“At once, Sire,” Phillip said as he bowed and turned away.
A dragon in the cellars! King Tyr thought as he lifted his left leg and began working the brush over his thigh. If they only knew….
3
Taro looked at the jar of incense sitting beside him and wondered how much of it he should use to trigger the vision. There had been shelves of the stuff in the little alcove, and that suggested they had used a lot of it. Or was it just stored there for a long time and used sparingly? He wished he knew the answer, but the instructions had been lost at the same time the recipe for the incense had been lost. At least this time, he wouldn’t have to use his own concoctions to try to induce a vision!
He laughed. Those concoctions had never brought a vision, but some of them had made him light-headed and giddy. Others had made him nauseous or given him a headache. One had put him to sleep for three days. How frantic he had been when he had realized he had missed those three sunrises! Most just produced foul-smelling smoke that burned his eyes. But this—he happily fondled the lid of the jar and ran his fingertips over the snake-like sigil engraved in its clay surface. It was that sigil that had told him what it was, and now, for the first time in his life, he would have proper incense, the kind that would facilitate a vision! He was certain of it. After all, he had had his first vision without the aid of any incense, hadn’t he? What would it be like with the incense?
He took out his knife and frowned. There was crud on it. That wouldn’t do at all! This was a special—a sacred—moment, and a dirty knife was anything but sacred. He folded over a part of his dingy cloak, spat on the knife’s blade a few times, and then rubbed vigorously at it until the worst of the caked on grit was gone. There wasn’t much he could do about the rust at the base of the hilt, so he made a brief, generic prayer to the gods to apologize for it. Then he turned to the incense jar and gently wedged the blade into the seal and wiggled it back and forth until the seal split and the lid popped up.
The stench! It was a potent, heady aroma that made him feel as if he had just drunk half a dozen mugs of ale in quick succession. But it wasn’t dizzying, and it didn’t leave him addle-minded like ale would have done. Instead, he suddenly saw everything around him with more clarity than he’d had in years. The worn threads of his cloak were crisp, the dust in the air sparkled when it caught the light, and the brazier didn’t blend into the floor like he thought it did; it had stumpy little legs. Even the air was crisper as he breathed it in. And the sounds!
He frowned. The shrine had rats? Why hadn’t he noticed them before?
Then, as if someone had reached in and pulled the incense from his lungs, everything settled back into its normal state of fuzziness and soft edges. But the memory of the sensations lingered, and it took him several seconds to regain his balance. When he did, the coals in the brazier were glowing softly, producing heat but little flame or smoke. It was time.
His hands were shaking as he reached into the incense jar. The incense was a fine, light brown powder with a yellowish overtone. I wonder what it’s made from, he thought as it seeped between his fingers. Then he paused. How much do I need? he asked himself. A little or a lot?
He glanced at the alcove. There were a lot of jars in it. Did that mean they used a lot of the incense each time they sought a vision? Or did they make a lot of it at one time and stored it there until it was needed? There were a lot of Seers back then, too, and that could mean there were a lot of Seers using only a little bit of incense at a time. No, that wasn’t it; visions were special, and there had been a lot of ritual around them. Rituals take time—at least, all the rituals he had seen—and that meant the incense had to last awhile when they used it. They probably threw the incense into the brazier a little at a time, letting the effects slowly build up. But he didn’t have any rituals to follow; they had been forgotten along with most of the rest of the Order’s history.
A little? he wondered, or a lot? He made a fist and lifted it. A lot, he decided, smiling to himself. It will work faster. He turned his fist over and brought it to him. He opened his fingers, and a tightly packed clump of incense crumbled and spread out over his palm like damp beach sand. He held it close to his nose and snorted. It was pungent, but there was almost none of disorientation he had felt when he had opened the jar. He lowered it, nodded to himself, and tossed the incense into the brazier.
The incense sizzled, flared to life as it struck the warm coals, and smoke billowed up from the brazier. The smoke didn’t get caught by the draft or spread out into a great cloud like it should have, nor did it dissipate like normal smoke would have done. Instead, it began to whirl, slowly tightening into thick tendrils that transformed into gray snakes with glowing red eyes. The snakes writhed, their bodies weaving around each other in hypnotic patters. Their eyes captured him, held him in place.
Taro’s eyes widened. The old Seer who had brought him into the order had told him about the snakes. It was part of a legend passed down from one Great Elder to the next, but he had never really believed it. Why should he? How could snakes bring him visions?
“You will know when the vision approaches by the redness in the snake’s eye,” his mentor had said. When Taro had asked his mentor what it had meant, the old man had shrugged and said, “No one remembers, but one day we’ll see a snake with red eyes and it will all make sense again.” A snake, he had said. One. Taro stared at the dancing hydra forming in front of him and the first inkling of fear crept over him. There must be a dozen of them! And more were already rising from the brazier’s coals.
I should have used less incense, Taro thought as the first snake reared back. He almost screamed as it struck his forehead and sent his mind reeling. Images were already beginning to form in his mind as the second snake struck.
Then a third….
4
Rascal was ugly. He never bathed. He smelled of sewage and vomit. His hair had never seen a comb. His clothes had been nibbled on by rats. He had an ungainly scar on his cheek. His left eye never quite closed and dripped goo. He was so asymmetrical. Even behind the screen Phillip had erected to block the unseemly view, King Tyr felt the grime clinging to him and craved to take a bath. But he couldn’t, not yet. He had to talk to Rascal, and Rascal had to smell and look the way he did to get the information King Tyr needed. Even a superficial cleansing would ruin him as an agent, so King Tyr tolerated it as best he could—and took a long bath after each meeting. The screen helped, but it couldn’t quiet his imagination—or the smell.
“Rascal,” he began, facing away from the screen and pinching his nose to stifle the foul stench. “There was an incident.”
“Oh, aye, Milord,” Rascal agreed. “A most unfortunate one at that!”
“Tell me.”
“Well, now, it’s difficult to say for certain on account I wasn’t there, you understand. But a whisper or two has fallen on these old ears. One of the gatekeepers, you know, has a loose tongue when he drinks a bit too much.”
“Never mind that,” King Tyr said. “What happened?”
“Well, there’s a hole down there where there weren’t one before.”
King Tyr frowned and waited for Rascal to continue, but when he didn’t, he snapped, “Spit it out, Rascal, or I’ll scrub you until you bleed.”
Rascal laughed, “Now, Sire, no need to make threats. That’s all I know. There’s a hole down there that weren’t there before. A big hole. One of the gatekeepers said he heard a roaring and the walls shook. His ears are still ringing, the way he tells it. By the time he got in there to see what’s what, there was a big hole and nobody around but Pug, and she was dead.”
Pug! King Tyr glared at the screen. If Pug is dead, then….
“Gruesome thing, that,” Rascal continued in a light-hearted tone. “It was as if she swallowed a caltrop and it exploded inside her. No sign of her master, though. He hasn’t been seen since before the hole that shouldn’t be there appeared.”
King Tyr began pacing in a tight, well
-ordered square of six paces. His fingernail picked at a nonexistent piece of gristle stuck between his teeth. If Argyle was missing….
“It might have something to do with the wizard,” Rascal mused.
King Tyr stopped pacing and scowled at the screen. “What wizard?”
“Now there’s the funny thing,” Rascal said. “He’s part of one of your Banners.”
A Banner wizard? King Tyr asked. What could a Banner man have to do with Argyle? They’re men of honor! And Argyle—
“Which Banner?” the king demanded. “What business had he down there?”
“Now that I can’t say for sure,” Rascal replied. “It’s all conjecture, really. This wizard made a big fuss when he arrived the other night. He was more than half dead by the sound of it and demanded to be healed by Iscara. Called her by name, no less.”
“Iscara!” King Tyr hissed. She was a passable healer, but her real talents lay in more mischievous directions. What would a Banner wizard want with her?
“Thought that might interest you, Sire,” Rascal said. “They healed him up, and he spent some time at Willowby’s Inn. That’s the strange part. Willowby swears he never left, but he wasn’t there when he took him breakfast this morning. It was as if he had just disappeared. Probably did, being a wizard and all.”
“Why are you telling me this, Rascal?”
“Well, Sire, I’ve been thinking,” Rascal said. “No one saw this wizard leave, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. A lot of people can sneak out of an inn like Willowby’s without being seen if they put their minds to it. But not many can sneak into the warrens beneath us without being seen. Maybe a wizard like him could do that. There’s the other thing, too.” Rascal fell silent, as if he were toying with the king’s patience.
“What other thing?” King Tyr demanded in his most imperious tone. Rascal always had useful insights, but the way he went about explaining them frustrated King Tyr. He much preferred his subjects to get to the point quickly, but Rascal always took the side streets and cautiously circled around the building before opening the door.
“Well, Sire,” Rascal said, lowering his voice. “It’s Typhus, you see. I heard that he’s left Tyrag and he let him go. It’s a curious thing, really. You know, how Typhus and Iscara—well, that’s just a rumor, really. What I do know is that when he escaped this time, she was the only one he spared, and when she went back to explain herself to him, she said something about this fellow named Angus having a key he wanted.”
Angus? He had the key? But—
“That’s the part that worries me, Sire,” Rascal continued. “This wizard I told you about? His name was Angus, too. It’s a funny name, and there can’t be many of them around. Don’t you think it a bit odd that he disappeared only a few hours before that hole sprouted up down there? It’s the kind of coincidence Onus Himself would find troubling.”
Angus? King Tyr wondered. One of my Banners? He had the key? What would he have done—
“What else?” the king demanded as he began pacing again. He took three steps to the left of the screen, each one placed with precision, pivoted until he was facing the opposite direction, and strode six equally-distant steps the other way.
“Nothing, Sire,” Rascal said. “At least, nothing that can explain the hole that shouldn’t be there but is.”
“All right,” King Tyr said, striding up to the screen. He took out a small pouch and tossed it over the screen. There was a quick movement, a soft jingle of coin, a rustle of cloth, and then silence. He reached out to move the screen aside, and Rascal was gone—but the smell remained.
King Tyr wrinkled up his nose and strode across the small room to open the door. Phillip was standing quietly outside, waiting for him. “Sire?”
“Walk with me,” King Tyr said, keeping his voice low as he moved quickly down the corridor. “My bath is ready?”
Phillip nodded at his side, “Of course, Sire. Shall I send for the cleaning wench?”
“Soon,” King Tyr said, striding briskly around a corner. “There are other tasks that need tending. I want you to send for Captain Blanchard. Tell him to bring the Banner Registry with him. Also, have him send his most trusted man to fetch the healer named Iscara. Tell him to be discreet; I wish to see her in my private chambers this evening. No one is to know of her presence.”
“Yes, Sire,” Phillip said, turning to leave.
“First,” King Tyr said, effectively stopping him in his tracks. “I want to show you something.”
“Of course, Sire,” Phillip said as he rejoined him.
They walked briskly and in silence through several corridors until the king’s pace slowed and he stopped in front of a painting of a young woman with strawberry blonde curls draped over her shapely shoulders. Her blossoming womanhood whispered out from the girlish figure, and a playful, sinister smile toyed at the edge of her lips. Her gown was a rich purple with powder blue frills, and her hands were held behind her as if she were hiding something from the artist. It was a lovely rendition of Grayle, a memorial to her after she had died—or so everyone believed. He had encouraged that belief, even though he knew she was very much alive, trapped in Argyle’s form. But if she had the key….
“This painting,” King Tyr began, “conceals a door. Beyond that door is a room. It was Grayle’s.” He paused and reached out to touch the ruddy cheek of the painting. “What did your father tell you about her?”
Phillip looked up and down the corridor and then leaned in to whisper, “I know who she is—and where she is.”
King Tyr nodded. “Good,” he said as he traced the fine line of her jaw and whispered, “Grayle, your king seeks entry.”
The painting shimmered and dissolved under his fingertips, revealing a heavy wooden door. King Tyr lifted the door latch, and the door opened inward. A musty burst of stale air puffed out, and King Tyr lifted his sleeve to cover his nose before gesturing Phillip inside. “The mirror,” he said through the cloth. “Press the third stud from the top right, then the seventh stud down on the left. Then press both of the middle studs at the same time.”
Phillip made his way across the dusty, cobwebbed room and did as instructed. A moment later, the mirror pivoted toward him, revealing a dark, narrow stairwell leading down. He took a step inside, but King Tyr called, “Not now,” and gestured for him to return. Once he was back in the hallway, King Tyr pulled the door closed and said, “Farewell, Grayle.” The painting coalesced to stand guard once more. “It’s a simple illusion,” he muttered. “Aside from the wizard who spun it and myself, you are the only one who knows the words of entry.”
“I shall guard them with my life,” Phillip said.
King Tyr shrugged. “It is of no import at the moment,” he said, reaching up to caress her cheek again. “Grayle, your king seeks entry,” he said, and the painting disappeared again. “While I bathe, I want you to supervise the cleansing of this room. Be thorough.”
“Of course, Sire,” Phillip said. “I will send for the servants at once.” He turned to comply, but King Tyr put his hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Phillip,” he said. “No one is to know of the words of entry or the mirror’s secret. After the others have finished cleansing this room, send them away and clean the passage beyond the mirror yourself. You will need six torches to light the way.” He paused and lowered his hand. “When you finish—or if you find Grayle—attend me at once.”
“Yes, Sire,” Phillip said. “Will there be anything else?”
King Tyr lowered his hand and said, “Close the mirror before you go. It will click when it locks into place.” He turned away and offhandedly added, “It wouldn’t do to have to replace the cleaning wenches.
King Tyr sighed as he walked quickly to his bathing chamber. He had half-hoped to see Grayle prancing around in her chambers like she had done so often when she was still living in them, but she hadn’t come up through the secret tunnel. But then, he wouldn’t have either, with all the dust and cobwebs in it.
He hurried more quickly down the corridor and brushed imaginary cobwebs from his sleeve. At least his bath was ready.
5
Taro lifted his cheek off the cold stone floor and winced as a sharp pain shot out from his neck, stabbed into his right shoulder, and made it all the way to the elbow before stopping. He eased onto his back and repositioned his head until the pain eased to a dull throb, and then lay still and stared at what was left of the ceiling. But he didn’t see the ceiling; he saw a young man in black robes. They were nice robes—silk?—and he wore them like a second skin. No, that didn’t make any sense; wizard’s robes didn’t fit that snugly. They billowed out in winds and hung loose about them when it was calm. And yet, there was something about the way the robes flowed around him as he walked into the fire that made it look like they were clinging to him. Why was he walking into the fire, anyway? That was a stupid thing to do. Taro would have hobbled away from it as fast as he could. But this wizard—
Who is he? Taro wondered, studying the man’s profile. It was a remarkably clear profile, considering how bad his eyes were getting. The wizard—there was no doubt of that now—lifted his thin arms and fiddled with things Taro couldn’t see. He was a bit on the tall side and quite thin, almost gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten in some time. His shaggy black hair fluttered behind him as if it had been caught in a gust of heat, but he ignored it. Why didn’t it catch on fire? His scruffy black beard was desperate for attention, and beneath it, his jawline was tight and his lips were pressed together. There was a distant, intense cast to his dark blue eyes, as if he were squinting at something obscured by the flames. His hands whirled around each other at a remarkable speed, the fingers entwining and parting with knuckles bent and twisted, his fingertips flicking as if he were playing a tricky tune on a lute. No, two lutes at once. Magic, Taro thought, scowling at the remnants of the ceiling as the vision began to fade.
Don’t go! Taro pleaded, trying to memorize the rest of the scene—too late. He had spent so long focusing on the wizard that he had neglected the mountains. How was he supposed to know where the wizard was without that clue? He tried to force the image back into his awareness, but it refused to comply. He sighed. At least he would recognize the wizard when he saw him—if he saw him. It had taken thirty years for his first vision to be fulfilled, and he didn’t have another thirty years left in him. Even five was stretching it quite a bit. So where—
Angst (Book 4) Page 2