King Tyr looked at her and demanded, “What have you done?”
She fiddled with her fingernail and said, “Nothing that you wouldn’t have done,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps a bit less, actually. You would have had me killed if our roles were reversed. But there is no need for that, is there? The people will never follow you again.” She paused and said, “We can discuss this in private later. For now, I need your help.”
King Tyr strode forward and was almost to the throne before two of his men stepped in front of him and slapped their swords across their chests. “Sire,” one of them said. “We serve the queen, now.”
King Tyr scowled at them, but he knew better than to say anything. He recognized the man who had spoken. It was one of the old veterans who had been assigned to stand guard over Grayle’s chamber while they had waited for Symptata’s response. How had she corrupted him so quickly? Then he realized she hadn’t needed to. He was also one of the men who had come to his study to defend the king and found Argyle waiting for them. He had seen him when he told Captain Blanchard that—
“Where is Captain Blanchard?” he asked in his iciest tone.
The old veteran glared at him and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. The tip quivered as he said, “You killed him,” then he added with a sneer, “Sire.”
“We should have let you bleed to death,” someone muttered from off to the side.
The old veteran nodded. “We would have,” he said, “but we learned the truth too late.”
“Enough!” Grayle chirped. “Let him through. If he tries to harm me again, you have my leave to bleed him as you wish.”
The old veteran smiled and stepped to the side, graciously bowing at Grayle before gesturing for him to pass.
“Come with me, Uncle,” she said, reaching up to clasp his elbow. “We should talk privately.”
Talk! He glared at her, but he didn’t say anything until after they had entered the room where he planned battle strategies. She let go of his arm, navigated around the room, then returned to shut the heavy door.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said as she turned around. “I had to act quickly to save you from them. They would have killed you—and Argyle—if Captain Blanchard hadn’t stopped them, and when he died.” She shook her head. “They barred the healer from tending to you until the Grand Master imposed his will over them. It was all that he—and I—could do to keep you alive. If I hadn’t taken up the throne, the guard would have revolted.”
King Tyr said nothing. He could imagine things happening just as she said, but there was a flaw in her argument: Phillip knew the truth. “Where is Phillip?” he asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “When he heard that you had lost your throne, he left the castle. I have not tried to find him.”
You killed him, he thought with certainty. There is another who knows the truth, and I shall find her. Iscara was there—
Iscara did not return from her encounter with Symptata.
“Uncle,” she said. “I do not understand the placement of our armies. Why are you moving the men from The Borderlands to Neem?” She studied his reaction. “It makes no sense.”
She cannot rule, he thought as he stared defiantly back at her. She has cunning but no strategic sense. Ruling the kingdom must be done openly—to a point—and what she has learned from Argyle is subterfuge and guile. That will not save her from the menace that is approaching, and that will be her downfall. He smiled, slowly, without humor. “Grayle,” he said. “I am moving them there in preparation for an attack on the fishmen. They are at the Lake of Scales.” If Captain Blanchard had told anyone of his plans—as he surely must have done—then she would know this already or would soon have it confirmed. Let her believe it, just as Captain Blanchard had. Only, she would carry out the attack, and that would leave Tyrag vulnerable—vulnerable enough for him to recapture the favor of his people despite Argyle. He would have to work subtly, maneuver the situation to his ends, and then find a tolerable resolution for Grayle’s catastrophic blunder. It would take time….
“There is much I do not know,” Grayle admitted. “I must rely upon you to help me, Uncle. I will be the face on the throne, but you must be the machinery that runs the kingdom.” She paused, smiled, and asked in her sweetest, most childlike tone, “Unless you would prefer to become Argyle again?”
8
Hobart reined in his horse and held up his hand. Ortis came up beside him, and Hobart turned to him. “Stay here,” he said through the sheet covering his head. The smoke was thick, and the damp cloth seemed to be helping, but he didn’t like the idea of confronting the patrol while wearing it. He reached up and pulled it down, and the loose, damp folds settled on his saddle. “It will be better if I talk to them alone,” he said. “Wait for my signal before joining me.”
“They know Angus was with us,” Ortis said.
Hobart nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “But we don’t know who among them can be trusted.”
“A better reason for me to join you,” Ortis said.
“No,” Hobart declared. “I know the Lieutenant in charge. He is one of the few men who have bested me at wrestling.”
Ortis turned toward him and raised his eyebrow. “No small task, that.”
Hobart grinned at him and then rode forward at an easy, nonthreatening gait. He stopped about a quarter mile away from the patrol and waited. The smoke bit into his eyes, and he squinted against it. Then he lifted the cloth over his mouth and nose so he could breathe without it burning through his nostrils and down the back of his throat.
The patrol stopped a dozen paces ahead of him, and Lieutenant Jarhad rode forward. He had a piece of a saddle blanket covering his face, and he reached up to loosen one side of it. “Well met, Hobart,” he said as he reined in his horse.
“That would be Commander Hobart, Lieutenant,” Hobart said. If the king was going to give him the rank, he may as well enjoy it while it lasted. “But no matter; I won’t be one much longer. I am ending my Banner when we finish this mission.”
“What mission is that, Commander?” he asked. “We have already confirmed there are no more fishmen over there,” he gestured at the plateau. “If we overlooked any, they have been fried by now.”
“That was your mission, Jarhad,” Hobart said. “Ours is of a more delicate nature.”
“Yes,” Lieutenant Jarhad said in a low tone. “Dagremon spoke of it.”
Dagremon? How did she know what it was? “What did she say?” he asked.
Lieutenant Jarhad reached up and scratched below his ear, where the piece of saddle blanket had been tied, and said, “Too little for my taste.” Then he shrugged. “But if she had said more, I likely wouldn’t have understood her. Magic makes no sense to me.”
Hobart nodded in agreement. “I have become accustomed to the wizards in my Banner, but there is much they do that is beyond me.”
Lieutenant Jarhad glanced back at the patrol and then lowered his voice and leaned forward. “She said your friend Giorge had been cursed, and that you had brought her here to cure him of it.” He shook his head. “A dreadful cure, if you ask me. He’ll be mending for weeks, and he may not be able to walk again. At least he can feel his feet.”
Giorge is here, Hobart thought, trying not to let it show. He’s injured. Better than still being dead. “Yes,” Hobart said. “That was a part of our mission. There was more.” If it was a part of his mission, he hadn’t been aware of it. But he wasn’t going to let Jarhad know that—or what their real mission was—unless he pressed the issue.
“Angus,” Lieutenant Jarhad said with a nod. “Embril has not said much since he left us last night.”
Hobart nodded. If he had betrayed Angus like she had—if she had—he wouldn’t be speaking about it either. “I will speak to her and Dagremon later.” He paused and added, “And Giorge when he is up to it.”
Lieutenant Jarhad nodded and turned his horse so that he faced the plateau. “Angus seeks to
end the fire, doesn’t he?” he asked. “I do not envy him this task.”
“Nor I,” Hobart said in his most somber tone. So, he knows enough about The Tiger’s Eye to realize what is going on. “He has it, then?” he asked.
Lieutenant Jarhad nodded. “I should not have trusted Giorge when he returned without Embril.” He shook his head. “Dagremon says the curse made him take it, but I am not convinced. I know his reputation.”
Hobart frowned. Giorge took The Tiger’s Eye? “Lieutenant,” he slowly began, “I have traveled many years with Giorge, and he is many things. I would not put it past him to, shall we say, collect a few mislaid valuables here and there, but I have never known him to put others at risk when he has done so. If he knew that that—” he pointed at the fire that was still raging on the plateau “—was going to happen if he took it, then he would not have done so.” Was it true?
Lieutenant Jarhad was silent for a few seconds, then shrugged. “So you say,” he said as he turned back to face Hobart. “Let’s continue this discussion on our way back at the tunnel. This smoke is giving me a foul taste on my tongue and burns my throat.”
Hobart nodded. “I will ride with you,” he said. “There is much you need to tell me.”
Lieutenant Jarhad raised his arm and his patrol moved toward them. While they waited, Hobart said, “Let’s begin with Giorge. Where did you meet him?” And was he dead at the time?
Lieutenant Jarhad pointed at the far end of the ledge and said, “There is a cave there, the one you told us about. It was empty, but he somehow crawled out of it with his mother. I don’t know where he could have been hiding….”
9
“There have been a lot of riders through here, Master Taro,” Abner said. “You can see the signs of their passing even in this gloom.”
Taro leaned heavily against his walking stick and carefully examined the shadows of the tunnel. He thought they looked familiar, but he would have to wait until daybreak to be sure. But his first impression was that it was the tunnel from his vision, and that was a good enough reason to stop for a rest. “We’ll stay here,” he told Abner. “When the riders return, my vision will be complete.”
Abner looked at him and shook his head. “It took three days for Hobart to come last time, Master Taro,” he said. “How long will it be before this vision is fulfilled?”
“However long it takes,” Taro replied, but he was wondering the same thing. All he knew for sure was that the vision happened during the day because he could see the sun’s rays lighting up the end of the tunnel. Whether that would be tomorrow, the day after, or next year, he didn’t know for sure.
“If it takes longer than a few days,” Abner said, “we will need to return to Hellsbreath to replenish our supplies.”
“We will not have to wait long, Abner,” Master Taro said. “Of this, I am certain.” It was strange that it didn’t feel like a lie.
Abner looked speculatively at him and asked, “Another vision, Master Taro?”
“Ha!” Taro replied. “Common sense, Abner. Only a fool would have risked staying on that plateau with all that fire about, and there’s only one place for them to go to get away from it. They had to cross over that ledge. We haven’t seen them up there, so they must have done it already. It will only take a day or two for them ride from there to here.”
Abner looked quizzically at him and asked, “Is Angus a fool, Master Taro? You said he is surrounded by fire in your vision, didn’t you? That has to be the plateau, doesn’t it?”
Taro scowled at Abner in the near-darkness, and then shrugged. “He is no fool, Abner,” he said. “He is desperate. Desperate men do what is necessary, and often what is necessary may seem foolish. Besides,” he settled down on the floor of the tunnel and stretched his leg out to ease the constant pain in his knee. “He isn’t going to die there.”
“He isn’t?” Abner asked.
Taro leaned back against the tunnel’s wall and closed his eyes. “I am tired, Abner,” he said. “I must be well rested when the vision is fulfilled.”
“Yes, Master Taro,” Abner said in a dissatisfied tone.
“Fear not, Abner,” he mumbled as sleep threatened to settle on him. “Angus will not die today.”
“Today?” Abner repeated. “Is your vision of him happening today?”
Taro yawned and mumbled, “Let me sleep, Abner.”
10
Voltari had siphoned off as much energy as he could from his position above the bubbling lake of lava that stood between him and the nexus point, but it was not enough to fully power his machine. He needed more, and he could only get the additional energy by moving closer to the nexus point before it collapsed. He sighed and took out the scroll Angus had penned for his Lava Flow spell. It wasn’t a particularly complicated spell, but its bluntness was exactly what he needed. He unrolled the scroll and skimmed through the cumbersome descriptions of the sequence of knots, absorbing each one as his eyes passed over it. There had to be a simpler way to cast the spell, but he didn’t have the time to think through the adaptations that would do it. When he finished priming it, he rolled the scroll up and returned it to the sleeve of his robe. Then, without hesitating, Voltari drew the remnants of the nexus’s magic toward him. It was still potent, like the strands of magic after they had been tamed, and he quickly, efficiently, tied the knots of the spell. When he finished, he knelt down at the edge of his machine and cast the spell. Tightly bound whip-like tendrils of air threaded their way downward, and as they approached the lava, he felt them merging with the molten stone. He manipulated each thread until they were rotating in a tight spiral that drilled into the lava and left behind a whirlpool-like hole in the heart of the lake. He kept manipulating the spell until the hole was wide enough for him to fly through it with his machine, and then he descended into it.
A part of his mind kept tight control over Lava Flow to prevent the lava from collapsing in upon him, but mostly he focused on directing his machine closer to the hub of the energy that was still pouring out of the dying nexus. It was far below the surface of the lava, and it took him quite some time to reach it. The heat was stifling, deadly, but Angus’s Shield of Flame spell was working perfectly, and he felt none of it. The orangeish-red glow of the lava was more than enough for navigating down the vertical tunnel.
As Voltari approached the nexus, his machine gathered up the energy radiating out from it, and by the time he was hovering directly above it, the machine had almost captured enough energy for him to activate the spell it contained. But he waited to do so. This would be his only chance to leave this world and return to his own, and he was not going to risk it by prematurely activating the spell. He was so focused on his machine that he didn’t even notice Angus approaching until he was beside him.
“I am pleased that you survived,” Voltari said without emotion. “I had hoped that you would.”
“Why have you done this?” Angus demanded. His voice was harsh, as if he had been screaming for hours, and he looked as though he had been carrying an ogre on his back all day. He was tall and skinny again, and his black beard and hair had been singed, making him look almost like a chimney sweep instead of a wizard. But there was no doubting the ability in those calm, heavily dilated eyes. There also was no hint of Typhus left in him. How had Angus managed that? Voltari was almost curious enough about it to ask him, but there was no time for digressions; he needed to complete his task and go.
Voltari turned back to his machine. It had more than enough magic in it to activate the spell, and he could leave at any time. He didn’t need to explain himself to Angus… Without turning, he said, “You should go, Angus. The Lava Flow spell will not hold for long.”
He activated his machine and felt an incredible surge of energy envelop him in a cocoon that pulsed and spun with ever-increasing speed. He smiled. That was how it had been when he had arrived in this time for a brief visit and been trapped. The Taming had diluted the magic so much that he hadn’t had the power for hi
s return trip. Until now. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the disorientation that would come when the cocoon imploded upon him and twisted his essence into something that it should never be. At least when it was over, he would be home.
11
It took three days to cross the plateau, and Angus was surprised he wasn’t dead. The smoke had thickened steadily as he flew through it, and each breath had been like breathing in scalding water. His robe had done its best to stabilize his temperature, but it hadn’t been enough. The first few hours had been brutal, and then something peculiar happened: he started to breathe normally, as if there was no smoke at all. It had puzzled him for only a short time before he realized what was happening: The Tiger’s Eye was breathing for him. It had reached out to him with its magic and was sustaining him as he flew through the hellish conflagration. But what else was it doing to him? Master Renard had said it had absorbed the Angst priests who had carried it during their migration. Was it doing the same thing to him?
Three or four days, he reminded himself as he flew up the side of the mountain. I don’t have much time. The valley where the Angst temple had stood was melted into a gigantic pool of lava, and what he saw in its center infuriated him: Voltari dropping into a hole in the lava.
He’s using my Lava Flow spell, he thought, and Shield of Flame.
Angus flew as quickly as he could, but he didn’t reach the vertical shaft in the lava until after Voltari had disappeared down into it. I should have called it Lava Tube, Angus thought as he looked down the deep, narrow shaft. It was almost like looking down an endless well, but no well he knew had walls that glowed reddish-orange and went down for hundreds of feet. What are you up to, Voltari? He wondered as he contemplated entering the opening. Is this a trap? Angus asked himself. It would be so like you, he mentally shouted after Voltari. Still, his hesitation was short lived: he had to stop Voltari. To do that, he had to go down the shaft of slowly spiraling lava, even though it looked like it could close in upon him at any time.
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