“It’s a dream, Giorge,” Angus said. “But you are right. There is something else here.”
“What?”
“Look over here,” he said, walking briskly up to where two of the walls met. “See that?” he said, pointing at a pair of indentations. “What are they?”
Giorge frowned as he studied them, and then said, “Something was stuck in them, I suppose. They kept it in place.”
Angus nodded and held up the torch. “Now, look up. What do you see?”
Giorge looked up and said, “Nothing.”
Angus nodded again. “Exactly,” he said. “But I see a red shadow in the shape of the insignia. It has to be a trapdoor, and it can only lead to one place.”
“One of the rooms up there,” Giorge said.
Angus shook his head. “No,” he said. “The secret compartment you found.”
“Why?” Giorge said. “It might just lead to another tunnel like that one.” He pointed at the rope dangling from the trapdoor they had found.
Angus shook his head again. “No,” he said. “Think about it, Giorge. Why would they mark it like that? They had to keep something very valuable up there, something that needed an extra layer of protection.”
“Like what?” Giorge asked, feeling the wall and testing the corner for leverage.
Angus shrugged. “It could be nothing,” he said. “They may have taken it with them.”
“What are those red shadows, Angus?” Ortis asked as he joined them. “Why is it that you’re the only one who sees them?”
“I don’t know what they are, exactly,” Angus said, “but they are touched by magic. It’s not the same kind of magic I use, but it must be close enough for me to see its mark.”
“All right,” Giorge said. “I can’t climb up this wall and it’s too high for a pyramid, so how do we get up there?”
“Not we,” Angus said. “Me. I’m the only one who sees the insignia.”
“You can tell us where it is,” Ortis suggested.
“It will still have to be me,” Angus said. “I’m the only one who can fly.”
“Then do it,” Giorge said, grinning.
Angus shook his head. “I need to prime for it first.”
“Why?” Giorge asked.
Angus sighed. “I’m tired, Giorge. I don’t feel like explaining it again. But tomorrow, after I sleep and prime the spell, we’ll take a look at what’s up there. Then we’ll leave. Agreed?”
Giorge’s grin diminished. “This is a pretty big temple,” he said. “There has to be other places to look.”
“Angus is right,” Ortis said. “We’ve already been here too long. We still need to get back to Hellsbreath before winter, and each day will make it more and more difficult. We may have had an easy time going across that plateau on the way here, but that doesn’t mean the way back will be easy.”
“He’s right,” Hobart said. “We need to report the fishmen to Hellsbreath.”
“But—”
“Giorge,” Hobart said. “Those gems are enough to finance the Banner for years. Isn’t that enough?”
Giorge grinned. “There’s never enough,” he said, laughing. “But I’m outvoted, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Hobart said, quickly echoed by Angus and Ortis.
“Fine,” Giorge said. “After we find out what’s up there, we leave.”
23
The next day, they returned to the octagonal chamber and Angus flew up to the insignia. He pressed it—there were no missing parts—and the trapdoor slid easily upward. He kept pushing until it flopped open. Then pushed the Lamplight spell through the opening and lifted himself up.
It was a narrow vertical shaft that went up for several feet. There were iron rungs embedded in the stone to form a ladder, and he gripped one of them and gently pulled. When it held, he lowered himself and said, “Throw up a rope. There’s a ladder, and it seems to be sturdy enough to hold us.”
When he had the rope, he carefully tied it off before using the rungs to propel himself quickly upward, the Lamplight in tow. At the top, the shaft opened up into a wide, long chamber with a short ceiling. There were rows and rows of cubicles, each one covered with dust and cobwebs. He went to the first one and sat down on the low bench lining the wall. His knees pressed against the underside the table. Within easy reach was a dried up silver inkwell, a quill, and the fragile remains of a scroll. He didn’t bother to lift the scroll—it was too fragile, and he didn’t recognize the language.
Giorge stuck his head up through the shaft, and Angus turned to him. “Stay there for now,” he said. “These scrolls will crumble easily, even in a slight breeze.”
“Scrolls?” Giorge said, pausing with his torso half into the chamber. “Magic?”
“I don’t think so,” Angus said. “At least not this one. I don’t recognize the language, and there are no sigils or runes with which I am familiar.” He reached for the inkwell and tossed it to him. “This should be worth something to a collector,” he said. “It’s probably a thousand years old.” He glanced down the line of cubicles. “There are probably a dozen more inkwells, but they may not be silver.”
“Well,” Giorge smiled. “It’s something. I might be able to get a few gold coins for it. But that ink is a problem. How am I supposed to get it out?”
“Fill it with water,” Angus said. “If it doesn’t soften, go to an alchemist and get some help. There should be one near the Wizards’ School in Hellsbreath.”
“What else is up here?” Giorge asked.
Angus slouched as he went down the aisle picking up silver inkwells. He glanced at each scroll as he passed, but he didn’t touch any of them. After the fourth one, he realized they all held the same patterns—the same words. When he reached the end of the corridor, there was a podium but no inkwell. On the podium was a thick tome, opened to a page that had the same incomprehensible series of symbols. The book was thick, old, and heavy. The pages were dry, but they weren’t as fragile as the scrolls he had seen. He reached out, gently picked up a page and turned it. It came loose from the binding, but the leaf didn’t tear. Several more broke free of the binding as he gently closed the book. The cover was of old, cracked leather, but it held when he lifted the tome an inch above the podium and gently set it back down. The teardrop insignia was on the cover, but he didn’t recognize the runes beneath. He left it on the podium and made his way back to Giorge.
“I need a sack and a blanket,” he said.
“I have a sack with me,” Giorge said. “But we didn’t bring any blankets. They’re still with the horses.”
“Would you mind getting one for me? I want to wrap up that book before we move it. I’ll need some rope, too. Two sections, each about three feet long.”
Giorge frowned. “For a book? Why?”
“It’s valuable,” Angus said. “The historians at the Wizards’ School will pay well for it.”
“How well?” Giorge asked.
“I don’t know,” Angus admitted. “It’s bound to be a very rare text. I’m going to study it first, if I can decipher the language.”
“All right,” Giorge said, reluctantly climbing down the ladder. Once he was out of sight, Angus returned to the podium and began a careful search of the area. There had to be more to it than a scribe’s chamber. No, not a scribe’s chamber, a classroom. The Master would read from the text and the apprentices would copy whatever he said. Voltari had done that to him many times, and if he made an error….
There had to be something else. The text—a sacred text?—might be enough to make the room secret, but why make the classroom secret? It should have been out in the open. What were they learning? Something heretical enough to warrant secrecy? Something powerful? Whatever the text was, it had to be important. But was it important enough by itself?
Possibly. Probably. But….
Where could they hide something? What would it be? Where would they put it? He sat down as if he was a master looking out at his apprentices, diligently
bent over their little tables in the cramped quarters. I would read from the book. He looked down, gently opened the cover, and pretended to read from it. The students would write. He imagined them sitting there, quills dipping into their inkwells, the only sound the scratching of their quill tips on their scrolls. I would stand up to evaluate their progress. He stood up—slouched; the ceiling was too low for him to stand fully erect. No, I wouldn’t need to do that. They weren’t novices; novices would be taught elsewhere. These were the priests, the ones who would be sent out to spread the word, to build the temples. They would need the sacred text, the text they were copying. I am their high priest, the holder of the Sacred Truths. They reside in my book, in my—
My what? He reached up to his chest as if he was groping for something. An amulet? A necklace? Where would I put it? He looked around the room. This is my room. I own it. I would have my symbol of authority, here. Or would I always carry it?
He ran his hands over the podium. It was a short stone structure, much thicker than the ones the students had. Why? He didn’t need quill or ink. He had the text.
Angus studied the edge of the podium, the underside. He even lifted the book to look under it—and that was when he saw the familiar red shadow in the center of the podium. He smiled and set the book down.
“Here’s the blanket,” Giorge said from the opening. “And the rope.”
Angus looked up. “How long have you been there?” Angus asked.
“Long enough to know you found something,” Giorge said. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Angus said. “Why don’t you bring them here and we’ll find out together?”
Giorge grinned, scurried out of the shaft, and walked quickly over to join him. Even he had to slouch. “Whoever used this room had to have been short like me,” he said.
“It may have been dwarves,” Angus suggested. Then he frowned. Was this a remnant of the Dwarf Wars? Had the other volcanoes held similar temples? Were they also nexus points? He shook his head; such speculation could be endless, and he didn’t have time for it at the moment. He held out his hand and said, “Let me have the rope.” Giorge handed it to him, and his fingers rapidly unraveled the individual strands that had been braided together to form the rope. There were three such threads, and when he finished, he handed the strands to Giorge and said, “When I lift the book, put three of the threads lengthwise and the other three along its width. Then slide the blanket over the top of them. Then I’ll set the book down and wrap it up. When it’s secured, we’ll find out what’s in the podium.”
They set to work and about fifteen minutes later, Angus was satisfied they had secured the book so that the pages would not come free. It was a large book, and there was little excess string. He tied the knots so they wouldn’t come loose; when he was ready to study it, he would have to cut them and find a better binding for the book.
He handed the book to Giorge and said, “Put it in the sack gently. I’ll carry it when we leave.”
While Giorge did as he had been asked, Angus pressed the insignia on the podium and the top sprang upward a few inches. It was hinged, and Angus lifted it the rest of the way. Inside the small chamber was a place for the heavy tome to rest, another book—a smaller one with leather covers reinforced with metal binding—four small bottles, a gem-studded ceremonial dagger, and a pendant. It was a heavy gold pendant, and in its center was a gaudy red stone in the size and shape of an eye. He held it up for Giorge to see, and said, “Maybe this is The Tiger’s Eye? It won’t buy a kingdom, but it is awfully large, isn’t it? What do you think it’s worth?”
Giorge took it from him, cradled it in his palm, weighed it, looked closely at the gem, and sighed. “Not much,” he said. “It’s not a ruby. It’s just a red crystal. There’s about a pound of gold, though. What else is in there?” He leaned past Angus and took out the dagger. “Now, this is worth more than the pendant. Maybe a few hundred gold. Are those potions?”
“I don’t know. They could be holy oil or something like that. We can take them with us and find out later. Here,” Angus said, handing them to Giorge. “You should pack them so they won’t break.”
Giorge nodded and set them on a nearby scribe’s bench.
Angus picked up the book. It was about six inches square but only one inch thick. He unclasped the metal and opened it. It was written in the same language as the larger one, but it was in much better shape. It didn’t matter, though; he still couldn’t read it. “Here,” he said, handing it to Giorge. “Pack that with the other things. I’ll take the larger book and go tell them what we found.”
“I’ll take a look around before I join you,” he said, putting the book in the bag with the inkwells. He had cut another sack into strips and begun wrapping the bottles up with them when Angus disappeared down the shaft….
24
The next day, when they prepared to leave, the cat-things returned. There were dozens of them, and they sat at the edge of the grain field as if they expected something from them. When the Banner of the Wounded Hand urged their horses into the grain, the cat-things parted to let them through. Once they had passed, the cat-things closed in again behind them. When Angus turned to look back, they were already moving into the temple grounds.
A chill breeze rustled through the grain, and a sputtering of rain began to fall.
Epilogue
1
As they neared the lift area, Hobart spurred his horse ahead of his companions and brought it to an abrupt stop directly in front of the scribe’s station. “We are the Banner of the Wounded Hand,” he announced. Then, without waiting for the scribe to respond, he turned to the nearest guardsman.
“Which one of you is in charge down here?”
The scribe frowned and opened his book, turning swiftly through the pages.
“I am,” one of the soldiers said. “Call me Alfred.”
As the others approached, the scribe looked up and saw Angus. He pointed at him and said, “You are banned from Hellsbreath. Unless you have 2,500 in gold?”
Hobart untied the straps securing a bag to his saddle. He tossed it to Alfred and said, “The king’s shield is dented.”
The soldier almost dropped the bag as he said, “What?”
“If you don’t have the gold,” the scribe said, “I will have them arrest you. Alfred?”
“You heard me,” Hobart said. “I must see Commander Garret at once.”
Alfred hesitated, opened the bag, and paled. Without looking up, he said, “Bring down the lift.” He looked up from the bag and asked Hobart, “How urgent is it?”
The scribe pointed at Angus and said, “There is an injunction forbidding him entry.”
“The danger is not immediate,” Hobart said, “but it is of grave importance.”
The solder nodded curtly and turned to the scribe. “His injunction is temporarily lifted,” he said. “By the order of the king.” He turned to his men and barked, “Why haven’t you signaled for the lift!”
One of them turned, hurried in behind the scribe and grabbed a red flag. Then he ran out far enough away from the wall to be seen by those on top of it. He began waving the flag, and within a minute, the lift was rapidly descending.
“You will not need your horses,” Alfred said. “Would you like to have them stabled for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hobart said. “We plan to go south after we make our report. We’ll take them with us.”
“How long will you be staying?” the scribe asked. “I must make note of it.”
“Two days,” he said. “Unless Commander Garret requires more of us.”
The soldier looked at the bag in his hands and said, “He will.” He turned to the scribe and said, “Plan for an indefinite stay.”
“Indefinite?” Hobart repeated, frowning.
The soldier nodded and said, “Commander Garret will not be satisfied with this,” he held up the bag. “He will want you to show him where it came from.”
“We
have a map,” Hobart said. “There is a road.”
The soldier shrugged and turned to the lift platform. “The lift will be here momentarily,” he said. “You are familiar with the loading procedures?”
Hobart nodded and kneed his horse forward. The rest of his group followed.
“The fee!” The scribe called.
“Is waived,” the soldier said without turning. “Official business of the king.”
The scribe began writing in his book as they rode passed. Fierce, angry, precise strokes.
The lift settled into place, and the doors were opened. Several people were inside, and they were ushered quickly off. Then the members of the Banner of the Wounded Hand entered and the lift doors were locked.
Alfred took a deep breath as they began rising at a steady pace, exhaled it, and asked, “How many are there?”
“We killed about two dozen,” Hobart asked. “There may have been more.”
The soldier exhaled loudly, chuckled, and shook his head. “Two dozen?” he repeated. “That’s all? Not thousands?”
Hobart frowned. “Why would you think that?”
The soldier shrugged. “The last southbound caravan that went through told us the crops were all harvested, and there had been no sign of the fishmen. None. They didn’t even come out of the Death Swamps this year.”
Hobart frowned. “They didn’t attack?”
“That’s what the caravan said.”
Hobart’s frown deepened, but he didn’t say anything.
When they reached the top, he asked, “Commander Garret is in the southwest tower, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” the soldier said.
“Good,” Hobart said. “We’ll be heading south after we give him our report.” He didn’t seem to be very confident of it, though….
2
Fanzool shuddered as he reached for the knocker and drew his hand back again. It was a dreadful thing, a serpent’s head poised to strike. The forked tongue was the lever, and he had to reach inside the serpent’s mouth to make it clang. His hesitancy was understandable; he had seen others use it many times with the same reluctance. Three times he had seen the snake’s jaws clamp down on the hand within its mouth, and then the fangs extended deep into the forearm, releasing their poison….
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 35
