Angst (Book 4) (30 page)

11

King Tyr stared at the books in dismay. The only reference
to Symptata had been in King Cyr’s journal, and it had been a cryptic one at
that. None of his other ancestors had mentioned him or the Gem of
Transformation. Even his search of the index of the forbidden texts had proven
to be futile. It had no references listed for Symptata, the Gem of
Transformation, or The Golden Key. That didn’t mean there wasn’t any mention of
them in the books, themselves, but if they did mention them, those references
hadn’t been indexed. It would be an incredibly daft oversight, but it could
have happened.
He
wouldn’t make that mistake, though; he had already
written down a lengthy passage about his experience in his own journal, and it
had helped him to focus on what he needed to do. Unfortunately, for the moment,
all he could do was wait.

Iscara had been gone more than a day, and that did not bode
well for her. He hadn’t given up hope, yet, though; Grayle had described her as
resourceful and self-serving. Still, her absence did not sit well with him. If
he were Symptata—and the brief contact he had had with the foul wizard had
given him a strong impression of what he was like—he would have listened to
Iscara and then killed her. He wouldn’t have done it because he
needed
to kill her; he would have done it because he
wanted
to kill her. There
was something infernally evil about the mind he had touched, and it was mixed
with a kind of calculated insanity that was capable of anything. Fortunately,
Symptata hadn’t come out of Argyle’s lair, presumably because Argyle wouldn’t
fit through any of the tunnels. Even more fortunate for King Tyr, no one else
wanted to go down into them. Captain Blanchard’s men would have noticed if they
had, and the good Captain would have reported it to him at once. But he also hadn’t
seen Captain Blanchard in more than a day, not even for an update on the
preparations he was undertaking to deal with Argyle—
Symptata
—if he
should find a way out of his dungeon.

Rascal hadn’t come back, either, and Captain Blanchard’s men
hadn’t seen him since he had reported the strange apparition in Argyle’s
dungeon. Perhaps he was too afraid to go down there? King Tyr wouldn’t put it
past the scoundrel, but he had given him an order and a promise of payment.
Usually, that was enough. Still, if he didn’t hear from him soon, he would have
to send Captain Blanchard after him again.
That
he would listen to.

Then there was Grand Master Thom. The fiend still had not
responded to his urgent summons, and he was growing weary of waiting. The Grand
Master should know it was important, since he never summoned the man without
good reason. Still, the Grand Master had his own concerns, didn’t he? Someone
had taken The Tiger’s Eye and it was probably causing all kinds of havoc on the
nexus network—or so the Grand Master had led him to believe it would. Perhaps
it was worse than that? Still, the Grand Master should have sent
someone
to tell him he couldn’t come.

And what about The Tiger’s Eye? He had done what the Grand
Master had asked him to by recalling all of his troops from The Tween, and he
had even had Captain Blanchard stir up the garrison stationed at Hellsbreath.
“Tell them to prepare for an evacuation scenario,” he had told him. “Have them
run through drills as if the mountains around them were exploding and the dome
had failed.” It was a useful exercise, especially since the mountains were
about to do just that—according to Grand Master Thom—and the dome could easily
fail if Hellsbreath’s nexus was disrupted. There was one thing he had been able
to do about The Tiger’s Eye, and that was to send Angus after it. It was Angus’s
fault The Tiger’s Eye was taken, wasn’t it? Besides, if Angus failed to return
it, then he would be dead. If he was dead, it would be one less problem for
King Tyr to worry about. If he succeeded, then that would be the end of it for
him, and he would order Grayle not to seek vengeance against Angus. A reward,
of sorts, that was only half-deserved. It was unfortunate that Hobart’s Banner
had to be sacrificed along with him, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t order
Angus to go after it by himself, could he? That would be suspicious. But
ordering
the Banner
to do it made perfect sense. It was the kind of
mission well-suited for a Banner, wasn’t it?

Then there was Grayle. Word was already circulating through
the castle that something was going on in her rooms, and that had rekindled the
old rumors about her death being faked. And why not? What other reason could
there be for having guards posted outside her rooms? One of them almost
certainly had said something already, and if they hadn’t, the servant or healer
had. It was bound to have happened when so many people knew the truth, but he
wasn’t prepared to face the consequences of that truth yet. Still, he was the
king, and as the king, his command was law. None of the ones who would
challenge him would do so openly—at least until Grayle made her appearance and
turned the rumors into truth.
If
she reappeared. She hadn’t left her
rooms since showing Captain Blanchard where all of Argyle’s exits were located.
She said it was because she wanted to be there if Argyle sent for her, but he
suspected there was more to it than that. He frowned. There was something
dreadfully wrong with Grayle. First she protests against hosting Argyle, and
then she acts as if he’s her lover.
She has spent too much time as his host,
he thought with distress.
She doesn’t know how to be herself anymore.

Phillip walked into his chambers and said, “Sire, Captain
Blanchard seeks an audience.”

King Tyr looked up at Phillip. It was hard to believe that
he had been on the verge of death but a day ago, and now he looked as if
nothing had happened. But he didn’t act that way. He wasn’t as deferential as
he had been. It was as if he knew something that he could use against the king,
and he thought it gave him power. Perhaps he did, but if he ever made the
mistake of exercising that power…

“Very well,” King Tyr said. “I shall speak with him
momentarily.”

“Yes, Sire,” Phillip said. There was a brief delay, as if he
was reluctant to do it, and then he bowed and turned away. Perhaps he would
have to do something about Phillip after all? He shook his head. Not now; there
were too many other things to deal with. He didn’t have time to train a new
manservant.

He stood up and walked out of his private bedroom and into
his sitting room. Captain Blanchard was standing at attention with his cap
draped over his forearm. “Sire,” he said. “I have news.”

“What news?” he asked. “Has the Grand Master finally decided
to meet with me?”

“No, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied. “I have news of the
fishmen. The patrol we sent to The Lake of Scales has returned to Hellsbreath.
They have confirmed that the fishmen are at the lake’s western shore. Thousands
of them, by their estimation. The dwarves must have helped them get there through
their tunnels, the way Angus said they did.”

“Indeed,” King Tyr said. “That is welcome news. I assume you
have carried out my orders?”

“Sire?” Captain Blanchard asked.

“The redeployment of troops, Captain,” King Tyr said. “Bring
the army from The Borderlands south to the main road to Wyrmwood. They are to
converge on the village of Neem, and once they have assembled there, they are
to prepare to march for Hellsbreath. I intend to send them to The Lake of
Scales. I want those fishmen dead.”

Captain Blanchard hesitated, then asked, “Are you certain
you want to do that, Sire? It will leave The Borderlands defenseless.”

“Defenseless against what?” King Tyr mused. “The fishmen are
no longer there.”

“Something else is there, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said.
“And as long as the fishmen stay at The Lake of Scales, they are no longer a
threat to us.”

King Tyr smiled, a cold, ruthless smile. “I will not allow
the fishmen to return, Captain,” he told him. “Hellsbreath is not far from that
lake, and I will not leave that city vulnerable to an attack.”
Especially in
these circumstances,
he thought.

“Sire—”

“You have your orders, Captain,” King Tyr said in his most
dismissive tone. “The troops in The Borderlands are to head south to the main
road, and when they reach it they are to proceed to Neem. Is that understood?”

Captain Blanchard frowned, nodded, and said, “Yes, Sire. I
will see to it at once.”

“A moment,” King Tyr said. “I want you to remind the Grand
Master that I am in urgent need of his assistance. Tell him there is a dragon
beneath the castle that needs to be slain.”
That ought to encourage him to
make the time to come to the castle. If not, I will make it an order. Even he
would have to obey me then.

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. He hesitated for a
moment and then pivoted on his heel and hurried out the door.

After he was gone, King Tyr wondered if the Captain was
right. With all the things that were happening, could he afford to risk leaving
The Borderlands unprotected? But then, Captain Blanchard didn’t know what his
real plans were—and
couldn’t
know them until it was time to put them
into action. It would not do to have them disclosed prematurely, before the
real enemy approached Tyrag from the north. He didn’t know who that enemy was,
but they were a cunning one, and he had to be equally cunning in drawing them
out. But who were they? Would the mission through the Death Swamps return with
the information he needed about them before they attacked? Would they come out
of the shadows when his troops left, like he hoped they would? Or would they
know it was a trap? He sighed. They were a patient enemy, one he respected, but
who were they?

12

“Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight, you say?” mused the young
wizard at the Wizards’ School’s gate. “I thought you SOPS were all dead.”

Taro scowled at the blurry young man in a dark orange,
almost brown blob of a robe. “We are not dead,” he protested, trying to keep
the scorn from clouding his words. “There are a few of us left,” he asserted,
standing as tall and straight as his bum knee and walking stick could manage.
“We are
Seers
, not
SOPS
,” he added for good measure. “I have had
true
visions, not the nonsense your diviners peddle.”

The young man smiled and his voice was pleasant enough as he
said, “So you say. What is your business here?”

“I seek a wizard,” Taro said, nodding vigorously.

The young man waited for a few seconds, and then said, “This
is a Wizards’ School. There are many wizards here. Does the wizard you seek
have a name?”

“Of course,” Taro scoffed. He closed his eyes and brought
the resilient image from his vision into focus. “His name is Angus, and he
wears a black robe. He may have—”

“
That
wizard?” the gatekeeper said with alarm. His
tone suddenly grew more serious as he asked, “What business do you have with
him?”

Taro opened his eyes and scowled again. “That is between him
and me,” he declared.

“Now, Master Taro,” Abner said from too close beside him.
“There’s no need for you to be surly.” He turned to the gatekeeper and said,
“Master Taro has received visions related to this wizard and wishes to impart
the information in them to him. What he has seen is of great import to this
wizard, this city, and all the lands about them.”

Taro glare at Abner and grumbled, “I was getting to that!”

Abner bowed his head, but before he could speak, the
gatekeeper said, “Perhaps you should speak with the Grand Master?”

“Oh?” Taro asked, a sudden burst of hope reviving his
spirits. “Is he Angus?”

“No,” the gatekeeper said, shaking his head. “But he can
speak to you about him.”

Taro shook his head. “I need to speak to Angus, not about
him.”

“Angus is no longer here,” the gatekeeper said, looking
uncomfortably at the western skies. “He left two days ago.”

Taro frowned. He had expected Angus to be at the Wizards’
School, especially after seeing its spire from the top of Hellsbreath’s wall.
“Where did he go?” he asked.

The gatekeeper shook his head. “I do not know,” he admitted,
“but the Grand Master might. I will take you to him.” He gestured toward the
tower and waited.

Taro looked up the side of the tower and shook his head. “I
am old and feeble,” he stated. “I
am not
climbing around in that tower.
If the Grand Master wishes to see me, he can come here. Otherwise, I will be
leaving.”

The gatekeeper frowned, nodded, and gestured toward a bench
just outside the gate. “If you would care to wait, I will send word to him. I
am sure he will accommodate you when he can find the time, but he is quite
busy.”

Taro scowled at the bench. It was made from stone and looked
about as uncomfortable as it was sturdy. He turned to Abner and said, “He left
through the north gate. We will go there.” Then he turned back to the
gatekeeper and added, “The Grand Master can find us there until the lift
lowers.” He hobbled the short distance back to the mule cart and held his arm
out for Abner’s assistance getting up onto it. Once seated, they turned around
and plodded north.

“How do you know that Angus went north?” Abner asked. “Did
you have a vision?”

“Ha!” Taro laughed. “If he had gone south, we would have
seen him on the south road.”

Abner nodded.

Almost two hours passed while they made their way through
the streets and up the long ramp to The Rim—that’s what they called the top of
the wall surrounding Hellsbreath—and when they reached the lift area, the Grand
Master was waiting for them.

“Master Taro?” a young man in a dark blue robe asked as he
approached them. “I am glad to have caught you before you left.”

“And you are?” Taro demanded.

“Forgive me,” the man said with a slight bow. “I am Grand
Master Fredrick.”

Taro’s eyes narrowed as he squinted at the young man. “You
are too young to be the Grand Master,” he declared.

Grand Master Fredrick smiled and shook his head. “No,” he
protested. “I only appear much younger than I actually am. There was a bit of a
mishap with a spell when I was—” he paused, shook his head, and pointed at his
face “—this young. But it is of no consequence.”

Taro shrugged. What was it to him how young the Grand Master
looked? What mattered was what the Grand Master
knew
. “I am told that
you know where Angus went,” he said. “I would go after him.”

The Grand Master looked around them, then gestured at the
narrow seat of the mule cart and asked, “May I join you?”

Taro considered it for a few seconds, and then reluctantly
turned to Abner. “Why don’t you go tell that scribe we’re leaving?”

Abner looked at him, shrugged, and then stepped down from
the mule cart. As soon as he was down, the Grand Master climbed up and sat down
beside Taro.

“Tell me, Master Taro,” the Grand Master said. “Is it true
that you have had visions? It is somewhat difficult to believe after all this
time that your order has been revived.”

Taro met the young man’s gaze and found the eyes of a much
older, much wiser, much more intelligent man behind it. He nodded. “Yes,” he
said. “The first was when I was but a young man, but the rest—” he sighed and
shook his head “—they began just over a month ago. I have been pursuing them
ever since.”

“What do you see in these visions?” the Grand Master asked.

Taro turned away and didn’t answer. “Do you know where Angus
went?” he demanded.

The Grand Master thought for a long moment, and then nodded.
“In general terms, yes.”

“I must find him,” Taro urged. “This land is in grave danger,
and its survival will depend upon him.” He frowned. “Or its destruction. I am
not sure which.”

“Perhaps it is both,” the Grand Master said.

Taro shrugged. “I don’t know. I only see what I see. Its
meaning escapes me.”

“If you tell me of these visions,” the Grand Master said, “I
may be able to assist you in their interpretation.”

Taro nodded. It would be good to have someone ask him
questions about his visions again. The ones Hobart had asked him had helped him
to understand a little bit more about what the visions were trying to tell him,
and maybe the Grand Master would guide him to even more insights. He started
with the vision where Angus was surrounded by fire because that seemed to be
the one he was supposed to start with, and a worried look gobbled up the
young-looking Grand Master’s face.

“That is a most troubling vision, Master Taro,” Grand Master
Fredrick said. “Do you know where this land of fire is located?”

Taro shrugged and said, “In the mountains.”

“Mountains like the ones near here?” the Grand Master asked.
“Granite behemoths that bulge up from the land like gigantic teeth?”

Taro shrugged again. “Probably,” he said. “The vision
doesn’t have the mountains in focus, but the burning land is ringed by them.”

“Is there a river?” the Grand Master asked.

Taro closed his eyes to focus on his memory of the vision,
then shrugged again. “I don’t see one.”

“Trees?”

“Oh,” Taro said at once. “There used to be some, but they
burned up.” Why hadn’t he noticed that before? The charred stalks of the trees
were still there, and some of them were still burning. He had been so obsessed
with the wizard and the fire that he hadn’t even thought about what was
burning.

“Is the land flat or tilted like the slope of a mountain?”

“Flat,” Taro said at once. “Is that important?”

“Yes,” the Grand Master replied. “In your vision, Angus is
on a forested plateau. I believe I know which one it is. It is several days
north and west of Hellsbreath. There is an old road through the mountains that
will take you there. Angus spoke of it before he left.” He shifted his body and
leaned out of the mule cart and looked to the west. “There may still be time to
catch him,” he muttered. “There isn’t much smoke, yet.”

Taro brightened. Was it possible? Could he actually get
there before his vision came true? Would he be able to tell Angus what he
needed to tell him in time for what he told him to matter? Then he glared at
the mule and shook his head. The stupid beast was too slow. If it hadn’t been,
he would have gotten to Hellsbreath
before
Angus had left the city. No,
that wasn’t true, was it? If he hadn’t waited for Hobart, he would have gotten
to Hellsbreath three days earlier, and Angus would have been here. But his
vision had held him there, and the delay—

“What other visions have you had of him?” the Grand Master
asked.

“Boring ones, mostly,” Taro offhandedly replied. He took a
deep breath and leaned back. “There was one….”