Angst (Book 4) (2 page)

3

Taro looked at the jar of incense sitting beside him and
wondered how much of it he should use to trigger the vision. There had been
shelves of the stuff in the little alcove, and that suggested they had used a
lot of it. Or was it just stored there for a long time and used sparingly? He
wished he knew the answer, but the instructions had been lost at the same time
the recipe for the incense had been lost. At least this time, he wouldn’t have
to use his own concoctions to try to induce a vision!

He laughed. Those concoctions had never brought a vision,
but some of them had made him light-headed and giddy. Others had made him
nauseous or given him a headache. One had put him to sleep for three days. How
frantic he had been when he had realized he had missed those three sunrises!
Most just produced foul-smelling smoke that burned his eyes. But
this
—he
happily fondled the lid of the jar and ran his fingertips over the snake-like
sigil engraved in its clay surface. It was that sigil that had told him what it
was, and now, for the first time in his life, he would have
proper
incense, the kind that
would
facilitate a vision! He was certain of it.
After all, he had had his first vision
without
the aid of any incense,
hadn’t he? What would it be like
with
the incense?

He took out his knife and frowned. There was crud on it.
That wouldn’t do at all! This was a special—a
sacred
—moment, and a dirty
knife was anything but sacred. He folded over a part of his dingy cloak, spat
on the knife’s blade a few times, and then rubbed vigorously at it until the
worst of the caked on grit was gone. There wasn’t much he could do about the
rust at the base of the hilt, so he made a brief, generic prayer to the gods to
apologize for it. Then he turned to the incense jar and gently wedged the blade
into the seal and wiggled it back and forth until the seal split and the lid
popped up.

The stench! It was a potent, heady aroma that made him feel
as if he had just drunk half a dozen mugs of ale in quick succession. But it
wasn’t dizzying, and it didn’t leave him addle-minded like ale would have done.
Instead, he suddenly saw everything around him with more clarity than he’d had
in years. The worn threads of his cloak were crisp, the dust in the air
sparkled when it caught the light, and the brazier didn’t blend into the floor
like he thought it did; it had stumpy little legs. Even the air was crisper as
he breathed it in. And the sounds!

He frowned. The shrine had rats? Why hadn’t he noticed them
before?

Then, as if someone had reached in and pulled the incense
from his lungs, everything settled back into its normal state of fuzziness and
soft edges. But the
memory of the sensations lingered, and it took him
several seconds to regain his balance. When he did, the coals in the brazier
were glowing softly, producing heat but little flame or smoke. It was time.

His hands were shaking as he reached into the incense jar.
The incense was a fine, light brown powder with a yellowish overtone.
I
wonder what it’s made from,
he thought as it seeped between his fingers.
Then he paused.
How much do I need?
he asked himself.
A little or a
lot?

He glanced at the alcove. There were a lot of jars in it. Did
that mean they used a lot of the incense each time they sought a vision? Or did
they make a lot of it at one time and stored it there until it was needed?
There were a lot of Seers back then, too, and that could mean there were a lot
of Seers using only a little bit of incense at a time. No, that wasn’t it;
visions were special, and there had been a lot of ritual around them. Rituals
take time—at least, all the rituals he had seen—and that meant the incense had
to last awhile when they used it. They probably threw the incense into the
brazier a little at a time, letting the effects slowly build up. But he didn’t
have any rituals to follow; they had been forgotten along with most of the rest
of the Order’s history.

A little?
he wondered,
or a lot?
He made a
fist and lifted it.
A lot,
he decided, smiling to himself.
It will
work faster.
He turned his fist over and brought it to him. He opened his
fingers, and a tightly packed clump of incense crumbled and spread out over his
palm like damp beach sand. He held it close to his nose and snorted. It was
pungent, but there was almost none of disorientation he had felt when he had
opened the jar. He lowered it, nodded to himself, and tossed the incense into
the brazier.

The incense sizzled, flared to life as it struck the warm
coals, and smoke billowed up from the brazier. The smoke didn’t get caught by
the draft or spread out into a great cloud like it should have, nor did it
dissipate like normal smoke would have done. Instead, it began to whirl, slowly
tightening into thick tendrils that transformed into gray snakes with glowing
red eyes. The snakes writhed, their bodies weaving around each other in hypnotic
patters. Their eyes captured him, held him in place.

Taro’s eyes widened. The old Seer who had brought him into
the order had told him about the snakes. It was part of a legend passed down
from one Great Elder to the next, but he had never really believed it. Why
should he? How could snakes bring him visions?

“You will know when the vision approaches by the redness in
the snake’s eye,” his mentor had said. When Taro had asked his mentor what it
had meant, the old man had shrugged and said, “No one remembers, but one day
we’ll see a snake with red eyes and it will all make sense again.”
A
snake,
he had said.
One.
Taro stared at the dancing hydra forming in front of
him and the first inkling of fear crept over him.
There must be a dozen of
them!
And more were already rising from the brazier’s coals.

I should have used less incense,
Taro thought as the
first snake reared back. He
almost
screamed as it struck his forehead
and sent his mind reeling. Images were already beginning to form in his mind as
the second snake struck.

Then a third….

4

Rascal was ugly. He never bathed. He smelled of sewage and
vomit. His hair had never seen a comb. His clothes had been nibbled on by rats.
He had an ungainly scar on his cheek. His left eye never quite closed and
dripped goo. He was so
asymmetrical
. Even behind the screen Phillip had
erected to block the unseemly view, King Tyr
felt
the grime clinging to
him and craved to take a bath. But he couldn’t, not yet. He had to talk to
Rascal, and Rascal had to smell and look the way he did to get the information
King Tyr needed. Even a superficial cleansing would ruin him as an agent, so
King Tyr tolerated it as best he could—and took a
long
bath after each
meeting. The screen helped, but it couldn’t quiet his imagination—or the smell.

“Rascal,” he began, facing away from the screen and pinching
his nose to stifle the foul stench. “There was an incident.”

“Oh, aye, Milord,” Rascal agreed. “A most unfortunate one at
that!”

“Tell me.”

“Well, now, it’s difficult to say for certain on account I
wasn’t there, you understand. But a whisper or two has fallen on these old
ears. One of the gatekeepers, you know, has a loose tongue when he drinks a bit
too much.”

“Never mind that,” King Tyr said. “What happened?”

“Well, there’s a hole down there where there weren’t one
before.”

King Tyr frowned and waited for Rascal to continue, but when
he didn’t, he snapped, “Spit it out, Rascal, or I’ll scrub you until you
bleed.”

Rascal laughed, “Now, Sire, no need to make threats. That’s
all I know. There’s a hole down there that weren’t there before. A big hole.
One of the gatekeepers said he heard a roaring and the walls shook. His ears
are still ringing, the way he tells it. By the time he got in there to see
what’s what, there was a big hole and nobody around but Pug, and she was dead.”

Pug!
King Tyr glared at the screen.
If Pug is
dead, then….

“Gruesome thing, that,” Rascal continued in a light-hearted
tone. “It was as if she swallowed a caltrop and it exploded inside her. No sign
of her master, though.
He
hasn’t been seen since before the hole that
shouldn’t be there appeared.”

King Tyr began pacing in a tight, well-ordered square of six
paces. His fingernail picked at a nonexistent piece of gristle stuck between
his teeth.
If Argyle was missing….

“It might have something to do with the wizard,” Rascal
mused.

King Tyr stopped pacing and scowled at the screen. “What
wizard?”

“Now there’s the funny thing,” Rascal said. “He’s part of
one of your Banners.”

A Banner wizard?
King Tyr asked.
What could a Banner
man have to do with Argyle? They’re men of honor! And Argyle—

“Which Banner?” the king demanded. “What business had he
down there?”

“Now that I can’t say for sure,” Rascal replied. “It’s all
conjecture, really. This wizard made a big fuss when he arrived the other
night. He was more than half dead by the sound of it and demanded to be healed
by Iscara. Called her by name, no less.”

“Iscara!” King Tyr hissed. She was a passable healer, but
her real talents lay in more mischievous directions. What would a Banner wizard
want with her?

“Thought that might interest you, Sire,” Rascal said. “They
healed him up, and he spent some time at Willowby’s Inn. That’s the strange
part. Willowby swears he never left, but he wasn’t there when he took him
breakfast this morning. It was as if he had just disappeared. Probably did,
being a wizard and all.”

“Why are you telling me this, Rascal?”

“Well, Sire, I’ve been thinking,” Rascal said. “No one saw
this wizard leave, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. A lot of people can sneak
out of an inn like Willowby’s without being seen if they put their minds to it.
But not many can sneak into the warrens beneath us without being seen. Maybe a
wizard like him could do that. There’s the other thing, too.” Rascal fell
silent, as if he were toying with the king’s patience.

“What other thing?” King Tyr demanded in his most imperious
tone. Rascal always had useful insights, but the way he went about explaining
them frustrated King Tyr. He much preferred his subjects to get to the point
quickly, but Rascal always took the side streets and cautiously circled around
the building before opening the door.

“Well, Sire,” Rascal said, lowering his voice. “It’s Typhus,
you see. I heard that he’s left Tyrag and
he
let him go. It’s a curious
thing, really. You know, how Typhus and Iscara—well, that’s just a rumor,
really. What I do know is that when he escaped this time, she was the only one
he spared, and when she went back to explain herself to
him
, she said
something about this fellow named Angus having a key he wanted.”

Angus? He had the key? But—

“That’s the part that worries me, Sire,” Rascal continued.
“This wizard I told you about? His name was Angus, too. It’s a funny name, and
there can’t be many of them around. Don’t you think it a bit odd that he
disappeared only a few hours before that hole sprouted up down there? It’s the
kind of coincidence Onus Himself would find troubling.”

Angus?
King Tyr wondered.
One of my Banners? He
had the key? What would he have done—

“What else?” the king demanded as he began pacing again. He
took three steps to the left of the screen, each one placed with precision,
pivoted until he was facing the opposite direction, and strode six
equally-distant steps the other way.

“Nothing, Sire,” Rascal said. “At least, nothing that can
explain the hole that shouldn’t be there but is.”

“All right,” King Tyr said, striding up to the screen. He
took out a small pouch and tossed it over the screen. There was a quick
movement, a soft jingle of coin, a rustle of cloth, and then silence. He
reached out to move the screen aside, and Rascal was gone—but the smell
remained.

King Tyr wrinkled up his nose and strode across the small
room to open the door. Phillip was standing quietly outside, waiting for him.
“Sire?”

“Walk with me,” King Tyr said, keeping his voice low as he
moved quickly down the corridor. “My bath is ready?”

Phillip nodded at his side, “Of course, Sire. Shall I send
for the cleaning wench?”

“Soon,” King Tyr said, striding briskly around a corner.
“There are other tasks that need tending. I want you to send for Captain
Blanchard. Tell him to bring the Banner Registry with him. Also, have him send
his most trusted man to fetch the healer named Iscara. Tell him to be discreet;
I wish to see her in my private chambers this evening. No one is to know of her
presence.”

“Yes, Sire,” Phillip said, turning to leave.

“First,” King Tyr said, effectively stopping him in his
tracks. “I want to show you something.”

“Of course, Sire,” Phillip said as he rejoined him.

They walked briskly and in silence through several corridors
until the king’s pace slowed and he stopped in front of a painting of a young
woman with strawberry blonde curls draped over her shapely shoulders. Her
blossoming womanhood whispered out from the girlish figure, and a playful,
sinister smile toyed at the edge of her lips. Her gown was a rich purple with
powder blue frills, and her hands were held behind her as if she were hiding
something from the artist. It was a lovely rendition of Grayle, a memorial to
her after she had died—or so everyone believed. He had encouraged that belief,
even though he knew she was very much alive, trapped in Argyle’s form. But if
she had the key….

“This painting,” King Tyr began, “conceals a door. Beyond
that door is a room. It was Grayle’s.” He paused and reached out to touch the
ruddy cheek of the painting. “What did your father tell you about her?”

Phillip looked up and down the corridor and then leaned in
to whisper, “I know who she is—and
where
she is.”

King Tyr nodded. “Good,” he said as he traced the fine line
of her jaw and whispered, “Grayle, your king seeks entry.”

The painting shimmered and dissolved under his fingertips,
revealing a heavy wooden door. King Tyr lifted the door latch, and the door
opened inward. A musty burst of stale air puffed out, and King Tyr lifted his
sleeve to cover his nose before gesturing Phillip inside. “The mirror,” he said
through the cloth. “Press the third stud from the top right, then the seventh
stud down on the left. Then press both of the middle studs at the same time.”

Phillip made his way across the dusty, cobwebbed room and
did as instructed. A moment later, the mirror pivoted toward him, revealing a
dark, narrow stairwell leading down. He took a step inside, but King Tyr
called, “Not now,” and gestured for him to return. Once he was back in the
hallway, King Tyr pulled the door closed and said, “Farewell, Grayle.” The painting
coalesced to stand guard once more. “It’s a simple illusion,” he muttered.
“Aside from the wizard who spun it and myself, you are the only one who knows
the words of entry.”

“I shall guard them with my life,” Phillip said.

King Tyr shrugged. “It is of no import at the moment,” he
said, reaching up to caress her cheek again. “Grayle, your king seeks entry,”
he said, and the painting disappeared again. “While I bathe, I want you to
supervise the cleansing of this room. Be thorough.”

“Of course, Sire,” Phillip said. “I will send for the
servants at once.” He turned to comply, but King Tyr put his hand on his
shoulder to stop him.

“Phillip,” he said. “No one is to know of the words of entry
or the mirror’s secret. After the others have finished cleansing this room,
send them away and clean the passage beyond the mirror yourself. You will need
six torches to light the way.” He paused and lowered his hand. “When you
finish—or if you find Grayle—attend me at once.”

“Yes, Sire,” Phillip said. “Will there be anything else?”

King Tyr lowered his hand and said, “Close the mirror before
you go. It will click when it locks into place.” He turned away and offhandedly
added, “It wouldn’t do to have to replace the cleaning wenches.

King Tyr sighed as he walked quickly to his bathing chamber.
He had half-hoped to see Grayle prancing around in her chambers like she had
done so often when she was still living in them, but she hadn’t come up through
the secret tunnel. But then,
he
wouldn’t have either, with all the dust
and cobwebs in it. He hurried more quickly down the corridor and brushed
imaginary cobwebs from his sleeve. At least his bath was ready.