The Golden Key (Book 3) (23 page)

2

Angus lay still, fiercely focusing on the mantra to drive
the excruciating pain away. His shoulder was immobilized, and there was a splint
on his right arm, which helped, but something was dreadfully wrong with his
left foot. At least he could feel it again, but he wished he couldn’t.

He was drenched in a cold sweat that ran from him like the
trickle of a small stream.

He breathed softly and half-listened to what was going
around him. He didn’t respond to what he heard, though; he was too intent on
managing the pain with the mantra. Even when he heard about Hobart’s
difficulties, he didn’t pause in his internal recitation of the mantra.
Still
the mind. Still the body. Hobart’s been poisoned. Still the mind. He will live.
Still the body. Still the mind. Yffrim meat. Still the body. Tainted blood
….

After what seemed like hours, Angus finally opened his eyes
and saw a strange blue pall covering everything. He turned his head far enough
to the left and right to get a sense of where he was, and noticed the odd blue
ball of light beside him.
Lamplight
, he thought.
Still the mind.
Wrongly cast. Still the body.
There was something he needed to remember.
Still
the mind.

He was on the lift, and it was steadily rising. Hobart was
lying nearby, and Ortis was tending to him—or trying to; there was nothing he
could do for him. Yffrim poison was like that.

Angus lifted his left arm and slid it inside his robe to
probe his right shoulder. Chipped ice was packed around it, quickly melting
away, but underneath the ice was a tightly wrapped bandage. He frowned. Why had
they put ice on his shoulder? The robe made it pointless. Unless….

Angus closed his eyes and moved his hand down to the sash.
It was improperly tied. The knot was the key to the magic; when the sash was
tied properly, the knot activated the spells he had cast that would regulate
his internal temperature. If the sash was untied or tied wrongly, the robe
wouldn’t work properly. Whoever had tied this knot hadn’t done it quite right. It
wasn’t so wrong that the robe wasn’t working, but it needed to be adjusted. He
eased the knot free and opened the robe, making sure the ends of the sash
didn’t meet. Almost immediately, he was struck by the sudden, deep chill of the
ice. It had been a long time since he had felt such cold, and he would have
gasped if it weren’t for the mantra keeping his mind and body still.
There
has to be a reason for the ice,
Angus thought, as he let the cold seep into
him.

There was more ice on his left foot, its weight painfully pressing
down on it. The horrid throbbing in his ankle and foot gradually eased as the
heavy ice sapped the feeling from it. Minutes passed. The wretched pain eased
to a dull ache masked by a benumbing cold. It was a welcome cold; where there
was no ice, his skin was hot—too hot for the chill spring air. Sweat sprouted
on his forehead, and he was having difficulty focusing on the mantra.

Fever
, he thought with detachment.
Still the body.
Which is worse?
he wondered.
Still the mind. The pain? Still the body.
Or the oncoming swarm of delusions from an addled mind that cannot be stilled.
The disorientation grew, threatening to overcome him, and he reached for the
sash to tie it again. It was difficult to do with one hand, but at least it was
his left, the dominant hand, and he was growing accustomed to using it on its
own. When he finished, the feverish temperature rapidly declined and the chill
fled from him like smoke fleeing from a fire.

The pain returned.

He gasped.

His body tensed, but he made no effort to rise.

A moment later, Ortis was at his side with his hand on Angus’s
forehead. There was a strange blue sheen to the paleness of his white skin.
After a few seconds, Ortis lifted the robe and shook his head. “This ice
shouldn’t be melting this quickly,” he muttered.

“The robe,” Angus muttered, thrusting the pain from him as
best he could. His voice was weak, little more than a whisper of wind. “Why?”

Ortis met his gaze, and there was
almost
compassion
in the detached orange-tinted, owl-like eyes. They looked brown in the faint
blue glow. “How do you feel?”

With my fingers,
Angus thought before asking, “Why
the ice?”

Ortis frowned and said, “To reduce the swelling,” he said. Then
he paused a long moment before adding, “and to preserve the flesh.”

Angus frowned. It was a peculiar response. He knew ice would
reduce swelling, but what did Ortis mean by preserving the flesh? “How bad?” he
asked, his voice reluctantly escaping from his throat. Why was everything blue?
Had he suffered a head wound that he couldn’t remember? No, it was the miscast Lamplight
spell. Why couldn’t he remember that?

Ortis turned his gaze away to check under Angus’s robe
again. “The shoulder’s crushed,” he said, “and your arm was twisted. The elbow
will be useless for a long time, but it should heal eventually. The shoulder
probably won’t. The bones were shattered and we have no way of tending to them
until we get back to Hellsbreath.”

Angus had noted those injuries when he had first awoken, but
his left foot had been completely numb then and now it wasn’t.

Ortis moved lower and lifted the hem of his robe from his
left foot. “You’re going to lose the foot,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
It was merely a statement of fact and nothing else.

Angus frowned. “Why?”

Ortis gently replaced the robe and met his gaze again. “I
had hoped the ice would reduce the swelling and keep the flesh from rotting.
Your boot was on too tightly and cut off the circulation for too long.”

Angus’s frown deepened. Ungred.…

Ortis shrugged and turned to the side as he said, “Hobart’s
in bad shape. He may die.”

Angus shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “He’ll live.
He shouldn’t have eaten the yffrim meat.” The pain was more intense than it had
been before he had let the ice take effect, and it was becoming difficult to
concentrate. “It’s a creature from the far north, where ice is ever-present.
There’s a taint in its blood that keeps it from freezing. It poisons other
creatures, making their blood thicken and flow too slowly when the meat is
ingested. He will sleep most of it off in a few days.” Angus winced and
shuddered. The foot must be in bad shape for it to feel that way. “Don’t eat
any more of it.”

Ortis nodded, “We already tossed it out.”

Angus closed his eyes and asked, “Will the ice save my
foot?”

Ortis hesitated and said, “It might.”

A soft wail whistled through Angus’s sharply focused mind.
It was not coming from his ears; it was coming from … elsewhere. The sound felt
familiar; he had sensed something like it before, when—

“Sardach,” he hissed, clenching his teeth and closing his
eyes.

Ortis
almost
jumped, and then asked, “That thing that
carried you away?”

Angus frowned. Sardach would have to be close if he could
sense him like this. “Sardach is coming,” he said.

Ortis nodded and reached for his brow again. “You said that
before,” he said. “He’s already been here and gone.”

Angus listened to the wailing. It was a quiet, wretched
sound of something in pain, like a whimpering dog too-tightly tied to a leash.
Sardach was close, and he was coming. He wanted.…

Angus twisted his left wrist, expecting the wand to be
released into his palm, but nothing happened. “My wand,” he muttered, twisting
his arm again. “I must have dropped it—”

Ortis stared at him and said, “Don’t worry about that right
now. You need to focus on staying alive.”

“You have to find my wand,” Angus demanded. “It’s the only
thing that can destroy Sardach.”

Ortis shook his head. “Sardach is gone. You need to rest.”

Angus laughed, a single harsh, barking laugh. Sardach wanted
the key and would not stop pursuing them—pursuing
him
—until he got it.
“He’s nearby,” he said with certainty. “I need my backpack.”

“That can wait,” Ortis said, ignoring the urgency in Angus’s
voice. “You need—”

“No,” Angus said. “I need my backpack.
Now!
”

Ortis hesitated, but Angus’s tone was too demanding for him
to ignore it—or else he simply decided to humor him. “All right,” Ortis said.
“I’ll bring it to you.”

Angus caught his arm before he could leave and demanded,
“Did you see my wand? I used it on the yffrim. It should have been there with
me.”

Ortis didn’t answer for a long moment, and then looked into
his eyes and said, “Hobart doesn’t think you’re Angus. You’ve changed too much.
He thinks you’re the other one, the one who wanted to kill Giorge.”

Giorge!
Angus thought.
Where—?

“Hobart doesn’t trust you,” Ortis continued. “He wanted to
secure your fingers and hands, but I convinced him you were in no condition to
be a threat with your magic.”

“Hobart’s a fool,” Angus scoffed, almost losing his mantra
in a sudden fit of anger. “I am Angus, both the one you know and the one you
don’t. Typhus is gone.
He
was the one who wanted to kill Giorge.”
Sardach’s wailing was becoming a distraction making it difficult for Angus to
concentrate. It was as if Sardach was reaching out to him, trying to find him
like he had found Typhus. How close was he? “Sardach is nearby, and he is
coming for me,” Angus said. “I need the wand to defend myself—to defend us—against
him.”

A second Ortis handed the first one Angus’s backpack, and he
set it down within easy reach of Angus’s left arm. Angus tilted the pack,
opened it, and rustled around until he felt the charred surface of the tunic.
He brought the tunic out and set it on his chest and slowly unfolded it. As he
did so, he patted it until he found the pocket that held the key. He pulled out
the key—a strangely shaped key wrought from gold—and sighed. “It’s still here.”

Ortis frowned and reached for Angus’s brow again. “Angus—”

Angus brushed Ortis’s hand away and held up the key so his
companion could see it. “Argyle wants this key,” he said. “He has sent Sardach
to find it. Sardach is nearby—we’re somehow connected, and I sense his presence—and
there is only one thing we can use to stop him: my wand. We must go back to
where I killed the yffrim and find it. You must do it now, before it is too
late.”

Ortis shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

“Yes it is!” Angus nearly shouted, quickly regretting it as
he felt the bones in his shoulder grate against each other. “
Nothing
else will hurt Sardach. You saw what happened with your arrows and Hobart’s
sword. They were useless. My spells—” he shook his head and closed his eyes,
trying to reinforce the mantra and calm his emotions.

“You’re in no condition to do battle,” Ortis said, his tone
even and uncompromising. “Neither is Hobart.”

After Angus had quashed the pain again, he said, his voice
low and soft as if he were speaking to himself, “My spells will fuel Sardach’s
power. He is a smoke elemental. His essence is flame and earth. Most of my
spells are from those two spheres, and they will revitalize him. He is only
susceptible to the opposing elemental forces, those of air and water. The wand
contains powerful air-based magic, and it did significant damage to Sardach
when I used it on him. It was only a glancing blow, but I am certain he hasn’t
forgotten it. I
must
have my wand. We
must
find it. If we do not,
Sardach will kill all of us to get this key, and he will do so with ease.”

Ortis shook his head, “Hobart—”

Angus scowled and growled, almost like the cat that had
gnawed on his shoulder, “Hobart’s a fool. I
am
Angus, the
real
Angus. What must I do to convince you of that? Recite how we met by the boulder
blocking the road to Hellsbreath? Tell you the names of the men dismantling it?
Remind you of the spell I cast that scared off your horses?” His tone was
sarcastic, indignant, and he let his frustration and anguish come through. He needed
his energy to control his pain, and Hobart’s idiocy was making that much more
difficult. Besides, he didn’t care if Ortis believed him or not; he only cared
about getting his wand back. “Should I remind you of how he banged his head in
the hidden passage under the Angst temple? How I saved you
by retrieving
your body from that pit you fell into? Or should I just ask you what happened
to Giorge after I was carried off?” He suddenly paused, and his voice softened
as the indignation left him. “The last I saw of Giorge, he was being attacked
by a frost elemental. He died, didn’t he?” It wasn’t harsh; it was a statement
of presumed fact stated with a coldness he didn’t quite feel. “That’s why he
isn’t here, isn’t it? The frost elemental killed him?”

Ortis frowned and nodded once very slowly. “All right,” he
said. “You seem to know some of what Angus would know, but if you were somehow
joined….”

“Unwillingly,” Angus snapped. “Voltari did it without my
permission.”

Ortis shrugged and seemed to come to a decision. “We don’t
have to go back for the wand,” he said. “You were still clutching it in your
hand when we found you. We brought it with us, but Hobart insisted that we hold
onto it until we knew who you were.”

Angus frowned and asked. “What about Giorge?”

“He died,” Ortis replied, his voice barely audible as he
leaned in close to Angus’s ear. “Speak softly on it,” he whispered. “Hobart was
devastated by Giorge’s death, and when we took his corpse to the place marked
on the map—” He paused and shook his head “—a tomb was waiting for him. Giorge
rose up and walked into it on his own. He was dead, but.…” Ortis shook his head
again. “Once he was inside the tomb, it disappeared.”

Angus closed his eyes to absorb the news. He wasn’t
particularly fond of Giorge—the scrawny little thief had tried to steal from
him far too often, and the last time had nearly killed him—but he was
surprisingly sad at the news of Giorge’s death. There was something likeable
about the reckless little thief who laughed too loudly in the face of danger.
The curse, though.…