“Grayle!” he called out when he was close enough to the entrance of her rooms for her to hear.
“Uncle?” she immediately replied.
“Help me!” he snapped.
Together, they managed to get Phillip to her bed, and then King Tyr turned to Grayle and snapped, “A robe, quickly.”
Grayle hurried to her closet as King Tyr made his way to her bathing chamber. There wasn’t time for a proper scrubbing, but he needed to at least wash Argyle’s sputum off his face and rinse the blood off his injured right hand. There were several deep gashes that needed a healer’s attention, but they would have to wait. He wrapped his hand as neatly as he could with one of her towels, and then hurried back into Grayle’s chamber. She had a robe ready—one of her brightly-colored affairs that seemed like a dragon had swallowed a rainbow and vomited it back up. It would have to do until he could get a proper one from his own chambers.
“Tend him until the healer arrives,” King Tyr said as she helped him into her robe. It fit like a shoe three sizes too small—one more thing that he would have to tolerate—and he strode quickly from her chamber. On his way to his private chambers, he passed one of the cleaning wenches and paused long enough to say, “Go to Captain Blanchard. Tell him to bring his best healer to my private chambers without delay. Speak of this to no one else.”
“Yes, Sire,” she said, bowing and turning to walk quickly away from him.
“Make haste!” he added as he continued on. There was no time for delays.
She ran down the corridor and was already around the corner before he had reached the other end. Then he put her out of his mind and hurried to his private bath chamber. Symptata? he wondered as he removed Grayle’s robe and let it fall in a heap on the floor. I’ve seen that name before….
* * * * *
King Tyr rushed into his closet and quickly ran through the sequence necessary to access his secret library. As he stepped back from the receding wall, he draped one of his own robes over his shoulders, wincing as it rubbed against his injured hand. By the time it had settled comfortably into place, the library was exposed, and he hurried back inside. He ignored the index of forbidden books and scrolls and went to a familiar shelf in the back, where the largest tomes were kept. There was a bit of dust on most of their bindings, but he ignored it as he ran his fingers quickly past the names of his ancestors. He didn’t touch any of them until his finger fell upon the journal of King Cyr, the sixth in King Urm’s line. He almost grabbed it with his injured hand but hesitated. He pulled it back and reached up with his left hand. A flurry of dust puffed up as he tugged the tome loose, and he used the back of his injured hand to balance it until he had a firm grip. He tucked it under his arm and almost ran to his reading desk. Another puff of dust wafted up as he dropped the old tome haphazardly onto the desk, and he waved his left arm over the book in a half-hearted attempt to shoo away the musty odor.
A loud, crackling snap cut through the silence as he opened the tome and a clump of pages broke free from the binding. He frowned; if it wasn’t so urgent, he would tend to the binding, but he needed to find the passage quickly. But the pages were fragile, and if they crumbled in his fingers, they would be useless. I must have the journals transcribed, he thought as he carefully peeled apart page after page, impatiently scanning the contents for the entry he needed. It was something his father had mentioned when he had introduced him to Argyle. It happened during King Cyr’s reign, his father had told him. Tyr had become a large city by then. As with all large cities, there were elements of disorder, and they were becoming intolerable. The lawless elements had grown in power, and King Cyr tried to eliminate them. It was an effort of futility. For each ruffian that was removed, there were two more ready to replace him.
After several years of striving to cleanse his city of disorder, King Cyr finally realized an essential truth: Some disorder is necessary. It was a painful insight. He had lived in accordance with the rigid order established by our forebears and had imposed that same order onto his city. The city rebelled from it. The kingdom was still young then, and he responded by sending the rebellious ones from the city or forcing them into the army. Some he killed. You will too, when you take the throne. Public examples are necessary, and some threats cannot be allowed to fester. But King Cyr’s actions weren’t enough to maintain order. He needed some disorder to justify them, to show the people why order was necessary, why it was beneficial, why it is such a precious, delicate thing. A murder here, an arson there, the theft of a moneylender’s coffers—these were disruptive, these were disorderly, but they showed the people how important order and stability really are. It was a paradox: some disorder was, in fact, orderly. But there was too much disorder in those days, too much chaos, and he sought to bring it under control, to bend it to his will.
They had nearly reached the bottom of the secret stair by then, and his father had stopped to put his hand on the young Prince Tyr’s shoulder—a rare gesture that made both of them uncomfortable. You are about to meet his solution, his father had continued. Do not be frightened of him. He is your friend, perhaps the closest friend any king can have. His name is Argyle, and when the time comes, you will realize how valuable he is to our kingdom. His father had smiled at him as he had finished. We will speak more of this later, but for now, you must prepare yourself. Argyle is not a very tidy creature.
That first meeting with Argyle had been a frightful one. It wasn’t Argyle’s towering size—King Tyr could barely reach past his knees—or even the blasphemous stench—which reminded him of the privy next to the compost heap on a hot summer day—that unnerved him; it was Argyle’s disorderly appearance. Argyle was ugly. He had warts, nodules, and scars in strange places; his right arm was longer than his left; and his ears were lopsided. A tangled, greasy mass of hair flopped about on his shoulders. His outfit was hideous: a bright yellow blouse, forest green pantaloons with orange frills, dark gray belt, and one pink and one black boot. The court jesters dressed with better color coordination and symmetry than he did! It was only later that he found out that his crazy cousin Decker was Argyle’s host, and then the outfit made perfect sense.
That first time, Argyle was not enveloped in a green aura.
He was about to turn another page when he saw the name Argyle and backtracked to the beginning of the entry.
I have found the solution. It has taken nearly sixteen years to locate it, but now it is in my possession. It is a remnant of the Time of Chaos, a large stone of incredible power. It is but one of three that are known to have been made and thought to have been destroyed during The Taming. They were not.
One resides in the Western Kingdoms and holds the essence of Tarnak. He is a cold, calculating fiend, and it was largely through his efforts that that ramshackle group of fickle, petty kinglings were able to resolve their disputes and unite as a single entity. The timely assassinations he orchestrated removed uncooperative kings and inserted more pliable men on their thrones. His subtle manipulation of kings led to skirmishes that weakened their armies and brought about the need for collaboration against superior foes. His network of spies is vast, and his ability to create discord or harmony with little effort is astounding. It is through his efforts that the Western Kingdoms have become a worthy adversary while remaining too impotent to pose a serious threat to us—for now. If he should decide to expand his reach, there is no telling what havoc he could do. He bears watching.
The second stone is far to the south. It contains an elf that has nothing but disdain for humanity. Her callousness and anonymity are legendary, and she employs them with ruthlessness and efficiency. She has maintained discipline within her own kind for centuries, and now controls The Southland’s Matriarchy. Their queen is her puppet, while she lies hidden in the shadows pulling the strings. Her tools are subtlety and viciousness, and her sight is far-reaching. None know her name. When they speak of her, they do so softly and with great reverence and fear. She is one to be obeyed, and it is fortunate that
her lands are far from us.
The third is in my possession. In it is the last of the giants who ruled this land until our forebears conquered them. He is called Argyle, and there is much hatred within him for our kind. His mind is cold, calculating and that has mollified his hostility for the present. He understands that he has but little influence without my grace and accepts that I am in control of his very existence. I have allowed him to express his vile impulses on those I wish to control or eliminate, and he has begun to gather to him a loose affiliation of ruffians and scoundrels. If I ever lose control of Argyle, they may become a significant threat to our stability, if not to our existence. For now, Argyle is an ally. How long that alliance will last, I do not know.
There are rumors of a fourth Gem of Transformation—that is what the wizards have called them—that dominates the others, but it was lost during the sinking of Bryn. I am assured that every effort to locate it has failed, and it is good that they have. When I am with Argyle I share his thoughts, and when I have pursued the question with him, his fear and anger run through me like the tidal wave that swallowed Bryn. This master gem, as he thinks of it, terrifies him. The first time I broached the subject, I had to extricate myself before Argyle’s hatred could consume me. It was still present when I hosted him next, but I was prepared for it. I managed.
It has been painstakingly difficult for Argyle to think about this master gem. He is a free spirit, and the thought of being bound to it again infuriates him. I find that ironic. He is already bound by the Gem of Transformation, but the bondage to the master gem must be different. I am his vessel, and he has considerable control over what happens while I host him. I can override his influence, but it takes a concerted effort to do so. Mostly, I observe and offer counsel. I have tried to push past his resistance, but it is too strong. All that I have discovered is that a wizard of incredible power resides in it, and his name is Symptata. Perhaps my heirs will learn more. For now, only one thing is certain: Argyle does not want that master gem to be found.
The passage ended, and King Tyr thumbed through the following pages looking for more on this Symptata. He had found none when he heard Captain Blanchard burst into his private chambers and called out with alarm, “Sire!”
King Tyr reluctantly left the book where it sat and quickly made his way out of his private study.
The old healer standing beside Captain Blanchard was out of breath, but when he saw the blood-soaked towel wrapped around the king’s right hand, he hurried forward. He almost took hold of the king’s elbow before he realized what he was doing and asked, “With your leave, Sire?”
King Tyr waved him off and said, “Come with me.”
“Sire?” he asked, falling in behind him. “Your hand—”
“My hand can wait,” King Tyr said. “There is a more urgent need.” As he passed him, Captain Blanchard fell in beside them. He turned and said, “He can be trusted?”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied. “Natter’s loyalty to the throne is without equal.”
“Good,” King Tyr said, stepping into the corridor. As they ran down the corridor, he ordered, “Send someone to the Wizards’ School and ask Grand Master Thom if he is free. I—” he paused barely long enough for him to notice “—am in need of his immediate assistance. Then roust the palace guard and tell them to expect an infiltration. It may be direct or indirect, but one is likely to occur soon. Alert the city patrols, as well. They will likely be needed soon. And I need to speak to Rascal. Do you know of him?”
Captain Blanchard thought for a few steps, and then said, “I do not think so, Sire. Perhaps he has another name?”
King Tyr shook his head. “If he does, I do not know it. Ask around; some of your men might have dealt with him before. They’ll remember his stench, and he has a scar on his left cheek, and his left eye doesn’t close all the way. It oozes.” He paused for a breath as they briskly rounded another corner, and then added, “Send someone to bring Iscara here. Tell her I have need of her healing services—she does not have to bathe. Also, have the guard locate a scruffy, dirty blonde with wild blue eyes and a dainty shape. She goes by the name Little Billie. I would like to speak with her.”
He frowned as he turned into the corridor leading to Grayle’s room. He had forgotten to restore the painting, and if anyone had seen it…
He came to a stop and paused at the door. “Wait here, Captain.”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the healer on his heels. “How is he?” he asked as he hurried up to Grayle’s bed.
“Alive,” Grayle said. She glanced at her open mirror and then at King Tyr.
“Good,” King Tyr said as he stepped aside and turned to the healer. “Make him well, if you can. If you need anything,” he looked at Grayle and said, “send her to me.”
The healer’s eyes dilated as he bent over Phillip. His palms hovered about an inch from Phillips’ skin as he passed them slowly over his still form. He shook his head when he finished and said, “I will need privacy and silence. It will take time.” He glanced at King Tyr’s poorly bandaged hand and added, “Sire? My assistant, Jani, is more than capable of tending to your injuries. Would you like me to send for her?”
King Tyr lifted his injured hand. It throbbed terribly, but he did his best to ignore it. He shook his head. “Return to me when you have finished,” he said. He motioned for Grayle to accompany him to the door. Once there, he whispered, “Disguise yourself—and close that mirror. I will send a servant to tend to the healer’s needs, and when she arrives, come to my chambers. We have much to discuss and little time for it.”
“The key—” Grayle began.
King Tyr shook his head. “Later,” he said, stepping outside and closing the door.
Captain Blanchard’s eyes were wide as he tried to stare through the door, but he said nothing as he fell into step beside the king.
“Yes, Captain,” King Tyr said, breathing deeply. “It is Grayle. You will say nothing of it until we have had a chance to speak more fully. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said.
“Then go, and return to my chambers when you have finished. We have preparations to make.”
As Captain Blanchard hurried away, King Tyr thought, We may have a dragon to slay, one that breathes magic instead of fire.
20
Grayle stared after the king and slowly closed her mouth. Her lips pressed together, and her eyes narrowed. He had been naked when he had come back, and there was no place for him to hide the key. Unless… She turned toward the healer, who had his eyes closed and his hands on Phillip’s head. Her uncle wouldn’t have given the key to Phillip, would he? Not if he was dying. That meant he had left the key in Argyle’s room. Why? What had happened that left her uncle so rattled and Phillip half dead?
She frowned. Argyle could have done that to Phillip. Maybe her uncle had angered him? But that didn’t make sense, did it? Her uncle should have been able to stop Argyle from doing it, just like she had contained Argyle when she hosted him. Something else had to have hurt Phillip and frightened him. What could it be? And what could it do to Argyle?
She walked softly over to the open mirror and put her hand on it. It was a long stairwell, but she had heard something, hadn’t she? Muffled echoes? Shouts, perhaps? It could have been a fight, couldn’t it? That would explain her uncle’s injured hand. It was one of the bad things about being Argyle’s host: if he was hurt, it was her body that suffered. But what could have injured Argyle in his private chambers? She frowned. Could Typhus have told someone how to get in them?
She stepped into the corridor and closed the mirror behind her. What better disguise than to be Argyle? At the very least, she could retrieve the key so that no one else could steal it again. She frowned. At least this time she wouldn’t be trapped in Argyle’s form. But Argyle would be trapped in the gem—unless someone else hosted him. She went quickly down a few steps and stopped. Her uncle wanted her to wait for the se
rvant and then join him, but he hadn’t said why. Could it have something to do with Argyle or the key? Maybe she should go back? No. Something was wrong and the answer was down there.
She dismissed the king’s order from her thoughts and hurried to the bottom of the stair. Then she stopped to listen—and heard nothing. She pressed the knobs that would release the catches holding the door in place and pushed it ajar. Still nothing. There wasn’t even any light coming from the other side, and there should have been. Phillip had taken a lantern with him and her uncle hadn’t brought it back. It could have gone out, though, if there had been a fight.
She pushed on the door until there was enough room for her to slide through and peeked around the edge of the mirror. She hissed in a breath as she saw the mess in the room. It wasn’t the right kind of mess. The lower half of the walls were clean. The furniture was all in the wrong places. Argyle’s clothes were folded and stacked neatly on his bed. Her bureau had been crushed, and the pieces were scattered about. Argyle’s top shelf had been pulled from the wall and its contents were strewn about on the floor. A fight, Grayle decided. But with what? With who?
She sidled around the mirror and stepped into the room. There was no sign of Argyle, but she hadn’t expected any. Her uncle had to have put him back away before bringing Phillip to her room. But where was the box? The key?
She needed more light.
She retreated into the tunnel and took the bottom torch from its sconce. She carried it into Argyle’s room—keeping it well ahead of her—and looked around again. The box sat upended between Argyle’s bed and the debris from her bureau. She carefully stepped around the fragmented bits of wood, the torn, moth-eaten clothing, and the odds and ends Argyle kept on his shelf. When she reached Argyle’s bed, she knelt down and propped the torch up against the stone slab. Then she reached out for the box and turned it over.
Angst (Book 4) Page 22