Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

He sighed and moved to the ewer he kept next to the door for visitors to use to wash their hands. There were towels next to it, and he dipped the corner of one into the ewer. Then he turned to his table. It needed a good scrubbing….

  7

  Visions need riddles, Taro thought as he hobbled down the road. No, visions are riddles. How can I explain them to others? He sighed. He had tried to explain the visions to the villagers who knew him, but they had looked at him as if he had finally lost his wits, even though he had just found them again. He couldn’t blame them, though, could he? “I have to find a wizard,” he told them, his voice excited and his eyes wide. “He has a black robe and walks through fire. He plays two invisible lutes at the same time, and they make an awful screech, like pigs being butchered. No, that was what happened at the Wizards’ School. His lutes were silent, and….”

  He would have thought himself crazy if he hadn’t had the visions. In a way, it was good that they thought him crazy, since they had given him some coins and food to help him along when he finally told them he was leaving for Hellsbreath. He accepted their gifts graciously, as if they were donations to the Order instead of alms to a raggedy, crazy old man. And those were the villagers who knew him. The next village over was less kind, even though they had heard of the strange old man at the shrine. It was worse at the next one, and he had finally given up on trying to explain his mission to them—and it was a mission! He had been granted these visions by the gods, and he was going to see them through! But he needed a better way to relay the content of the visions; one that wouldn’t leave him sounding like his mind had fled from him.

  What did the Seers of old do? he wondered. Nothing, he answered. The people trusted the Order back then—and there were Elders to guide initiates through their visions to help them understand what they meant. Maybe I ought to find my mentor? He shook his head. No time. I have to reach Hellsbreath. He hobbled forward, his walking stick tapping out a rhythm on the cobblestones. They were interesting cobblestones, large, alternating slabs of colored rock that formed a grid pattern, like the streets of Hellsbreath. Most of them were gray and white, but every now and then there was a stretch of green and white or black and white or green and gray or black and gray. No doubt each little king had their own color preference. He smiled and rattled off a playful verse:

  There once was a king with a sword

  who ruled over all with his word

  and by writ and decree

  he demanded there’d be

  no gray cobblestones on his road!

  He chuckled and shook his head. It was a pointless verse, but it helped him to pass the time as he plodded forward. He probably had heard it somewhere on his travels before reaching the shrine. Some bard or other must have sung it as a quip between songs? Yes, it had to be something like that.

  He frowned and listened to the tapping of his walking stick. It had a simple melody, one that was slow and ponderous. It was almost ominous, like the kind of omens he had heard diviners give. But the diviners’ omens were always vague, pompous warnings—or vague, hopeful tidings. It always sounded to him like the diviners were making things up to suit their audience, but what did he know? Maybe their magic only gave hints of the future? Maybe all they got were vague impressions? But when they spoke of those impressions, they sounded so important. Taro knew it was only the ritual and their voice that made them seem that way, since what the diviners said always seemed like empty words to him. Peasants ate it up like it was their daily gruel. “The gods will look upon you with favor this spring!” Really? What kind of favor? Which gods? He really didn’t care, of course, but if that was all they could see, their divination spells weren’t worth much. Now, he had seen visions! And—

  And they were vague. Oh, they had details, all right—mountains, fires, wizards, volcanoes—but what did they mean? What connected them together? He was no better than the diviners. Why couldn’t he provide them with more than that? Something concrete and specific? But did he need to do that? All he really wanted from them was a bit of food and a room for the night, just enough to get to the next village, to get a little closer to Hellsbreath. What if he told them vague stories that reeked of doom and destruction, like the diviners did? What if he told them of a savior who struggled mightily against it and—

  And what? It looked like the wizard was doing something, but there was no way for him to know what it was. Maybe he was making the fire instead of trying to put it out? Damned vision! Why did it have to be so disconnected? If only—

  Disconnected? What if that was a good thing? After all, Taro could turn him into a monster destroying thousands of lives with his lava-spewing magic or turn him into a savior fighting against that monster. Which story would be better? Which one would lead to a comfortable room and a good meal? Which one would get him a wagon ride to the next village?

  tap-TAP

  tap-TAP

  tap-TAP

  A stoic rhythm, a somber rhythm….

  “A DAY will COME with—” With what? A wizard playing tricks? He began to hum along with the tapping of his walking stick, trying to work the rhythm into his mind. There was a song there, waiting for him to find it….

  8

  Iscara was confused. Why would the king want to see her? What had she done that could possibly warrant his attention? Her escort—a tall, thin fellow with a clean-shaven, angular chin and dark green eyes—didn’t know why and didn’t want to know. She drew her cloak more tightly around herself and wondered, Why the secrecy?

  “This way,” the man said, his voice soft, almost lilting. He held out his arm and ushered her down a narrow, shadowy hallway. It was probably one of the routes servants took to make their way through the castle. They came to a door and stopped. He rapped lightly twice and waited.

  A few seconds passed, and then a key slid into the lock and turned. The door opened and an old woman waved Iscara through. “Wait here,” she said to her escort.

  He nodded and faced away from the door. The old woman closed and locked it.

  “Now,” the old woman said, taking Iscara’s cloak from her. She had gray hair that clung to her head like soot-stained strands of wool, and her back had a noticeable curve to it. But her eyes were keen, calculating, as they passed from Iscara’s long black hair, down past her ample bosom, and came to rest on her feet. She shook her head. “It won’t do,” she said. “It won’t do at all.”

  “What is it?” Iscara asked, glancing down at her healer’s gown. It was her best one, and there wasn’t a spot of blood or viscera on it anywhere.

  “Everything,” the old woman said. “Your ears are lopsided, and that hair is a mess. And those feet! They look like dogs’ paws.” She shook her head, took a firm hold of her elbow, and led her down a narrow corridor lit only by a lantern placed halfway down its length. “We’ll have to do something about those clothes. He detests white garments.”

  “But—” Iscara began, and quickly fell silent. What was the point in protesting that she was a healer and healers always wore white? He was the king, and what the king said was law. So she followed in silence, feeling as if she were a cow being groomed for the market.

  The old woman used her key to open a door at the far end of the corridor and urged her inside. Iscara gasped: It was a bath. A proper bath. With flower petals in the water and towels at the ready. Steam rose up from it, and it brought the faint scent of roses to her.

  “Well,” the old woman said. “Get on with it then. He’ll be expecting you soon.”

  “What does he want from me?” Iscara asked as she reached down for the hem of her robe. If that’s all it is, she thought as she lifted the robe over her hips and wiggled a bit, I’ll be glad—

  “I don’t know,” the old woman said. She had moved over to the bath and had a scrub brush in her hand. “Nor do I want to know,” she added, impatiently tapping the brush’s handle in her palm. “Whatever it is, we best make you presentable for it—and quickly.”

  Iscara dropped her healer
’s gown to the floor and hurriedly removed her undergarments and boots. She moved over to the bath and lifted her leg over the side. She almost winced as she slid her foot into the scaldingly hot water. She brought her other leg over and gasped as she lowered herself into it. She didn’t need to see her skin to know that it was turning pink from the heat, and she smiled in exhilaration as she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slowly eased her head beneath the surface. She lay down, letting the near-blistering heat flow into her and only surfaced again after her breath had escaped from her lungs. She gasped and shook the drenched strands of her hair from her face. She had barely caught her breath when the old woman took a firm grip on her head and pushed her firmly forward. The brush was rough, but not sharp enough to break through the skin, and the old woman used it vigorously, efficiently covering every part of her exposed flesh. Then she turned to Iscara’s hair.

  When the bath was over, the old woman helped her out of the water and roughly dried her off. Then the old woman’s fingers and eyes passed over the parts of her body as if she were inspecting a stud mare, and when she had finished, she shook her head. “Let’s get you in the gown,” she said. “It may help conceal those imperfections.”

  Iscara glared at her but said nothing. How dare you! she thought. I have a wonderful body! I know a dozen men who would say so! Instead, she allowed the woman to help her into the gown. What’s the point of putting on a gown when it will be off again, soon, anyway? Then she impatiently waited while the old woman tended to her hair, wincing delightedly as the brush caught in its tangles.

  Nearly an hour passed before the bathing ordeal was over, and still the old woman was dissatisfied. “It’s the best I can do,” she said, shaking her head as she led Iscara to another door. This time, the corridor beyond was clean and well-lit, and at the far end it opened into a well-lit room. “Keep your eyes downcast unless he gives leave to raise them,” the old woman softly said. “Address him as Sire and do what he tells you to do. Return here when he is finished with you.”

  Before Iscara could reply, the old woman stepped back into the bathing chamber and closed the door. It clicked as it settled into place, and the soft scraping of a key in its lock held a strange finality to it. There was no need to lock her in, of course; Iscara was far from innocent, and there were worse things than entertaining the king. Besides, she might gain some benefit, some favor in return…. She smiled, took a deep breath, and walked confidently down the corridor, pausing only long enough to bow her head when she reached the end of the corridor. Once inside the room, she stopped and said, “Sire, I have come as you desired.”

  Someone chuckled and a firm, masculine voice said, “As if you could have done otherwise.” A moment later, he continued, “Come, join me at my table.”

  “Yes, Sire,” she said, glancing up only far enough to see where the table was. It was a large table, almost as large as the one in her infirmary, and there was an expansive meal neatly spread across it. There was an empty chair across from the king, and she moved toward it as gracefully as she could. As she neared, she breathed in the aroma of seasoned, roasted fowl and the crispness of steamed potatoes. Her mouth began to water as she took her seat, but there was no waiting platter set out before her. She stared at the empty space and let her hands fall softly to her lap. She pinched her left forefinger as tightly as she could and waited.

  The king carefully, meticulously began to fill his own plate. He started with a potato, which he cut into thin slices that he arranged into neat rows. He sliced off long, thin strips from the fowl’s breast—it was too large for a chicken—and placed them between the potato slices. When he had finished, he did the same thing with another potato.

  “You are here to answer a few questions,” the king said. “Answer them fully and truthfully, and you will be allowed to leave. Answer them otherwise or speak of what we discuss with anyone else, and you will be subjected to the same treatment that you have tenderly doled out to others on behalf of Argyle.”

  Iscara’s breath stopped and her eyes widened. He knows! How—

  “Do you understand,” the king asked.

  Iscara opened her mouth, blinked, and closed it again. The tabletop was blurry. Her chest tightened. She grabbed the little finger of her left hand and wrenched it ferociously backward until it snapped. The welcome, sudden burst of pain elicited a gasp and cleared her mind. She nodded slowly and licked her lips. “Yes, Sire,” she said.

  “Good,” the king said, turning to another potato. As he cut it, he said, “I know you have been hiding Typhus in your shop. It is time for him to leave the city.”

  Iscara blinked. How?! “Yes, Sire,” she said.

  “You healed a wizard named Angus two nights ago,” he continued. “Why did he request you?”

  Iscara pulled on her broken finger and blinked. What could she say? If she didn’t tell him the truth…. But what was the truth? All Angus said was that he had heard about her from a mutual friend—from Typhus. Would the king believe her if she told him? “He was referred to me by one of my former patients,” she said. “I had never seen him before he was brought to me by the guardsmen.”

  “And this former patient?”

  She gulped. “Typhus,” she said, her voice soft, almost childlike. “I do not know how they knew each other.”

  “Interesting,” the king said, arranging the potato slices into rows that were perpendicular to the first one. He turned to the meat and continued. “Perhaps I should talk with Typhus, instead.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Iscara said. “Would you like me to send him to you?”

  The knife paused in mid-slice before slowly finishing the next thin strip of breast meat. “You knew of Angus before he arrived,” he said. “Did you not?”

  How much does he know? Iscara wondered as she studied the wood grain of the tabletop and took a slow, deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “Typhus had mentioned him. He had something Argyle wanted. A key of some sort. I tried to get it from him as payment for the healing, but—” she paused, Does he know about Sardach, too? “—he wouldn’t let me have it. It would have been a fair price.”

  “Indeed,” King Tyr said in an even tone. “I daresay it would have been. I trust you were well-compensated?”

  Iscara frowned. “No, Sire,” she said. “It was a very difficult healing, and he did not have adequate funds with him. He promised to pay more when he was able, but I fear that will not happen.”

  “Indeed,” the king said as he carefully examined a potato. “I understand that it would have been easier to remove his leg.”

  Iscara nodded. “Yes, Sire.”

  The king paused and she felt his eyes studying her. “Why didn’t you?”

  Iscara became very still and reached for another finger. He’s toying with me, she thought. He already knows everything. She barely heard herself as she said, “Sardach wouldn’t let me.”

  The king was silent for a long time and then slowly set his knife and fork down, one to each side of his platter. Then he leaned forward and asked, his voice soft, intense, “What did you say?”

  Iscara’s eyes widened. He didn’t know! She began bending back the finger and paused. There was no point in it, was there? She had already said it, and he already knew everything else. She leaned back and said, “Sardach was with Angus. He wouldn’t let me amputate the limb. He said Angus had to be whole. I,” she gulped, sighed, and added, “it is not wise to cross Sardach. I had to send for my mother and Ninny to help me with the healing. I could not have done it myself.”

  She could barely see the bottom of the king’s smile as he slowly leaned back. “No,” he agreed. “It would not be wise to cross Sardach.” He paused before adding, “Nor is it wise to cross me.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Iscara said. “I was surprised that Sardach was with him. Typhus told me to tell Argyle to send Sardach to find Angus because Angus had the key, and I thought Sardach would kill Angus to get it.” She almost smiled with pride as she finished. She had never gotten s
o many names right at one time.

  The king’s smile faded somewhat as he reached for the knife and fork. “Indeed,” he said. As he began slicing a third potato, he asked, his tone off-handed, “Was there anything else unusual about the healing?”

  Iscara thought for a moment. Sardach’s presence had been strange enough, but that wasn’t the only thing. “Yes, Sire,” she said. “He should have died from his injuries long before he reached me. The wound in his leg was badly infected. Most of it was dead, and when that happens, the decay leeches into the blood and spreads through the body. Normally, a fever follows that consumes the mind and kills within a few days. But he had no fever at all when he arrived. He said it was his robe that stabilized his body temperature and kept him alive. I asked for that robe as payment for the healing, but he refused and Sardach….” She shook her head and fell silent. As she waited for the king’s next question, she wiggled her broken finger back and forth, letting the pain ripple over her.

  “I see,” the king said when he finished with the potato. “Is that all?”

  Iscara frowned. There was something else, but she didn’t know how to explain it—if it could be explained at all. “No,” she said. “There was some strange magic in him, but I don’t know what it was. We were too busy healing his injuries for me to pursue it further, and he did not tarry long afterward.”

  As the king sliced off another strip of meat, he asked, “Do you know where Angus went after he recovered?”

  Iscara brought the magic into focus and stared through the tabletop at her hands. It would be easy to realign the misshapen strands of the broken finger. A minute or two would suffice, and then she would ease the swelling. She absently started tweaking the strands as she answered, “I believe he was planning to take the key to Argyle. I don’t know if he did or not. He did not stay long after he recovered his senses, and while he was there we spoke only of my fee for healing him.”

  “Very well,” the king said as he turned his plate and carefully cut the first strip of potato into bite-sized segments of equal length. “You may go.”