like someone’s watching you. They are being burned near the river, and the wind is carrying the smoke over The Tween. Its effects are fairly mild in The Tween because the smoke gets dispersed over a large area. Don’t go near the fires by the river, though; the closer you are to the smoke, the more intense the effect. It almost drove me mad when Angus gave me a dose of it. It was a small dose, barely a pinch or two of the stuff, but it sent my heart pounding and my lungs tingled as if I had been running for hours. Worst of all, I was as jittery as a virgin whore. I didn’t just think there were things watching me; I saw them watching me. But every time I went after them, they flitted away and laughed at me. Well, they didn’t really laugh, since they weren’t there in the first place, but I heard them laughing at me, and that only made me more jittery. They were everywhere around me, taunting me with their laughter and teasing me with little pinpricks on my skin. But they fled from my sword every time I rushed forward—and I rushed after them again and again until Hobart told me what was happening. Then I gained some control over myself.” Giorge paused for breath and then finished, “I never want to experience that again. Neither do you. Stay away from those fires. We were going to tell you that before you left Hellsbreath, but then the curse struck me and we got distracted by it.”
Giorge fell silent and sat still for a few moments. Was there anything else they needed to know? There wasn’t any compulsion to keep talking, so he decided there wasn’t and kept silent.
“Can you describe this mushroom?” the rubble pile asked.
“Certainly,” Giorge offered. “It’s sort of a dull yellow-gray and has a long stem. The top is shaped like an upturned bowl with frayed edges. They grow in clumps, like strawberries.”
“All right,” The rubble pile shifted position as if it were standing up. “Stay here and rest. We’ll decide what to do with you when Lieutenant Jarhad returns.”
What to do with us? Giorge repeated to himself. It seemed ominous, but there was nothing he could do about that, either. Even if he wanted to run, his legs wouldn’t do it. Where would he go, anyway?
6
Iscara frowned at Agnes and studied the magic in him as best she could from a distance. He was still in need of rest and recuperation, but it wasn’t something she could do anything about. Healers could mend bones and cure diseases, but they had never been able to find an adequate alternative for the restorative qualities of a good night’s sleep. They could forestall the need for sleep, but they couldn’t hold it off forever, and Aggles was in need of a substantial amount of it. But she didn’t care. She wanted to know how he knew her.
“How do you know me?” she demanded as soon as the Lieutenant was gone.
Angles stared at her for too long before he answered, “I don’t know you. But I have heard of your reputation.”
She frowned. What reputation was it? The one she had as a healer of adequate skills? Or the other? If it was her healing skills, why had he come to her with such severe injuries? He had needed a master healer like her mother, not an adequate one. But he had come to her, and there had to be a reason for it, one that didn’t stop with the healing he needed.
“Who told you about me?” she asked.
Argus took his time in answering again, and what he said was not very helpful. “A mutual acquaintance,” he said. He flexed his arm and smiled. “I am glad of it, too.” He flexed his arm some more as he added, his tone gravely serious. “Thank you for healing me. I hear it was a most challenging task.”
Challenging? Iscara thought. It was almost impossible. I would never have bothered with it if it weren’t for Sardach. Was he the mutual acquaintance? Iscara shook her head. It couldn’t have been him. “It will cost you dearly, I assure you,” she said. “You can begin by telling me the name of this mutual acquaintance.”
Uggles shifted his position on the cot and wiggled the toes of his left foot. “Does it matter?” he asked. “It can’t be that important now, can it?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I want to know who the fool was who sent you to me. They should have sent you to a more skilled healer.”
Agros looked up and frowned at her. “You seem to have done well enough,” he said, rubbing his right shoulder.
“It wasn’t me,” Iscara said. “I had help.”
Aggles stared at her with his pretty blue eyes, and she wondered how much was going on behind them as he considered his response. Would he tell her who it was? Or would he continue with the evasions? At length he finally said, “We didn’t speak about the extent of your healing abilities; I knew only that you have them. Since I knew of no other healers in Tyrag, I had the guardsmen bring me here.”
That was stupid, she thought, but all she said was, “You still haven’t told me who it was.”
Instead of answering her, he scanned the room and asked, “Do you have my backpack?”
She smiled at him and said, “Yes. I intend to keep it until you have answered my question.”
Aggus looked at the tapestry for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was little louder than a whisper. “Let’s just say it was a pale blue ghost. I knew him quite well for a time, and we only recently parted company.”
Aha! Iscara thought. I knew it was Typhus! He said they were his breeches. She looked around the room and then asked, “Why is Sardach with you?”
A frozen mask descended onto Angus’s face as he stared at her. Then, his voice low and steady, he told her, “That is no concern of yours.”
She frowned. There was something about his tone that held her tongue as she tried to press him into answering. Or was it her fear of Sardach? If the creature was listening, he might intervene…. She looked around the room again, but she couldn’t see any sign of Sardach. That meant nothing; he could hide in the shadows and cracks without any difficulty. He probably was there, and there was no telling what he would do if she demanded to know more.
“Very well,” she said, suddenly growing tired of the game. “Your payment, then. I want but one thing. It is a small golden key. I believe—”
Sardach suddenly fizzled up from the corner to hover between them. You cannot have the key, he thought at her. It was a fierce thought, a rich warning for her not to press the issue.
Iscara jumped and thought, Why not? I can take it back to Argyle and it will be ended.
Sardach’s torch-like eyes appeared as he condensed in upon himself and thought, No! I will not let you.
Iscara stared at Sardach for what seemed like a very long time, and in the silence Aggers half-smiled and said, “As you can see, that will not be possible.”
Iscara gnawed on the inside of her lip like she always did when she was nervous or angry or afraid or aroused or hungry or for no reason at all. She liked the way it felt, the way the blood tasted on her tongue, and she liked even more that she could always heal it if she bit too hard. If he wasn’t going to give her the key—if Sardach wasn’t going to let her have the key—then she would need something else for payment, and she knew what it would be. “All right then, tell me why you didn’t die.”
Algas frowned and shrugged. “You healed me,” he said.
Iscara shook her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I want to know why you weren’t consumed by fever. When
you arrived, death was swarming through your blood, but you didn’t have any fever at all until I took off that robe of yours. Then it almost burned you alive. I want to know why it hadn’t done that before.”
“It is not easy to explain,” he replied, scrunching up his brow as if it were the pleats of a dress. “Much of my magic pertains to fire, and I made this robe to protect me from it. It regulates my body temperature when it is properly used. It took me months to weave the magic involved. Each strand had to be aligned to the magic within me and linked to the magic contained in the robe. The pattern of knots involved is incredibly intricate, and I doubt you or anyone else could duplicate it. The spells involved are of my own making.”
Iscara frowned. This was not going at all as she had expected. First he didn’t tell her about Typhus, and then Sardach wouldn’t let her have the key. Now Aggas wasn’t going to tell her how the robe worked because it was too complicated. He was probably right; she had never been that good at weaving complex knots. If she had been, she wouldn’t have needed her mother’s help. Or Ninny’s. But she had hoped…. “The robe works only for you, then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “Others can wear it, but it won’t work properly for them. It is attuned to the magic within me, and the magic within others is different. It won’t align up with the magic in the robe the way it should. The robe will compensate to a degree but it won’t be enough. I also added a safeguard; the robe itches terribly when someone else wears it.”
Iscara’s frown deepened. She had hoped to have the robe as payment if she couldn’t get the information she wanted. But she couldn’t do that, either. Of course, she had salves for itching, but they tended to work only when the rashes were localized. They weren’t really for the whole body, and the way he was talking the itching would be everywhere. “I suppose you won’t give it to me for payment, then?”
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 31