She glanced down at the book but had difficulty reading it. Her eyes hurt, and the sigils and runes seemed to be swimming in a slowly cresting tide. She closed her eyes and shook her head, but when she opened them again, the symbols were still dancing across the page. It was time to give her eyes a rest. It wouldn’t be a long rest, but that didn’t matter; a half hour away from the intense concentration would be enough to revitalize her—that and some food.
“Darby?” she asked, a sigh underlying her weakened tone. There were only six Swiftness spells left to cast, but she couldn’t do it. She could try to do it, but there would be mistakes.
“Yes?” Darby asked from nearby. He had been the first one to have the spells cast upon him in order to demonstrate to Lieutenant Jarhad what they could do. Once the Lieutenant saw the results, he had volunteered to be next, and when she had finished with the third horse and rider, the Lieutenant had taken them out of the cavern and left Darby in charge.
“I need food and rest before I finish,” she said, rubbing her closed eyes.
“There is some gruel warming by the fire if you can stomach it.” His voice came from a slowly shifting pile of stones moving closer to her. “Is there something more?” he asked with concern in his voice.
Embril smiled and shook her head. “Just weariness of the eyes. A brief rest will be sufficient.” She stood and stretched, and then added, “Please keep watch over my books while I do so.”
The rocks rustled softly as they settled into place beside her chest. “Of course,” Darby said.
She took her time walking through the tunnel. Other than her eyes, she wasn’t physically tired, but she was mentally exhausted. She could cope with that. A half hour with the mantra would feel almost like a night’s rest, and then she could finish. It was only a postponement for sleep, though, not a replacement for it. Some gruel first. She smiled. Darby was a bit finicky and thought the gruel was atrocious, but she didn’t. It was little more than spiced, mashed up grain pressed together in clumps and thrown into water to soak. She had never really liked that grain before, but ever since being a horse, she had found it to be quite delightful, even tasty.
After she finished eating, she sat down in the sunshine just inside the entrance to the cave and let the chill breeze and warm sun fight over her skin. Still the mind, she thought, bringing an image of an expanse of grass to mind. It was a serene image, one she had never used to help her focus on the mantra; usually the mantra just emptied her mind of all thought. Still the body.
She lost track of time. She could have sat there for a few minutes or hours before one of the men—she didn’t know which one because his outline was the same as several of the others—skidded to a stop next to her, dropped to a knee (at least, that’s what she thought the stalagmite was doing when it bent over in the middle), and hissed, “Elmer!”
Embril ignored him for a long moment before she realized he was talking to her, and then she turned toward him and waited for him to continue.
“We caught someone sneaking around in the cavern,” the soldier said. “Darby wants to talk to you about it.”
Embril stared at the stalagmite as it straightened and turned away, then shook her head. What kind of nonsense is this? she wondered. No one passed by me; I would have heard them if they had. She rose slowly, a frown threatening to spread across her placid face. Where did the interloper come from? She didn’t have an answer, and she wouldn’t have one until she found out what the soldier was talking about.
By the time she reached the entrance to the tunnel, she had dismissed the mantra and felt revitalized enough to bring the magic into sharp focus. The background of the cavern had the normal arrangement of strands, but superimposed upon it was her work: a handful of men gathered around a diminutive woman dressed in black. One had his hand—which looked like a flat, sharp-edged stone—over her mouth, and another held the tip of a blade to her throat (or so she assumed, since it looked like a thin sheet of mica that didn’t belong in a granite cave at all). The woman’s eyes were frantic but the arms of the men—like bubbling stone—held her firmly in place.
As Embril walked up to her, the woman’s frantic eyes focused in on her with a kind of defiant desperation that Embril found to be enchanting in their current situation. Embril stopped in front of her, but before she could say anything, Darby whispered, “Quiet. There may be more.”
Embril nodded and turned to the little tunnel that led deeper into the mountain. There was something half-hidden by the outcropping blocking her view, but a few pockets of intense magic shone like torches against a well-lit background. They hadn’t been there when she had arrived; she was certain of it. And around them? It was a young man with dark skin and short, curled black hair. His beard was incomplete, as if it didn’t want to be there. He looked familiar, but she was certain she had never seen him before. She would have remembered a man of his size if she had. He held a small box at his hip and was holding a huge magical gem to his eye. So far, he had made no threatening movements, but she was certain that could change without warning.
He lowered the gem and his eyes narrowed as he stared back at her for a few seconds. Then, his voice tentative, he said, “Embril?”
Embril’s eyes widened. Had she met the young man before? She didn’t think so, and his look was too distinctive to forget; few men were that short. So, how did he know her? How did she know him? And she did, didn’t she? Even though she was certain she had never seen him before, she felt like she knew him.
“Do you know him?” Darby demanded.
Embril frowned and shook her head. “No,” she said, “but there is something….”
“You are Embril, aren’t you?” the man asked, his tone more confident. He looked to his left and right, and then said, “I am of the Banner of the Wounded Hand. I demand all rights and privileges accorded to one of my station.”
The Banner of—
“Giorge?” Embril almost gasped, and would have if she wasn’t still feeling the calmness of the mantra. “You are Giorge?” she asked in wonder. He could be, she decided. That was why she recognized him, wasn’t it? From Angus’s description of him? A gangly little fellow with brown skin and a most reluctant beard. He laughs at danger and flees from wisdom. Don’t let him near your treasures or he’ll acquire them, as if by magic.
“Yes,” the young man said, nodding. “I am Giorge.” He nodded to Darby’s captive and added, “That is my mother, and she is under the protection of our Banner.”
Embril blinked and her breath caught in her chest as if the gruel she’d eaten had congealed into a clump of ice. Her knees began to shake, as if she were about to run across a boundless plain. She licked her lips and her right foot crept out in front of her. Angus!
“Embril?” Darby said, and a cold stone arm blocked her path.
Embril ignored Darby’s arm and moved forward. There was a moment of resistance, and then Darby’s arm fell away. When it was gone, Embril walked slowly, calmly across the cavern, forcing one breath after another into her lungs. She came to a stop a few feet in front of Giorge. She towered over him and held his eyes with her own. She was intensely calm as she asked, “Where is he?” She held back her emotions with the iron grip of the mantra and began toying with a strand of flame, methodically wrapping it around and around her forefinger, taking comfort from its nearly painful warmth. She stepped closer and in an even, steady, carefully modulated tone, asked, “Where is Angus?”
Gambits
1
Iscara hesitated in front of Argyle’s snake. Its mouth was inviting, and normally she found it to be an exhilarating feeling to tempt the poison in its mouth. But not this time. She had not been summoned, and she was not in Argyle’s favor anymore. She had failed him, and he would know it by now. She reached into her bag and took out a small vial just in case; it was the antidote she always brought with her when she visited Argyle.
He would be angry with her by now because she had led Typhus out of his complex. He would puni
sh her for it—of that, she was certain—but when? Before or after she had explained what had happened? Before or after she told him she knew the location of the key? Before or after.…
If it was before, he would use the knocker and have the snake’s head clamp down on her arm to inject its deadly poison. She would have seconds to act before the venom overwhelmed her, and the antidote was only successful some of the time. The rest of the time.…
If it was after, she was certain she could avoid most of Argyle’s displeasure. She was a valuable tool for him; no one was better at eliciting information for Argyle from those who had it. She had a reputation among the right people, and it was a good one. She had helped Argyle many times and had been amply rewarded for it. She would help him now, too, if he gave her the opportunity. If he didn’t.…
She looked at the antidote in her hand and wondered if it would work, or if it would kill her. In its own way, it was as toxic as the snake’s venom, but when the two met with each other, it was like her and Typhus: Two implements of death neutralized by each other’s nature. He was her poison, and she was his. How could they avoid that?
How could she avoid the snake? There was no other way to enter Argyle’s meeting chamber, and she needed to see him. If she waited for him to send for her, it would be much worse than her coming to him voluntarily. She needed to show him how loyal she was, even though it was a false loyalty, one based on fear, necessity, and mutual benefit. If he didn’t offer her the opportunity to play, she would have no reason to be loyal to him. But he did give her the playthings she needed to satisfy her desires, and she owed him loyalty—of a peculiar sort—for that. And Argyle? Argyle’s loyalty was as vacuous as her own. If she didn’t have value for him, there was nothing that would stop him from killing her. So, the question was: Did she still have value for him?
She licked her lips and tentatively slid her fingers past the snake’s fangs and gently touched the lever that would alert Argyle of her presence. But she didn’t grip it; she didn’t press it down. Instead, she pulled her hand halfway out and chewed on her lower lip. The pain was refreshing, and she took heart from it. He would give her a chance to explain, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?
She took the cap off the antidote and held it under her nose. It was a noxious substance, and like most noxious substances, it smelled atrocious. Acrid, burning fumes funneled into her nostrils, and she forced herself not to turn away from it. If she needed it, she would have to drink it quickly and fight off the urge to spit it out, to vomit. It would not be easy.
Quite suddenly, she thrust her hand into the snake’s head, took a firm grip on the lever and jerked it down. The snake’s mouth collapsed upon her forearm and the fangs pressed lightly against her skin. They didn’t puncture it, not yet, but she hadn’t expected them to; that would happen after she announced herself.
Argyle’s voice boomed through the corridor, “Who calls upon me?”
Iscara took a deep breath and quickly said, “Iscara.” Her voice was unsteady, and she clamped her teeth down on her tongue to keep from crying out as she waited. The eyes of the snake began to glow, dimly at first, then more and more intently, casting a frightful red pall on her arm. Seconds seemed to pass as her heart beat once and then again. She didn’t breathe. Sweat threatened to spout from her forehead, and tiny beads of it trickled down the back of her neck and clung to her cleavage.
The snake’s grip was relentless; it did not tighten on her arm, nor did it loosen. Another heartbeat came and went, then another. She took a breath. Should she pull her arm free? Could she pull it free? Should she drink the antidote and risk dying from its poison? Her lips parted and she held the tiny vial up to them—but she didn’t drink.
Another heartbeat, another breath…
Did the pressure ease? She looked at the snake’s mouth, bathed in the fiery glow of its eyes. It was moving, almost imperceptibly rising from her forearm. Not before, she thought, lowering the antidote from her lips to her chin—but she didn’t put the stopper in until the snake’s grip was loose enough for her to remove her arm. She didn’t put the antidote back away until the door was opening. She took a breath, then another. She dabbed at the sweat on her brow with the cuff of her sleeve. She shook her hair, blinked, and stepped through the door as soon as it was wide enough for her to do so.
She paused on the other side. There was no one there to meet her, to take her to Argyle’s throne. There was always someone there when she visited Argyle. What should she do? Should she wait for someone to come to her, or should she go to Argyle? She knew the way—Argyle’s throne was impossible to miss; it stood like a sentinel in the center of the meeting room and twisted around to face whatever door opened. All she had to do was step forward, through the little alcove—Argyle’s last bit of paranoid defense—and there he would be.
Iscara hurried through the entryway and into the chamber, and then almost ran to stand directly in front of Argyle. He had his mutt with him, and the damned thing was slavering. Why hadn’t the beast been there earlier, when Typhus was escaping? The beast could have tracked him by his scent—still could, if it smelled him on her. She kept her head bowed. Argyle would like that; he expected that kind of deference, even though Iscara felt nothing of the sort. Fear, on the other hand was another matter.
Argyle leaned forward, an angry, ugly sneer on his gigantic face. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Iscara blurted out, “I have news of the key. I know where it is. Typhus told me.”
Argyle’s sneer held his face still for a long moment, and then he leaned back and the anger softened, smoothing over the lines in his brow and narrowing his eyes. His lips were still parted, and he closed them. He eyed her speculatively, and folded his hands over his lap.
“Is Sardach here?” Iscara asked, her voice urgent despite herself. There was a sharp edge to the fear she felt, and it excited her, and when she was excited, she spoke much too quickly. “He knows where it is.”
Argyle’s eyebrows lowered and his lips thinned as they pressed against each other. Then he hissed, “Sardach, attend me.”
The foul beast detached itself from the shadows and fluttered up to hover next to Iscara.
“Do you know where the key is?” he demanded, his eyes fixed on Sardach. If Sardach answered Iscara didn’t hear it, but a second later Argyle slammed his fists onto the skulls of his throne’s armrest and shouted, “You lie!” He almost stood up, something no one ever wanted to see.
“N-n-no,” Iscara stuttered, shaking her head. “Sardach doesn’t know he knows,” she clarified. “The key is with—” Dammit! What was his name? “—Uggles, where Sardach dropped him. It’s in his backpack.”
Argyle glared at her for a long moment and then turned to Sardach. “Who is this Uggles? Where did you drop him?” He listened intently to nothing for several seconds, and then turned back to Iscara with a speculative look in his eyes. “Perhaps you mean Angus?”
Iscara gasped, That was it! She nodded vigorously and said, “Yes, yes! That’s what Typhus called him. Angles. He said that Sardach would know what he meant. Sardach would know where he dropped him. Typhus said all you had to do was send someone to pick up the key.”
Argyle turned back to Sardach and asked, “Is this true? Do you know where this Angus is?” He appeared to be listening for a few seconds, and then he said. “Very well then, Sardach. I want you to get me that key. Do whatever is necessary. Do not return here without it.”
A moment later, Sardach began to dissipate as he fluttered to the little opening he used to enter and leave the chamber. No one but Sardach knew where it went—except Argyle, perhaps—and then Sardach was gone.
Argyle leaned back and stared down at Iscara for a long moment. “All right,” he began. “You have much to tell me. Why is it that you are the only one who survived Typhus’s escape? How did he get by the guards? How was it possible for him to free himself from those chains? They were melted. How could he have done that? Did you help him?” His stare was lev
el as he asked each question, and when he finished, he put his hand on his gigantic dog’s head and began to pat it. “Pug and I,” he finished, “would like to know.”
Iscara took a deep breath. Not before, she thought. After? “The fools put my tools in the room with him,” she began. There was no point in lying—and no need. She did not willingly do anything, and the others had been utterly incompetent. If she left out a few unnecessary details, Argyle would realize that. “I tried to warn them, but they didn’t listen. The new Truthseer was overconfident and underestimated Typhus….”
2
Angus lay still, fiercely focusing on the mantra to drive the excruciating pain away. His shoulder was immobilized, and there was a splint on his right arm, which helped, but something was dreadfully wrong with his left foot. At least he could feel it again, but he wished he couldn’t.
He was drenched in a cold sweat that ran from him like the trickle of a small stream.
He breathed softly and half-listened to what was going around him. He didn’t respond to what he heard, though; he was too intent on managing the pain with the mantra. Even when he heard about Hobart’s difficulties, he didn’t pause in his internal recitation of the mantra. Still the mind. Still the body. Hobart’s been poisoned. Still the mind. He will live. Still the body. Still the mind. Yffrim meat. Still the body. Tainted blood….
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 22
