The Tiger's Eye (Book 1 of the Angus the Mage Series)

wrong,” he said.

  “The wand? In Hellsbreath?” she prompted. “When you struck your head against the wall?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he corrected. “The spell in Blackhaven Tower.”

  “Explain,” she demanded.

  “Voltari said I cast the spell wrong,” Angus chirped. “I don’t remember doing it. I only remember waking up not knowing who I was. Voltari told me my name was Angus and I was his apprentice. That is who I have been ever since. I don’t know who I was before that.”

  The smoke fluttered, hovered. “How long ago did this occur?”

  Angus frowned, shrugged. “It is difficult to say,” he said. “There were no calendars in Voltari’s tower; he kept his own schedule. I can only estimate that it was over a year ago but less than two.”

  “Interesting,” the Truthseer said. “Perhaps if we dig deeper we shall find more truths?”

  She tossed more incense on the brazier and the haziness of her form solidified into a thick, amorphous, almost viscous form. As it approached, something deep inside of him braced itself, saying over and over again, My name is Angus. I am Voltari’s apprentice….

  17

  His back ached the way it did when he hunched too long over one of Voltari’s tomes. He tried to move into a more comfortable position, but his hands were tied. So were his feet. But he wasn’t gagged.

  He was moving—a steady swaying jostled his body around and aggravated the soreness of his back. The ropes chafed his wrists and ankles, but he could flex his hands and fingers without any difficulty. Whoever had tied him up had done a poor job of it; the ropes were tied so loosely that he could easily slip them off if he wanted to, but he needed to know who had him first.

  His nose was clogged with dried mucus. Or was it blood? Whichever it was, it was hard and scratchy, like sand, and clung to the inside of his nostrils. Thin wisps of wheezy breath whistled through them, but it wasn’t enough; he needed more air. He opened his mouth—

  And tasted sweat-drenched horsehair. It was slightly better than the sickly-sweet ooze sliding down the back of his throat, but he needed a drink.

  So, he was tied to a horse. By whom? Why?

  He gasped for air—he couldn’t help it. He tried to stifle the sound, to mimic the wheezing, but he couldn’t.

  “He’s coming around,” someone said. “We better stop.”

  The horse came to a stop and, after a brief adjustment, settled into a perfectly still posture. It helped. If he slid his hands free—

  No. He didn’t know how many there were. He didn’t know where he was. If he broke loose now, it would only get worse.

  “We’ll get you down in a moment,” a man said from beside him as firm, gentle hands working on the ropes.

  He didn’t protest—or help—as he was eased to the ground. He was too weak, and a blacksmith was banging on his head as if it were an anvil.

  “Drink this,” the man said, holding a small glass phial up to his lips. It smelled strongly of mustard, of sage, and of a few other things he couldn’t identify. He thought about protesting, but he was too thirsty.

  He opened his eyes. Subdued sunlight, shadows. The face was familiar. The eyes—orange eyes, catlike…. He knew someone with eyes like that, didn’t he? A survivor of something? He was in cahoots with a thief, a thief who tried to take his gold—who did take his gold!

  “The Truthseer said it will help clear your head.”

  The liquid was warm, spicy, but had almost no taste, despite the smell. The warmth flowed down his throat, into his stomach, and began radiating outward through his body. When it reached his head, the pounding of the hammer stilled, and he said, “Ortis. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Ortis said, holding out a water flask. “It will help wash it down. When you’re up to it, we’ve got some cold stew you can eat.”

  Angus drank most of the water and nodded. “After I wake up,” he rasped, finding it difficult to breathe through the scabrous mucus clogging his nostrils. He reached into his nose with a finger, felt the sand-like surface and began prying at it. Only bits of it crumbled free at first, but he kept at it, gradually working it free—despite the pain of pulling out the nose hairs and skin encrusted in it. At least the nosebleed didn’t last too long, and it woke him up the rest of the way.

  “What happened?” he asked, looking around at the narrow ledge on which they were standing. It was just wide enough for the horses to ride two abreast without risking a fall. The cliff face was a rough, nearly vertical, surface, as if someone had taken a dull knife and sliced through a slab of cheese. Small nodules of rock bit into his back as he leaned against it, but they weren’t sharp. He did his best to ignore them as Ortis handed him a bowl of cold, congealed stew.

  “You spent a long time with the Truthseer,” Giorge said as he sat down beside him. “Do you remember that?”

  “I remember going in to see her,” Angus said between bites. “She wanted to know more about the gold coins you sold for me.”

  Giorge nodded. “What did you tell her?”

  Angus thought for several bites before shrugging. “The truth, I suppose,” he finally said. “The coins came from Blackhaven Tower, and that was about it.”

  Giorge studied him for a long moment. “That can’t be all,” he said. “You were with her for over two hours. What else did she ask you about?” His voice was steady, serious, and his posture expectant.

  “Like what?” Angus asked, trying to remember the conversation. Had he really talked to her for two hours? It didn’t feel like it; she only asked him a few questions, hadn’t she? Maybe she had asked more, but he couldn’t remember them. The whole encounter with the Truthseer was a blur, as if he was remembering it through a thick gray fog. No, not fog, incense. Yes, that was it; she had drugged him with some kind of incense, hadn’t she? Then—

  Giorge cupped his hand over his mouth, leaned in close to Angus’s ear, and asked, “Did she ask you about Typhus?”

  “Why would she do that?” Angus asked. Who was this Typhus? A thief like Giorge? No, that wasn’t what the Truthseer had said. She said Typhus was an assassin. Yes, that was it, and she asked him if he knew who he was? No. That wasn’t it. She thought he was Typhus because Bug-Eyed-Jake—

  “Because of the coins,” Giorge whispered.

  Angus frowned. “What does Typhus have to do with the coins?”

  What had the Truthseer told him about them? Nothing. She only wanted to know who had given them to him, but he couldn’t—

  Bug-Eyed Jake had called him Typhus. Didn’t she mention him? Yes, she asked if he knew Bug-Eyed Jake. What did he tell her? Yes, that was it. He’d met Bug-Eyed Jake in Hellsbreath’s Hellhole. No, he hadn’t known him before. No, he didn’t know Typhus. No, he wasn’t Typhus. No—

  “They think the coins you had were part of what he stole from—” Giorge paused, looked around at the isolated ridge, and then finished, “From someone you don’t steal from. He wants them back. And he wants Typhus.”

  My name is Angus. I am Voltari’s apprentice. I have been his apprentice for ten years. My home is Blackhaven Tower. I do not know Typhus. I have never met Typhus. The gold coins were in my pockets. I didn’t put them there. I don’t know who did. Voltari must have done it.

  “No,” Angus said. “She only wanted to know where I got them. I told her.”

  Angus shrugged and continued eating. “Apparently my answers satisfied her,” he said. “I’m here, aren’t I?” He looked out at the mountains and valley in front of him and asked, “Where are we, anyway?”

  I was apprentice to Voltari for ten years? Is that true? It has to be true, doesn’t it? He couldn’t have lied to the Truthseer, could he?

  “We’re almost across the ridge,” Giorge said. “You’ve been in a swoon for over two days. We thought you were going to die when they carried you out of that tent, but the Truthseer said you were only sleeping and you would wake up eventually. When we asked how long, she said she didn’t know; s
he had never used so much incense before, and it was even making her groggy. When you didn’t wake up the next morning, we decided to tie you to your horse and move on for as long as it was safe enough to do so.”

  Angus finished his stew and held out the bowl to Giorge. “I don’t suppose there’s any more?”

  “Sorry, Angus,” Giorge said. Then he grinned and added, “There wasn’t that much to begin with, and it was all Ortis could do to keep us from eating what was left.”

  “Hardtack, then,” Angus said, reaching into a pocket.

  Giorge stood up and moved to the ledge. “If that mountain were a bit lower, you could see Hellsbreath from here,” he said. “And that,” he pointed southwest at a high mountain with three summits, two of which were already covered with snow, “is our destination.”

  “The ledge won’t take us there,” he continued. “But it will get us to that plateau leading up to it.”

  “I thought we were going into a valley,” Angus said.

  “We thought so too,” Giorge said. “But we were wrong. Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

  Angus pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can barely stand right now. I’ll fall off the ledge.”

  “I’ll help you,” Giorge said, moving in to support him with his shoulder before leading him closer to the edge. “See?” he said, pointing down at the bottlenecked valley below them. “We saw that valley from the mountain where you made the tunnel. This cliff is the north edge of