Angst (Book 4) (7 page)

13

Tears ran down Grayle’s cheeks as she backed out of the
dusty, cobwebbed tunnel yet again. It was no use. She just
couldn’t
get
very far before the grime drove her crazy. The tunnel had to be cleaned, and
she didn’t have any clean cloth or water to do it.
Damn Argyle and his
disgusting habits!
she thought, trying to ignore the hideous stench of
Argyle’s chamber.

She tried closing her eyes so she couldn’t see the tunnel,
but that didn’t work either. With each step she took up the stair, she imagined
the cobwebs were reaching out for her and the dust was sidling up against her
bare skin, and each time a cobweb brushed against her, she cringed. She got
further with her eyes open—but only by a few steps. “Why didn’t you keep it
clean!” she screamed up the dingy stairwell. “I’m trapped!” But it did no good.
There was no one up there to hear her.

She thought about leaving through one of Argyle’s exit
tunnels but rejected the idea. None of her guards knew who she was, and they
would probably kill her on sight when she stepped out of Argyle’s chamber.
That’s what she would do if she were them, considering what had just happened.

Poor Pug,
she sobbed.
Why did Sardach have to kill
you?
A burst of anger burned through her tears.
Damn you Sardach!
she thought fiercely,
Why did you have to leave me?
She clenched her
fingers into fists and snarled, “It’s
his
fault! He’ll pay for it! I’ll
make sure of it!” But how? The Wizard’s Pact…

She started pacing. If she used the golden key to bring
Argyle back, she could give her minions orders to escort Grayle out of the
place. That would keep them from killing her, but nobody cleaned those tunnels
either. Argyle didn’t care if they got dirty. At least they wouldn’t have
cobwebs. Maybe she could cope with the dirt if there weren’t any cobwebs
hanging about. Maybe. She glared at the stairwell again. Argyle would find it
delightful, but he wouldn’t even fit through the door.

She was hungry. She was cold. She
refused
to put on
the worm-eaten dress she had worn when she had come down to become Argyle for
the last time. It would be the last time, too! She would just tell her uncle
that she was
finished
with being Argyle. She had had
enough!
He’d
listen, too, and then say, “Now Grayle…”

“Damn him, too,” she muttered, only half-meaning it. But the
half that meant it was vindictive and ugly. The other half didn’t care.

She looked at the key, at the little box that held the Golden
Key. It was powerful, old magic from the time before The Taming. Argyle waited
inside it, and all she needed to do was open the box and hold it. Argyle could
deal with the grime. Argyle
loved
grime. But Argyle wouldn’t fit in any
of the exit tunnels, either. He was trapped in his own tomb. It wouldn’t do to
have him rummaging around in the city streets.

No!
she thought, twisting around so fast that her
hair slashed across her naked shoulders and sent a shiver through her. She
hadn’t felt that shiver in a long time. Argyle’s horrid, greasy hair had always
made her cringe when she was inside him. No, not inside him. She
was
him
in the same way that
he
was
her
while she was under the influence
of the Golden Key.
They
acted.
They
spoke.
They
thought as
one. Only with the golden key did she have full control, and that key had been
gone for a long time.
He
had left his mark on her, and
he
was
vicious, cold-blooded, calculating. It was
his
revenge that she sought
to bring against Angus.

Pug!
She had loved that dog because it was the only
thing in Argyle’s dungeons that she
could
love. For Argyle, Pug had been
a vicious tool, just like all the other vicious tools he had used to bend
people to his will. They were her vicious tools, now, and she couldn’t even use
them.

She looked at the tunnel opening and furiously plunged into
the cobwebs. This time, she drew upon the residue of Argyle within her that
relished the grime instead of being reviled by it. She hurried up the
stairs—and managed to get further than she had on any other attempt before she
screamed in horror, swatted at her hair, and fled down the stairs and out of
tunnel. Once past the secret entrance, she tumbled to her knees and swiped at
the cobwebs on her arms and breasts and hips and feet. She tugged violently at
the ones clinging to her hair. She screamed again as she tried to shake the
cobwebs from her hands and they stuck fast to her fingers. Finally, she crawled
over to Argyle’s gigantic purple pantaloons and vigorously ran her hands over
them until the cobwebs were gone. Tears formed runnels through the dust on her
cheeks, and she buried her face in the foul-smelling cloth whose familiar reek
somehow brought her comfort. Slowly, she sagged into the folds of the pantaloons;
her anger, her frustration easing as their energy was sapped by the tears.

She was still laying there, silent tears seeping slowly from
her eyes, when someone behind her softly called, “Milady Grayle?”

She whirled around, the pantaloons draped over her. A young
man stood just beyond the secret tunnel’s entry, a torch in his hand. He
stepped into the room, and his eyes quickly fell upon her. “Milady Grayle,” he
said a moment later, lowering his eyes and bowing. “Your king will be pleased
to see that you are alive.”

The young man looked familiar.
He looks like Felix,
she decided as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She blinked and
shook her head. “Who are you?” she demanded, a hint of Argyle’s unnerving
dispassion in her voice.

“Forgive me, Milady,” he said, bowing to one knee. “I am
Phillip, son of Felix and manservant of King Tyr. He sent me here to find you.”

Phillip!
She thought.
He was not more than a boy
when I left.
Her eyes passed over Phillip. She could see the resemblance.
What
happened to Felix?
He was far from being handsome, but…. She smiled and let
the pantaloons slide from her as she rose to her feet.
I am Grayle,
not
Argyle
, she thought as she approached him.
I am Grayle…

14

Taro shivered as he huddled in the heavy winter cloak
Humphrey had given him when they had parted. It was a beautiful, almost new,
garment sewn from a dark, vibrant blue cloth. It was also too large for him,
and he couldn’t quite situate its voluminous folds around himself well enough
to keep out the gusty mountain wind. At least he could breathe again without
struggling to find enough air. And it wasn’t snowing anymore.

He shuddered. The passage over the top of the pass had been
horrid. The thin air had whipped about him and sucked the air from his lungs.
The snow—Abner had called it a “light flurry”—had pelted his face with its
brutal, chilling touch as it danced with the intemperate wind. Even now, he
couldn’t escape the remnants of that touch, and he doubted the fire in his
vision would be enough to force it from his numb fingers.

“Fear not, Master Taro,” Abner had shouted into the worst of
it. “We’ll be over the pass soon.” He was a small boy on the edge of manhood,
and he had seldom spoken during their month-long journey across the Western
Kingdoms. When he did, it was never a wasted breath. “The air will thicken soon
enough.”

Taro hadn’t wasted his precious breath on a response;
instead, he had adjusted the cowl to block out the wind buffeting his face. The
sea breeze at the shrine had never made his breath freeze in his nostrils like
this wind had, and even after three days of steadily warming descent, his body
still hadn’t thawed out.

“The road to Hellsbreath is just over that last rise,” Abner
called out to him, pointing at a short incline not far ahead of them. “There is
a caravan stop just before we reach it. It will be a good place to make camp if
you’d like to stop for the day.”

Taro frowned. It would be nice to warm up, but could they
spare the time? There was still a good two or three hours of sunlight before the
lingering dusk set in, and they could camp on the road again when they needed
to. Still, the caravan stops were set up for layovers, and he had found them to
be more comfortable than the cobblestones of the road. But they were close to
Hellsbreath—too close to waste time on rest they didn’t need. “No,” he said,
shaking his head. “We have light left. Let’s make use of it.”

Abner looked at him for a long moment, but, as usual, said
nothing.

They rode in silence until they reached the top of the rise,
and then Abner reined in the mule and whistled. “Take a look at that view!” he
said.

Taro looked out from his cocoon and marveled at the long,
lush, narrow valley nestled in between monstrous snow-capped, granite
mountains. It was almost like a gigantic dwarf had swung his axe and cleaved
the mountains in two, so sharp they rose up from the valley floor. Smoke
funneled from some of the mountains, as if they were the chimneys of huge
houses with raging fireplaces.
How soon before they breathe fire like
dragons?
Taro wondered.

The caravan stop was just below them, and the road continued
until it merged with the Great South Road that led from Hellsbreath to The
Southlands. That road hugged the east edge of the valley and disappeared to the
south behind the mountain they were on, but nothing impaired their view to the
north.

“That,” Abner said, pointing to the north, “is where
Hellsbreath is. You can almost see it from here. It’s between those two smoking
mountains.”

Taro tried to see what Abner was pointing at, but he
couldn’t; it was too blurry. He turned back to the crossroads a few miles below
them and frowned. The road they were on disappeared into a blurry patch of
green beneath an equally blurry patch of gray topped by blurry white spots.
What had happened to the wondrous landscape?
It wasn’t me,
Taro thought.
I was seeing what he was seeing, wasn’t I?
He frowned.
No. I can’t do
that. It was something else. A memory?
He looked around again, trying to
bring back the beauty he had seen, but all about him were diffuse, blurry,
barely recognizable shapes.
Not a memory. I’ve never been this far east.

“If this weather holds,” Abner said, “we should reach
Hellsbreath in three or four days.”

“My vision,” Taro suddenly realized. A surge of excitement
sweeping over him as he straightened up and let the cowl fall back from his
face. The wind still swarmed around him, sapping the warmth from his skin, but
it didn’t seem to matter. Hobart was coming! He had to be. He pointed to the
south and asked, “Abner, do you see anyone approaching from the south? A small
group of riders?”

Abner shielded his eyes and studied the road to the south.
“No, Master Taro,” he answered. “I don’t see anyone.”

“You will,” Taro said. “A large warrior clad in metal with
three archers and a boy. We will meet up with them at the crossroads.”

“We had best hurry, then,” Abner said as he urged the mule
forward at a rapid pace. “It will be near dark when we get there.

Dark?
Taro thought.
It wasn’t dark in my vision.
The sun gleamed off his sweaty forehead.
After a few seconds he said,
“We’ll camp at the caravan stop,” and drew the cloak tightly in around him
again.

Abner frowned at him, shrugged, and slowed the mule down to
an easy walk.

15

“I need to be alone for awhile, Mother,” Giorge said as he
stood up and stretched. The tent they were in was small, and he felt like
walking. “I feel like I’m back in Lord Ard of Ark’s dungeon.” he added.

“Oh?” His mother said, standing up and smiling. “You’ll have
to tell me about that later.”

As she reached out to hug him, he sidestepped her and picked
up his pack. Then he took the two short steps to the tent flap. He opened it
and looked outside. It was a warm day for spring in the mountains, and the sun
was bright. He squinted and turned back to his mother. “I’m sorry, Momma,” he
said, the word catching in his throat. “I’ve been on my own for a long time.”
He didn’t need to add that he had thought she was dead for all that time.

“It’s all right,” his mother said. A ripple of concern
crawled over her face as she added, “It’s difficult for me, too. It was only a
week ago that I said goodbye to my little Giorgie, and now….” She shook her
head and sighed.

Giorge nodded. Now they were the same age. No, not quite. He
was a few months older than her.
Damned curse!
He wanted to scream, but
instead, he stepped outside and let the tent flap fall back into place.

He walked to the edge of the camp and slunk off into the
trees. Though somewhat sparse, they would provide enough cover for him to
stroll about. The sentries didn’t bother to stop him; after two days, they had
realized that he would sneak by them anyway. Besides, he was a Banner man and
had privileges. It didn’t help that Darby had disappeared, though; the men
weren’t sure what to do on their own. Still, they let him out of the camp and
that was all that mattered.

He walked around the campsite for nearly an hour before he
was satisfied there wasn’t anything watching the camp, and then sat down on a
fallen log. He took a few seconds to glance around to make sure no one had
followed him, and then reached into his pack. He brought out Symptata’s last
chest—a small wooden box varnished chocolate brown with silver inlays—and set
it on his lap. It was larger than the others had been, about a foot long, ten
inches wide, and eight inches deep. What was inside it? He set his palms on the
lid and looked around again.
Should I open it?
he wondered.
Is the
curse really over, or will it renew itself if I open it?
He had picked the
lock days ago, when he had first found it but felt no compulsion to open it.
All he needed to do was move the little lever and lift the lid, just as he had
done with the others. But with those, the curse had made him open the boxes
immediately after picking the lock. This one was different; there was no urge
pressuring him to open it, and even his curiosity was little more than a
passing inclination.

“You only live once,” he muttered to himself as he tapped
his fingers on the lid. “Usually.”

He frowned. His mother had died, but now she was alive
again. Would she die again if he opened the box? But she was the one who had
told him the curse was over, that he had broken it when he reunited the Viper’s
Breath, Eyes, and Fangs with the Viper’s skull etched into Symptata’s
sarcophagus. Was she right? He hadn’t reunited them, had he? He had died, too,
and by the time he was alive again, they were already in their proper place.
Had he somehow done it while he was dead? “No,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I didn’t do it. They were just there.” He looked at his hands tapping on the
box’s lid.
Symptata’s poem said the curse had ended….

“So what’s in here?” he whispered. “Why was this box waiting
for me when we escaped from his tomb?”
That
was what bothered him. If
the curse were really over, there shouldn’t have been one of Symptata’s boxes
waiting for him. Unless it had been there all winter, in which case it was
probably empty. His fingertip traced the outline of one of the inlays,
wondering what would happen if he tried to pry off the little piece of silver.
It wouldn’t be worth that much by itself, but that didn’t matter. He wanted to
see if he could mar the box. If the curse were still in place, wouldn’t it
prevent him from removing the inlay?

He reached down for one of the thin knives in his belt and
paused. He shook his head. The whole box would be worth more if it was intact.
It would be a shame to damage it if the curse were over, like his mother said
it was. Besides, it was pretty. The craftsman who had built it had done an
exceptional job. He sighed and set it on the log beside him. It was a fairly
old log, and the bark sunk inward at the added weight. “Odd,” Giorge muttered.
“It didn’t feel that heavy to me.” He picked it up easily and set it down on
the other side of him. It sagged into the log again. The log hadn’t given that
much when he had sat down. “There must be soft spots,” he half-whispered.
“Maybe it’s rotten.” He set his forearm on the box and looked around again.
Nothing. No one seemed to have heard him, and he sighed.

“What am I doing?” he asked himself. “She’s my mother, and
I’m avoiding her.” It was true. He was uncomfortable with the reunion. Perhaps
it would be easier if she was older, but she looked just like she had when she
had left him with Auntie Fie. Almost the same. She was shorter—no,
he
was taller. “What would happen to her if I open the box?”

Nothing
, he thought with certainty.
She’s right.
The curse is over.
But was it?

He didn’t need to open the box. If he wanted to, he could
leave it sitting on the log and let someone else have it. But they would open
it—he was certain of that—and if the curse wasn’t over, they would release it
all over again. This time, he wouldn’t know it was coming. It might even change
the curse and make it worse. Maybe whoever opened it would become the unwitting
victim of the curse? He shook his head.
No.
Symptata cursed my family
line—
my
line—and that’s who would be affected by it.
He looked at
the box and shook his head.
What will happen if I burn the box? Will it
destroy the curse if it’s still alive? Will it release it?
He sighed. He
didn’t want to open the box. He didn’t have to open it. He knew that if he left
it sitting on the log, he wouldn’t think twice about it as he turned away. It
wasn’t
like the other boxes, the ones that he
had to
open….

He looked around again to see that there wasn’t anything
watching, and then reached into a hidden pocket in his tunic. He brought out
both of the Viper’s Eyes and held them up before his eyes. The magic around him
came into focus. He didn’t know what magic was supposed to be like, but he
studied it anyway. If someone was lurking there, concealed by magic, he didn’t
see them, but that didn’t mean much, did it? He turned his enhanced gaze on the
box and saw nothing. There was no magic in it at all. No curse….

He lowered the gems and put them back away. Then he picked
up the box again, set it on his lap, and slid the little lever to the side.
There was a click, and the lid sprang upward a fraction of an inch. The weight
of the box increased dramatically, pressing down on his thighs with as much
force as a small child sitting on his lap. He gasped in surprise, but when
nothing else happened, he took a deep breath and opened the lid.

He looked inside, and the empty sockets of a snake’s glare
stared back at him.