The Golden Key (Book 3) (32 page)

3

Where did Giorge come from?
Embril wondered as she
hurried down the tunnel. When she had killed the hermitog she hadn’t looked for
another exit, but there must have been one down there. But where? She hurriedly
examined the tunnel for any sign of one but found none. But there was a hint of
magical residue lingering at the back of tunnel that might explain Giorge’s sudden
appearance. But this residue wasn’t like any from a spell she recognized. It
had been wrought from a strange magic that seemed to be disconnected from the
rest of the magical energy around it, and it hadn’t even disrupted its normal
flow. But that wasn’t possible, was it? The magic had been tamed by the nexus
points centuries ago, and there hadn’t been any free-floating magic of note
since then.

Embril frowned. Giorge had mentioned an elemental, but no
one remembered how to summon them. The kings had seen to that when they banned
the wizards from studying conjuration magic. A few renegades still dabbled in
it, but most of the knowledge had been lost when the Wizards’ Schools’ libraries
had been gutted. Where had the elemental come from? The curse Giorge had
mentioned? There were rumors that old magic still lingered in strange places,
and they had gone up to that plateau people believed was haunted. But that
plateau was south of Hellsbreath, and this cave was well north of the city. How
could he travel that far in a few days? Even Swiftness couldn’t travel that far
so quickly. But there were spells that could transport people over long
distances the same way that wizards sent messages, but they were rare and
difficult to manage. The network of knots involved were extraordinarily
complicated….

She turned back toward the cavern. She didn’t have enough
information, and there was only one way to gain more: Giorge. She should have
stayed and asked him more questions. He knew what she needed to know, and instead
of talking to him, she had run off down the tunnel. Why? To find Angus? But
Giorge had said he wasn’t down here, that they had gotten separated. She shook
her head. There were no answers in the tunnel; the answers were in Giorge.

Embril hurried back down the tunnel, but before she got to
the cavern, someone yelped in pain. When she reached the cavern, she saw it had
been Giorge. He had dropped the box he was carrying, and sagged heavily against
a rubble pile—Darby?—with his hand pressed to his side.

“What is it?” Darby asked him, his tone detached and a bit
perturbed. “Are you injured?”

Giorge nodded. “My rib’s broken,” he said. “And my ankle.”

The pile of rubble gestured and a stalagmite came up to
Giorge’s other side. Together, they carried him toward the cave entrance.

“Wait!” Embril called, running up to them. “I need to talk
to him.”

“So do I,” Darby said. “But not now. I need to tend to his
injuries, and you need to finish casting your spells. We should have been ready
to leave by now, and Lieutenant Jarhad will be returning soon.” Then he turned
to one of the other strange rock formations and said, “Get your horse and find
Lieutenant Jarhad. Tell him what’s happened.” The rocks seemed to roll over
each other as they hurried through the tunnel ahead of them.

Embril glared at him. How could he expect her to cast spells
now, when Giorge was so close and he knew what had happened to Angus? What did
she care about the mission, anyway? The fishmen weren’t on the plateau, were
they? Angus said he thought they were
under
it! Her lips tightened as
she reminded herself that Angus could be wrong; the fishmen
could be
on
the plateau, and if they were, Hellsbreath could be at risk. And the nexus. She
sighed. Darby was right; she needed to finish the spells. Then she would talk
to Giorge whether Darby was done with him or not.

Darby didn’t wait for her answer; he turned to the men
holding the woman and said, “Bring her.” He and the stalagmite entered the
tunnel at a slow pace, Giorge limping between them, and two of the men followed
with his mother held firmly between them. Embril
almost
followed them,
but she didn’t. Instead, she turned back to her book and sat down.

Angus needs me
, she thought,
but he isn’t here. He
would want me to protect the Tiger’s Eye.
She stared at the instructions
for the spell but couldn’t see them. The symbols seemed to be alive, crawling
across the page as her thoughts wavered. She closed her eyes and saw the rugged
image of Angus hunched over an old tome, slowly leafing through the pages until
a phrase sparked his interest and held the brutal intensity of his gaze. He
would slide that narrow, almost bony finger tip along the runes as he read,
and—

Still the mind.

Her lower lip quivered as she fought to suppress the image,
the soft rustle of the page as her fingertip traced the pattern of the runes
she wasn’t reading.

Still the body.

She went through the mantra for several minutes before she
was finally able to read the instructions for the spell, and then she glanced
up and asked, “Who’s next?”

One of the stalagmites led a rubble pile toward her, and she
started weaving together the knots for the Swiftness spell.

4

It was dark when Hobart woke to find Ortis studying the
cliff face above them. He felt refreshed, stood easily, and stretched. His
muscles were still a bit sore, but other than that he felt almost normal. Then
he remembered that he had felt the same way when he had woken up the day
before, and the feeling had only lasted a few hours before the fatigue had set
in. Still, in those few hours they could make a great deal of progress down the
cliff face—
if
it was safe enough to try.

Ortis glanced at him and said, “We were fortunate they
didn’t follow us.”

Hobart nodded and walked to the edge of the cliff to urinate.
When he finished, he turned back to the pond and shook his head. It stretched
almost to the edge of the cliff, and the water was funneling down the streambed
at a rapid pace. It would be a dangerous current to travel through, especially
when the ledge narrowed and steepened. Parts of it might be impassable. “Is
there anything left to eat?” he asked.

Ortis shook his head. “The last of the food was with Sam. So
were the cleats for the horses.”

Hobart frowned; there had been at least four days worth of
food left. No matter; he had experienced hunger often enough to know how to
cope with it, and at least they would have plenty of fresh water. The cleats
were another matter; without them, the horses would have a lot more trouble
going down the slope.
Perhaps we can wrap something around the hooves?
He
thought as he knelt before the pond, rinsed his hands and face. He drank a few
mouthfuls of the crisp liquid to get the grit off his teeth and tongue and
shook his head.
It will get wet too quickly.

“I think we’ll be able to make it down,” Ortis said, staring
up at the cliff face. “There is a cold wind from the west. The water is
freezing. See how it’s only trickling down the cliff face? Earlier, it was a
deluge.”

“Good,” Hobart said. “The sooner we get down, the sooner we
can find some food.”

Ortis shook his head. “It isn’t that good,” he scoffed. “The
streambed is freezing too. It will be dangerous if we go quickly. We’ll have to
lead the horses and test the footing as we go. It should be all right at first,
but you know how narrow this ledge gets down there. There will be ice curling
over the lip when it does.”

Hobart looked at the glistening cliff face and marveled at
the ice as it captured the moonlight in a strange dappling of glitter. Ortis
was right; the footing would be torturous when it froze, and it would freeze
quickly. “We best get going, then,” he said.

Ortis hesitated and said, “By the time we reach the bottom,
I should be at Dagremon’s. I’ll bring supplies, but it will take a few days to
rendezvous. At least the horses will have plenty of fresh grass down there.”

Hobart nodded. “If we need to, we can find out if Ned’s
cache of food is still in that cave he took us to. He won’t mind if we eat some
of it if we replace it with the supplies you get from Dagremon’s.”

Ortis nodded. “We will have to reach the bottom first.”

“Let’s go, then,” Hobart said, impatient to get started
while he was still feeling strong enough to endure the difficult journey down
the ledge. It would be bad enough at full strength, and he didn’t know how long
his reserves would hold out. Ortis roused the horses and lined them up
single-file with lead ropes linking them together. The ropes were loosely tied
and would come undone if one of the horses plunged over the side, and Hobart
took up his position in line, leading Leslie a few paces behind Gretchen,
Angus’s horse. He frowned, wondering what had happened to the wizard and
fearing that he was long dead. But Ortis had said he hadn’t seen him when he
went back to the cave, and if Angus’s plan had worked—whatever plan that was—he
would be waiting for them in Hellsbreath.
If
Hobart and Ortis made it
that far. If not, would Angus come looking for them?

Hobart shook his head. He needed to concentrate on his
footing as they started down the slope. The stream was wide and furious, but for
now there was still room beside it for themselves and the horses. It was rough
ground, but that was better than the smooth, slick surface of the streambed. It
was surprisingly easy going for the first hour, and then the ledge narrowed,
forcing the stream into a deep, narrow channel. Even so, there was too much
water coming down the cliff, and it jumped its bank and washed over the side.
It wasn’t freezing yet, but it made the footing treacherous. Fortunately, that
part only lasted for only about twenty feet, and then the ledge widened and the
streambed flattened out to span almost its full width. That was a problem; its
current was much slower here, and the edges were already fringed with ice. But
it was fairly level, and that made it possible to walk in the water without
slipping too much, and when they did slip, they didn’t slide very far.

Ortis reached the end of the long flat stretch and stopped.
The horses stopped behind him, forcing Hobart to a stop. He was glad for the
rest, but it was ill-advised. He needed to keep moving while he still could,
and any delay now might prove deadly later. Then the Ortis behind him
half-shouted above the soft murmur of the stream, “There’s a steep stretch
coming, and there’s ice everywhere except in the stream itself. I don’t know if
we can make it.”

Hobart shrugged. “We have to,” he called back to him. “We
can’t stay here, can we?” He held onto the lead rope and made his way to his
saddle. He lifted the axe from the holster in the saddle; he seldom used it,
and only when he lost his sword in battle, but it might be useful here. He gripped
it firmly—it felt heavier than he remembered—and he realized the exhaustion was
starting to set in again. “We can break up the ice if we need to,” he called.
“And crawl if it gets bad enough. The horses….” He looked at Leslie and shook
his head. “They can deal with the ice better than we can.”

He hoped it was true.

5

Giorge sat beside his mother and looked across the fire at
the rubble pile, patiently waiting for the next question. To a certain extent,
he was content; the rubble pile had healed his broken bones and let him eat
some of that foul-tasting but much appreciated bowl of gruel before beginning
the interrogation. It had only begun asking questions when Embril sat down next
to it. She looked exhausted, but carefully controlled the haggard expression by
muttering something under her breath. Her lips quivered rhythmically, steadily,
as if she were repeating the same thing over and over again. She probably was;
Angus had done something like that a few times, and Giorge assumed it was a
wizard-thing. Then the questions started.

The interrogation infuriated him. He was a member of a
banner protected by the king, and they were treating him like a prisoner. He
understood why they were asking the questions, but there were
so many
of
them. It seemed like every time he answered one of the rubble pile’s questions
it inspired a half dozen more from Embril. They had started with a
simple-enough question: How did you come to be in that tunnel? “We came through
a magic portal from Symptata’s tomb,” Giorge had replied, a helpful smile on
his face. Then he spent a great deal of time describing what had happened to
them in the tomb. He hadn’t
wanted
to do it, but he couldn’t help
himself; he felt an irresistible compulsion to answer them. He had experienced
that kind of power once before, when the Truthseer had come to ask him about Angus,
and he resented Embril for it now. How dare she use that magic on him! The
readiness of his tongue frustrated him, but he couldn’t even express that frustration;
he just placidly answered each question as truthfully as he could. So did his
mother when she confirmed what he had already told them.

Then the rubble pile asked, “How can you be his mother? You
do not appear old enough.” His mother’s eyes narrowed in anger as she
helpfully, pleasantly answered, “We were both twenty-one when Symptata’s curse struck
us.”
That
answer had led to scores of questions about the curse, and
there seemed to be no end to them. Giorge had even told them what he could
about the Viper’s Breath, Fangs, and Eyes. He had tried not to tell them about
their magic, but Embril was quite specific in her questions, and he had been
compelled to answer them in detail. She didn’t even seem surprised when he told
her the curse had killed them, as if being brought back to life was routine.
Then her questions turned to Angus.

He told her what he could, and was happy to do so. He didn’t
even need to be coerced into telling her about him; Angus would have wanted
Embril to know. But he didn’t know very much. He described how strange Angus
had been acting before the elementals had struck and how Angus had threatened
to kill him or abandon him to the curse. Giorge didn’t blame Angus, of course;
there was something wrong with him when he said it, and if Giorge hadn’t been
the one struck by the curse, he would have wanted to get away from it too. He
told her what he could remember about the elementals attack, describing how the
first one seemed to be ripping Angus in half when Giorge was attacked by the
second elemental. He even described how it felt to be frozen to death and how
strange it felt to wake up alive in the sarcophagus….

She asked a lot more questions about Angus before she
finished, stood up, and walked carefully, slowly back into the tunnel leading
to the cavern. When she was gone, the rubble pile turned to him and asked,
“Very well, Giorge, is there anything else we need to know?”

Giorge smiled and his tone was helpful, pleasant as he
answered, “Yes. The Tween Effect is caused by mushrooms. When they are dried
and burned, the smoke makes you feel like someone’s watching you. They are
being burned near the river, and the wind is carrying the smoke over The Tween.
Its effects are fairly mild in The Tween because the smoke gets dispersed over
a large area. Don’t go near the fires by the river, though; the closer you are
to the smoke, the more intense the effect. It almost drove me mad when Angus
gave me a dose of it. It was a small dose, barely a pinch or two of the stuff,
but it sent my heart pounding and my lungs tingled as if I had been running for
hours. Worst of all, I was as jittery as a virgin whore. I didn’t just
think
there were things watching me; I
saw
them watching me. But every time I
went after them, they flitted away and laughed at me. Well, they didn’t really
laugh, since they weren’t there in the first place, but I
heard
them
laughing at me, and that only made me more jittery. They were everywhere around
me, taunting me with their laughter and teasing me with little pinpricks on my
skin. But they fled from my sword every time I rushed forward—and I rushed
after them again and again until Hobart told me what was happening. Then I
gained some control over myself.” Giorge paused for breath and then finished,
“I never want to experience that again. Neither do you. Stay away from those
fires. We were going to tell you that before you left Hellsbreath, but then the
curse struck me and we got distracted by it.”

Giorge fell silent and sat still for a few moments. Was
there anything else they needed to know? There wasn’t any compulsion to keep
talking, so he decided there wasn’t and kept silent.

“Can you describe this mushroom?” the rubble pile asked.

“Certainly,” Giorge offered. “It’s sort of a dull yellow-gray
and has a long stem. The top is shaped like an upturned bowl with frayed edges.
They grow in clumps, like strawberries.”

“All right,” The rubble pile shifted position as if it were
standing up. “Stay here and rest. We’ll decide what to do with you when
Lieutenant Jarhad returns.”

What to do with us?
Giorge repeated to himself. It
seemed ominous, but there was nothing he could do about that, either. Even if
he wanted to run, his legs wouldn’t do it. Where would he go, anyway?