Angst (Book 4) (9 page)

19

The lead Ortis reined in his horse and held up his hand. As
they approached him, the Ortis next to Hobart said, “There is an old man and
boy in a mule cart at the crossroads. They have been sitting there for some
time. It could be a trap.”

“I don’t see how,” Hobart retorted. “Bandits would know
better than to set up an ambush there. You can see it coming for a mile in
every direction. They can’t hide between the crossroads and the caravan stop;
it’s been stripped of trees. They can’t come up from the valley, either; the
slope is too steep for climbing. They might come from the trees to the east,
but they’re too thick and we’d hear them long before they reached us.”

Dagremon lifted her staff and the orange gem glowed fiercely
for a few seconds. When she lowered it again, she asserted with calm certainty,
“They are alone.”

“Why wait, then?” Ortis asked.

“Is their mule cart damaged?” Hobart asked. “If it has
broken down, we may be able to assist them.”

Ortis’s eyes grew a bit distant for a few seconds as he
talked to himself, and then he said, “I see nothing wrong with the cart or
mule—unless the mule is being stubborn. Also, except for the old man’s staff,
they do not appear to be armed.”

“Not armed?” Hobart repeated, glancing at Dagremon’s staff.
“Who would travel through these lands without some means of defending
themselves?”

“The old man could be a wizard,” Ortis suggested, “or a holy
man. He may not need other weapons.”

“No sense in tarrying any longer, then,” Hobart said as he
urged Leslie to a quick walk. There was no sense in putting off the encounter.
If the old man meant them harm, they were as ready for it as they could be. If
not, there was no reason to delay. They had to pass the crossroads on their way
to Hellsbreath, and he wasn’t going to hide in the bushes to avoid an old man
and boy.

Two Ortis fell in behind him, and Hobart quickly passed the
third, who joined his other selves. Dagremon lingered a few horse lengths
behind them, as if she were the rear guard instead of a traveler under their
protection.

Hobart approached the crossroads as if it were his own and
only tugged on the reins when he was a few yards from it. Ortis was right about
the old man; he was muttering to himself like one touched by the gods. The
young boy—almost a man, really—pointed at Hobart. The old man reached up and
pushed his oversized cloak’s hood back, and a tangle of long gray hair puffed
out on the wind. There were age spots on his gnarled hands, and he sat with his
right leg thrust out straight.
Bum knee
, Hobart thought,
like Old
Yaggith. Watch the staff—and the young man.

He rode up to the front of the mule cart and reached up to
take off his helmet. He squinted against the brightness of the sun and said,
“Well met, Old Man.” It was foolish to let them catch him with the sun in his
eyes, but there was no avoiding it now. The best he could do was to turn Leslie
to help reduce the glare.

“Well met, Hobart,” the old man said, just before he
screeched like an old crone and fell forward. He might have fallen out of the
mule cart altogether if it weren’t for the boy catching hold of his cloak and
holding him in his seat. Hobart urged Leslie up beside them, where the sun was
to his side, and gave what little help he could while staying in the saddle. If
this were a ruse, he wanted to be ready to ride out of it if need be.

The old man turned to face him, and his eyes were wide open,
staring blankly up at him—
through him
. His mouth hung slack, and he was
panting like a dog—but instead of yapping, he was snapping off disconnected
words, “—sea—tomb—fire—water—air—death—SYMPTATAAAA.” The last morphed into a
scream, and then the old man fell slack in the boy’s arms, shuddered, and grew
still.

Dagremon rode quietly up to him and leapt gracefully from
her pony to the mule cart. Her hands were swift as they examined him, and then
she shook her head and leapt back to her pony. “He will recover,” she said,
mostly for the boy’s benefit. “Has he had many visions?”

“He is Master Taro, the Great Elder of The Sacred Order of
Prophetic Sight,” the boy said, as if it were an answer to her question. He
turned to Hobart and added, “He has been waiting for you, Hobart.”

Hobart frowned. What business could this Great Elder have
with him? For that matter, what was this Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight? In
all his travels—which were wide and quite diverse—he had never heard of such an
order, so how could he have crossed them? And what were these visions that
Dagremon mentioned? Were they like the spells diviners cast? If they were, they
were pretty much a waste of time, weren’t they? “What business does he have
with me?” Hobart asked.

“I do not know,” the boy said as he looked down at the old
man leaning limply against him. “I only know that he has been waiting for you
to arrive.” He looked up hopefully and asked, “Do you not know?”

Hobart shook his head. He didn’t put much stock in diviners.
They didn’t know enough about the future to make it make sense, and he
preferred to be in the dark about such things, anyway. He was a firm believer
of the old adage that a man who believes he is about to die will find a way to
make it happen. He’d seen it too many times in The Borderlands to dismiss it.
He had even seen men fight through a battle only to choke on a bone or drink
themselves to death afterward. No, there was no room in his life for seers. He
shook his head and looked to the north. “We should be on our way,” he said to
the others.

“We should stay,” Dagremon responded without looking at him.
“I fear he has much to tell us that we need to hear.”

Hobart turned to stare at her. “Why?” he demanded. “What
good are diviner’s spells, anyway?”

Dagremon met his stare with one of her own and said, “He is
no diviner. He is a Seer, one of old, and his presence bespeaks the change that
has come upon us.”

“What change?” Hobart demanded. “You’re speaking in
riddles.”

“No,” Dagremon answered. “It is you who hears them.” She
dismissed Hobart and turned back to the boy. “What is your name, young one?”

“I am called Abner,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter as
he cradled the old man’s head on his lap.

“Well met, Abner,” Dagremon said with a slight bow. “What
can you tell me of this Taro?”

Abner shrugged. “He came to our village a month past and
spoke of doom and destruction. I was not there to listen, but what he said
sorely touched those who heard him, my father among them. I was sent to aid him
on his quest.” He faced north and added, “He said we needed to reach
Hellsbreath quickly, but we have tarried here for three days.” He turned his
attention to Hobart. “He has been waiting for you, Hobart. He saw you in a
vision.”

“Tell me, Abner,” Dagremon continued before Hobart could
respond. “What awaits you in Hellsbreath?”

Abner shrugged. “I was not one he gifted with the visions,”
he said. “Perhaps it is for the best? Those who were act like they are running
from demons. I only know what he has told me, and that has been little. He
seeks a wizard there. Whether that wizard is the source of the upheaval he
dreads or the end of it, he does not know.”

Upheaval? Wizard? What is this nonsense?
Hobart
wondered.

“Indeed,” Dagremon replied. “Such is the nature of visions,
is it not?”

Abner smiled sheepishly and said, “He curses them no end,
let me tell you. I have never heard such language from one of his years.”

“This wizard,” Dagremon asked, “did Taro mention his name?”

“Oh, yes,” Abner said, nodding vigorously. “He speaks it
often, especially when he dreams. His name is Angus, and he wears a black robe.
Flames are all around him, but he doesn’t know why.”

Angus!
Hobart thought.
What does Angus have to do
with his visions?
“All right,” he said. “We will stay with you until he
rouses. Then he will tell us what he knows.”
Everything
he knows
,
Hobart vowed to himself.
Whether he wishes to do so or not.

20

Grayle was tempted to take another bath—her sixth in two
days—but restrained herself. Instead, she walked around her old rooms sorting
through her things to make sure they were all there. Some of it—a comb, a
brush, her favorite gown and shoes—were missing, but she was too thrilled to be
rid of Argyle to be worried about them—for now. There would be time for
punishing the thieves later.

She smiled at her bedding. It was a rich, plush fabric whose
surface felt like caterpillars rubbing against her skin. And the pillows!
Argyle had slept on rock, and these pillows were
soft
. She used to love
those pillows, but now she found herself sleeping on the cold floor beside her
bed. It was a dreadful thing, really. Her back didn’t take it very well at all,
and it had taken Phillip—her only visitor so far—nearly half an hour to work
out the kinks. But that was going to change, soon. Her uncle was coming to
visit her, and she would be dancing tonight! She smiled, a mischievous little
smile that showed only a little teeth as she dipped her chin forward to make
her look even tinier than she was. She would be doing more than just dancing….

Her uncle had ordered her to remain in her chambers until
they had talked, and that would be today. What did they have to talk about,
anyway? She was back, and she was going to resume her life like she always had
when Argyle went away. And she
wasn’t
going to be Argyle ever again! She
would tell her uncle that she had spent
three years
as Argyle without a
break, and now it was someone else’s turn. She had done her service to the
king, and she was
finished
. If he didn’t do what she told him, he would
regret it! Even kings had weaknesses, and she knew what his were.
All
of
them.

She frowned. Why did she think that? It wasn’t like her to
be so vicious, was it? Demanding, yes. Pouty, yes. Angry, yes. But not
mean
.
Her eyes widened. That was
Argyle
.
He
was vicious, cold….

The door to her rooms started to open, and she twisted
around and hurried up to it. She smoothed her dress and smiled. Her uncle—

Phillip squeezed through the door and quickly lowered his
gaze. “Milady Grayle,” he said as he bowed. “The king is delayed. He will
arrive within the hour.”

An hour!
Grayle glared at Phillip.
I could do so
many things in an hour!

“He begs for your patience,” Phillip said.

“Ha!” she snapped. “My uncle begs from no one.”

Phillip cringed, and hastened to say, “A poor choice of
words, Milady.”

“Indeed!” she said, whirling around and stomping over to the
bed. She twisted around and plopped down on the cushioned surface, thrust her
lower lip out as far as she could, and looked up at him through her wavy blonde
bangs. “How much longer must I stay cooped up in here?” she wailed. “I want to
see the sun! I want to smell the spring flowers!”

“They aren’t blooming yet, Milady,” Phillip offered.

Grayle glared at him until he squirmed, and then she began
to giggle. He was so
cute
when he didn’t know what to do—and she had an
hour. Perhaps—

“Milady,” Phillip said, his eyes lowered. “I have other
errands….”

“Errands!” Grayle screamed. She leapt to her feet and stomped
up to stand before him. “Is that what I am?” she demanded. “An
errand
?”

Phillip gulped, and said, “M-my apologies, M-milady. I chose
my words poorly.”

“Hmph,” she grumbled, setting her fists on her hips and
glaring at him.

“Milady,” Phillip bowed again. “I beg leave to excuse
myself….”

She whirled again and almost skipped to her bed. She sat
down amid a whirl of cushions and, as she began rearranging them in a more
suitable order, said, “Beg, then.”

“M-Milady?”

“You said you would beg,” she said, smiling as she looked at
him through one eye. “So beg.”

“Please, Milady,” Phillip begged. “I must do the king’s
bidding. Surely you can understand—”

Grayle shook her head. “You poor beggar,” she said,
giggling. “I could do better,” she added as she lay back and waved her hand
above her. “Go then, and tell my uncle my patience is dead. Argyle has killed
it.” She rolled over and stretched out.
She had an hour
….

She spent that hour rearranging the things in her rooms the
way
she
wanted them, not the way
Grayle
had kept them before. All
but three of the pillows were neatly arranged on the bed according to size
(barely discernible differences), color, and the softness of the nap of the
cloth. The other three were tossed haphazardly on the floor beside the bed.
Some of the bedding was spread out on the floor next to them, while the rest
was neatly arranged on the bed. Her toiletries were arranged alphabetically,
except for the brushes and combs, which she had set out backward. The clothes
were carefully organized in her closets, but a few purple gowns were thrown in
a pile on the floor. She had even cleaned the table—all but the stains from
wiping her mouth on the fine linen cloth covering it. The wine….

The next time she saw Phillip, she was going to have him
bring her some grog. It was a foul-tasting swill, but she had acquired a taste
for it over the past few years. The wine tasted fruity—too fruity for her liking.
Grog was better. Once she was satisfied, she went to stand in the precise spot
where her uncle would expect her to be when he arrived, and waited. Minutes
passed by as she counted them and focused on what she was going to do when he
let her out. The first would be Hedred’s son—Phillip had told her he hadn’t
been betrothed yet, thankfully—and then she would demand a feast fit for a
princess!

By the time the door opened, she was quite excited by the
prospects, and then her uncle stepped inside. He looked so
grim
that her
heart curdled in her chest.

“My dear Grayle,” King Tyr said as he stepped inside and
closed the door behind him. He smiled—a kindly smile that did not fill his
heart or eyes. His eyes were dark and haunted at the edges, and she knew he had
bad news to tell her. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it, but she did. She
had always been able to see past her uncle’s façade because she had constructed
one like it for herself. Only…

“Uncle,” she said, smiling as she curtseyed. “It has been
too long.”
By three years!

A touch of humor crept into his smile, and he nodded.
“Indeed,” he said.

“No matter,” she sidled up to him and took hold of his arm.
“I’m here now.”

King Tyr resisted being pulled out of the room. Instead, he
put his hand on hers and patted it. “My dear,” he began, “we must talk.”

“Of course,” she said. “But let’s do it in the gardens. I
haven’t been in the sunlight for
so long.
”

King Tyr gripped her hand tightly and pulled her back into
the room before she could make it through the door. “Not yet,” he said. “There
are some things you need to know first.” He paused and guided her to the table.
“For one thing, you’re dead.”

“What?” Grayle demanded.

King Tyr helped her into her seat and then sat down
precisely opposite her. His eyes fell to the grease spot on the linen as he
said, “When it became clear that you had lost the key, I made it known that you
were ill. It was a reasonable explanation for your absence, and the healers I
hired attested to it. As time went on, we hinted that you might die, and when
that story was no longer viable, you did.”

“But I’m not dead!” Grayle protested. “How could you tell
everyone I died?”

King Tyr’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, but his
voice was calm as he said, “There was a funeral. You were dressed in your
favorite gown, and hundreds came to bid you farewell.” He turned his gaze away
for a moment. “Your sudden return would undermine the lie that was so carefully
constructed to explain your absence.”

“I’m not dead!” Grayle protested, her arms flying about her.
“See?” she said, slapping her arms, her chest, her face. “I’m
alive.
”

“Don’t you think I know that?” King Tyr snapped. “But to
everyone else—except Phillip—you are dead. I
can’t
let you out until we
have an explanation the people will accept.” He paused meaningfully, and then
added in his sternest tone, “At the very least, you owe that to the one who
died in your stead.”

Grayle glared at him in defiance, and with an effort held
her tongue. A part of her found the idea of someone losing their life to
protect her—
their
—secret appalling, but most of her dismissed it as
irrelevant—no, as a
necessary
deception. So what if someone died for
her? A lot of others had died for her—because of her—over the past few years,
hadn’t they? What was one more? How could King Tyr—

“You were a fool, Grayle,” King Tyr snapped. “You should
never
have lost that key. How could you leave Typhus alone with it? Your dalliance
cost far more than what it was worth, and if you were
anyone
else, I
would not hesitate to punish you severely for it.”

Grayle continued to glare at him, but she knew better than
to snap off a retort she would later regret. He
was
the king, and she
was
in his castle, wasn’t she? If he were in
her
domain—

No. She was Grayle. She was not Argyle. She—

“Unfortunately,” King Tyr continued. “I need you.”

She folded her arms and looked down at the stain in the
linen.
Why didn’t I wash that out?
She shook her head and sucked in her
lips. She trembled as she thought,
How could I wipe my mouth on that?

“You must return.
Argyle
must return.”

She gasped and her head snapped up. “No!” she cried,
standing up and not caring that her seat fell backward. “I won’t do it! I’ve
been stuck with him
for three years
. I’ve had
enough
!”

“Sit down!” King Tyr roared.

Grayle’s hands shook as she glared at him until tears welled
up in her eyes. Then she slowly, casually, turned to pick up her chair and set
it an inch off-center. She did not look up as she sat down, and her shoulders
trembled as she fought the urge to scream at him.

“Now,” King Tyr said in a calm tone. “I am pleased that you
have been freed from your burden, but I need you to return to it. You have the
key, and if you safeguard it as you should, you will only need to host him for
a short time. But you
must
host him. The damage that you have done to
his organization over the past few years…” His eyes grew cold as he forced
himself to calm down. “You
wasted
so many men….”

Grayle lowered her eyes even further. He was right. So many
of her best men had met their end at Typhus’s hand, but how could she not
pursue him? She had to get the key back, and her uncle knew it. Surely—

“I understand why you did it,” he said in a kind tone, “but
the cost was great. Argyle’s organization is weak. He needs recruits. His most
trusted henchmen are dead.” He paused for a moment. “You will give a full
accounting of that to Phillip. I want to know
exactly
what led to the
loss of Pug and Sardach.
Exactly
. But I don’t have time to hear it at
the moment. There is much happening that you do not know about, and I need but
one answer from you for now. Was Angus the one who did it?”

“Angus!” Grayle screamed. “I’ll have his head for what he
did! He made Sardach kill Pug! Then he
freed
Sardach! I—”

The king held up his hand to stop her tirade, and then
continued in a sharp tone. “Tell Phillip. He will relay what I need to know.
For now, you must bring Argyle back. If he remains absent much longer, they
will think him dead. If they think him dead, others will vie for his position.
There will be great turmoil and—” he paused and looked meaningfully at the
stained linen “—disorder.”

Grayle fumed. If she could get her hands on Angus’s neck,
she’d wring it herself. She
loathed
the wizard and what he had done, but
there was nothing she could do about it herself. She would have to work through
other avenues, and one of them was King Tyr. Her voice shook with anger as she
offered, “If you have Angus killed, I will do it. If you do not, then I won’t.”

King Tyr scowled at her and said, “Leave Angus to me. I have
use of him.”

Grayle shook her head and said, “I won’t host Argyle, then.”
She rubbed at the stain with her fingers and added in a small voice, “He is so
hideous
.”

“Now, Grayle—”

“Milord King,” she said, despite it being a private
conversation. “I will not do it until after I have felt the sun on my face and
smelled the spring blossoms. Grant me at least that much.”

“My dear—”

“Please, uncle,” she begged, letting the tears spout from
her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like to be him. I just
can’t
do it
anymore.”

King Tyr studied her for several seconds, and then stood up
and walked to the door. “We will talk of this again,” he said as he looked
around the room. He frowned at the pile of clothes on the floor, the misplaced
pillows, the rumpled bedding. “After you have had a chance to recover.” He
turned to open the door and glanced back at her. “I will arrange for Phillip to
escort you outside for a short time tomorrow. Disguise yourself. You must not
be recognized. In the meantime, do not leave these rooms.” He quietly shut the
door and left.

Grayle stared after him, feeling the tears dripping from her
chin.