The Golden Key (Book 3) (13 page)

“Possibly,” Darby agreed. “Why don’t you ride with us and
watch Elmer’s technique. You know more about horses than the rest of us, and
you might see something I don’t. It looks to me like the mare is jittery.”

“Yes, Sir,” he said.

“Leave it,” Lieutenant Jarhad said as he approached. “We’re
going to ride hard for the rest of the day. Chatter when we camp for the night.”
He didn’t wait for a reply; he went down the rest of the line and told them of
his decision. On the way back, he paused beside them, looked at Tobar, and
asked, “What’s the problem?”

“My horse hates me,” Embril blurted out. “Will you please
ask it why?” It seemed to her to be a reasonable request; she had read all
about talking to horses in Barnham’s grimoire—or, as she liked to call it, Barnham’s
groom
oire, even though most people didn’t understand her joke.

Lieutenant Jarhad’s deep-set brown eyes stared at her for a
long moment, and his lips thinned to a flat line beneath his bushy moustache.
He shook his head slowly, and turned away without comment. As he rode by,
Embril thought she heard him grumble, “Women,” but she wasn’t sure. He could
have grumbled
wizard
instead.

A minute later, the horses were moving at a much faster rate
than before, and she had to devote all
of her attention to keeping in
the saddle. She didn’t even have enough mental energy left to concentrate on
the mantra to stifle the pain as it grew. The horse frequently shifted
position, and it was all she could do to keep from falling off the left side of
the horse. She was adjusting to the horse’s motion, and with each adjustment
her recovery time quickened. It wasn’t enough, though; she could feel the sores
welling up on her thighs and backside with every jostle, jerk, and jarring
movement of the horse, and her back was in constant torment. She gritted her
teeth and glared at the beast, but she refused to cry out as the pain mounted.
She didn’t want to give the horse the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.

2

Little Giorgie clung to Momma’s hand as she talked to the
fat woman who smelled like baked bread. He liked baked bread, and he hoped
Momma would buy him some. They were talking with words he didn’t understand,
funny words that were light and fluffy with lots of laughing sounds. His mother
didn’t sound happy though; she was sad. The fat woman wasn’t happy either; she
was angry. Her voice got loud and unfriendly, and Momma got stubborn. Momma
always talked through tight lips when she was stubborn, and that was what she
was doing now.

“Enough!” Momma said in her voice that meant that he was
going to be in
big
trouble if he didn’t stop what he was doing. He
hadn’t done anything except hold her hand really tightly, so he let go and
rubbed it, looking up at her with his pouty, sorry eyes. But she wasn’t looking
at him. She was scowling under her eyebrows at the fat woman. “You
owe
me,”
she said. He didn’t know what the fat woman owed Momma, but he was sure it was
a lot; Momma never used that tone unless he did something
really
bad.

The fat woman put her hands on her hips. They were big
hips, and she kept a coin purse tucked in the apron covering them. It was too
high for him to reach in and get it, but his little knife could slit the fabric
below it as he walked by and it would drop into his palm. But he wasn’t
supposed to take things that weren’t his unless he needed to and the people he
took them from didn’t need them. It was a stupid rule, but Momma insisted upon
it, and whenever he took too much, she would pinch her lips together and make
him take it back. He didn’t like that, though; it was a lot more difficult to put
something back in a pocket than to take it out. Sometimes he got caught, so he
tried really hard not to take too much.

The fat woman looked down at him, and her eyes were big
and brown and mean-looking. “Fine,” she said, but she wasn’t barking at him. Then
his mother held out his bag and the fat woman took it.

As she opened it, Little Giorgie tried to grab it out of
her hands but Momma wouldn’t let him. This time,
her
hand was squeezing
his
hand too tightly, pulling him back to her as she knelt down and looked into his
eyes.

“Giorgie,” she said, “this is Auntie Fie. She’s going to
be taking care of you for a while. I want you to behave yourself.”

He looked into her eyes, and they were filled with tears
she wasn’t crying. He didn’t understand that, but he reached up to touch her
cheek anyway. “Momma sad,” he said. She smiled and hugged him close to her for
a long, smothering minute, and then pushed him back from her.

“Do what Auntie Fie tells you to do. I’ll be back as soon
as I can.” Then she hugged him again, this time only briefly, and kissed his
cheek. She looked at him and smiled, despite the sadness in her eyes, and then
put her warm hand on his cheek. The warmth lingered as she turned and hurried
out the door. He moved to follow after her, but a tyrannical, unrelenting hand
clamped onto his shoulder and stopped him.

“Let her go, Boy,” the fat woman said, her gruff voice
almost kind. “I’ve got work for you to do
….
”

Giorge gulped and eased back on his heels. There was slime
on his mother’s image where he had clung to her, and he tried to brush it away.
It clung stubbornly to the small folds of her dress, and he rubbed at it. He
knew the image wasn’t his mother, but it didn’t matter to him. It was the first
time he had seen her since the day she had abandoned him at Auntie Fie’s, and
the shock had driven out the spark of hope that she was still alive somewhere.
Even after Auntie Fie had told him about the curse, he held onto that hope and
refused to grieve. “She’ll be back,” he had told himself again and again until
he had truly believed it. Even when the curse struck him and he knew that she was
dead, he couldn’t believe it. He could
say
she was dead over and over,
but he couldn’t quite
believe
it. Until now.

The shock of seeing her here, in this wretched place, had
finally destroyed that kernel of hope, and the fine edge of the grief that had
been held in abeyance for so long had erupted. Then it was over. The tears had
come, and now they were gone. He was no longer Little Giorgie, no longer the
boy his mother had left behind; he was Giorge, a man who had lived a lifetime
in twenty-one short years. It was a good life, a fun life, a
full
life,
and when the curse had struck, he had accepted that it was coming to an end.
But it hadn’t ended. He was still alive. And if he wanted to stay that way, he
had to find out more about where he was so he could find a way out.

He struggled to his feet and slipped on the slime-covered
floor. He looked once more at his mother, and as he turned slowly to the left,
he saw his own image staring out at him from the shadows. It looked
exactly
like him, the same way the image carved on his mother’s sarcophagus looked
exactly
like her. But he wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead.

Was she?

He turned back to the sarcophagus containing his mother. Was
there a corpse in it? Or was she alive, trapped inside it the way he had been
trapped inside his? Had she been trapped those many years ago and been unable
to get out? He shuddered in horror: Had she died
in there
?

“Momma,” he whispered, moving close to the sarcophagus and
running his fingertips lightly over the surface. There was a thin, almost
imperceptible crack along its edge, about six inches back from the front. It
ran up and down the side as far as he could reach.
The seal
, he thought,
but there’s no latch, no lock.

He stepped cautiously over to his own sarcophagus and
studied the lid in the dim light. About halfway up the lid, a single bolt,
rusted and broken, had held it in place. Was it the same for hers? He looked
back at his mother’s tomb, slid his short sword from its scabbard, and slowly
approached it. It was only a few feet, but he nearly fell twice as he crossed that
short distance.

He used the heavy weight of her sarcophagus to steady
himself, and lined up the edge of his sword with the seal, worming it in
between the age-worn wood. The seam parted easily, and he forced the blade down
the seam until he encountered resistance. Then he hesitated.
Do I want to
know?
he wondered, even as he gripped the hilt tightly and twisted. There
was a pop, and the lid sprang open an inch and stopped. Stale, dry, dusty air
puffed out, and he held his breath and turned his head away. He jumped quickly
back and slid to a precarious stop. He exhaled and looked around on the floor
for the sling Ortis had used on his arm. When he found it, he shuffled over and
squatted down to pick it up. He tried to shake off the muck, but it was
pointless and he gave up. But the inside, where his arm had rested, was still clean,
and he held it over his nose. He took a breath that smelled of stagnant filth and
turned back around—and dropped the sling to the floor again. His mouth fell
open and he forgot to breathe. He stared.

The sarcophagus’s lid was slowly swinging open.

3

When they finally stopped for the evening, Embril slid from
the saddle and slumped to the ground.
Still the mind
, she thought as she
steadied her breathing.
Still the body.
The agonizing fire in her thighs
felt like a giant blister had formed all the way down to her knees.
Still
the mind.
The pain in her backside felt like she had been sitting on broken
glass dipped in itching powder.
Still the body.
The ache in her lower
back was brutal.
Still the mind.
She glared at the vicious beast that
had injured her so and wrestled to regain her composure.

Darby was at her side, asking her what was wrong, but she
ignored him. She needed to work through the mantra, to get the pain under
control, and the plump soldier’s gravelly tenor wasn’t helping.

Tobar quietly led the horse away to be brushed down and fed,
and the mantra was interrupted by a sudden, fierce thought:
Why aren’t they
brushing
me
down and feeding
me?

Embril’s breathing eased as she leaned heavily against
Darby’s thick belly. Her legs were too weak to support her, and it wasn’t until
Lieutenant Jarhad was approaching that she finally managed to stand on her own with
a little bit of assistance from Darby.

There was genuine concern on the Lieutenants face as he
asked, “When was the last time you rode a horse?” Sweat-stained blonde locks
clung to his forehead and dangled behind his head.

She ignored the question and continued reciting the mantra
in her mind. She was still regaining control and didn’t need the distraction of
conversation.

“Well?” he demanded in the no-nonsense command tone he used
with his soldiers.

She closed her eyes and hesitated before saying, her voice
flat and emotionless, “Today.”

He frowned. “Before today?” he clarified.

She almost scowled at him. Today was the first time she had
ridden a horse, and there wasn’t an answer she could give. The mantra was
working now, and she stood weakly on her own and leveled her static gaze upon
him, avoiding the unfriendly, deep-set eyes. He clearly expected to have an
answer and wasn’t used to not getting one. She shrugged. “Never,” she said.

She felt Darby’s belly shudder as Lieutenant Jarhad’s
eyebrows shot upward and hid behind his sweaty, dirty blonde hair. “Today was
the first time you rode a horse?” the Lieutenant asked, astonishment in his
tone. He stared at her for a long moment and then turned to the man beside him
and ordered, his voice clipped and fierce, “Erect my tent. Quickly now!”

The soldier nodded and ran toward the pack beasts. As he
went, he snapped his fingers at three other soldiers, and they joined him.

Lieutenant Jarhad stepped up to her other side and slid under
her arm to give her support. It was an awkward fit; he was much taller than she
was, and it hurt her shoulder to lean against him. Now that the mantra was
working, she didn’t need his support and let her arm slide down to her side. “I
can manage,” she said, “with Darby’s help.”

“You should have told me,” he scolded as he took a step away
from her. “By the way you rode this morning, I thought you were just out of
practice. If I had known you didn’t know how to ride—”

“I do so know how to ride!” she corrected, a rigid defensiveness
creeping into her tone despite the calming effect of the mantra. “I read all
about it—”

“Ha!” Lieutenant Jarhad laughed. “You
read
about it?”

“Certainly,” Embril said. “You don’t think I would come on
this venture ill-prepared do you?” Darby was letting her determine the pace as
they walked slowly toward the place where the men were rapidly erecting the
tent. As she walked, the pain in her thighs subsided, but her backside still
stung and her lower back throbbed maliciously. The mantra only diminished the
impact of her pain, not the awareness of it, and she knew there was something
dreadfully wrong with her back.

Lieutenant Jarhad shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I will
teach you how to ride. Based on what I’ve seen so far, it may not take long.”

“I know how—”

“
Reading
about riding,” Lieutenant Jarhad
interrupted, “and
knowing
how to ride are not the same thing. I would
think you would have realized that by now.”

She was ready to walk on her own and let her hand slip from
Darby’s elbow. It was difficult; the mantra did little to remove the weakness
in her legs; it could only help to manage the pain and delay the need for
sleep. It couldn’t heal the body or make it work more effectively. Darby stayed
next to her, a bit closer than she preferred, but it was comforting to know
that he could catch her if she needed him to.

She
almost
told the Lieutenant that she had absorbed
the content of three different texts on horsemanship and noted what all of them
repeated, that she had committed these techniques to memory, and that the
difference between mental know-how and the physical application of that
know-how was not as great as most people thought. She
almost
told him it
was the foul-tempered beast that was the problem because she had not been
prepared to deal with an unruly brute. After all, the Lieutenant was supposed
to give her a temperate beast that would be easy to manage. She
almost
said these things, but let the mantra calm her and pushed those thoughts aside.
He was right anyway: knowing how to ride and riding
were not
the same
thing.

“You’ll stay in my tent tonight,” Lieutenant Jarhad said as
they came to a stop a few feet from the bustling activity of the men erecting
it. It was nearly ready for them; the posts were set and the thick,
water-resistant cloth was almost in place. Not far away, the furnishings—table,
cot, chair—were assembled with soldiers waiting beside them ready to carry them
inside the tent.

Despite the mantra, her mouth fell open and she jerked her
head in his direction.

He laughed and added, “I’ll sleep with the men in theirs.”
Then he looked at Darby and added, “Darby will see to your needs.”

She shook her head. “I can care for myself—”

“No protests,” he said, shaking his head and setting his
jaw. “While you are under my command, I expect you to do what is necessary for
the success of this mission. You can’t do that in your condition, and I will
not let you delay us any longer than is necessary.”

She had been slumped over as she walked, trying to ease the
stress on her lower back. Now she stood up straight—and would have collapsed if
Darby hadn’t reached out to catch her. She gasped as a new wave of pain radiated
out from her lower back and threatened to break through the mantra. She nodded
and leaned heavily against Darby. As Lieutenant Jarhad turned to leave, she
said, “I’ll need my box.”

He nodded, gestured for a soldier to accompany him, and
walked away.

Darby held her firmly, dispassionately until the tent was
ready for them. Then he helped her inside and led her to the cot. “I need to
get my things,” he said. “Can you manage until I return?”

Embril nodded as she sat down. Of course she could manage.
The mantra wasn’t perfect, but it was sufficient for suppressing the pain she
was experiencing if it didn’t last too long. But if Darby could do something
about that pain, she was more than willing to let him.

The tent was dingy, and the lantern was inadequate. She was
accustomed to the brightness of the Wizards’ School library, and the dim
lighting was straining her eyes. She could fix that easily enough, though and,
almost unconsciously, cast the Lamplight spell to brighten it up. It didn’t
help her back any, but it would make it much easier to do what she needed to
do.

Not long after that, Lieutenant Jarhad walked in with a
soldier in tow. When he saw the Lamplight, he snapped the tent flap shut and
threw his cloak at it. The cloak passed through the spell and fell in a heap on
the cot beside her. He stepped rapidly forward and grabbed her arm and wrenched
her painfully to her feet. “
Put that out!
” he snarled.

Instead of putting it out, she reached instinctively for the
magic around her and snatched up a strand of flame magic. It had been a long
time since she had cast the spell, but it was a simple one, so simple that
apprentices learned it as an exercise during their first year. She tied the
knot rapidly and released the energy it contained. It wouldn’t cause any
permanent harm, but the sharp pain it caused made him yelp and jump backward
two steps. He had his sword half out of its sheath before he slammed it back
into place.

She glared at him, wondering what was wrong. Why couldn’t
she use the Lamplight? It was much better for reading than the lamp, and she
had some preparations to make for the next day. “Why?” she asked. “I need it.”

His eyes narrowed and sunk even more deeply into his skull
and his white-knuckled grip twisted around the hilt of his sword. He slowly eased
the tension from his hand and forcibly relaxed his grip. When it snapped free from
the hilt, he said, his voice low, almost a growl, “You are fortunate, Embril,”
he said. “If you had cast that spell in the open instead of inside my tent, I
would have had you flogged for it—even this close to Hellsbreath. The wizards
who travel with us
never
cast magic in the open except in battle, and
only then when it is absolutely necessary. You would know that if you were
properly trained.” He took a deep breath, and then said through clenched teeth,
“Now, will you please put that thing out?”

Embril frowned; she
was
properly trained. In fact,
she was one of the ablest of wizards in the school. She shook her head. She
really did need the Lamplight spell, and as long as it was kept in the tent, it
shouldn’t be a problem. Why did they have that rule, anyway? What good is a
wizard who can’t cast spells? “I need it,” she said. “The lamp is not
sufficient. When I have finished with it, I will extinguish it. In the
meantime,” she added, reaching for the Lamplight and walking painfully up to
the lantern hanging from the tent pole. It was a hooded lantern, and she opened
the shutter and blew out the flame. Then she reached in to attach the Lamplight
to the warm, smoking wick. She used the shutter of the lantern to diminish its
impact, and when she had finished, she turned to the Lieutenant and asked,
“Satisfied?”

Lieutenant Jarhad glowered at her for a long moment before
he reluctantly nodded. “For now,” he said. Then he snapped, “No more spells!”
and abruptly turned around. He opened the flap and let in the soldier carrying
her box—a large chest that was almost too large to be carried by one man—and he
staggered inside with it. He dropped it heavily on the ground not far inside
the entrance, the metal of the padlock clanging noisily against the metal bands
wrapped around it.

Embril moved up to it, but when she tried to bend over, she
gasped and almost toppled to the ground again. She straightened slowly, and
asked, “Would you mind putting it on the cot?”

The soldier nodded and, breathing heavily, bent to lift it
up again. He plodded over with the chest and set it heavily onto the bed. The
cot shook under the impact.

“Thank you,” Embril said, stumbling over to it. She reached
inside the scratchy tunic and pulled out the key to the padlock.

The soldier saluted and hurried out of the tent, but
Lieutenant Jarhad lingered, watching Embril.

Embril unlocked the box and opened it, letting the heavy lid
fall backward and reaching for the small of her back. She repositioned herself
as best she could to minimize her discomfort and removed the topmost book from
the chest. It was the first volume of
Heatherly’s Taxonomy
, a
comprehensive treatise on the flora of the mountainous regions bordering the
Kingdom of Tyr. It was a wonderful text, fully illustrated, and—

“Books!” Lieutenant Jarhad snapped as he stepped rapidly
forward until he was standing next to her. His hands clenched into fists at his
sides as he looked in the chest. “
Books!
” he repeated in disgust.

“Yes,” Embril said, reaching for the second book. It was
Heatherly’s
second volume, the one that dealt with the fauna of the region. It was a thinner,
lighter book, but it still put a lot of strain on her back as she set it aside.

The tent flap opened and Darby stepped inside. “Sir?” he
said as he moved around them to set his pack on the table. “I will need
privacy,” he said, opening the flap of his pack.

As Lieutenant Jarhad turned to leave, he said, “See to her
needs.” He paused with the tent flap open and added over his shoulder, “Make
sure you check for a head wound.” He looked at her pointedly, and finished,
“She brought a chest of
books
with her.” Then he went outside and the
flap was fluttering back into place.

Darby took a few small jars out of his pack and set them on
the table. “I have an ointment that will help with the pain,” he said. “But I
will need to do an assessment, first. Where do you hurt?” he asked as he stepped
up next to her. His dark brown eyes dilated to become nearly black as he
removed her hat and set it on the table. His fingers probed over her skull,
lightly touching it here and there, and when he finished, he smiled a toothless
smile that barely tweaked the edges of his lips. “No head wounds,” he said.
“You will need to remove your uniform,” he added as she turned to the chest of
books.

Embril glared at him and made no move to comply.

As Darby reached into the chest and pulled out the next book
he said, “I can’t apply the ointment through the cloth.”

“I will apply it myself,” Embril said.

Darby shrugged and asked, “Will you know which ointment will
work best?”

Embril glared at him again, and then fumbled clumsily with
the uniform and glanced at the book Darby was holding. It was a fairly thin one
on mountain climbing that she had included as an afterthought because there was
still room left in the chest.