The Golden Key (Book 3) (34 page)

8

Hobart pushed himself to continue despite the weakness in
his knees and the uncertainty of his grip on the cliff face. It was the last
steep, narrow stretch, and it was the worst of them. The stream had dwindled to
a narrow, hurried channel and had left behind an inch-deep layer of ice across
the whole of the ledge. Ortis had already lost the lead horse, barely managing
to press himself against the cliff face to avoid plunging off the side with it,
and they were only halfway down. The other horses were anxious, and their
footfalls frequently slid as they stumbled forward until their hooves caught on
a knob of rock or rare dry spot that righted them—or they bumped into the horse
in front of them and it managed to hold its footing enough to keep them both from
cascading down to the bottom in a heap. That was how they lost Ortis’s horse.
The second one slipped, slid forward, and bumped into its rear. It was startled
and leapt forward, and when it landed, its legs slid out from under it and it had
plunged off the side. The second horse managed to stop before following it over
the edge.

Hobart took each step carefully, letting go of his grip on
the rough nodules of the cliff face only when he was confident his perch on the
narrow shelf at its base was secure. The shelf—the stream bank near the cliff—was
only a few inches wide but it rose above the rest of the ledge and was mostly
free of ice. The second Ortis was behind him, patiently keeping up with his
sluggish pace, and the horses were getting further ahead of him with each step
forward. They were almost through the steep part, and then the ledge rose a few
feet before widening and dropping at a shallow pace for the last mile or so.
All they needed to do was to reach that rise, where the stream was blocked and
forced to go over the edge, and they would be done with the ice. All
he
had to do was hold onto the cliff face and take another step. But he couldn’t.
His fingers were numb and fluttered like a butterfly’s wings in a stiff breeze.
His thighs felt like he was carrying a fallen comrade on each shoulder, so weak
they were. But still he forced his right leg forward, then the left.

Hobart closed his eyes and concentrated on his fingertips,
trying to will them to melt into the cliff face. He clung to the cliff, but as
he stepped forward, the stone under his right hand shifted and a palm-sized
chunk of it broke free. His arm jerked away from the cliff face, and his eyes
snapped open. He twisted, and before he could bring his hand back up, his right
foot slipped off the tiny shelf. His foot hit the bottom of the stream and he
instinctively shifted the bulk of his weight to it before he realized what he
was doing. The stream sloshed around his boot, and a moment later, it slid
downstream. He tottered for a long moment before his weakened left hand lost
its grip and his left foot twisted. He tried to jump too late and splashed down
on his back.

The streambed was slick, and the current carried him
downstream before he could do anything about it. He thrust his hands out,
hoping to find something to hang onto but only managed to keep himself in the
channel of the stream. He was quickly gaining speed, and he didn’t have the
energy to fight against it. He focused on the twilit scene below him and
conserved his strength. He would need it to catch himself when he banged into
the horse in front of him—
if
he could catch himself.

It didn’t take long to find out. As he approached the rear
of the horse, he lifted his arms and spread them wide apart. He braced himself
for the strain of the impact when he struck the horse, but it wasn’t enough. He
simply didn’t have the strength left, and when his arms struck, they splayed
painfully backward and he almost slid through the horse’s legs. But he didn’t.
Instead, the horse’s legs slid forward with him, and the horse lost its
balance. It sat down on him, and started kicking. His armor clanged when the
hooves struck it as the horse thrashed around, trying to stand up. One of its
hooves caught him under his left armpit and sent him sprawling backward.

Hobart tried to grab onto something, but there was nothing
there, and he started back down the streambed at a slower pace. He tried to
avoid the hooves as he approached them, but there was nothing he could do. The
horse was crazed, thrashing about so wildly that it completely lost its
footing. Then, just before he struck it again, it twisted and one of its front
hooves struck the cliff face. It pushed outward, and its head and neck went
over the side. If it had stopped kicking, it would have been able to recover,
but it was frantic. It whinnied in horror as it slid over the side, and then
Hobart was sliding past it, heading for the next horse. It was Leslie.

9

After the rubble pile left, Giorge moved closer to his
mother and smiled, “I know where we are.” He pointed to the southeast and said,
“Hellsbreath is on the other side of those mountains. We can reach it on foot
in a week and a half. If they let us have a horse, we can be there in four or
five days.”

His mother turned her gaze to the west and asked, “Do you
think they will give us one?”

Giorge shrugged. “It’s a reasonable request. If they have
one to spare, they will,” he said. “It’s one of the banner privileges. But they
aren’t really treating us like they should. Banners have special status, and
they’ve been treating us almost like prisoners. That interrogation went far
beyond what it should have. They knew I was who I said I was from the start,
and that should have ended it.”

“At least he healed you,” his mother said, reaching out to
pat his hand. “If we were prisoners, would he have done that?”

Giorge frowned. “Perhaps,” he said. He could have healed him
for other reasons, couldn’t he? Something didn’t sit right with that fellow,
and he couldn’t place it. Most soldiers would have been satisfied by his banner
status and the explanation about where he had come from, and most of their
questions would have focused on completing their mission. He knew that Embril’s
questions were out of concern for Angus—he was sure of that—but not the rubble
pile’s. Who was he, anyway? Embril had called him Darby, but what did he look
like under the magic wrapped around him? Did Giorge
know
him from
somewhere? At least he hadn’t taken the Viper’s gems from him—but would he try?
There was still plenty of time for him to do it.

“Do you want to go back to Hellsbreath?” his mother asked. “Is
that your home?”

Giorge half-smiled and shook his head. “I have no home,” he
said. “I sometimes winter in Hellsbreath. It’s an interesting city with a lot
of opportunity.” He frowned and looked closely at her for the first time since
they had left the tomb. She was dressed in soft black leather that covered
everything except her face, and if she hadn’t lost her mask, that would have
been covered too. Her hair was black, too; long, wavy black strands that
dangled down past her shoulder, and she had caramel-colored skin that could
blend easily into the shadows. At the moment, she was staring past the cave
entrance, her brown eyes lost in the distance to the west and the muscles in
her cheek tight against the bone. He followed her gaze and frowned. “You want
to go home, don’t you,” he said, his voice low. “To the Western Kingdoms?”

She turned toward him, and a sad, tight smile twitched at
her thin lips as she nodded. “It is my home,” she said. “I know it’s been years
since I left, but to me it was only a few weeks ago.”

Giorge sighed. He couldn’t go back there, could he? They
would hunt him down if he did. But his mother…. “We may not be able to go
anywhere for awhile,” he said. “Banners have duties as well as privileges, and
they have a claim upon me. Our banner was here last fall, and we encountered
fishmen on that plateau—” he pointed out the cave to the southwest “—and were
supposed to lead them to where it happened. We didn’t get back in time to do
it, though.” He paused and shook his head. “But I’m here now, and they may want
me to go with them. If they do, you’ll have to come with us—unless you want to
travel on your own without a horse.”

His mother turned and smiled. It was the same loving smile
he remembered from so long ago. “I go where you go,” she said, squeezing his
hand.

Giorge clenched his teeth and turned away from her. It was
still too strange to have her alive again after finally coming to terms with
her being dead, but there she was, exactly like she had been before—only different.
She had never been cold or harsh in his memory, but she had wanted to leave his
great uncle locked in his sarcophagus. Why would she want to do that? He turned
to her and asked, “Why do you hate my great uncle so much?”

A deep-seated pain erupted in her eyes and her lips
tightened as she turned hastily away from him and said, “Because of what he did
to me.”

Giorge’s voice was soft as he asked, “What did he do?”

Her lips quivered as she curtly answered in a low, vicious
tone, “He raped me. I was thirteen.” She sat stiff and rigid for a long moment,
and then her shoulders sagged as she exhaled and added, “He said the curse made
him do it, but I never understood that until now.”

Giorge stared at her, a chill blossoming in his chest that
made it difficult to breathe. He had expected that answer, but it was still
difficult to accept. They had left his uncle behind, in Symptata’s tomb…. “He
was my father?”

His mother slowly nodded. “It happened when the curse struck
him,” she said. “He disappeared later that night.” She turned to him, and
despite the sadness in her eyes, she smiled. “You were the only good thing that
came of it,” she said, her eyes lingering on him. As she turned away, she
muttered, “I don’t think he could help himself,” before falling silent again.

Giorge didn’t know what to think, what to say. She had told
him long ago that his father was dead—and he
had been
dead—but had never
said anything else about him. But his uncle?
He
had been his father?

The rubble pile returned, and it was carrying two books. It
flattened out as if it were sitting down and leaned one of the books against
its side, opened the other one, turned it around, and held it out so Giorge
could see it. “Is this the mushroom?” it asked.

Giorge looked at the drawing and nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“That’s what Angus showed me.”

The rubble pile pulled the book back, closed it, and then
reached down to open the other one. He held it out and showed Giorge another
picture, but before he could say anything, Giorge pointed and exclaimed, “Hey!
Those are the things the fishmen were herding like cattle.”

The book hovered for a long moment and then the rubble pile
brought it back to itself and picked up the other one. It rose up and moved
away from them.

“We shouldn’t talk here,” his mother whispered. “There are
too many ears.”

Giorge nodded and turned his attention to the fire. He had a
lot more to think about than he had had in a very long time.

10

After Iscara left the room, Angus took a moment to make sure
the key was still in his pocket. Satisfied that it was, he focused on the magic
to find out where Typhus was. The last time he had seen Typhus he had been in
Iscara’s bedchamber, and if he was still there Iscara could be bringing him back
instead of his backpack. But instead of seeing through Typhus’s eyes, he saw
magic! The threads radiated out in a colorful mosaic the way it had before
Sardach had ripped Typhus out of him. Had Iscara healed that, too? If she had,
perhaps his robe
was
a fair price to pay.

Angus recovered quickly and turned his attention inward to
study the spells he still had primed. Perhaps one of them could be used on
Iscara? But why? She wasn’t his enemy, was she? Besides, if she had his
backpack, he would be able to pay her for the healing she had provided. His
gems might not be enough, but it was all he had—except for the garnets that
remained from when he had started out, and he would need them for an inn. Now
that he could do it, it would take most of a day to prime for his spells, and
he needed a private room for that. It would delay his visit to Argyle, but that
was unavoidable. He needed to be as fully prepared as he could be when he faced
Argyle, and even though he still had the wand, he was sure it wouldn’t be enough.

He was still making plans when Iscara returned with his
backpack. She set it on the cot next to him, and he quickly went through its
contents. He frowned. The tunic had been folded wrong. He didn’t care about the
tunic, but it puzzled him. He took it out and set it on the cot. He spread it
out and ran his hands over it. It was smooth—too smooth; where were all the
little bumps? The pockets were empty! But who could have taken what was in them?
They were difficult to locate, and there was no hint of the cloth being cut.
Whoever had stolen from him had known where the pockets were, and that meant—

Typhus!
It was the only explanation, wasn’t it? He
was
still here, and Iscara was hiding him. He reached for the backpack again and,
without looking up, asked, “Who has had access to my backpack while it has been
here?” He took out his scrolls one at a time, counting them to make sure they
were all still there. They were—
if
they were his scrolls—and then continued
his inventory.

“It was kept in a locked room,” Iscara replied. “Only myself
and my assistant have keys.”

Angus smiled. Typhus wouldn’t have needed a key; he could
easily have picked the lock. He probably had, but what he had taken was
rightfully his anyway. It was his tunic and so were the things in its pockets.
But what else had he taken? Angus hurried through the unimportant, easily
replaceable items until he reached the bottom. The pouch of gems was still
there, but when he lifted it, it seemed lighter than it should have been. He
loosened the drawstrings and upended the pouch. He was relieved to see the small
pile of large gems settle into place on his palm, but there were fewer of them
than there should have been. The large emerald was gone, and so were two of the
rubies.
He took the most valuable ones
, Angus thought,
and left me
the rest
. He sighed and held them out to Iscara. “I trust this will be fair
compensation for the healing?” he asked, a bit uncertain.

Iscara accepted the gems and toyed with them with her
finger. “It was a difficult healing,” she said, “one that required the services
of a master healer. This,” she jiggled the gems and the tinkled against each
other as they settled, “is barely enough to compensate her.”

Angus shrugged. “There were a few others when I arrived at
the gates,” he said. “Perhaps our friendly blue ghost was here?”

Iscara gnawed on her lip for a moment, and then shrugged.
“They will have to do, I suppose.”

So,
Angus thought,
he is here. If he wasn’t, she
would have demanded more.
“You have my gratitude,” he said, “and I will
make further payment when I am able.” What further payment could he offer? He
had no more wealth than what he carried, and he needed what was left for
himself. The banner could pay for it, but they were at the other end of the
kingdom. So was their treasure. Would he ever return to Tyrag with—

The banner’s treasure!
Angus suddenly thought.
Giorge hid some of it in Tyrag, didn’t he? Where did he say it was?

Before he could delve into his memory, Sardach intruded upon
him.
We must go to Argyle.

Angus jumped and looked at the cloud of smoke hovering in
the middle of the chamber. “We will go when I am ready,” he said before he
realized he was speaking aloud. Then he thought,
I must prime for my spells
first. I cannot face Argyle without them. He would kill me on sight and take
the key.

He will not,
Sardach replied, but he did and said no
more than that.

Iscara stared at him with fierce and unfriendly eyes that
betrayed her true nature. Then she glared at Sardach and snarled, “You should
have let me cut off his foot!” Then she turned to Angus and snapped, “You’re
healed, and you will go now.” Then she turned and stormed out of the room.

Angus stared after her for a long moment, and then returned
his possessions to his backpack. He looked at a few of the scrolls to make sure
they were his, and when he finished, he secured the flap and stood up. The
floor was cold, and he looked down. Why was his left foot chilled? His robe
should be compensating for it. He brought the magic into focus and frowned. The
magic in his foot wasn’t connected to the magic in his robe! The threads had
been frayed! He gasped. He would have to fix that as soon as he could. If he
didn’t, his foot could freeze and fall off—or burn to a crisp when he cast Lava
Man! In the meantime, he would have to do what everyone else did: wear boots.
But he didn’t have any boots, did he? He needed a tailor’s shop, first, and then
an inn. Prime for his spells and get a good night’s sleep before he confronted
Argyle.