The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)

by Robert P. Hansen

  Giorge nodded. “Hobart told me. I should thank you for getting me out of there, but,” he shrugged and pointed at his eyes. “I might have found a way out myself, if you’d given me more time.”

  “We didn’t think we could wait,” Hobart said. “Besides, if we get those other gems, it will surely be enough to hire a healer when we get back to Hellsbreath.”

  Giorge shrugged. “At least I didn’t fall and die,” he said, grinning. “All my plans seemed to end that way.”

  “Look,” Angus said. “I’m going to see if I can find the pouch. Are you coming or not?” He turned and walked down the corridor, casting the Lamplight spell as he went and placing it over his left shoulder. When he reached the end of the corridor and turned, he sought out the faint strand of blue and tied the knots for the flying spell. By the time he reached the room, he had the third spell—Puffer—ready in his mind. He pushed all of the other strands away from him, and kept them at the periphery of his visual field.

  He leapt through the hole he had made with the wand and fell, stopping himself in a hover a few feet above the stakes. He maneuvered to the column with the bowl on it, and looked at the floor below him. He frowned. It was covered with a thick layer of rock dust, and he couldn’t see the pouch. He sighed, cast Puffer, and began blowing the dust outward in a spiral away from the column. When he found the pouch, he intensified the breeze and tried to lift it from the floor. It fluttered, and the pouch became upright with the drawstring sticking up straight, but that was all he could manage. He frowned; it was as he had feared: the gems held the pouch down. He sighed and carefully maneuvered among three stakes, but he didn’t fit well and came up about a foot short.

  He rose sharply and stopped when he was next to the bowl. He hovered there and pulled off his boot. He set it in the bowl and carefully lowered himself with delicate little vibrations on the thread of the flying spell. He continued to nudge the spell until his leg was positioned above the opening among the stakes, and then lowered himself at a very slow rate, sweat beading on his brow from the effort to control his descent. When he felt the ties of the pouch with his big toe, he wiggled it around until the drawstring looped around it, then lifted himself gently into the air. When he was free of the stakes, he rose more rapidly, rising above the bowl and dropping the pouch into it.

  There was a click.

  The floor began to slide back down the wall.

  The others watched as it descended into its natural place.

  Hobart frowned from the doorway, with Ortis looking over his shoulder. “Now what do we do?” he asked, staring at the gaping hole in front of him where the wand had destroyed the floor.

  “What happened?” Giorge asked from behind them.

  “The floor slid back into place,” Ortis said.

  “Why did it do that?” Giorge asked, pushing past Ortis. “What did you do?” he asked Angus.

  Angus reached for his boot and slid it onto his feet. Then he removed the pouch from the bowl and flew up to them. “The bowl must be weight-sensitive,” he said. “When I put these back in the bowl, there was a click, and the floor went back into place.”

  “What can we put in it?” Giorge asked.

  “We haven’t found anything down here that’s heavy enough,” Hobart said. “It’s all empty corridors and rooms.”

  “The feedbags,” Ortis said. “We can put one of them on it.”

  “It needs to be about the same weight,” Giorge muttered. “The feedbag will be too heavy.”

  “But the grain won’t,” Hobart said, turning. “And we can fill it again when we go.” He walked past them, carrying the torch.

  “I’ll look around while we wait,” Angus said, executing a slow pirouette and stopping when he faced the far wall. The strands of flame were potent, encroaching upon his awareness even though he fought against them and pushed them even further away. He focused more acutely on the strands of sky magic that he needed to keep floating. Then he dipped down into the hole and flew up to the column. The rope was still dangling, and he picked it up. Before heading back up through the hole with it, he looked around at the pit, at the walls, at the column. There were three or four skeletons that he thought about investigating, but the stakes were in the way, and he didn’t have the time.

  When he floated back up through the hole and handed the rope to Giorge, he said, “We can use this to reach the floor if we need to.”

  Giorge accepted it, shrugged, and said, “It’s only about eight feet,” he said. “We should be able to jump across it.”

  Angus ignored him and fluttered around the room, looking for doors, seams, panels—anything that might lead to an opening. He was at the far wall when Hobart returned with the feedbag. He went to get it and then began pouring the grain into the bowl. When he thought he had enough, he stopped, and Giorge said, “More.”

  Angus looked at him and shook his head. “This should be enough for two pouches of gems,” he said.

  Giorge shrugged and said, “More.”

  “Why?” Angus asked.

  Giorge sighed and reached into his tunic. He brought out another, smaller pouch.

  Angus shook his head and put more grain into the bowl.

  “All right Giorge,” Hobart said. “You’re paying for a Truthseer when we get back.”

  “Now Hobart,” Giorge said. “You know me. Don’t I always share what I find?”

  Hobart frowned at him.

  “Eventually?” Giorge added.

  “As far as we know,” Hobart said. “You could have held out on us lots of times.”

  Giorge shook his head. “Never,” he said. “It’s always for the sake of the Banner.”

  “Really?” Hobart said, his voice dry.

  Giorge nodded enthusiastically, held out the little pouch, and shook it. “You don’t think protection from theft is free, do you? These gems will keep the thieves of Hellsbreath away from us all winter and then some.”

  “Unless they want more of them,” Hobart grumbled.

  Giorge shook his head. “Never,” he said. “Dirk wouldn’t let them.”

  “Dirk?” Ortis repeated. “Isn’t he the one who sent the Truthseer after you and Angus?”

  Giorge nodded. “Nobody in Hellsbreath crosses him more than once, and few do it the first time. These stones will guarantee his protection.”

  Angus settled down onto the floor with his full weight. It clicked, but nothing more happened. “It seems to be all right,” he said. “But keep hold of the rope, just in case.” He also kept the spell active as he walked to the back wall, the one behind which the nexus had to lie. Where would they hide a door? A loose panel? Something to grant him access to it? Or was there another room that led to it?

  He was so intent in looking for it that he let the strand slip free of his grip and let the magic dip from his awareness. But there was nothing. He finally turned away from it and shook his head. “I can’t find anything,” he said. As he said it, he glanced at the bowl and frowned. There was another red shadow, a small one on the back of the column on which the bowl rested. As he hurried up to it, he noticed that a different part was missing on this one. Like he had done with the first one, he pressed the missing section and waited.

  There was a click.

  The floor began to move downward at a slow, steady rate.

  “Angus!” Giorge shouted as the rope slipped from his hands.

  But Angus wasn’t worried; he was confident it wasn’t a trap. He smiled and turned around.

  The floor continued to drop for about six feet, and on the far wall, there was a slot just wide enough for an average man to squeeze through. He walked up to it, guided the Lamplight inside, and it flared brilliantly, writhed uncontrollably, and escaped his control.

  “Duck!” he yelled as he twisted away from the opening and covered his eyes. A moment later, the Lamplight exploded in a violent burst of light.

  “Are you all right?” he yelled to the others, blinded by the near-darkness he found himself i
n.

  “No,” Giorge said. “I still can’t see well.”

  “I’m weak,” Ortis said, “but recovering.”

  “We ducked,” Hobart said. “What was that?”

  Angus frowned. “Light another torch and throw it over here,” he said. “The Lamplight burned out.”

  By the time Hobart had another torch lit, Angus was growing accustomed to the darkness. Hobart tossed the torch into the corner away from Angus, and he went quickly over to retrieve it. Then he went back to the opening and held the torch inside.

  It flared, burning more brightly than normal, its flickering flames dancing on the smooth, reflective surface of a small circular, domed room. Hovering in the center of it was a huge ruby, at least as large as Hobart’s fist. It floated there, slowly rotating, its facets flickering as the torchlight struck them.

  Angus stepped through the opening and slowly, gently, brought the magic around him into focus. Beneath the ruby, a huge strand of deep crimson raged, an inferno held barely in check. It struck the bottom of the ruby and fractured, breaking into powerful, fluctuating strands that shot outward from the ruby’s facets. They writhed furiously as if they were trying to come back together, and then shot upward and outward, away from the ruby, away from each other. It was entrancing, enthralling. It called to him.

  Join us. A chorus of voices sang out. Be one with the magic.

  It was a delightful, radiant offer. Join us.

  He stepped forward—

  Be one with the magic.

  There was nothing under his foot!

  He toppled forward, lost his balance.

  He dropped the torch.

  For a long moment, he hung there, suspended above a vast chasm.

  Join us! Join us!

  A hand grabbed his robe from behind and pulled him back.

  He watched the torch tumbling further and further into nothingness—a nothingness that would have consumed him if—

  He shuddered and turned around. His breathing was labored, his heart pounded in his chest.

  “What are you doing?” Ortis asked, once Angus had regained his footing. “What’s in there?”

  Angus shook his head. “Nothing,” Angus said, pushing his way out of the entrance. “It’s a trap!”

  “Let me see,” Ortis said, trying to step past him.

  Angus barred him with his arm. “It’s too dangerous,” Angus gasped. “You’ll fall.”

  “We’ll get a rope—”

  Angus shook his head. “It’s a hole that goes down for hundreds of feet. Thousands. The torch I dropped is still falling.”

  Ortis stepped forward and felt his way around in the darkness until he reached the edge of the pit. He looked around, looked down, and said, “It’s too dark in here. I can’t see anything.”

  “Exactly,” Angus said. “That’s all there is. Nothing.”

  “But the Lamplight—”

  Angus struggled to get his breathing under control, to calm his heart. “There is a nexus—a confluence of magical energy—down there. A major one,” he said.

  Join us—a soft whisper, almost distant now, almost more compelling than the jubilant cry.

  “It’s the source of the fire magic in this area,” Angus rushed on, as much to hear himself as to tell Ortis. “The flame magic surges up from that abyss and fragments into dozens of tendrils, each one intensely powerful. The tendrils shoot outward in all directions, weakening as they get further away from here.”

  His hands were shaking, and he turned suddenly and looked at Ortis, his eyes wide, the magic dancing in them. “Remember the Lamplight? The power of the strand that is used to create it affects how long it will last. You saw what happened when it came in contact with the nexus; the surge of power burned through the spell in moments.”

  What he had said so far was true, as far as it went, but he had left out The Tiger’s Eye’s role in the fracturing of the nexus stream.

  “We need to get out of here,” he gasped. Then his voice softened as he corrected himself, “I need to. The closer I am to the nexus, the stronger its influence is on me.”

  Join us! a resurgence of vigor, a gentle, soothing appeal.

  “You saw what happened to the fishmen,” Angus continued, his voice rushed, harsh, rasping. He was beginning to sweat. His left hand was shaking. “You said that flare could be seen for a hundred miles. That was only a fraction of the power that’s down here.” Tears were forming at the edge of his eyes. His ears were ringing again. His voice rose almost to a shout. “One strand,” he lied, holding up his finger for emphasis. “One. If I cast any flame-based spell down here, there is no telling how destructive it will be.”

  Ortis continued to stand there, looking back over his shoulder. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t,” Angus said, giggling frantically as he staggered away from the opening. “Unless you can see the strands of magic,” he accused.

  Join us! Join us!

  His heart was pounding.

  He struggled for breath.

  He longed to lunge past Ortis, to dive down into that unfathomable depth of magic and wonder, to lose himself there….

  He turned back, took a step.

  Slap. Angus’s hand went to his cheek where his master had struck him.

  Run.

  He blinked and shook his head. He was panting heavily now.

  “Come with me,” Angus said as he stumbled up to the column.

  There was another red shadow, this time missing the third teardrop. He pressed the missing section, his thumb slipping as he did so.

  Run.

  His breath came in strained, painful gasps. Sweat poured down his forehead.

  There was a click.

  The floor began to rise. It was too slow….

  “This nexus,” Ortis said as he stepped out of the entryway before it crushed him. “What—”

  “It’s why they built the temple here,” Angus said, shuffling impatiently from foot to foot. “The Tiger’s Eye is a myth,” he lied.

  “How do you know that?” Ortis said.

  Angus turned and grabbed him by the shoulders. His tone was intense, almost manic. His grip painfully tight. “How did Giorge describe it?” he demanded. “A gift from their god they used to focus energy and turn it into a weapon, right?”

  “Something like that,” Ortis agreed, trying to free himself from Angus’s grasp.

  Angus let him go as the floor settled back into its original position. He was talking rapidly, his tongue tangling up with itself as he said the words in a mad rush. “That’s what a nexus does. It focuses energy, makes it more powerful.” He was almost shrieking, his head bobbing up and down. Suddenly, he turned and ran toward the opening and leapt across the gaping hole in the floor. Hobart reached out to catch him, but he barely paused as he nearly ran down the corridor.

  “We’re leaving,” Angus shouted as he briskly walked through them, pausing only long enough to pick up a torch. He cast the friction spell, and a flame a foot high erupted from between his fingers as he lit the torch. “See?” he said, turning. “That spell should barely produce a spark. We have enough treasure!” He turned abruptly and half-ran down the passage.

  “Leaving?” Giorge said, falling in behind him. “But there are so many places to explore!”

  Angus stopped at the corner and turned toward Giorge, forcing him to sidestep in order to avoid running into him. “The Tiger’s Eye is a myth!” he gurgled. “It doesn’t exist!”

  “But—”

  Slap.

  He blinked.

  Run.

  “Leave, stay, I don’t care. I’m going.” He turned and ran down the tunnel. He ran….

  21

  Still the mind.

  Still the body.

  Still the mind.

  Still the body.

  Still the mind.

  Still the body.

  22

  By the time the others reached the top of the stairwell, Angus had com
posed himself. His panic was gone, except for its fierce memory.

  He had walked around the octagonal chamber again and again and again.

  His heartbeat had steadied.

  His breathing was slow.

  His legs were sore.

  His back ached.

  And he had found something interesting.

  Giorge was the first to arrive, quickly followed by the three Ortises. Hobart slogged up last. They threw down the gear they were carrying and sat on it or by it. All of them were breathing heavily.

  “Why did we have to leave?” Giorge asked.

  How could he explain it to them? He still felt the nexus drawing him to it, but it was more like a dull ache, a craving. How could he explain intoxication? The surge of power, the desire for more, the enticing loss of control? He shook his head. He didn’t have to. A half-truth would do. “I have a spell,” he said. “I call it Firewhip.” He held up his hand in the shape of a claw. “When I cast it, whip-like flames snake out from each of my fingertips. Normally, those flames will only go out ten to twelve feet. If I had cast it down there, those whips would have stretched all the way down the corridor. Even up here,” he made as if he were about to cast the spell. “It would be more powerful than usual. I don’t dare cast it, though,” he continued. “It would probably burn my fingers off.”

  “So,” Giorge said. “Don’t cast any spells.”

  Angus half-smiled and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said, “but a nexus is like—” He paused, reached into a pocket, and brought out one of the dried mushrooms he had collected on the plateau. “It’s like this mushroom. It distorts the mind. It makes a wizard see things, feel things, hear things. If I had stayed down there, I would have happily jumped into that abyss.”

  “Ortis said something about the nexus,” Giorge said. “You think it’s The Tiger’s Eye. But how can it be that? The Tiger’s Eye is a ruby.”

  Angus sighed. “There is no Tiger’s Eye,” he said. “It’s just a story, a distortion of the truth that comes from the passage of centuries. Be satisfied with the rubies we did find,” he added.

  Giorge frowned and shook his head. “There has to be more here,” he said. “The Tiger’s Eye—”