The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (3 page)

He set the dagger, stilettos, and pouch of gems on top of the
robe, and then brought out the small pouch. He frowned; he had forgotten about them.
They should have been burned months ago. No matter; he could take them with him
and burn them when they make camp. He smiled. It would give him a chance to
test his new spell.

He turned the backpack over and a few crumbs and some lint
fell onto the stone floor. “I’ll need to get some food,” he said. “What else?”
he asked as he surveyed the items on his table. “Teffles’ book. The wand.” He
would have to tell them he was leaving so he could get them back. It was all he
could do to convince them to let him keep his scrolls in his room.

Angus looked at the scrolls and frowned. Why hadn’t he
copied his scrolls into Teffles’ book? Half the pages were empty, and it would
make it easier to carry his spells around with him if they were in the book.
Scrolls took up so much more space.
Because I was busy?
he thought. It
was true; he had been busy.
Because it isn’t really my book? Because these
are
my
scrolls?

He had learned much from Teffles’ spells, and had even mastered
a few of them. He had practiced flying until he could soar alongside Ollis, the
Master of Air Magic. He had even been tutored by Festus, the Master of Fire
Magic, and now understood nearly all of the scrolls Voltari had given him when
he left. But there was so much more to learn, to remember, to understand, to
master.

Then there was Embril. He sighed and half-smiled as he
thought of the kindness in her blue eye and the depths of her brown one, and how
they seemed to blur together when she smiled. She was such a delightful woman,
so knowledgeable and generous with her time. They had grown close over the
winter, and he was sure she hoped for more. But there was nothing more he could
give to her, not while the gaping hole in his mind was still there. How could
he truly be with her when he didn’t even know who he was? If only he could
remember what he was like before the spell in Voltari’s tower had gone so wrong!
If only he could remember who he was! It would be different if he didn’t know
the memories were still there, lurking in the shadows just beyond his grasp. But
the Truthseer had found those memories, had touched them—had touched
him
.
And her probing had left behind those tantalizing little snippets of memory
that hovered just out of reach. But only snippets, crystal clear bursts of
memory seconds long and completely disconnected from each other. Fragments of
an alien identity, fragments
of
him
.

He sighed. It would be easier without those memories. At
least then he could accept who he is and let who he was remain forgotten. But there
they were, and he couldn’t ignore them. He
wouldn’t
ignore them. Magic
had cost him his past, and magic would restore it.
If
he could find the
right spell. But his search thus far had been fruitless—at least in that
direction. His visits to the library had led him to Embril. He smiled, a deep,
sad smile. He would have to tell her he was leaving. He sighed again. It was
such a simple thing, leaving: put a few things in a pack, strap it to your
back, and start walking. But
parting
was such a heavy burden.

He turned to his desk and looked at the pile of books
stacked on it. He would have to return them to the library before he left, and Embril
was sure to be there. He would tell her what he needed to then, there was no
point in putting it off any longer. He had hoped for more time, but he didn’t
have it. He walked over to his desk, picked up the books and carefully set them
on the floor beside it. Then he opened the drawer and took out the vellum
scroll he had bought but a few days earlier. It was still blank, but it
wouldn’t be for long….

1

By the time they made camp at the end of the third day,
Angus was tired of talking. What was there left to say, anyway? “I studied my
spells and learned a few new ones.” He could describe each spell in excessive
detail—tie this knot that way, draw upon those threads, remember to turn your
finger such and so, be mindful of the power—but there was no point in doing so.
He was the only wizard among The Banner of the Wounded Hand, and the others
wouldn’t understand the nuances of magic that he loved so much. But they could
understand the effects of the spells when they saw them, and he prepared them for
the effects of most of the spells, even though he had not cast them. There had
been no need to waste a good priming.

“I practiced flying every morning for two months,” he had
told them. “I won’t be banging into walls anymore.” That had elicited the
expected chuckle, but it was also true. He could now soar with the eagles or dart
about like a giant sparrow. But he hadn’t primed for the Flying spell in some
time; his focus had shifted to learning new spells, and he had mastered three
of them. Two others were almost perfected, but he needed more practice.

“I found a buyer for the Angst tomes,” he told them not long
after leaving Hellsbreath. When they asked if he got a fair price, he reached
into a pocket and brought out the pouch of gems. He tossed them to Hobart, who
grinned as he distributed the proceeds among their appreciative hands. “Too bad
there wasn’t time for me to decipher the Angst language; I would have liked to know
what they contained.”
Hopefully there wasn’t any dangerous knowledge
, he
silently added. His companions were more than satisfied with the gems, but
Angus felt as if the exchange had been somehow incomplete. He had wanted very
much to know what was in the two texts, and when he returned to Hellsbreath, he
planned to find out what the buyer had learned from them. But translation of
old, dead languages is a slow, methodical process that often fails. It couldn’t
be rushed.

“I read a lot,” he had said, and when pressed, added, “about
history.” He shrugged when they asked what part of history, and then told them a
half-truth. “The time of the Angst,” he had said. It wasn’t quite a lie, since
he was reading about events of that time—the Dwarf Wars, the founding of the
Kingdom, the plains folk—but it wasn’t quite true, either, since he had found
nothing of consequence about the Angst. The strange religious sect seemed to
have been completely forgotten even in its own time. Then there were the
fishmen incursions. He hadn’t mentioned those, either. He didn’t need to; they
already knew about them. The fishmen had been attacking The Borderlands at
harvest time for centuries, and then last year they hadn’t shown up. But there had
been fishmen at the Angst Temple, a long way from the Death Swamps and much too
close to Hellsbreath. It seemed prudent to become more acquainted with the
conflict, but he was certain Hobart knew more about it than he did. So did
Ortis.

Mostly, though, he had turned the conversation toward his
companions. Four months is a long time to be idle, and he was curious about
what they had been doing. He wasn’t really interested in their answers—he still
didn’t know them very well—but it was a good way to deflect their attention
away from him. Besides, their answers were disappointing and predictable. There
wasn’t that much a man could do during winter, not even in Hellsbreath. Hobart,
now clad in his familiar metal skin, had spent much of the time training with
the soldiers and drinking with Bandor. He had new stories aplenty, most of them
about this or that battle, but they really didn’t interest Angus. He was a
wizard, not a warrior, and his battles were wrought with a weapon more
dangerous than a sword. He had listened, responded when and how it was
appropriate, and even made a small effort to retain their content, but they
were too much like the sensationalized stories Braden had recorded to be of
much use.

Ortis had been quiet most of the time. He did a lot of
listening, a lot of thinking, but when the subject of his own activities was
brought up, he did very little talking. It suited him well—even before winter,
he had spoken infrequently and generally only to the benefit of their
survival—but it also made it seem like Ortis had spent the whole winter practicing
with his bow and resting. But Angus was certain Ortis had been much busier than
he let on, and he wondered what it was he had been up to. He frowned; Ortis
wasn’t saying any more than Angus had been saying, and that made Angus
suspicious. Angus was keeping quite a bit from his companions, and that made
him wonder how much Ortis was hiding. More? Less? Something sinister? Or was he
just keeping to himself? Whenever he looked at the Triad, he couldn’t help but wonder
what the man was hiding, but if Ortis noticed his apprehension, he ignored it.
Angus was glad of that; Ortis had done
nothing
to warrant such
suspicion. He didn’t deserve it. And yet, there it was, and Angus couldn’t
quite shake off the feeling that it was somehow deserved.

Then there was Giorge. He at least had been quite busy over
the winter and wasn’t at all hesitant to talk about it. At first, his stories
were amusing and his grin was infectious, but after awhile, they became quite repetitive.
After all, how many different ways could he say he had wooed a young woman into
his bedchamber? How many ways were there to “appropriate”—his word—items from
“careless”—his word again—bystanders? He had chattered incessantly for two
solid days before he finally ran dry. Then he started in on the other winters
he had spent in Hellsbreath.

“We’ll get there tomorrow afternoon,” Hobart said as he sat
down and leaned in toward the fire to warm his hands. “Midafternoon by the look
of things.”

“Where, exactly, is this ‘there’?” Angus asked.

Giorge grinned. “You’ll see soon enough,” he said. “Be
patient.”

Angus frowned. He had asked the question before, and they
hadn’t answered it then, either. “It’s a surprise,” Giorge had said. “You’re
going to love it!” But Angus didn’t much care for surprises; they tended to
turn deadly. He wanted an answer.

“So,” he said, “you’re still not going to tell me?”

Giorge, his grin never wavering, shook his head and said,
“No. That would spoil it for you.”

Spoil
what
? Angus wondered as he said in a harsher
tone than he intended, “Fine. If you’re so fond of surprises, perhaps I’ll give
you
one.”

Giorge’s grin faded to a mere smile as he said, “Now, Angus,
don’t be like that.
Trust me
. You won’t be disappointed.”

Angus shook his head but said nothing more.

“Besides,” Hobart said. “It isn’t something you want to
dwell on. It will be better to find out when we get there.”

Angus frowned and glared at him. Of all the things he could
have said, that was probably the only thing that would have made him dwell on
it more than he already was. But there was also truth in it; there was nothing
he could do about it until they got there. If nothing else, he could refuse to
do whatever it was they had in mind, and that would be the end of it. Still, it
would be nice to be prepared. “All right, Giorge,” he said, his voice soft and
steady. “Just remember what happened the last time you tried to surprise me.”

Giorge’s smile disappeared and he shifted his weight from
one side to the other, as if he were sitting on a wobbly rock. Then he shook
his head and said, “That was different.” His voice was firm, low, and steady.
“You know this surprise is coming. It won’t catch you off guard. I promise.”

“He’s right, you know,” Ortis said as he sat down between
his other two constituents. Angus looked at them, his eyes narrowing, focusing
on the identical appearance of the three constituents. One of them leaned
forward to stir the fire, giving him a sepulchral glow. When the flames
settled, his orange-tinted gaze caught and held Angus while another constituent
spoke, “I don’t think you have to worry about him sneaking up on you again.”

“I had hoped to be past that,” Hobart grumbled. “It’s been
months, Angus. Surely you can let it go?”

Angus frowned and stared into the fire for a few moments.
Hobart was right; he should have moved past it by now. He had thought he had,
but seeing Giorge again had stoked the deep, festering wound back to life. He
sighed and stood up. “I’ll be back,” he said, putting his hands in the pockets of
his robe and walking well out of the range of the firelight.

It was a crisp evening, not far from freezing, but spring
was already underway. The little snow that remained rested in the cold shadows
of trees and boulders. Patches of green grass were sprouting up through the
layers of decaying leaves and last year’s soggy brown stalks. The night was
filled with dozens of small sounds, as if the whole world was waking from a
deep slumber. The road was clear, and the sun hinted of the coming warmth. Hinted,
only; the nights were a brisk reminder that a blizzard could still blow in with
little warning. It wasn’t warm enough for flooding, yet, either; much of the
snow pack in the higher elevations was still frozen. But there was mud, and he
had to walk with care as he neared the edge of the campsite. He didn’t want to
leave tracks when he returned.

When he had gone far enough into the shadowy fringe, he
turned to see if anyone had followed him. They hadn’t, and he half-smiled and
tilted his head.
So,
he thought,
Giorge likes surprises. Why not give
him one?
After he relieved himself, he brought the magic into focus and selected
the strands he would use. He had not yet mastered the spell, and this would be
a good time to find out how close he was to doing so. He reached for the first sky
blue strand and hooked it around his fingertip. The icy white one was next, and
then another from air. The last strand was difficult to locate; it had to be an
umber one of earth. He didn’t know why it had to be umber and not one of the
other shades of brown, but the spell called for it. Few spells were that
specific about shading, and it was wise not to ignore them when they were. But
it made the spell more difficult to cast; the strands of earth magic were
commonplace when one was near the ground, but specific shades were another
matter. Once he had all the threads anchored to his fingertips, he began the
process of weaving the spell, knotting together the magic within him with the
strands about him until he was surrounded by a translucent sky-blue sheen. He
knew from having seen others cast the spell that he would appear to be a
ghostly apparition if he stopped at this point—and he
could
stop the
spell if he wished—but he kept going.

He played the umber strand through each of the knots he had
formed, feeling it tingle as it merged with them. Once he finished interlacing
it with the last knot, he released all of the threads but the umber one. They
fought to get free, but the umber strand held the knots together, binding them
into one, and he made the final loop to lock them in place—for a time. No
spells were ever permanent, not even the most long-lasting of them. The magic
wouldn’t allow itself to be confined for long. With the spell finished, he took
a breath, turned, and strode back to the fire, doing his best to make as little
sound as possible. As he neared, their whispered conversation came to him.

“—ing you, he’s changed,” Hobart said, his voice low.

“Yes,” Ortis softly agreed. “He was never that rigid before.
Guarded, certainly, but it’s as if he’s retreated deeper into himself.”

“No,” Giorge said, shaking his head. “Not retreated. Before,
it was like he was puzzled about something all the time. Now he’s sure of
himself, more confident.”

Angus stepped up behind Hobart as quietly as he could.

“Yes,” Hobart said. “He isn’t as lost as he was when we
found him.”

Angus frowned.
Found him?
What did he mean by that?
He reached into his pocket with his right hand and brought out a pinch of dried
mushrooms; with his left, he grabbed for another strand of air magic and
quickly tied the knot for Puffer.

“He was lost, wasn’t he,” Ortis agreed, one of him glancing
in the direction Angus had gone. “But he isn’t any longer.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Giorge said. “It’s more like
he’s come to terms with being lost than him having been found.”

Angus reached over the fire and ground the bits of dried
mushroom between his finger and thumb. The flakes fluttered down into the fire,
which flared briefly and belched forth a burst of smoke. As it did so, Angus
used the soft breeze created by Puffer to direct the smoke toward Giorge.

“What’s that smell?” Giorge asked, waving his hand in front
of his eyes and squinting.

“It’s just the smoke,” Hobart said.

“No,” Giorge said, shaking his head and blinking rapidly.
“It’s something else. I know smoke, and this was different. It was like—” he
frowned and looked around. “Where’s Angus?” he asked suddenly.

“He should have been back by now,” Hobart agreed. Then he turned
and called, “Angus? Is there a problem?”

Angus smiled, leaned over his shoulder, and said “No.” Then
he leapt backward to avoid Hobart’s sudden jerk and upward thrust of his elbow.
A moment later, Hobart was on his feet with his broadsword in hand, the tip
pointed in Angus’s general direction.

“Who said that?”

Angus chuckled and moved quickly out of reach of the long,
flat, wide blade. Hobart’s probing had become a bit too close, and he didn’t
want to get stabbed accidentally. “I did, of course,” he said.

“Angus?” Giorge asked, looking almost directly at him.
“Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” Angus said. “Can’t you see me?”

“No,” Giorge said.

“Good,” Angus said, thrilled that the spell had worked
perfectly.