Angst (Book 4) (4 page)

7

Visions need riddles
, Taro thought as he hobbled down
the road.
No, visions
are
riddles. How can I explain them to others?
He sighed. He had tried to explain the visions to the villagers who knew him,
but they had looked at him as if he had finally lost his wits, even though he
had just found them again. He couldn’t blame them, though, could he? “I have to
find a wizard,” he told them, his voice excited and his eyes wide. “He has a
black robe and walks through fire. He plays two invisible lutes at the same
time, and they make an awful screech, like pigs being butchered. No, that was
what happened at the Wizards’ School. His lutes were silent, and….”

He would have thought himself crazy if he hadn’t had the
visions. In a way, it was good that they thought him crazy, since they had
given him some coins and food to help him along when he finally told them he
was leaving for Hellsbreath. He accepted their gifts graciously, as if they
were donations to the Order instead of alms to a raggedy, crazy old man. And
those were the villagers who knew him. The next village over was less kind,
even though they had heard of the strange old man at the shrine. It was worse
at the next one, and he had finally given up on trying to explain his mission
to them—and it
was
a mission! He had been granted these visions by the
gods, and he was going to see them through! But he needed a better way to relay
the content of the visions; one that wouldn’t leave him sounding like his mind
had fled from him.

What did the Seers of old do?
he wondered.
Nothing,
he answered.
The people trusted the Order back then—and there were Elders to
guide initiates through their visions to help them understand what they meant.
Maybe I ought to find my mentor?
He shook his head.
No time. I have to
reach Hellsbreath.
He hobbled forward, his walking stick tapping out a
rhythm on the cobblestones. They were interesting cobblestones, large,
alternating slabs of colored rock that formed a grid pattern, like the streets
of Hellsbreath. Most of them were gray and white, but every now and then there
was a stretch of green and white or black and white or green and gray or black
and gray. No doubt each little king had their own color preference. He smiled
and rattled off a playful verse:

There once was a king with a sword

who ruled over all with his word

and by writ and decree

he demanded there’d be

no gray cobblestones on his road!

He chuckled and shook his head. It was a pointless verse,
but it helped him to pass the time as he plodded forward. He probably had heard
it somewhere on his travels before reaching the shrine. Some bard or other must
have sung it as a quip between songs? Yes, it had to be something like that.

He frowned and listened to the tapping of his walking stick.
It had a simple melody, one that was slow and ponderous. It was almost ominous,
like the kind of omens he had heard diviners give. But the diviners’ omens were
always vague, pompous warnings—or vague, hopeful tidings. It always sounded to
him like the diviners were making things up to suit their audience, but what
did he know? Maybe their magic only gave hints of the future? Maybe all they
got were vague impressions? But when they spoke of those impressions, they
sounded so
important
. Taro knew it was only the ritual and their voice
that made them seem that way, since what the diviners said always seemed like
empty words to him. Peasants ate it up like it was their daily gruel. “The gods
will look upon you with favor this spring!” Really? What kind of favor? Which
gods? He really didn’t care, of course, but if that was all they could see,
their divination spells weren’t worth much. Now,
he
had seen visions!
And—

And they were vague. Oh, they had details, all
right—mountains, fires, wizards, volcanoes—but what did they
mean
? What
connected them together? He was no better than the diviners. Why couldn’t
he
provide them with more than that? Something concrete and specific? But did he
need to do that? All he really wanted from them was a bit of food and a room
for the night, just enough to get to the next village, to get a little closer
to Hellsbreath. What if he told them vague stories that reeked of doom and destruction,
like the diviners did? What if he told them of a savior who struggled mightily
against it and—

And what? It
looked
like the wizard was doing
something, but there was no way for him to know what it was. Maybe he was
making the fire instead of trying to put it out? Damned vision! Why did it have
to be so
disconnected
? If only—

Disconnected? What if that was a good thing? After all, Taro
could turn him into a monster destroying thousands of lives with his
lava-spewing magic or turn him into a savior fighting
against
that
monster. Which story would be better? Which one would lead to a comfortable
room and a good meal? Which one would get him a wagon ride to the next village?

tap-TAP

tap-TAP

tap-TAP

A stoic rhythm, a
somber
rhythm….

“A DAY will COME with—” With what? A wizard playing tricks?
He began to hum along with the tapping of his walking stick, trying to work the
rhythm into his mind. There was a song there, waiting for him to find it….

8

Iscara was confused. Why would the king want to see her?
What had she done that could possibly warrant his attention? Her escort—a tall,
thin fellow with a clean-shaven, angular chin and dark green eyes—didn’t know
why and didn’t want to know. She drew her cloak more tightly around herself and
wondered,
Why the secrecy?

“This way,” the man said, his voice soft, almost lilting. He
held out his arm and ushered her down a narrow, shadowy hallway. It was
probably one of the routes servants took to make their way through the castle.
They came to a door and stopped. He rapped lightly twice and waited.

A few seconds passed, and then a key slid into the lock and
turned. The door opened and an old woman waved Iscara through. “Wait here,” she
said to her escort.

He nodded and faced away from the door. The old woman closed
and locked it.

“Now,” the old woman said, taking Iscara’s cloak from her.
She had gray hair that clung to her head like soot-stained strands of wool, and
her back had a noticeable curve to it. But her eyes were keen, calculating, as
they passed from Iscara’s long black hair, down past her ample bosom, and came
to rest on her feet. She shook her head. “It won’t do,” she said. “It won’t do
at all.”

“What is it?” Iscara asked, glancing down at her healer’s
gown. It was her best one, and there wasn’t a spot of blood or viscera on it
anywhere.

“Everything,” the old woman said. “Your ears are lopsided,
and that hair is a mess. And those feet! They look like dogs’ paws.” She shook
her head, took a firm hold of her elbow, and led her down a narrow corridor lit
only by a lantern placed halfway down its length. “We’ll have to do something
about those clothes. He
detests
white garments.”

“But—” Iscara began, and quickly fell silent. What was the
point in protesting that she was a healer and healers always wore white? He was
the king, and what the king said was law. So she followed in silence, feeling
as if she were a cow being groomed for the market.

The old woman used her key to open a door at the far end of
the corridor and urged her inside. Iscara gasped: It was a bath. A
proper
bath. With flower petals in the water and towels at the ready. Steam rose up
from it, and it brought the faint scent of roses to her.

“Well,” the old woman said. “Get on with it then. He’ll be
expecting you soon.”

“What does he want from me?” Iscara asked as she reached
down for the hem of her robe.
If that’s all it is,
she thought as she
lifted the robe over her hips and wiggled a bit,
I’ll be glad—

“I don’t know,” the old woman said. She had moved over to
the bath and had a scrub brush in her hand. “Nor do I want to know,” she added,
impatiently tapping the brush’s handle in her palm. “Whatever it is, we best
make you presentable for it—and quickly.”

Iscara dropped her healer’s gown to the floor and hurriedly
removed her undergarments and boots. She moved over to the bath and lifted her
leg over the side. She
almost
winced as she slid her foot into the
scaldingly hot water. She brought her other leg over and gasped as she lowered
herself into it. She didn’t need to see her skin to know that it was turning
pink from the heat, and she smiled in exhilaration as she took a deep breath,
closed her eyes, and slowly eased her head beneath the surface. She lay down,
letting the near-blistering heat flow into her and only surfaced again after
her breath had escaped from her lungs. She gasped and shook the drenched
strands of her hair from her face. She had barely caught her breath when the
old woman took a firm grip on her head and pushed her firmly forward. The brush
was rough, but not sharp enough to break through the skin, and the old woman
used it vigorously, efficiently covering every part of her exposed flesh. Then
she turned to Iscara’s hair.

When the bath was over, the old woman helped her out of the
water and roughly dried her off. Then the old woman’s fingers and eyes passed
over the parts of her body as if she were inspecting a stud mare, and when she
had finished, she shook her head. “Let’s get you in the gown,” she said. “It
may help conceal those imperfections.”

Iscara glared at her but said nothing.
How dare you!
she thought.
I have a wonderful body! I know a dozen men who would say so!
Instead, she allowed the woman to help her into the gown.
What’s the point
of putting on a gown when it will be off again, soon, anyway?
Then she
impatiently waited while the old woman tended to her hair, wincing delightedly
as the brush caught in its tangles.

Nearly an hour passed before the bathing ordeal was over,
and still the old woman was dissatisfied. “It’s the best I can do,” she said,
shaking her head as she led Iscara to another door. This time, the corridor
beyond was clean and well-lit, and at the far end it opened into a well-lit
room. “Keep your eyes downcast unless he gives leave to raise them,” the old
woman softly said. “Address him as Sire and do what he tells you to do. Return
here when he is finished with you.”

Before Iscara could reply, the old woman stepped back into
the bathing chamber and closed the door. It clicked as it settled into place, and
the soft scraping of a key in its lock held a strange finality to it. There was
no need to lock her in, of course; Iscara was far from innocent, and there were
worse things than entertaining the king. Besides, she might gain some benefit,
some favor in return…. She smiled, took a deep breath, and walked confidently
down the corridor, pausing only long enough to bow her head when she reached the
end of the corridor. Once inside the room, she stopped and said, “Sire, I have
come as you desired.”

Someone chuckled and a firm, masculine voice said, “As if
you could have done otherwise.” A moment later, he continued, “Come, join me at
my table.”

“Yes, Sire,” she said, glancing up only far enough to see
where the table was. It was a large table, almost as large as the one in her
infirmary, and there was an expansive meal neatly spread across it. There was
an empty chair across from the king, and she moved toward it as gracefully as
she could. As she neared, she breathed in the aroma of seasoned, roasted fowl
and the crispness of steamed potatoes. Her mouth began to water as she took her
seat, but there was no waiting platter set out before her. She stared at the
empty space and let her hands fall softly to her lap. She pinched her left
forefinger as tightly as she could and waited.

The king carefully, meticulously began to fill his own
plate. He started with a potato, which he cut into thin slices that he arranged
into neat rows. He sliced off long, thin strips from the fowl’s breast—it was
too large for a chicken—and placed them between the potato slices. When he had
finished, he did the same thing with another potato.

“You are here to answer a few questions,” the king said.
“Answer them fully and truthfully, and you will be allowed to leave. Answer
them otherwise or speak of what we discuss with anyone else, and you will be
subjected to the same treatment that you have tenderly doled out to others on
behalf of Argyle.”

Iscara’s breath stopped and her eyes widened.
He knows!
How—

“Do you understand,” the king asked.

Iscara opened her mouth, blinked, and closed it again. The
tabletop was blurry. Her chest tightened. She grabbed the little finger of her left
hand and wrenched it ferociously backward until it snapped. The welcome, sudden
burst of pain elicited a gasp and cleared her mind. She nodded slowly and
licked her lips. “Yes, Sire,” she said.

“Good,” the king said, turning to another potato. As he cut
it, he said, “I know you have been hiding Typhus in your shop. It is time for
him to leave the city.”

Iscara blinked.
How?!
“Yes, Sire,” she said.

“You healed a wizard named Angus two nights ago,” he
continued. “Why did he request you?”

Iscara pulled on her broken finger and blinked. What could
she say? If she didn’t tell him the truth…. But what was the truth? All Angus
said was that he had heard about her from a mutual friend—from Typhus. Would
the king believe her if she told him? “He was referred to me by one of my
former patients,” she said. “I had never seen him before he was brought to me
by the guardsmen.”

“And this former patient?”

She gulped. “Typhus,” she said, her voice soft, almost
childlike. “I do not know how they knew each other.”

“Interesting,” the king said, arranging the potato slices
into rows that were perpendicular to the first one. He turned to the meat and
continued. “Perhaps I should talk with Typhus, instead.”

“Yes, Sire,” Iscara said. “Would you like me to send him to
you?”

The knife paused in mid-slice before slowly finishing the
next thin strip of breast meat. “You knew of Angus before he arrived,” he said.
“Did you not?”

How much does he know?
Iscara wondered as she studied
the wood grain of the tabletop and took a slow, deep breath. “Yes,” she said.
“Typhus had mentioned him. He had something Argyle wanted. A key of some sort.
I tried to get it from him as payment for the healing, but—” she paused,
Does
he know about Sardach, too?
“—he wouldn’t let me have it. It would have been
a fair price.”

“Indeed,” King Tyr said in an even tone. “I daresay it would
have been. I trust you were well-compensated?”

Iscara frowned. “No, Sire,” she said. “It was a very
difficult healing, and he did not have adequate funds with him. He promised to
pay more when he was able, but I fear that will not happen.”

“Indeed,” the king said as he carefully examined a potato.
“I understand that it would have been easier to remove his leg.”

Iscara nodded. “Yes, Sire.”

The king paused and she felt his eyes studying her. “Why
didn’t you?”

Iscara became very still and reached for another finger.
He’s
toying with me,
she thought.
He already knows everything.
She barely
heard herself as she said, “Sardach wouldn’t let me.”

The king was silent for a long time and then slowly set his
knife and fork down, one to each side of his platter. Then he leaned forward
and asked, his voice soft, intense, “What did you say?”

Iscara’s eyes widened.
He didn’t know!
She began
bending back the finger and paused. There was no point in it, was there? She
had already said it, and he already knew everything else. She leaned back and
said, “Sardach was with Angus. He wouldn’t let me amputate the limb. He said
Angus had to be whole. I,” she gulped, sighed, and added, “it is not wise to
cross Sardach. I had to send for my mother and Ninny to help me with the
healing. I could not have done it myself.”

She could barely see the bottom of the king’s smile as he
slowly leaned back. “No,” he agreed. “It would not be wise to cross Sardach.”
He paused before adding, “Nor is it wise to cross me.”

“Yes, Sire,” Iscara said. “I was surprised that Sardach was
with him. Typhus told me to tell Argyle to send Sardach to find Angus because
Angus had the key, and I thought Sardach would kill Angus to get it.” She
almost
smiled with pride as she finished. She had
never
gotten so many names
right at one time.

The king’s smile faded somewhat as he reached for the knife
and fork. “Indeed,” he said. As he began slicing a third potato, he asked, his
tone off-handed, “Was there anything else unusual about the healing?”

Iscara thought for a moment. Sardach’s presence had been
strange enough, but that wasn’t the only thing. “Yes, Sire,” she said. “He
should have died from his injuries long before he reached me. The wound in his
leg was badly infected. Most of it was dead, and when that happens, the decay
leeches into the blood and spreads through the body. Normally, a fever follows
that consumes the mind and kills within a few days. But he had no fever at all
when he arrived. He said it was his robe that stabilized his body temperature
and kept him alive. I asked for that robe as payment for the healing, but he
refused and Sardach….” She shook her head and fell silent. As she waited for
the king’s next question, she wiggled her broken finger back and forth, letting
the pain ripple over her.

“I see,” the king said when he finished with the potato. “Is
that all?”

Iscara frowned. There was something else, but she didn’t
know how to explain it—if it could be explained at all. “No,” she said. “There
was some strange magic in him, but I don’t know what it was. We were too busy
healing his injuries for me to pursue it further, and he did not tarry long
afterward.”

As the king sliced off another strip of meat, he asked, “Do
you know where Angus went after he recovered?”

Iscara brought the magic into focus and stared through the
tabletop at her hands. It would be easy to realign the misshapen strands of the
broken finger. A minute or two would suffice, and then she would ease the swelling.
She absently started tweaking the strands as she answered, “I believe he was
planning to take the key to Argyle. I don’t know if he did or not. He did not
stay long after he recovered his senses, and while he was there we spoke only
of my fee for healing him.”

“Very well,” the king said as he turned his plate and
carefully cut the first strip of potato into bite-sized segments of equal
length. “You may go.”

“Yes, Sire,” she said as she stood, bowed, and walked away.
As she reached the door, she heard him stand from the table and the scraping of
a chair being moved.

She did not turn around.