Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  The young man looked familiar. He looks like Felix, she decided as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She blinked and shook her head. “Who are you?” she demanded, a hint of Argyle’s unnerving dispassion in her voice.

  “Forgive me, Milady,” he said, bowing to one knee. “I am Phillip, son of Felix and manservant of King Tyr. He sent me here to find you.”

  Phillip! She thought. He was not more than a boy when I left. Her eyes passed over Phillip. She could see the resemblance. What happened to Felix? He was far from being handsome, but…. She smiled and let the pantaloons slide from her as she rose to her feet. I am Grayle, not Argyle, she thought as she approached him. I am Grayle…

  14

  Taro shivered as he huddled in the heavy winter cloak Humphrey had given him when they had parted. It was a beautiful, almost new, garment sewn from a dark, vibrant blue cloth. It was also too large for him, and he couldn’t quite situate its voluminous folds around himself well enough to keep out the gusty mountain wind. At least he could breathe again without struggling to find enough air. And it wasn’t snowing anymore.

  He shuddered. The passage over the top of the pass had been horrid. The thin air had whipped about him and sucked the air from his lungs. The snow—Abner had called it a “light flurry”—had pelted his face with its brutal, chilling touch as it danced with the intemperate wind. Even now, he couldn’t escape the remnants of that touch, and he doubted the fire in his vision would be enough to force it from his numb fingers.

  “Fear not, Master Taro,” Abner had shouted into the worst of it. “We’ll be over the pass soon.” He was a small boy on the edge of manhood, and he had seldom spoken during their month-long journey across the Western Kingdoms. When he did, it was never a wasted breath. “The air will thicken soon enough.”

  Taro hadn’t wasted his precious breath on a response; instead, he had adjusted the cowl to block out the wind buffeting his face. The sea breeze at the shrine had never made his breath freeze in his nostrils like this wind had, and even after three days of steadily warming descent, his body still hadn’t thawed out.

  “The road to Hellsbreath is just over that last rise,” Abner called out to him, pointing at a short incline not far ahead of them. “There is a caravan stop just before we reach it. It will be a good place to make camp if you’d like to stop for the day.”

  Taro frowned. It would be nice to warm up, but could they spare the time? There was still a good two or three hours of sunlight before the lingering dusk set in, and they could camp on the road again when they needed to. Still, the caravan stops were set up for layovers, and he had found them to be more comfortable than the cobblestones of the road. But they were close to Hellsbreath—too close to waste time on rest they didn’t need. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We have light left. Let’s make use of it.”

  Abner looked at him for a long moment, but, as usual, said nothing.

  They rode in silence until they reached the top of the rise, and then Abner reined in the mule and whistled. “Take a look at that view!” he said.

  Taro looked out from his cocoon and marveled at the long, lush, narrow valley nestled in between monstrous snow-capped, granite mountains. It was almost like a gigantic dwarf had swung his axe and cleaved the mountains in two, so sharp they rose up from the valley floor. Smoke funneled from some of the mountains, as if they were the chimneys of huge houses with raging fireplaces. How soon before they breathe fire like dragons? Taro wondered.

  The caravan stop was just below them, and the road continued until it merged with the Great South Road that led from Hellsbreath to The Southlands. That road hugged the east edge of the valley and disappeared to the south behind the mountain they were on, but nothing impaired their view to the north.

  “That,” Abner said, pointing to the north, “is where Hellsbreath is. You can almost see it from here. It’s between those two smoking mountains.”

  Taro tried to see what Abner was pointing at, but he couldn’t; it was too blurry. He turned back to the crossroads a few miles below them and frowned. The road they were on disappeared into a blurry patch of green beneath an equally blurry patch of gray topped by blurry white spots. What had happened to the wondrous landscape? It wasn’t me, Taro thought. I was seeing what he was seeing, wasn’t I? He frowned. No. I can’t do that. It was something else. A memory? He looked around again, trying to bring back the beauty he had seen, but all about him were diffuse, blurry, barely recognizable shapes. Not a memory. I’ve never been this far east.

  “If this weather holds,” Abner said, “we should reach Hellsbreath in three or four days.”

  “My vision,” Taro suddenly realized. A surge of excitement sweeping over him as he straightened up and let the cowl fall back from his face. The wind still swarmed around him, sapping the warmth from his skin, but it didn’t seem to matter. Hobart was coming! He had to be. He pointed to the south and asked, “Abner, do you see anyone approaching from the south? A small group of riders?”

  Abner shielded his eyes and studied the road to the south. “No, Master Taro,” he answered. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “You will,” Taro said. “A large warrior clad in metal with three archers and a boy. We will meet up with them at the crossroads.”

  “We had best hurry, then,” Abner said as he urged the mule forward at a rapid pace. “It will be near dark when we get there.

  Dark? Taro thought. It wasn’t dark in my vision. The sun gleamed off his sweaty forehead. After a few seconds he said, “We’ll camp at the caravan stop,” and drew the cloak tightly in around him again.

  Abner frowned at him, shrugged, and slowed the mule down to an easy walk.

  15

  “I need to be alone for awhile, Mother,” Giorge said as he stood up and stretched. The tent they were in was small, and he felt like walking. “I feel like I’m back in Lord Ard of Ark’s dungeon.” he added.

  “Oh?” His mother said, standing up and smiling. “You’ll have to tell me about that later.”

  As she reached out to hug him, he sidestepped her and picked up his pack. Then he took the two short steps to the tent flap. He opened it and looked outside. It was a warm day for spring in the mountains, and the sun was bright. He squinted and turned back to his mother. “I’m sorry, Momma,” he said, the word catching in his throat. “I’ve been on my own for a long time.” He didn’t need to add that he had thought she was dead for all that time.

  “It’s all right,” his mother said. A ripple of concern crawled over her face as she added, “It’s difficult for me, too. It was only a week ago that I said goodbye to my little Giorgie, and now….” She shook her head and sighed.

  Giorge nodded. Now they were the same age. No, not quite. He was a few months older than her. Damned curse! He wanted to scream, but instead, he stepped outside and let the tent flap fall back into place.

  He walked to the edge of the camp and slunk off into the trees. Though somewhat sparse, they would provide enough cover for him to stroll about. The sentries didn’t bother to stop him; after two days, they had realized that he would sneak by them anyway. Besides, he was a Banner man and had privileges. It didn’t help that Darby had disappeared, though; the men weren’t sure what to do on their own. Still, they let him out of the camp and that was all that mattered.

  He walked around the campsite for nearly an hour before he was satisfied there wasn’t anything watching the camp, and then sat down on a fallen log. He took a few seconds to glance around to make sure no one had followed him, and then reached into his pack. He brought out Symptata’s last chest—a small wooden box varnished chocolate brown with silver inlays—and set it on his lap. It was larger than the others had been, about a foot long, ten inches wide, and eight inches deep. What was inside it? He set his palms on the lid and looked around again. Should I open it? he wondered. Is the curse really over, or will it renew itself if I open it? He had picked the lock days ago, when he had first found it but felt no compulsion to ope
n it. All he needed to do was move the little lever and lift the lid, just as he had done with the others. But with those, the curse had made him open the boxes immediately after picking the lock. This one was different; there was no urge pressuring him to open it, and even his curiosity was little more than a passing inclination.

  “You only live once,” he muttered to himself as he tapped his fingers on the lid. “Usually.”

  He frowned. His mother had died, but now she was alive again. Would she die again if he opened the box? But she was the one who had told him the curse was over, that he had broken it when he reunited the Viper’s Breath, Eyes, and Fangs with the Viper’s skull etched into Symptata’s sarcophagus. Was she right? He hadn’t reunited them, had he? He had died, too, and by the time he was alive again, they were already in their proper place. Had he somehow done it while he was dead? “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I didn’t do it. They were just there.” He looked at his hands tapping on the box’s lid. Symptata’s poem said the curse had ended….

  “So what’s in here?” he whispered. “Why was this box waiting for me when we escaped from his tomb?” That was what bothered him. If the curse were really over, there shouldn’t have been one of Symptata’s boxes waiting for him. Unless it had been there all winter, in which case it was probably empty. His fingertip traced the outline of one of the inlays, wondering what would happen if he tried to pry off the little piece of silver. It wouldn’t be worth that much by itself, but that didn’t matter. He wanted to see if he could mar the box. If the curse were still in place, wouldn’t it prevent him from removing the inlay?

  He reached down for one of the thin knives in his belt and paused. He shook his head. The whole box would be worth more if it was intact. It would be a shame to damage it if the curse were over, like his mother said it was. Besides, it was pretty. The craftsman who had built it had done an exceptional job. He sighed and set it on the log beside him. It was a fairly old log, and the bark sunk inward at the added weight. “Odd,” Giorge muttered. “It didn’t feel that heavy to me.” He picked it up easily and set it down on the other side of him. It sagged into the log again. The log hadn’t given that much when he had sat down. “There must be soft spots,” he half-whispered. “Maybe it’s rotten.” He set his forearm on the box and looked around again. Nothing. No one seemed to have heard him, and he sighed.

  “What am I doing?” he asked himself. “She’s my mother, and I’m avoiding her.” It was true. He was uncomfortable with the reunion. Perhaps it would be easier if she was older, but she looked just like she had when she had left him with Auntie Fie. Almost the same. She was shorter—no, he was taller. “What would happen to her if I open the box?”

  Nothing, he thought with certainty. She’s right. The curse is over. But was it?

  He didn’t need to open the box. If he wanted to, he could leave it sitting on the log and let someone else have it. But they would open it—he was certain of that—and if the curse wasn’t over, they would release it all over again. This time, he wouldn’t know it was coming. It might even change the curse and make it worse. Maybe whoever opened it would become the unwitting victim of the curse? He shook his head. No. Symptata cursed my family line—my line—and that’s who would be affected by it. He looked at the box and shook his head. What will happen if I burn the box? Will it destroy the curse if it’s still alive? Will it release it? He sighed. He didn’t want to open the box. He didn’t have to open it. He knew that if he left it sitting on the log, he wouldn’t think twice about it as he turned away. It wasn’t like the other boxes, the ones that he had to open….

  He looked around again to see that there wasn’t anything watching, and then reached into a hidden pocket in his tunic. He brought out both of the Viper’s Eyes and held them up before his eyes. The magic around him came into focus. He didn’t know what magic was supposed to be like, but he studied it anyway. If someone was lurking there, concealed by magic, he didn’t see them, but that didn’t mean much, did it? He turned his enhanced gaze on the box and saw nothing. There was no magic in it at all. No curse….

  He lowered the gems and put them back away. Then he picked up the box again, set it on his lap, and slid the little lever to the side. There was a click, and the lid sprang upward a fraction of an inch. The weight of the box increased dramatically, pressing down on his thighs with as much force as a small child sitting on his lap. He gasped in surprise, but when nothing else happened, he took a deep breath and opened the lid.

  He looked inside, and the empty sockets of a snake’s glare stared back at him.

  16

  I am Grayle, she thought as she approached Phillip. Argyle is no more. Phillip’s eyes were lowered, as they should be, and he was still on one knee, the torch held off to the side. I am Grayle. He was a young man, a few years her junior…. “Phillip,” she purred as she reached down to cup her hand under his chin and force him to his feet. She smiled. He had a smooth, strong jawline, and she ran her finger along it to his ear. She playfully tweaked the lobe as she stepped close enough for their bodies to almost touch. In a soft, inviting tone, she said, “I need you to do something for me.” She let her hand slide down the pulsing ridge in his neck until it settled on his shoulder. She brought her other hand up between them and lightly pressed it against his chest.

  “M-m-milady,” Phillip gasped, trying to look anywhere else but at her. “What is your d-d-desire?”

  Her smile broadened. He didn’t stutter when he was younger, did he? she thought, flexing her fingers over the rough cloth of his tunic. Grayle….

  Her lips parted slightly, and she inhaled the faintly rustic scent of his sweat. He tried to mask it with a floral perfume, but he couldn’t escape his rugged upbringing. Her hand slid from his shoulder to the firm muscle of his upper arm. It was tempting, so tempting, but….

  She sighed and plucked daintily at the cobwebs clinging to his dusty gray tunic. There would be time later…. She carefully peeled away a long strand and shook it from her fingers. “I,” she said as she reached up for a particularly noisome clump clinging to his collar, “need a bath.” She paused and looked into his eyes. The pupils were huge, almost completely devouring the thin blue ring around them. Each word dropped from her tongue like a bit of nectar dangling from a lilac bloom as she added, her voice husky, “A long, hot bath.” She thrust out her lower lip and used her poutiest tone as she finished, “But I can’t get through all those pesky little cobwebs.” She made a brusque pivot and sauntered back to Argyle’s gigantic purple pantaloons and sat down on them. “Could you clear them away for me?” she asked, bringing the familiar, stained cloth up to cover her chest as she waited for him to find his voice.

  He finally nodded sharply and said, “Milady, the king has so ordered. I shall see to it once I have reported to him that you are alive. It will be done by dawn.”

  “Pooh,” Grayle pouted, letting the purple cloth drop down to her lap. “Surely,” she said, leaning slightly forward, “you could clean it before then. I haven’t had a—” she ran her eyes over him and smiled broadly “—decent bath in years.” The fingertips of her left hand traced her collar bone. “I would be so grateful—” her voice was husky and a bit rough as her left hand settled lightly on the top of her breast “—if you would hurry.”

  “Certainly, Milady,” Phillip said, bowing again before he hurried through the secret door and up the stairwell.

  Grayle almost followed him, but the cobwebs and dust were too repulsive. Instead, she wrapped herself up in Argyle’s noxious pantaloons. They smelled horribly of Argyle’s stale sweat, but it was a familiar, comforting reek. I am Grayle, she reminded herself, wondering how long it would take for her to convince herself of it. Argyle is no more….

  17

  Taro slept fitfully. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something horrible was about to happen, and every time he managed to fall asleep, his dreams were haunted by flickering flames and thunder so loud that it deafened him. Those rumbles w
oke him time and again, and the false dawn found him half-awake when Abner came to rouse him.

  “Master Taro,” Abner softly called as he knelt down beside him. “It’s time to leave.”

  Taro sighed and half-opened his eyes. “Do you feel it?” he asked.

  Abner looked up at the gray dawn and said, “It may rain later.”

  Taro smiled. “No,” he said. “The sun will shine upon us this day, but tomorrow….” He shook his head as a sadness softly descended upon him. “I am weary, Abner, and there is no hurry to leave today. Wake me when the sun begins to rise above the mountains.”

  Abner hesitated, as if he were about to object, but he said nothing.

  Taro’s voice was soft and sad as he began to sing, this time without the added emphasis:

  A day will come with no return

  for he who stands alone

  amid the flames that do not burn

  amid the molten stone.

  He’ll walk on air and pluck the strands

  his magic has unleashed

  and leave behind a troubled world

  in search of lasting peace.

  The chaos of a time gone by

  shall come once more to be,

  as magic long restrained and tamed

  will once again be free.

  Taro half-opened his eyes and found Abner leaning over him with a furrow across his smooth forehead.

  “You have another verse, then?” Abner asked.

  Taro ignored Abner’s concerned look and resisted the urge to grumble. So what if it had taken him weeks to come up with a third verse? He hadn’t even thought about the song since they’d left Humphrey’s village, and yet, the verse had sprung into his mind fully formed as if of its own making. A residue of a dream? A memory from a vision? He sighed. “The day is upon us, Abner,” he said as he patted the young man’s forearm. “I sense a time of chaos is near.”