The Golden Key (Book 3) (22 page)

18

Giorge tinkered with his picks for nearly a minute before he
decided to put them back away. It had been a test to see if he could resist the
urge to open the box, and he had passed: there was no compulsion at all. It was
easy to put the picks away, and he knew he could throw the box down and leave
it behind if he wanted to do it. He
almost
dropped it, but then a
curious thought ran through his mind:
The curse is broken. So why is the box
still here?

It was a curious question, and he saw only two answers. It
could have been there since his curse began or it had been placed there when
the curse ended. If it had been sitting there all winter, it would have had the
Viper’s Breath in it, but he had found that in the box behind the fletching’s
aerie. He frowned, patted the pouch that held the Viper’s Breath. It was still
there, so it couldn’t be in the box. Unless it returned there when he opened
it? Or could there be something else in the box? Another part of the curse he had
completely avoided? Wouldn’t his mother have said something about it if it
were? But when? They had been too busy escaping from Symptata’s tomb to talk
about it—and they
needed
to talk about it. She knew more about the curse
than he did, and from what little she had said so far, it was pretty clear
Auntie Fie hadn’t told him everything she knew about it. And what about what
Auntie Fie
had
told him? Was it even accurate?

Giorge shook his head. The other possibility, that it was
put there by the curse when it had been broken made more sense. The magic tunnel
suggested it. It had still been linked to this place when they had escaped, and
that passage couldn’t have been there all this time. Or could it? What did he
know about the curse’s magic? Even Angus hadn’t understood it, so how could he?
But something—the poem on Symptata’s sarcophagus?—told him it was over, and
that troubled him. Symptata hadn’t been in that sarcophagus; it had been the
witch who had made the curse. Why had she been there? And where was Symptata?
Wasn’t he supposed to join him when the curse ended?

Giorge frowned. What had happened to his ancestors? There
hadn’t even been time to let them know there was a way out before the portal collapsed.
But there was the side tunnel, and they
might
have escaped through that.
Where would they have gone if they had? And would they take that dreadful
fungus with them? Giorge shuddered and shook his head. He didn’t have time to
speculate about it. His mother—

Giorge looked at the end of the tunnel and frowned. She
should have been back by now. The cave he had been in the year before had been shallow,
but the creature inside it had prevented him from getting a good look at it.
There could have been side tunnels hidden in the deep shadow behind it. Still….

Giorge looked down at the box and tucked it under his right
arm, carefully avoiding his injured rib. He didn’t have to open it in here,
where he couldn’t see what was in it; he could wait and open it later, when he
reached the cave entrance where the lighting was better.

Giorge sighed, gritted his teeth, and used his left arm to
pull himself up to a standing position. There was no point staying in the
tunnel any longer; he had the box and there was nothing else of interest in the
tunnel. He took a step forward, and nearly fell as his left ankle throbbed and
the box jostled against his broken rib. He paused to regroup and slid the box
down to his hip before taking another step. He leaned heavily against the wall
for support, and hobbled slowly, painfully toward the light, wondering what it
was that was keeping his mother.

19

Embril sighed and rubbed her eyes. When she opened them again,
there was another horse and rider in front of her. She couldn’t see them
clearly, though; the Concealment spell had worked much better than she had anticipated.
It was only supposed to make them blend into their surroundings to make it
difficult for others to see them unless they looked closely, but it had done
more than that. The horses and riders gathered around her in the cavern were
nearly indistinguishable from their surroundings. Some looked like stony
outcroppings jutting out from the cavern wall at a sharp angle. Others looked
like a large boulder or a pile of rubble. Then there was the one in front of
her who looked like an eight foot tall stalagmite. Even knowing what it was,
she had difficulty seeing past the illusion to see the outline of the horse and
man. But when she focused more closely on the magic, their natural shape—surrounded
by the strands of energy—became much clearer to her. She had been concentrating
on that magic for most of the morning, and it had taken its toll on her.

She glanced down at the book but had difficulty reading it.
Her eyes hurt, and the sigils and runes seemed to be swimming in a slowly
cresting tide. She closed her eyes and shook her head, but when she opened them
again, the symbols were still dancing across the page. It was time to give her
eyes a rest. It wouldn’t be a long rest, but that didn’t matter; a half hour
away from the intense concentration would be enough to revitalize her—that and
some food.

“Darby?” she asked, a sigh underlying her weakened tone.
There were only six Swiftness spells left to cast, but she couldn’t do it. She
could
try
to do it, but there would be mistakes.

“Yes?” Darby asked from nearby. He had been the first one to
have the spells cast upon him in order to demonstrate to Lieutenant Jarhad what
they could do. Once the Lieutenant saw the results, he had volunteered to be
next, and when she had finished with the third horse and rider, the Lieutenant
had taken them out of the cavern and left Darby in charge.

“I need food and rest before I finish,” she said, rubbing
her closed eyes.

“There is some gruel warming by the fire if you can stomach
it.” His voice came from a slowly shifting pile of stones moving closer to her.
“Is there something more?” he asked with concern in his voice.

Embril smiled and shook her head. “Just weariness of the
eyes. A brief rest will be sufficient.” She stood and stretched, and then added,
“Please keep watch over my books while I do so.”

The rocks rustled softly as they settled into place beside
her chest. “Of course,” Darby said.

She took her time walking through the tunnel. Other than her
eyes, she wasn’t
physically
tired, but she was
mentally
exhausted. She could cope with that. A half hour with the mantra would feel almost
like a night’s rest, and then she could finish. It was only a postponement for sleep,
though, not a replacement for it. Some gruel first. She smiled. Darby was a bit
finicky and thought the gruel was atrocious, but she didn’t. It was little more
than spiced, mashed up grain pressed together in clumps and thrown into water
to soak. She had never really liked that grain before, but ever since being a
horse, she had found it to be quite delightful, even tasty.

After she finished eating, she sat down in the sunshine just
inside the entrance to the cave and let the chill breeze and warm sun fight
over her skin.
Still the mind,
she thought, bringing an image of an
expanse of grass to mind. It was a serene image, one she had never used to help
her focus on the mantra; usually the mantra just emptied her mind of all
thought.
Still the body.

She lost track of time. She could have sat there for a few
minutes or hours before one of the men—she didn’t know which one because his
outline was the same as several of the others—skidded to a stop next to her,
dropped to a knee (at least, that’s what she thought the stalagmite was doing
when it bent over in the middle), and hissed, “Elmer!”

Embril ignored him for a long moment before she realized he
was talking to her, and then she turned toward him and waited for him to
continue.

“We caught someone sneaking around in the cavern,” the
soldier said. “Darby wants to talk to you about it.”

Embril stared at the stalagmite as it straightened and
turned away, then shook her head.
What kind of nonsense is this?
she
wondered.
No one passed by me; I would have heard them if they had.
She
rose slowly, a frown threatening to spread across her placid face.
Where did
the interloper come from?
She didn’t have an answer, and she wouldn’t have
one until she found out what the soldier was talking about.

By the time she reached the entrance to the tunnel, she had
dismissed the mantra and felt revitalized enough to bring the magic into sharp focus.
The background of the cavern had the normal arrangement of strands, but
superimposed upon it was her work: a handful of men gathered around a
diminutive woman dressed in black. One had his hand—which looked like a flat, sharp-edged
stone—over her mouth, and another held the tip of a blade to her throat (or so she
assumed, since it looked like a thin sheet of mica that didn’t belong in a
granite cave at all). The woman’s eyes were frantic but the arms of the
men—like bubbling stone—held her firmly in place.

As Embril walked up to her, the woman’s frantic eyes focused
in on her with a kind of defiant desperation that Embril found to be enchanting
in their current situation. Embril stopped in front of her, but before she
could say anything, Darby whispered, “Quiet. There may be more.”

Embril nodded and turned to the little tunnel that led
deeper into the mountain. There was something half-hidden by the outcropping
blocking her view, but a few pockets of intense magic shone like torches
against a well-lit background. They hadn’t been there when she had arrived; she
was certain of it. And around them? It was a young man with dark skin and short,
curled black hair. His beard was incomplete, as if it didn’t want to be there.
He looked familiar, but she was certain she had never seen him before. She
would have remembered a man of his size if she had. He held a small box at his
hip and was holding a huge magical gem to his eye. So far, he had made no
threatening movements, but she was certain that could change without warning.

He lowered the gem and his eyes narrowed as he stared back
at her for a few seconds. Then, his voice tentative, he said, “Embril?”

Embril’s eyes widened. Had she met the young man before? She
didn’t think so, and his look was too distinctive to forget; few men were that short.
So, how did he know her? How did
she
know him? And she did, didn’t she?
Even though she was certain she had never seen him before, she felt like she
knew him.

“Do you know him?” Darby demanded.

Embril frowned and shook her head. “No,” she said, “but
there is something….”

“You are Embril, aren’t you?” the man asked, his tone more
confident. He looked to his left and right, and then said, “I am of the Banner
of the Wounded Hand. I demand all rights and privileges accorded to one of my
station.”

The Banner of—

“Giorge?” Embril almost gasped, and would have if she wasn’t
still feeling the calmness of the mantra. “You are Giorge?” she asked in
wonder.
He
could be
, she decided. That was why she recognized
him, wasn’t it? From Angus’s description of him?
A gangly little fellow with
brown skin and a most reluctant beard. He laughs at danger and flees from
wisdom. Don’t let him near your treasures or he’ll acquire them, as if by magic.

“Yes,” the young man said, nodding. “I am Giorge.” He nodded
to Darby’s captive and added, “That is my mother, and she is under the
protection of our Banner.”

Embril blinked and her breath caught in her chest as if the
gruel she’d eaten had congealed into a clump of ice. Her knees began to shake,
as if she were about to run across a boundless plain. She licked her lips and
her right foot crept out in front of her.
Angus!

“Embril?” Darby said, and a cold stone arm blocked her path.

Embril ignored Darby’s arm and moved forward. There was a
moment of resistance, and then Darby’s arm fell away. When it was gone, Embril
walked slowly, calmly across the cavern, forcing one breath after another into
her lungs. She came to a stop a few feet in front of Giorge. She towered over
him and held his eyes with her own. She was intensely calm as she asked, “Where
is he?” She held back her emotions with the iron grip of the mantra and began
toying with a strand of flame, methodically wrapping it around and around her
forefinger, taking comfort from its nearly painful warmth. She stepped closer
and in an even, steady, carefully modulated tone, asked, “Where is Angus?”

1

Iscara hesitated in front of Argyle’s snake. Its mouth was
inviting, and normally she found it to be an exhilarating feeling to tempt the
poison in its mouth. But not this time. She had not been summoned, and she was
not in Argyle’s favor anymore. She had failed him, and he would know it by now.
She reached into her bag and took out a small vial just in case; it was the
antidote she always brought with her when she visited Argyle.

He would be angry with her by now because she had led Typhus
out of his complex. He would punish her for it—of that, she was certain—but
when? Before or after she had explained what had happened? Before or after she
told him she knew the location of the key? Before or after.…

If it was before, he would use the knocker and have the
snake’s head clamp down on her arm to inject its deadly poison. She would have
seconds to act before the venom overwhelmed her, and the antidote was only
successful some of the time. The rest of the time.…

If it was after, she was certain she could avoid most of
Argyle’s displeasure. She was a valuable tool for him; no one was better at
eliciting information for Argyle from those who had it. She had a reputation
among the right people, and it was a good one. She had helped Argyle many times
and had been amply rewarded for it. She would help him now, too,
if
he
gave her the opportunity. If he didn’t.…

She looked at the antidote in her hand and wondered if it
would work, or if it would kill her. In its own way, it was as toxic as the
snake’s venom, but when the two met with each other, it was like her and
Typhus: Two implements of death neutralized by each other’s nature. He was her
poison, and she was his. How could they avoid that?

How could she avoid the snake? There was no other way to
enter Argyle’s meeting chamber, and she
needed
to see him. If she waited
for him to send for her, it would be much worse than her coming to him
voluntarily. She
needed
to show him how loyal she was, even though it
was a false loyalty, one based on fear, necessity, and mutual benefit. If he
didn’t offer her the opportunity to play, she would have no reason to be loyal
to him. But he did give her the playthings she needed to satisfy her desires,
and she owed him loyalty—of a peculiar sort—for that. And Argyle? Argyle’s
loyalty was as vacuous as her own. If she didn’t have value for him, there was
nothing that would stop him from killing her. So, the question was: Did she
still have value for him?

She licked her lips and tentatively slid her fingers past the
snake’s fangs and gently touched the lever that would alert Argyle of her presence.
But she didn’t grip it; she didn’t press it down. Instead, she pulled her hand
halfway out and chewed on her lower lip. The pain was refreshing, and she took
heart from it. He would give her a chance to explain, wouldn’t he?
Wouldn’t
he?

She took the cap off the antidote and held it under her nose.
It was a noxious substance, and like most noxious substances, it smelled
atrocious. Acrid, burning fumes funneled into her nostrils, and she forced
herself not to turn away from it. If she needed it, she would have to drink it
quickly and fight off the urge to spit it out, to vomit. It would not be easy.

Quite suddenly, she thrust her hand into the snake’s head,
took a firm grip on the lever and jerked it down. The snake’s mouth collapsed
upon her forearm and the fangs pressed lightly against her skin. They didn’t
puncture it, not yet, but she hadn’t expected them to; that would happen after
she announced herself.

Argyle’s voice boomed through the corridor, “Who calls upon
me?”

Iscara took a deep breath and quickly said, “Iscara.” Her
voice was unsteady, and she clamped her teeth down on her tongue to keep from
crying out as she waited. The eyes of the snake began to glow, dimly at first,
then more and more intently, casting a frightful red pall on her arm. Seconds
seemed to pass as her heart beat once and then again. She didn’t breathe. Sweat
threatened to spout from her forehead, and tiny beads of it trickled down the
back of her neck and clung to her cleavage.

The snake’s grip was relentless; it did not tighten on her
arm, nor did it loosen. Another heartbeat came and went, then another. She took
a breath. Should she pull her arm free?
Could
she pull it free? Should
she drink the antidote and risk dying from
its
poison? Her lips parted
and she held the tiny vial up to them—but she didn’t drink.

Another heartbeat, another breath…

Did the pressure ease? She looked at the snake’s mouth,
bathed in the fiery glow of its eyes. It was moving, almost imperceptibly
rising from her forearm.
Not before
, she thought, lowering the antidote
from her lips to her chin—but she didn’t put the stopper in until the snake’s
grip was loose enough for her to remove her arm. She didn’t put the antidote
back away until the door was opening. She took a breath, then another. She
dabbed at the sweat on her brow with the cuff of her sleeve. She shook her
hair, blinked, and stepped through the door as soon as it was wide enough for
her to do so.

She paused on the other side. There was no one there to meet
her, to take her to Argyle’s throne. There was
always
someone there when
she visited Argyle. What should she do? Should she wait for someone to come to
her, or should she go to Argyle? She knew the way—Argyle’s throne was
impossible to miss; it stood like a sentinel in the center of the meeting room
and twisted around to face whatever door opened. All she had to do was step
forward, through the little alcove—Argyle’s last bit of paranoid defense—and
there he would be.

Iscara hurried through the entryway and into the chamber,
and then almost ran to stand directly in front of Argyle. He had his mutt with
him, and the damned thing was slavering. Why hadn’t the beast been there
earlier, when Typhus was escaping? The beast could have tracked him by his
scent—still could, if it smelled him on her. She kept her head bowed. Argyle
would like that; he
expected
that kind of deference, even though Iscara
felt nothing of the sort. Fear, on the other hand was another matter.

Argyle leaned forward, an angry, ugly sneer on his gigantic
face. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Iscara blurted out, “I
have news of the key. I know where it is. Typhus told me.”

Argyle’s sneer held his face still for a long moment, and then
he leaned back and the anger softened, smoothing over the lines in his brow and
narrowing his eyes. His lips were still parted, and he closed them. He eyed her
speculatively, and folded his hands over his lap.

“Is Sardach here?” Iscara asked, her voice urgent despite
herself. There was a sharp edge to the fear she felt, and it excited her, and
when she was excited, she spoke much too quickly. “He knows where it is.”

Argyle’s eyebrows lowered and his lips thinned as they
pressed against each other. Then he hissed, “Sardach, attend me.”

The foul beast detached itself from the shadows and
fluttered up to hover next to Iscara.

“Do you know where the key is?” he demanded, his eyes fixed
on Sardach. If Sardach answered Iscara didn’t hear it, but a second later
Argyle slammed his fists onto the skulls of his throne’s armrest and shouted,
“You lie!” He
almost
stood up, something no one
ever
wanted to
see.

“N-n-no,” Iscara stuttered, shaking her head. “Sardach
doesn’t know he knows,” she clarified. “The key is with—”
Dammit! What was
his name?
“—Uggles, where Sardach dropped him. It’s in his backpack.”

Argyle glared at her for a long moment and then turned to
Sardach. “Who is this Uggles? Where did you drop him?” He listened intently to
nothing for several seconds, and then turned back to Iscara with a speculative
look in his eyes. “Perhaps you mean Angus?”

Iscara gasped,
That was it!
She nodded vigorously and
said, “Yes, yes! That’s what Typhus called him. Angles. He said that Sardach
would know what he meant. Sardach would know where he dropped him. Typhus said
all you had to do was send someone to pick up the key.”

Argyle turned back to Sardach and asked, “Is this true? Do
you know where this Angus is?” He appeared to be listening for a few seconds,
and then he said. “Very well then, Sardach. I want you to get me that key. Do
whatever is necessary. Do not return here without it.”

A moment later, Sardach began to dissipate as he fluttered
to the little opening he used to enter and leave the chamber. No one but
Sardach knew where it went—except Argyle, perhaps—and then Sardach was gone.

Argyle leaned back and stared down at Iscara for a long
moment. “All right,” he began. “You have much to tell me. Why is it that you
are the only one who survived Typhus’s escape? How did he get by the guards?
How was it possible for him to free himself from those chains? They were
melted
.
How could he have done that? Did
you
help him?” His stare was level as
he asked each question, and when he finished, he put his hand on his gigantic
dog’s head and began to pat it. “Pug and I,” he finished, “would like to know.”

Iscara took a deep breath.
Not before
, she thought.
After?
“The fools put my tools in the room with him,” she began. There was no point in
lying—and no need. She did not willingly do anything, and the others had been
utterly incompetent. If she left out a few unnecessary details, Argyle would
realize that. “I tried to warn them, but they didn’t listen. The new Truthseer
was overconfident and underestimated Typhus….”