The Golden Key (Book 3) (8 page)

11

As Angus veered sharply to the right, something struck the
thick ice to his left a vicious blow, shattering the surface and sending a
crack fragmenting downward, narrowly missing his head by a few feet. He veered
again as the shadow leapt after him, and the reverberation of the impact vibrated
through him, setting fire to the nerves in his right shoulder. He gasped,
almost lost his grip on the magic, and plunged deeper. He slowed after only a
few seconds, and found himself surrounded by a blue-tinged darkness that the
Lamplight did little to penetrate. He stayed there for nearly a minute, willing
the pain in his shoulder to ease, and then moved cautiously forward—what he
thought
was forward—for almost five minutes before rising slowly up through the ice. At
least, he hoped he was going upward, but after almost a minute, he wasn’t so
sure. He should have reached the surface by now, but he hadn’t. Still, he kept
going in the same direction.

Five minutes later, he stopped. He was certain his direction
sense was off, but other than knowing he wasn’t going up to the surface, he
wasn’t sure which way he
was
going. He closed his eyes and replayed the
directive gestures he had made since plunging down to escape from whatever had
tried to get at him through the ice. He frowned and went through them a second
time. They should have brought him to the surface if he had gone straight down,
but he wasn’t sure if he had gone straight down.

He blinked. He had gone down, but he had twisted over onto
his back when he had. He was facing
up
when he settled, but he hadn’t
realized it; he had been distracted by the agony in his shoulder. He sighed,
turned over, and reversed his motion, moving upward with greater rapidity than he
had when he had descended. The surface came with little warning, and his
momentum shot him upward into the air at least ten feet. As he slowed at the
top of his leap, he saw that he was much closer to the center of the glacier
than he had expected, and as he descended, he caught a glimpse of a huge shape
coming toward him. It was close, so close that he wished he was falling faster,
and just before he plunged back into the ice like a salmon embracing the water
of its home stream, he met the wide eyes of its feline stare as it plunged
after him, trying to follow him into the ice.

The weight of the beast shattered the newly formed ice and
sent a shudder through him as he dipped deep again. This time, he wasn’t
startled, wasn’t distracted by the pain, and moved horizontally toward the
mountain he sought. He went quickly, and after a few minutes, he rose to skim along
just below the surface of the ice. Another minute went by, and he rose out of
the ice to see if the creature had followed him.
A yiffrim
, he thought.
It
was a yiffrim.
He did a complete circle, trying to see the yiffrim, but it
was beyond the range of his deformed Lamplight, and none of the shadows captured
by the moonlight seemed to be moving.
It can move with stealth
, he
thought,
and blend into its surroundings
. But what was it doing here?
Yiffrim were creatures of the far north, where the snow never melts. The
glacier would be suitable for its habitat, but how had it found its way here?
And where was its mate? They always hunted in pairs.

He shook off his questions and turned to the mountain. He
was already drained, and he still had a long way to go before he reached the
mountainside. He covered the distance quickly, traveling as fast as he
dared—and much faster than he wanted. He didn’t know if he was really in
control of the spell or not, and he didn’t want to get trapped in the ice by
it. What if Typhus was in control of the magic and quit looking at it? Would Angus
also lose sight of the magic? Would the spell suddenly end? For that matter,
how long could he maintain it on his own? The knots had been shakily made, and
he only had one good arm—and he was already so tired he was having difficulty
concentrating.

He propelled himself through the ice at an alarming,
reckless rate. If a rock suddenly appeared, he could move sideways and slow
down. He hoped. But if the spell ended abruptly, without any warning, he didn’t
know what would happen. Would he be forever embedded in ice? Would the ice eat
through his body as it solidified around him? He didn’t think the robe could
save him from that so he scooted through the ice as fast as he could and only
slowed when he saw the upslope of the mountain approaching. It was a good
thing, too; managing the spell had sapped away almost all of his energy. He
would have to rest, soon.

He glided sideways along the surface looking for a place to
climb up the mountainside. If he was right, if it was the mountain with the bridge
to the lift, there would be a road on it. There probably wouldn’t be anyone on
the road, but at least it would be easier than climbing slowly along the
mountainside like a spider with only three legs. It would also provide some
relief for his arm, since he wouldn’t bang it up against the rock face if he
was walking down the road.

Angus selected a place with a steady slope whose upgrade
wouldn’t be too demanding. He would still have to climb, but he could lean
forward to prop himself up with his good arm and avoid bumping his bad one.
When he reached it, he got as close to the edge of the ice as he could and then
dragged himself out of it. Once he was on the mountainside, he released the Flying
spell. He was tempted to rest—he desperately needed it—but forced himself not
to; he had to reach the road first, and then find shelter.

The breeches took hold of the incline and made it a simple
matter to scamper up the slope. He lasted about fifteen minutes before he was
gasping for breath and had to stop. He sat down and let the back of the
breeches keep him from slipping. As he labored for breath, he glanced around to
see where he was. The valley was some distance below him, and not far above him—perhaps
a few more minutes of climbing—was some kind of ledge. Was it the road? He
hoped so; he couldn’t go much further without sleep. Dawn was approaching, and
the first inkling of twilight had blossomed around him. He looked west and saw
the cliff leading up to the plateau. It was not more than a few miles away, and
he could see for a long way around the mountain to the south. There was no sign
of the lift anywhere. It had to be connected to
this
mountain, and if it
was, then that was where Hobart and the others might still be. Unless they had
left him for dead.
How long has it been?
he suddenly wondered.
Days,
surely; it would take that long to melt that shaft. But how many?

What would they have done after he had disappeared? Would
they have looked for him? Would they have gone on to try to free Giorge from
his curse? They had been close to finding the skull; all they had to do was go
around to the other side of the mountain. There was a road, and they would have
followed it. He frowned and looked again at the ledge. If that was the road,
they might have left tracks….

His frown deepened.
Yes
, he thought.
They would
have kept going until Giorge died or the curse was broken. Hobart would have
seen to that; he cares more about Giorge than he does about me.
He turned
his gaze eastward. He was close to halfway around the mountain; how much
further would he have to go to catch up with them?
Should I follow them? Or
go back to the cave?

He didn’t need to make the decision yet, so he climbed
slowly up to the ledge above him. His unsettling passage through the ice had
unnerved him; if he couldn’t figure out what color the gray strands really
were, how was he to cast spells properly? He had been lucky so far; the
Lamplight had worked almost like it should have, and the Flying… He shook his
head. No. They had not worked like they should have, and that was dangerous. He
was only fooling himself if he thought otherwise. But they had worked well
enough, and they hadn’t killed him. This time.

When he reached the ledge, he slumped over onto it. It was
smooth, like a roadbed hewn from the rock. He half-crawled across to the other
side and sat down with his back braced against the mountain. He wiggled around
until he found a halfway comfortable position and settled into place.
How
much longer can I last?
he wondered.
Some sleep, first, and then I’ll
decide which way to go. Maybe they’ll find me, first?

The hopeful thought calmed him somewhat, despite the
misgivings of being stranded alone with a minimal ability to use his magic—and
that
relied upon Typhus, didn’t it? He shrugged and tried to bring the magic into
focus again to make sure. Instead of seeing the strange patchwork of magical strands,
he saw a door opening and an ash-colored man looking through a crack between it
and the stone-gray frame. He didn’t recognize the man, but it didn’t matter; a
moment later, he was grabbing at his throat as a dark, almost black stream
spurted out of it. Then his image lurched closer, just before it abruptly staggered
back away from him. There was another man beside him, this one draped in a wizard’s
robe, and he wondered what color it was, what kind of magic he had. The man
lifted his hands—

Angus blinked as the man took in a sudden breath as if he
had been punched in the stomach, and then the man’s eyes grew wide and
fluttered. They drooped as he slumped weak-kneed to the floor, but Angus’s gaze
didn’t linger on him; it turned sharply to the left. The woman he had seen
before was there, still wearing her white healer’s gown. She was running away,
and his eyes shifted quickly to the right. There was another man there, but
before Angus could do little more than realize it, he was circling in behind
him and the man’s sword seemed to come unbidden from its scabbard, thrusting
itself up through his side. “Easy, Gregor—” it was Typhus’s voice, like it had
sounded in Angus’s mind when they were joined. The man gently lowered to the
ground as Typhus said, “Leave the blade in and don’t move around. A healer can
save you if one gets here in time. I missed all the important bits.”

Then he was running down the corridor after the screaming
woman. At the corner, he careened off the walls as if he were just learning to
fly again. A moment later he was upon her, pinning her face against the wall.
He was so close that he imagined he could smell a faint trace of lilac in her
dark hair. It wasn’t black hair, though; it wasn’t a dark enough gray for that.
Was it brown? Red?

Her body quivered against the wall, and then he heard a
gruff, almost sweet voice half-whisper, “Hush, Iscara. Be still.”

Angus frowned. Where were they? Sardach had taken Typhus
with him, but to where?

“I need your help,” Typhus muttered in her ear. “Give it,
and you will live.”

Iscara turned toward him but did not look directly at him as
she said, “Typhus?”

After a moment, Typhus asked, “See this?”

Angus frowned; he saw nothing. Then, with a start, he
realized that was what he was supposed to see.
He cast the Cloaking spell!
Angus
thought in amazement.
How could he do that? Voltari had said Typhus couldn’t
see the magic.

He frowned as he half-listened to the conversation.
Who
is this Argyle they’re talking about? Are they in his castle? Where would this
castle be?

It wasn’t much of a conversation, really. Mostly it was
threats. The threat of Argyle finding them, and Typhus threatening to kill
Iscara. It was a strange turn in the conversation, one he didn’t quite
understand. If Typhus had the advantage, why wasn’t he pressing it? Why hadn’t
the healer caved in when the gash appeared on her breast and began to ooze
blackish streamlets down the front of her bodice? Didn’t that tell her Typhus
was serious about killing her? What could Argyle do that could be worse than
that? Then it turned to bargaining, and it was
Typhus
who made the first
offer. What he wanted in exchange for not killing her seemed simple enough to
Angus—healing and an escort to help him get out of Argyle’s castle—but Iscara
wasn’t satisfied with having her life spared, she wanted something more than
that. It was that something more that brought Angus’s attention into sharper
focus and pushed away the curious train of thoughts jumping through his mind as
he listened to the pale gray woman seemingly talking to herself. She wanted to
know where Typhus had hidden a golden key.

It was Typhus’s response that troubled Angus most. He said
he no longer had the key. Argyle could find it in Angus’s backpack, and he
would have to send someone to get it. Angus tried to swallow, but his mouth was
uncomfortably dry. He knew who Argyle would send: Sardach.

12

It took over an hour to make their way through the tunnel
complex to the Grain Street entrance. Only one of the guards they passed seemed
to take notice of the new scar on her breast, but he didn’t ask about it; he
simply leered at her for a few seconds before letting them pass by. It was after
dawn when they emerged into the alley, and after they passed the last guards—a
pair of drunks Typhus knew to be quite deadly adversaries—they walked in
silence until they reached Grain Street.

It was a long, busy street, and on either side of it were
businesses related to the grain trade. Seeders, reapers, mills, flour
merchants, bakers—anything related to the grain they harvested in Tyr could be
found here and nowhere else in the city. King Tyr, like his forebears, had
imposed a very methodical, ordered structure onto the city, cordoning off the
various businesses into sections of the city and not allowing anyone to cross
boundaries with their businesses. Grain businesses were along Grain Street.
Live animals, beasts of burden, wild game, and meat were on Meat Street. The
same with Textile Street, Wizard’s Street, Herb Street, Army Street, Army
Boulevard, Army Avenue, King Street, and so on down to the smallest industry
having its own little side street or alley strategically placed to give it access
to the ones who needed it most. Even Argyle’s enterprises were cordoned off
with the same efficiency, with thievery in one place, blackmail in another,
assassination in a third, and so on down the line. Some even believed the
structure of Argyle’s illicit organization suggested the king had a hand in it,
that the king sanctioned it in some way.

Typhus hurried along a step behind Iscara to avoid running
into the people she passed as she made her way to Herb Street, where the
healers lived. It was a silly thing to have the healers all in one place and
not distributed throughout the city, and most of the businesses on Herb Street sent
healers around to the other streets to deal with what was needed. The king
frowned upon it, but even he had to accept the sense of it. So, instead of
forbidding the activity of the roaming healers, he assigned them to specific
areas in the other quarters with the same obsessive diligence as the rest of
Tyrag’s design. He assigned them by name. If their name began with a G, they
went to Grain Street, an M went to Meat Street, and so on. A lot of the healers
named their children to ensure a continuation of their trade in those same
areas, and a few even changed their names to gain a better location. There were
a lot of B’s vying for a place on Bank Street, I’s for Inn Street, and
especially P’s for Peddler’s Street (a misnomer if there ever was one, since it
also housed the wealthy merchants, but there was only one street that could
start with M).

Iscara turned into a large shop, greeted in passing the old
man tending the counter, and made her way into the back room. Once there, she
went directly to a shelf, pausing only long enough to pick up a large jug. She
carried the jug to a stairwell leading down, and Typhus followed after her.

Typhus smiled, remembering the last time he had been in her
private chamber, just before he had made his escape from Argyle. It hadn’t been
a regular occurrence, but whenever they worked together, it aroused her to the
point that she couldn’t stop herself, and he was quite willing to oblige.
Perhaps, after she healed his fingers, he’d use them—

She set the jug on her table and said, “I can’t heal you if
I can’t see you.”

“Of course,” Typhus began as he moved up next to her. But as
he reached out for the magic to release the spell, he froze. The spell wasn’t
there! The knots were gone!

“Well?” Iscara said, looking sort of in his direction.

He ignored her. He had completely forgotten about the spell
when he emerged from the torture chamber, had completely forgotten to maintain
control over it. The magic confined by the spell should have broken free at
that point but it hadn’t. Then he hadn’t even
thought
about the spell
while they had made their way through the tunnels, the streets, the shop. How
was it that it hadn’t unraveled on its own already?

“Umber,” he whispered, a sudden chill swarming over him.
“What does umber look like?” he demanded, reaching out and twisting Iscara to
face him. “Show me umber!”

Iscara winced, but something in the urgency of his tone, the
tightness of his grip, must have registered, and she cast her gaze around the
room. At length, she nodded and said, “That weathered chest is close.”

Typhus looked at the grey chest and violently shook his
head. “No, no,” he said. “The magic. Show me an umber strand of magic.”

Iscara’s brow furrowed as she said, “You can see magic?”

“Show me!” Typhus hissed, twisting her around to face away
from him. “Draw it to you. Now!”

Iscara bit her lip and her eyes dilated as she looked around
her. At length, she reached out and tentatively grasped one of the brown strands
near her. “This is the closest one,” she said. “It’s a bit too light—”

“No!” Typhus gasped, cringing and drawing up against her
back. “It has to be this one,” he said, reaching out for one that was almost
the same color as the one he had used in casting the spell. He gripped it tightly
and held it in front of her eyes. “Do you see it? It’s umber, isn’t it? Isn’t
it?” He almost shook her as he asked the frantic question.

“That’s sienna,” Iscara said as she stiffened against him, “not
umber.”

Sienna?
Typhus gulped, squeezing her arms until she
winced. Angus had been clear: it couldn’t be any other color of brown.
It
had to be umber.
Anything but umber and the spell would go wrong. Angus hadn’t
known
how
it would go wrong, but it would go wrong. Typhus had used sienna,
not umber, and when Thaddius hadn’t seen him, he had thought the spell had
worked. It had! He was still cloaked from Iscara’s vision, but—

He tried to find the spell and couldn’t. The magic had
escaped long ago, probably when he had forgotten about it, but the spell’s
effects had not gone with it. What had it done? He gulped and shuddered against
Iscara. He had no idea what had happened, no way of knowing, no one—

Iscara wrenched herself from his grasp and turned toward
him. She smiled and put her hand on his chest. He backed quickly away.

“No,” he said, scowling. “It can’t be.”

“What is it?” Iscara purred, a smile playing at the edges of
her lips, a disturbing glint in her dilated eyes. “Can’t you show me the
burns?”

Should he ask her? Would she know what happened, what had
gone wrong? Healers had magic—everyone knew that—but the magic they had was different
from the magic Angus had. Wasn’t it?

Suddenly, her head jerked and she stared directly at him. A smile
blossomed on her lips and the familiar sadistic glow erupted in her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Typhus?” she teased. “You didn’t use the wrong strand of magic,
did you? Surely you know better than that.” She paused for a long moment, and
her voice dropped to a husky whisper as she finished, “Don’t you?” She giggled
for a few seconds, and then chortled with the same little trills that had sent
shivers through him when she had last used that fishhook.

He stepped to the side—
and her eyes followed him
.