Angst (Book 4) (35 page)

2

“Sire,” Phillip said as he hurried into King Tyr’s private
bedroom. “The Grand Master has arrived. He is waiting for you in your dining
chamber. Shall I bring wine?”

King Tyr frowned. The Grand Master had kept him waiting for
more than two days and then shows up just as he is preparing for bed. It was
already well past dark, and he had had another long day. “All right, Phillip,
but not the wine from my private supplies. Bring one of the better vintages
that we serve at banquets. Give me a few minutes and then show him to my
private study.”

“Yes, Sire,” Phillip said as he nodded and turned to leave.

After he had gone, King Tyr sat down on the edge of his bed
and composed himself. He needed a clear head to present his arguments to the
Grand Master, and the hectic events of the past two days had left him
exhausted. After a few seconds, he stretched, stood up, and briskly walked
around his room, thinking about what he would say. When he felt energized
enough for the confrontation, he stopped, stretched again, and slipped into the
robe he wore for his late-night engagements. Once he was satisfied with its
placement on his shoulders and the tightness of the sash, he walked over to the
door of his study, opened it, and frowned. Even though it had been two days
since his confrontation with Symptata, he still had not found the time to tidy
it up. King Cyr’s journal and the box with the Gem of Transformation in it were
still sitting on the table where he had left them after Iscara had healed his
hand. The Grand Master was standing at that table with his back to him.

“Grand Master Thom,” King Tyr said as he stepped inside the
room and calmly strode over to the table. The Grand Master was preoccupied with
King Cyr’s journal and didn’t bother to acknowledge him. King Tyr frowned; he
had left the journal open to the passage about Symptata and the Gem of
Transformation, and since that was what he wanted to discuss with the Grand
Master, he waited until he had finished reading it.

“Most interesting,” Grand Master Thom murmured. Then he
looked up and saw the king. “Sire,” he acknowledged as he straightened up. “You
have need of my assistance?”

King Tyr reluctantly tapped the journal. “What do you know
of this Symptata?” he asked.

Grand Master Thom shrugged. “Only what I have read here,” he
admitted. “It is strange that I know nothing more than that, since few wizards
of such power are unknown to me.”

“The Wizards’ School has records, does it not?” King Tyr
asked.

“Yes,” the Grand Master said. “I reviewed most of them as
part of my preparation to become Grand Master.”

“Good,” King Tyr said. “I would like you to search through
them. We need to learn as much as we can about Symptata before we engage him.
He has wrested control of Argyle from us.”

The Grand Master frowned and glanced down at the book again.
“I have always known that you held sway over Argyle—my predecessor informed me
of it—but I did not know how you achieved it. This Gem of Transformation allows
you to control him?”

King Tyr did not like to provide the Grand Master with
information; he was too crafty with it. But what choice did he have? Symptata
was a wizard, and they had to deal with him. The best way to do that was with
powerful magic of their own. The most powerful wizard in Tyrag was the Grand
Master, and he could draw upon the unparalleled resources of Tyrag’s Wizards’
School. He would need him if a battle became necessary, and as Symptata’s silence
lengthened, that battle was becoming more and more likely. Especially since
neither Iscara nor Rascal had returned.

“Yes,” King Tyr admitted. “My line has used it for centuries
to build Argyle’s organization and keep it under our control. But Symptata has
returned. He used the master gem to take control of Argyle when I tried to host
him.”

“May I see the stone?” the Grand Master asked. “It will help
me understand Symptata’s magic.”

King Tyr did not want to show the Gem of Transformation to
the Grand Master, but if the wizard was to prepare for a confrontation with
Symptata, he would need to know what he was about to face. He reluctantly
nodded and reached for the box. The lid was closed, and the little gold key was
still in its lock. He turned the key, lifted the lid, and turned the box so the
Grand Master could see the gem resting in it.

The Grand Master’s eyes grew distant as he reached out for
it, but the king pulled the box away from his hand and closed the lid. “All but
the royal family are forbidden to touch it,” he said. It wasn’t true, of
course; anyone who wanted to use it could do so if they knew how it worked.
There had even been a few loyal servants who had hosted Argyle in the king’s
absence. “Even within the royal family, few know of its existence.”

“A wise precaution,” the Grand Master said. “How does it
work?”

King Tyr frowned. The secret of the Gem’s function was known
to only the king and the one who hosted Argyle. He had never disclosed it to
anyone else, and neither had any of his forebears. “That knowledge must be
safeguarded against ill use,” he said. “It is only shared with the host.”

The Grand Master frowned and started tapping the table with
his fingertips, but the pattern wasn’t as rhythmic as it normally was. It was
discordant—perhaps because of the inconsistent pauses between taps?—and that
bothered King Tyr. “If I am to assist you in this matter,” Grand Master Thom
began, “I must understand Symptata’s magic. I cannot counter the master gem’s
influence without knowing how the Gem of Transformation functions. It would be
best if I saw the spell in action.”

King Tyr knew the Grand Master was telling the truth, but he
couldn’t bring himself to disclose the secrets of the stone. It was bad enough
that the Grand Master knew about the king’s relationship with Argyle, and even
worse that he now knew the source of that influence. To tell him how it worked…

But it wasn’t working, was it? Symptata had seen to that,
and as long as Symptata was in control of Argyle the kingdom was in danger. He
needed to oust Symptata and break his link with Argyle. He could not do that
without the Grand Master, and if what the Grand Master said was true, then he
had little choice in the matter. He had to tell him. “Very well, Grand Master,”
he began. “It is very simple, actually.” He turned to the box and locked it.
“All that is necessary to summon Argyle when he is not present is to unlock the
box with this key—” he did so “—and pick up the Gem.” He reached into the box
and brought the gem out. “To end it—”

King Tyr gasped. There was a yellow haze covering
everything, and the room was getting smaller. It was like what Grayle said
would happen when—

His head struck the ceiling. He bent forward and dropped to
his knees.
Argyle!
King Tyr thought—

 His head struck the ceiling again, and he reflexively
lowered it.
If Argyle is here, then—

His shoulders struck the ceiling, and he felt a surge of
power rush through him as he pushed against it. There was a soft crunching
followed by a cascade of plaster flecks falling around him. He growled and
surged upward.
Symptata!

He heard the heavy snap of a wooden beam and felt the
ceiling give way. Bits of it fell around him as if he were shedding. The growl
deepened in his throat, and—

Argyle slammed his fist knuckle-deep into the floor, and his
growl turned into a slow, guttural howl as Argyle tried to stand—

Argyle!
King Tyr shouted in his mind.
Be still!
He focused on exerting his will the way Grayle had told him to do, but it
didn’t work. Argyle angrily pushed him away and braced himself. His back was
against the ceiling, and he pushed, lifting it higher.

Stop!
King Tyr shouted again, trying to bend Argyle’s
knees.

Bits of the crumbling ceiling slid from his shoulders and
back—and then his knees buckled.

“SYMPTATA!”
Argyle bellowed, his booming voice
careening through the small chamber like the echo of a thunderclap.

King Tyr clamped down on his jaw and frantically thought,
It’s
me, Argyle! King Tyr! Calm down! You’re making a mess of my study!

SYMPTATA!
Argyle thought back at him with such
hostility that King Tyr cringed. Then Argyle’s fury eased up enough for King
Tyr to lower his body to his hands and knees.

Debris fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. He breathed it
in and—

“Sire!” Phillip frantically called.

“Sire!” Captain Blanchard shouted.

—King Tyr sneezed with such force that his forehead struck
the carpeted floor.

“Fetch the men!” Captain Blanchard shouted. “The incursion
is here!”

“Sire?” the Grand Master said into his left ear. His voice
was calm, and it brought a sense of steadiness with it. “Is this how the
transformation always happens?”

“Where’s the box?” King Tyr grumbled through Argyle’s
massive maw. He looked under his belly for it, but the table had been smashed
under his knee. He propped himself up with his arms, but he still couldn’t see
it. He tried to move, but Argyle was too massive to maneuver effectively. At
least Argyle wasn’t fighting against his control anymore. “I need the box!”

Where am I?
Argyle demanded.

In my study,
King Tyr replied.
Help me find the
box. You can’t fit into this room. I have to transform back into myself.

Argyle shifted his body around, pawing at the debris beneath
him.

Is Symptata with you?
King Tyr asked as Argyle easily
shoved aside a slab of plaster.

There was a long pause before Argyle answered.
I do not
sense him,
he thought back.
He may return.

“Most interesting,” the Grand Master said in his ear. “The
transformation is not merely an illusion; it has form and substance. Yet, you
are still there, in the core of Argyle’s mass. The complexity of the
interconnectedness of the magic within each of you is astonishing!”

This isn’t working,
King Tyr thought.
We need help
finding it.
He turned Argyle’s head to the left and said, “Grand Master. I
need you to find the box for me. I will also need the key and the Gem of
Transformation.”

The Grand Master frowned and looked under Argyle’s bulk.

“Yes,” King Tyr said. “You need to crawl under me to find
them. I am too bulky to find it myself. ”

The Grand Master nodded, crouched, and warily stepped
forward to duck under his chest. He had only begun to rummage around in the
debris when Captain Blanchard and his men burst into the study with their
swords drawn. They plunged forward before King Tyr—or Argyle—could react, and a
handful of blades plunged into his shoulder and side.

Argyle howled and waved his arm in a wide arc that sent
Captain Blanchard and two of his men into the wall. They struck with a thud and
slid down to the floor. Only Captain Blanchard managed to remain conscious. He
feebly tried to hold his sword up in an effort to defend himself. The rest of
his men scampered back from Argyle as he threatened to make another swipe. They
regrouped quickly and spread out in an arc around him. As one end of the group
feinted, the rest waited for him to swing at them and then ran in to poke their
swords into him. They ducked and retreated before he could swat them away.

“Hold!” King Tyr cried, expecting them to obey him. But they
didn’t; they lunged forward and slashed at him again. “Hold!” he shouted again.
“I am your king, you fools!”

They retreated and prepared to attack again, but they held
back long enough for King Tyr to say, “Captain Blanchard, will you please call
off your men?”

A few of the men turned toward Captain Blanchard and waited
for his response. He didn’t make one right away, and when he did, his voice was
shaky, “If you are the king, then tell me my son’s name.”

King Tyr—Argyle—scowled and rumbled, “How would I know that?
We’ve never talked about your family.” He seldom asked about his subject’s
personal lives; he always had more important matters that required his
attention. Besides, his subjects were only tools to be used for the good of the
kingdom, and it was better not to think of them as people with families.

Captain Blanchard nodded and weakly asked, “What must your
visitors do when they come to see you in your private quarters?”

“Bathe, of course,” he replied.

Captain Blanchard nodded again before continuing gasping,
“Who were you with when I interrupted you—”

“Rascal, you fool,” King Tyr growled. Blood flowed freely
from his side and arms, and the pain was beginning to register.

“It is the king,” Captain Blanchard said, giving him a weak
salute from where he slumped against the wall. “How may we assist you?”

“Bring a healer,” King Tyr said at once. “And help the Grand
Master. I may have injured him.”

Captain Blanchard waved toward his men but said nothing.

“Tell them to hurry,” the king added. There was already a
bit of a slur in his voice, and he was feeling light-headed. He sagged and felt
something squirming out from beneath him. It was the Grand Master, and he held
the box in one hand and the Gem of Transformation in the other. He gasped, “You
found them.”

“Yes,” the Grand Master said. “What must I do?”

“Put the Gem in the box and lock it.” His breath was
shallow, and he sagged to the floor. “Set the box near my hand.” He was having
difficulty seeing, and the pain in his side was mind-numbing.

The Grand Master locked the box and set it down. “What
next?” he asked with some urgency.

King Tyr fumbled for the key with his right hand, but his
left arm gave out and he collapsed onto the floor. His fingers weren’t working
properly. His vision was blurry. His breath came in strangled little puffs. He
reached for the key again.