The Golden Key (Book 3) (10 page)

Ortis pointed at what was left of the creature Angus had
killed and said, “The rest of that thing, I think. He was covered in that
powder when I got here.” Hobart frowned, but before he could say anything else,
Ortis continued. “Remember what happened to the lava when he blew that hole in
it?”

Hobart nodded and leaned back, feeling suddenly nauseous
again. He didn’t mind eating raw meat—he had done that many times before; it
was part of being in a banner—but that little bit had not been meat. He didn’t
know what it had been, but it was disgusting. To cover up his discomfort, he
asked Ortis, “How long before you get here?”

“Four or five hours. I’m still descending on the lift, and
you remember how difficult it was to slog over that snow and climb up the
mountainside to the road. I’ll be toting that travois with me this time, and it
will make it even more challenging. After that, it’s a long run to get here.”

“All right,” Hobart said, standing up and moving to the edge
of the road. He looked down at the canyon several yards below them and whistled.
It was a steep slope, riddled with loose rock and dropping nearly fifty feet
before merging with the snow and ice below. “How did he make it up here?” he
wondered.

Ortis joined him at the cliff, took a look, and shrugged.
“He probably flew up here. Remember how he was moving when we saw the blue
light down there?”

Hobart nodded. He was looking for a way down to the canyon,
but he couldn’t see one that he could manage. “You can’t get down there, can
you?” he asked Ortis.

Ortis shrugged. “Of course I can,” he said. “Whether or not
I’m alive when I get there is another matter. So is getting back up here
again.”

Hobart ignored his attempt at humor and ruefully said, “If we
could get some of that ice, it would help with the swelling and reduce the pain
in his shoulder. It might even help preserve his foot.”

Ortis nodded. “Maybe there’s an easier path down not far
from here.”

Hobart squared his shoulders and turned abruptly. “I’ll
check this way.” He began to jog at the edge of the road, wondering how far he
would get before he collapsed. Only later did he realize he didn’t have
anything for carrying snow if he had found an easy way down the slope.

15

Iscara reached out for the healing salve she used to ease
the pain of burns and aid the healing process and set it on her work table.
Then she picked up the jug she kept tucked under the table and said, “I can’t
heal you if I can’t see you.” She wasn’t sure if that was true or not; if the
burns only needed the salve, then Typhus could rub it onto them by himself. If
she needed to use her magic to facilitate the treatment, she might be able to
do it even without seeing him; all she would need to see was the magic within
him. But she would need to know precisely where he was to do that, and she
would also need to see the wound before she would know how much treatment it
would need.

“Of course,” Typhus said from beside her. She almost jumped;
he could move so quietly when he wanted to, and it startled her even more with him
hidden by the Cloaking spell. She wasn’t worried that he would hurt her; he
would only do that if it was necessary, and as long as she did what he wanted,
it wouldn’t be necessary. It was his weakness, and she was going to capitalize
on it. That was what the jug was for—
if
she decided to risk using it.
Typhus might recognize the poison it contained, and if he did.…

She sighed and pushed the jug to the side. It was a lovely
thought, and killing Typhus would no-doubt get her on Argyle’s good side, but
it wasn’t worth the risk. Typhus
would
recognize the poison, and he
would
kill her for making the attempt. Besides, she had agreed to heal him, and that
was what she would do. After that.…

She was about to open the jar of healing balm when she
realized he hadn’t released the Cloaking spell. “Well?” she said, turning in
his direction. Perhaps if she brought the magic into focus? Would she be able
to see him then? She wasn’t sure; the Cloaking spell bent the magic around
someone to make them appear not to be there, and she didn’t think a casual
glance—or even a concentrated effort—would make that apparent to her. The magic
would look normal, wouldn’t it?

“Umber,” Typhus whispered. He was so close she could feel
his breath on her neck, and then his hands were on her shoulders, twisting her
around. “What does umber look like?” he demanded, his breath hideous as it
descended upon her like the force of a blow. She would have to give him
something for it before—

“Show me umber!” he demanded, squeezing her shoulders in his
vice-like grip. Normally, it would have aroused her, but there was something
different about his touch this time, something …
desperate
.

Iscara winced, trying to remember what umber looked like. It
was a shade of brown like that old chest her grandmother had given her when she
had first started healing people. Where had she put it? She looked around the
room until she found it hiding near a corner by her bed. Why had she put it
there? Oh yes, the potion—

Typhus’s grip tightened, and she nodded toward it. “That
weathered chest is close,” she said. It wasn’t quite umber, but it was similar
enough to give him an idea of the shade.

Typhus’s fingertips dug painfully into her shoulders as he
said, “No, no. The magic. Show me an umber strand of magic.”

Why would I do that?
Iscara wondered.
You can’t
see magic. How—

“You can see magic?” Iscara asked. Was it possible? Could he
see it? Had he
cast
the Cloaking spell on himself? But that would mean—

Typhus abruptly spun her around and leaned up against her
back. It was a familiar touch, one she had welcomed many times, but—

“Show me!” Typhus hissed into her ear. “Draw it to you.
Now!”

Iscara bit her lip as she brought the strands of magic into
focus. What if there were no umber ones nearby? It was a rare strand, one that
was tied to a special kind of rock, and there weren’t many such rocks near
Tyrag. They were mainly in the mountains or deep underground, that’s why most
wizards who used Cloaking carried a piece of the rock with them when they
traveled. She licked her lips; a part of her was very much aware of his
nakedness, his raw musky sweat. He had been gone so long.…

She blinked. He wasn’t here for that, and she wasn’t going
to give it to him anyway. He had left her without a word, and she would never
forgive him for that. He wanted to know what umber magic was like, but there
wasn’t any. There weren’t many umber-like strands, either, but she picked one
out and brought it toward her. “This is the closest one,” she said. “It’s a bit
too light—”

“No!” Typhus gasped, his body tensing, pressing rigidly
against her back.

Her lips parted slightly, and she sucked in a quick breath.
It was not passion that consumed Typhus; it was fear. What was he afraid of?
She had never known him to be afraid of anything but Sardach, and that was only
because he couldn’t kill the elemental with blade or poison. Typhus wasn’t even
afraid of Argyle; if he had been, he never would have taken—

“It has to be this one,” Typhus said, his voice urgent,
strained. A brown strand approached her and hovered in front of her eyes. “Do
you see it?” He demanded. “It’s umber, isn’t it?” She had never heard him be so
urgent, not even after—

“
Isn’t it?
” He
was
desperate. Why?

“That’s sienna,” Iscara said, “not umber.” How could he make
that big of a mistake? The two shades were so different—

Typhus gripped her arms so hard she thought he would snap
them like twigs, but when she winced, she wasn’t sure if it was from pain or
pleasure. Then his grip abruptly eased, as if the strength had fled from his
fingers, and Iscara wrenched herself free. She turned to him, to where she knew
he still was, and smiled. She reached out, put her hand on his chest, and
leaned forward. Then he was gone, and her hand flopped limply down to her thigh.

“No,” he said, a short distance away. “It can’t be.”

What was wrong with him? Why did he want to know what umber
looked like? It wasn’t an important color, except—

A Cloaking spell?
It uses an umber strand, doesn’t
it? If he used sienna instead….

Iscara fought the urge to giggle, but she was too excited to
keep her pleasure from her voice. “What is it?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Can’t you show me the burns?” She brought the magic into focus and saw what
shouldn’t be there: Typhus’s familiar nakedness was clearly outlined inside a
blanket of sienna strands. She couldn’t hold the smile back any longer as she
asked, “What’s wrong, Typhus? You didn’t use the wrong strand of magic, did you?
Surely you know better than that.” But he wouldn’t know better, would he? He
hadn’t been trained in magic. But he had somehow found a Cloaking spell and cast
it. Surprisingly, it hadn’t killed him. Instead, it had made him a beacon of
brown amid the swarming strands of magic surrounding him. He couldn’t be seen
by normal sight of course, but anyone who could see magic would have no trouble
spotting him. A lot of people could see magic.

“Don’t you?” she asked, letting her mirth escape in little
bursts of giggles that quickly escalated. She followed him with her eyes as he
tried to side-step out of her line of sight, but when he saw he couldn’t evade
her, he stopped. He stepped up to her, his brown silhouette reeking of anger
and hostility.

“Do something!” he demanded, his fists clenched and his tone
fierce and full of emotion, so utterly different from his normal chill
dispassion.

Iscara slowly shook her head. “There is nothing I can do. You
cast the spell, and only you can end it.”

He stepped forward and reached for her shoulders again. This
time his grip was firm but not painful, and a bit of hopefulness crept into his
tone. “How?” he demanded. “What must I do?”

Iscara shrugged and reached up to stroke his chest with her
hands. “I’m sorry Typhus,” she said, not meaning it at all, “but I don’t know.”
Then she moved her hands from his chest to his arms, sliding them slowly,
softly to his wrists. He didn’t resist as she lifted his hands from her
shoulders and held them out in front of her. “Now, why don’t I tend to those
burns? They don’t look too bad.” She couldn’t see them clearly, but she wanted
him
to think she could.

Typhus did not resist her as she rubbed the ointment over
his seared fingers, but the blisters told her they needed more than just the
ointment. The burns were severe, and she needed to touch the magic within him
to tend to them properly. But she couldn’t do that; the sienna cocoon was an
impenetrable barrier that kept her from seeing the magic inside him just as the
Cloaking spell kept normal sight at bay. Eventually, she gave up and brought
his fingers to her lips and kissed them. She would have done more, but the balm
tasted atrocious and she had to turn away to spit it out.

Typhus moved away from her and began to pace with his hand
held to his chin. Minutes passed as she watched his futile efforts. What could
he possibly know about magic? It surely wouldn’t be enough to fix his mistake
or he wouldn’t have made it in the first place. Would the Wizards in Tyrag help
him? They knew Argyle was looking for him, and some of them had been Fanzool’s
friends. They wouldn’t help the man who had caused his death, even if he was
Typhus. And Gimpy probably had friends, too. Then she grew bored with waiting
and said, “I have to go tell Argyle where the key is.” She moved to the door,
evading Typhus as he continued to pace. She paused at the doorway and said,
“You shouldn’t be here when I get back. Argyle might be with me.” It wasn’t
true, of course, and Typhus knew it. She had known Argyle for four years, and
she had never seen him outside of his dreary little dungeon, and had never
heard of anyone else seeing him outside of it either. No one she spoke to
seemed to remember when he had arrived in Tyrag, only that he had been in the
depths of the city for as long as any of them could remember. Even the old
timers couldn’t remember him in any other way than how he was now.

Typhus stopped pacing and stared at her. After a moment, he
nodded. “I won’t be,” he said.

“Good,” Iscara said. “Perhaps after they have gone?”

He glared at her like an angry bronze statue, and then shrugged.
She smiled at him, let the magic fade from sight, and froze in place. She could
still see Typhus’s outline, but it wasn’t a sienna silhouette; it was a faint,
almost ephemeral, blue sheen that hinted of ghostly apparitions.

“What is it?” Typhus demanded as she stared at him.

She shook her head, sighed, and stepped back into the room.
She walked up to him, took his arm, and led him to her mirror. It was the
large, full-length mirror that captured the whole of his luscious body in its surface.

“We can’t have you running around out there like that,” she
said, admiring the sinewy curve of his muscles and wondering what it would be
like to wrap herself around his ghostly form. “What would the priests say?” She
paused and shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t be good at all.” What could she do
about it?
Wrap myself around—
she began, then she smiled and reluctantly
released him. She moved back to her work table where there were plenty of
bandages.

“Are you coming?” she demanded, turning toward him with a
long, narrow strip of cloth in her hand. “These bandages should cover up that
glow, but you’ll have to get something to cover
them
up on your own.”

It took three overlapping layers to keep the glow from
shining through, and when she finished, she gave him a long, lingering kiss
before leading him from her workroom and sneaking him out the side door. She
paused only long enough at the top of the stairs to grab one of her old cloaks,
and once they were in the street, she released his hand and gave it to him.
“You’re on your own now,” she said. “I will tell Argyle that Aggles has the key
where Sardach dropped him. He’ll like that.”

“Angus,” Typhus said, but she ignored him. Names weren’t
important.