Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

She leaned back and reached for the picks she had hidden in the lining of her belt. When the curse had opened the box, it had used two of them. One was straight, and the other was a double-curved one that was tricky to maneuver. She bent to the task, thrusting and parrying as if she were in mortal combat with a mouse. That’s what she had thought it was like when the curse had opened the box she had found, and that’s how she went about it this time.

  It didn’t work the first time—or the second. She didn’t give up, though, and nearly an hour later, the lock finally fell prey to a twisted parry meant to disarm her opponent. She carefully pressed the lever to the side, and the box opened—but it wasn’t empty, like she had expected. It held the largest ruby she had ever seen. If she wasn’t seeing it now, she wouldn’t have believed a ruby could grow to that size. She reached for it—and quickly pulled her fingers back. It radiated an intense heat—but her fingertips hadn’t been burned. She frowned and moved the tip of her index finger toward it. The heat was strong but wasn’t causing her skin to blister like it should have done. Even when her fingertip nestled up against it, there was no pain, only a strong sensation of power—and something else. She didn’t know what it was, but there was something there. She was certain of it. The nape of her neck felt like it did when she knew someone was approaching the shadow where she had concealed herself. She slowly, carefully turned around—but no one was there. The feeling was there, but her heightened senses told her there wasn’t anyone close to the tent. What was causing it?

  She turned back to The Tiger’s Eye—that had to be what it was—and wondered what she should do. She couldn’t leave the Skull out of the box because the curse was controlling Giorge and the only way she could think of to break its control was to put the Skull away. But she couldn’t let Lieutenant Jarhad find out Giorge had taken The Tiger’s Eye, either, and he was bound to look in the pack eventually. It was the patrol’s pack, after all, and the only reason they hadn’t already reclaimed it was because they had been too busy riding for anyone to realize it. She couldn’t conceal it on herself anymore than she could the Skull; they were too bulky for that to work for long. So where could she put them?

  She couldn’t put them in any of the men’s packs because they frequently opened them to get things out. She could put them in the supply packs, but that was risky; someone might notice the bulges and wonder what they were, and she didn’t know which ones would be used first. That was the problem with all the hiding places, wasn’t it? The patrol was highly mobile, and the gear they had served that purpose. Everything was either unpacked frequently or inspected each night and morning. She hadn’t seen even one pack left unopened while she had been with them—except for Embril’s chest.

  She frowned. No one dared go near Embril’s chest when it was on the horses, and when they stopped for the night, it was one of the first things they put in Lieutenant Jarhad’s tent. It was there, now….

  Magdel removed The Tiger’s Eye from the box and set it next to Giorge. Then she put The Viper’s Skull in the box—it fit neatly in its cushioned housing—and closed the lid. She half-expected Giorge to sit up abruptly, turn to her, and ask her what she was doing, but nothing happened. He lay just as still as he had been lying since Kaleb put him on the cot. Give it time, she thought as she used her picks to lock the box again. She glanced at Giorge, but there still was no change. Perhaps in the morning? she hoped.

  She reached for her belt and popped loose one of the decorative studs. She pulled on it, and a long, thin, black stream of cloth emerged from the pouch it had concealed. When it was free, she shook it. It was a small bag made from very durable silk, and she slid The Tiger’s Eye into it. It was a snug fit, but when she hooked the drawstrings of the bag to the loop under her arm and draped her cloak around it, it was almost impossible to see it in the dark. Then she lifted the cursed box and held it close to her belly. She drew the cloak tight around her, more to avoid questions than to hide the box, and stepped out of the tent. Lieutenant Jarhad’s tent was dark when she reached it, and she thought about sneaking in and putting them in Embril’s chest while he slept. It would be difficult….

  “Lieutenant Jarhad?” she called through the tent flap, “May I speak to you?”

  There was a brief rustling, and then a light came to life inside the tent. A moment later, Lieutenant Jarhad gruffly said, “Enter.”

  She lifted the flap and stepped inside. Her eyes reflexively darted around the room and took note of potential exits, hiding places, valuables—there were precious few of them— Embril’s chest—which was sitting at the foot of his cot—and finally Lieutenant Jarhad’s appearance. His eyes were still heavy with sleep as he sluggishly asked, “What is it, Magdel? Has Giorge worsened?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Lieutenant Jarhad yawned and slouched forward.

  She released her grip on the cloak and said, “I would like to store this here,” she said, nodding toward Embril’s chest. “It will be safer in Embril’s chest.” She paused and added, “That is why we were coming to see her when you returned.” She turned her hopeful, pleading eyes toward him. “There is strange magic in it. We wanted to ask her about it, but she left so suddenly….”

  Lieutenant Jarhad looked at her for a moment, and then shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, laying back on his cot and closing his eyes. “Blow out the candle when you leave.”

  “Thank you,” Magdel said, hurrying up to Embril’s chest. She frowned. It was unlocked. She had not expected that; wizards were notorious about protecting their secrets. She cautiously opened it, half-expecting some spell or trap to assail her, but they didn’t. She lifted the lid, looked inside, and frowned. There was precious little room in the chest, not nearly enough for the box and The Tiger’s Eye. But the books were not packed very well, and rearranging them might free up enough space for them. She set Symptata’s box down and quickly removed all of the books—and noticed the chest had a false bottom. A quick search yielded the mechanism to open it, and she smiled. It was mostly empty, and two of the heavier tomes could be squeezed into it. She reached for them and replaced the lid of the false bottom. Then she put Symptata’s box and The Tiger’s Eye inside it and turned to the books. She studied them for several seconds, rearranging them in her mind until she found a spatially sound pattern, one that would work around the box and The Tiger’s Eye and still hold all of the books. When she finished squeezing them in, she closed the lid and hesitated. The way the patrol talked about Embril led her to believe that no one else would dare to open the box, but could she take that risk?

  She reached for the ponderous padlock and smiled. It would be child’s play for her to pick it—her uncle had made sure of that—so she snapped it shut. Now, even if Lieutenant Jarhad was tempted to look at what she had put in Embril’s box, he couldn’t—unless he could pick the lock or had the key. Or broke it open. She sighed and moved over to blow out the candle. Lieutenant Jarhad was already snoring. She glanced at the path to the tent flap and then blew out the candle and strode swiftly, unerringly out of the tent. When she got back to her own tent, Giorge had rolled over on his side and curled up. Her breath caught in her throat, and she smiled. He sleeps like Little Giorgie, she thought, moving up to gently cover him with the blanket.

  She had one last thing to do before going to sleep. She put the things back into the pack and carried it outside to the pile of gear waiting to be loaded on the horses in the morning. She left it there. When Giorge woke up—and he would wake up—it would already be strapped to the horse, and he wouldn’t find out what she had done until evening—if then.

  She went back to their tent and lay down next to her son. But she didn’t see the man he had become; she saw the little boy curled up in a ball that she had been forced to abandon. Then she blinked and all that was there was the strange man she had only just begun to recognize. She sighed and blew out the candle.

  7

  Iscara knew there was so
mething wrong the moment she saw Argyle’s luminescence. A soft emerald green glow enveloped him like a second skin. She didn’t need to look at the magic to know it wasn’t natural, not after what she had heard the king say about Argyle. It wasn’t the strange aura that bothered her the most; it was the manner in which Argyle moved. It wasn’t fluid, like it usually was, but jerky, as if his muscles were plagued with spasms. She had seen patients move like that, and there were remedies for it, but this was different. Those patients couldn’t control their movements, but Argyle seemed to be fighting against something that didn’t want him to move.

  “Iscara!” Argyle rasped. “Flee!”

  She instantly, desperately wanted to obey him, but she couldn’t. The king had ordered her to find out what she could about Argyle, and that was what she intended to do—and she had already found a way to do it. “You’re injured!” she cried as she saw the blood caked on Argyle’s right hand. She frowned and brought the magic into focus as she stepped forward. Then she stopped abruptly.

  Argyle’s aura was the product of magic, which she had expected, but the golden glow that reached out from Argyle’s heart had changed to a dense green one that seemed to be coming from far away. King Tyr said Graylo had hosted Argyle. Was that the golden core I saw inside him? No, it wasn’t Graylo, was it. Greyly? No, it was Grayle. I have to remember that. But Grayle isn’t hosting Argyle, is she? It is the other one. What did King Tyr call him? Sampatu?

  “Flee!” Argyle gasped. “No,” he continued in a sweet voice. “Stay.”

  Iscara took a deep breath and asked, “Are you Simpitat?”

  Argyle stiffened and his voice was harsh as he said, “I am Symptata. You will do well to remember that, Iscara.”

  Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. “Yes, Symptata,” she replied. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata. Symptata.

  “You are a healer,” Symptata said. It had to be Symptata, since Argyle already knew she was a healer—among other things.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Argyle struggled against lifting his hand—and failed. He looked at the wounds and said, “It is fortunate that you have come.” Then he looked down at her and purred, “I wonder what has brought you here?”

  Iscara gulped. They were Argyle’s eyes but not his eyes. He—Symptata—looked at her as if he would peel her skin from her flesh if she didn’t answer well. She had looked at others like that, and the way they had looked back at her had always sent shivers of delight through her. Were her eyes doing that for him? Her playthings had always acted from desperation, knowing there wasn’t any hope and praying there was. But she wouldn’t look at Argyle—Symptata—that way. She smiled and looked boldly up at him. “I come with a warning, Argyle—I mean Symptata,” she said. “You are in danger.”

  “Truly?” Argyle/Symptata purred again. “But I only just arrived here.”

  “The king is placing men at each of your entrances,” she said. “He is preparing an assault. Grayle is helping him do it.”

  Argyle/Symptata waved his hand and said, “It will fail.” Then he looked at his hand again and said, “Come with me.” He turned away and walked over to the gigantic throne in the center of the room. There was a gaping hole beside it that hadn’t been there the last time she had served Argyle. And the stench—

  She turned toward it and saw Pug’s rotting corpse. Most people found decay to be a rather repulsive odor, but she had been around death too much to be overwhelmed by it. Still, it reminded her of Angus’s rotting foot, and that hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

  Argyle/Symptata sat down on his throne and put his right arm on the armrest wrought from his victim’s skulls. He turned the injured palm up.

  Iscara walked up to the point where Argyle’s guests were expected to stand and stopped. She was still several feet from him, but he beckoned her forward. When she was closer, he leaned forward and reached down with his left hand. He held it out behind her and said, “Sit.” Then growled, “You should have run.”

  Iscara gulped and looked behind her. His hand was more than large enough to hold her—his pinky finger was nearly as large as her arm—and she carefully, reluctantly sat down. Once she was in place, Argyle lifted her up to his lap and said, “Heal my hand, then.”

  Iscara nodded and focused her attention on Argyle—Symptata’s hand. He let her be until she was finished, and then asked, “Now, what is this about an assault?”

  Iscara shrugged. “I only know what I overheard,” she said. “He was talking to one of his captains, and he was planning to send Grayle with him to station men at each of the entrances to your lair. Once they are in place, they plan to attack. The king also told Grayle to tell him what your—what Argyle’s—weaknesses were, and if he has any, she would know them, since she has been hosting him for years.”

  “Ah,” Argyle/Symptata said, sending a fresh wave of foul-smelling breath over her that made her eyes water. “The king is rattled, then.”

  Iscara frowned and shook her head. “He didn’t seem rattled to me,” she said. “He seemed confident that he could deal with Argyle—with you—without much trouble. He is the king, after all.”

  Argyle/Symptata chuckled and Iscara had to sit down on his thigh to avoid falling. “A mere king does not trouble me,” he said. “He will learn that soon enough.” He made a fist with his freshly healed hand and pounded it lightly on the arm of his throne. “Tell me of this place,” he said. “Argyle is … reluctant to share with me.”

  Iscara nodded. “I will tell you what I can,” she said. “It will not be much. I have only been here a few times to heal those whom Argyle wished me to heal,” she continued. If Argyle wasn’t telling Symptata about his lair, maybe he would keep quiet about her other visits. “Many of Argyle’s minions have recently died, and…”

  8

  “What are we looking for?” Hobart demanded of Angus as he handed him Gretchen’s reins.

  Angus looked at the guardsman standing nearby and shook his head. “Not here,” he said. Then he stepped onto the bench and lifted himself into the saddle.

  Not here? Hobart wondered as he looked around them. The only people within hearing distance—other than the guardsman who had brought the supplies—was Dagremon, who seemed to be determined to go with them, and the other wizard. Angus had introduced him as Master Renard and said, “He will ride with us.” He had never met Master Renard before, but he was certain the plump wizard knew more about what they were about to do than he did.

  “We need to go,” Angus said as he kneed Gretchen into a quick walk away from the lift are. He didn’t bother to look back to see who was following him before he broke into a gallop and left them behind.

  “The fool’s going to ruin that horse,” Hobart said as he mounted Leslie and chased after him. They were almost to Jagra’s bridge before he was able to move up beside him and reach for the reins to slow the horse.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Angus demanded. “There’s no time!”

  “No,” Hobart said, refusing to hand Angus back the reins despite the hostile glare in the wizard’s blue eyes. They still bothered Hobart; they should have been a pale, silver-blue. Eyes just didn’t change that way. “We are going no further until you tell me what we are doing.”

  Angus stared at him for a long moment and then looked back at Hellsbreath.

  Hobart turned and saw that Ortis, Dagremon, and Master Renard were riding at an easy walk—no doubt Ortis wanted to give him time to talk to Angus. Then he turned back to Angus and said, “There’s no one else here, Angus, and as the leader of this Banner, I need to know what it is we’re going after.”

  Angus turned back toward him, and some of the anger was gone from him. Something else was there, instead, and it made Hobart very uncomfortable. It was almost like looking into the eyes of a fishman when it knew it was about to die, a kind of haunted resignation mixed with fury. “We’re going to th
e Angst temple,” Angus said.

  Hobart frowned. Had someone taken it? That didn’t make any sense, did it? Of course, wizards didn’t make sense most of the time, and if there was magic involved, the temple could have been taken. But why would King Tyr want it back? No, this was something different. “We’re going after the patrol?”

  Angus tilted his head and after a moment’s thought, he half-smiled. That, Hobart remembered; it was one of the things about Angus that had annoyed him. “In a sense, yes,” Angus said. “The patrol should have reached the temple by now, and if they have, someone took something from it that we have to find and take back to it.”

  Hobart frowned. They hadn’t found anything that special when they had been there, had they? Surely taking those gems and armlets weren’t worthy of the king’s attention, but what about the books? Angus had sold them for a hefty profit, hadn’t he? Was there more in them than he had realized? “What was it?”

  Angus glanced back at the others again, but Hobart didn’t need to look; they had another five minutes before the others would arrive, and he would hear their horses long before they were within hearing range. “All right, Hobart,” Angus said, turning back to him. “Master Renard says I shouldn’t tell anyone about this, including you and Ortis, but I think you should know. Do you remember what I said about the nexus we found there?”

  Hobart tried to remember and said the only thing that came to him, “It has something to do with magic,” he said. “You were flustered by it.”

  Angus nodded. “It terrified me,” he admitted. “A nexus is a very powerful, very dangerous thing. It is a conduit of sorts, a link between our world and the place where magic comes from. Think of it like the spigot of a cask of ale. If the spigot wasn’t there, the ale would shoot out from it, right?”

  Hobart nodded. He had seen that before, when an impatient, drunken soldier used his sword to cut the spigot off. It made a dreadful mess on the floor. But what does ale have to do with magic?