allies—even out here—and we may need their help before our quest is over.”
“Fine,” Angus said. “You can keep strategizing. I’m going to sleep. I’m exhausted. Don’t wake me unless you have to,” he added.
“Ortis,” Giorge said. “How do you feel about a little night reconnaissance?”
“Don’t go very far,” Hobart suggested. “It would not be good to infringe upon their territory until we’re ready for them.”
“If we see sign,” Ortis said, “I’ll let you know.”
“Dwarves despise….”
Their conversation gradually eased from his awareness as Angus lay down and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for sleep to come, and when it did, it wrapped gently around him like a fog-enshrouded, loving embrace that left him utterly terrified….
2
It was already well past dawn by the time Angus sat down to prime himself for the spells he might need, but something didn’t feel right. When he brought the magic within him into focus, it seemed to be all wrong. This wasn’t the vague sense of the magic within him not being lined up properly; it was as if they were a completely unfamiliar, rudimentary network. And yet, it was the same pattern of energy he had grown accustomed to since waking up with amnesia.
“How long were you Voltari’s apprentice?” the Truthseer had asked.
“Ten years.”
Ten years. But he only remembered one year, the last one. He had learned a lot in that year, and if he had been with Voltari for ten years, he should have learned even more. A lot more. What was keeping him from that knowledge? Why could he remember things when the Truthseer interrogated him that he couldn’t before? The only reason he knew them now was because she had asked him about it. He still didn’t remember those ten years; he only remembered one. But now, the familiar felt so utterly false….
He frowned as he flipped through the pages of Teffles’ book until he reached the flying spell and propped the book open. It had already proven itself to be useful, and he would never master flying without practice. He might even be able to use it to find out what made the fires—if he wanted to. What else might he need? What else could he prime?
The Firewhip spell would be useful in close combat, the whip-like flames only stretched out about fifteen feet. It would complement the Firecluster spell he had primed when he was with Billigan—but had he done the priming correctly? Would it work properly? Would it do something different? Would it kill him?
Hobart was right, knowing what they would be facing did make a difference, even to him. But they still didn’t know what it would be. And what if they weren’t attacked while they were on the plateau? There may not be anything until they got to the temple, and then he would need the kind of spells that would have limited range and effect. And the Lamplight spell; he would need it in the temple. He added that scroll to the Firewhip and looked at the other scrolls. How many more could he prime? Were his limits self-imposed? Or could he draw upon what he had forgotten even though he couldn’t remember it? If he could only prime a few spells at a time after ten years, he didn’t want to remember the other nine….
Most of his scrolls were variations on a theme. Geyser of molten rock. Bubbling pool of molten rock. Molten rock shooting up from the ground. Firewhip. Firecluster. Flame Bubble—Fire and lava—the perfect preparation for working in Hellsbreath. At least Voltari had done that much. What else had he done?
Maybe he should prime the Flame Bubble? It created a sphere of flame around him that he could propel outward at will, but it would weaken in intensity as it got further away from him. But it would put his friends at risk if they were outside the bubble, and the horses….
He didn’t need to prime for the friction spell; it wasn’t really even a spell. All he had to do was rub a strand of flame magic between his finger and thumb to generate heat, and then touch something flammable. That was what he had done with Giorge’s net. That and the spell from Teffles’ book. He’d have to name it something appropriate. It was like a puff of air, so why not Puffer? But that wasn’t all it could do; simple spells like that always had a multiplicity of uses. He could use it to deflect an arrow, fan flames, and a myriad of other uses. But the more complex a spell became, the more its usefulness dwindled.
Two scrolls and two spells from Teffles book. Firecluster. Lavageyser. Arclight—that had been the spell Voltari had used on him when he touched him without being given permission to do so. A respectable number for an apprentice with but a year of study, but woefully inadequate for one with ten years of rigorous instruction. How many more could he prime?
Angus shook his head to clear it. He needed to get started. They were waiting for him. What should he do? Maybe one of the scrolls Voltari had given him that he wasn’t sure about? One that he didn’t understand? Maybe he had cast them before? If he had, it should be easier to prime than he might think, and the priming, itself, might help him to understand the spell. Or it could destroy him. Magic was always dangerous….
Angus decided to try the most complex spell Voltari had given him. If he could cast it, then he was confident he would be able to cast the others. He could prime it easily enough—the directions were clear—but he didn’t know if he could weave the complex knots involved in the spell. Nor did he know what it would do. He would have to wait to find out when he cast it. But was it worth the risk? Would the priming help him remember being Voltari’s apprentice before the accident? Would the casting? Did he want to remember that time? He nodded to himself. It was worth the risk to find out.
He organized the scrolls for the sequence of his priming, saving the most complex one for last, in case it threatened to overwhelm him. If it did….
It was midday when he finally finished. His companions were restless, impatient, but he didn’t care. He had done it. More to the point, he knew—or thought he knew—what the complex spell would do when it was cast, and he was confident he could cast it.
When he joined the others, he mounted Gretchen without apology, as if they were there for him, and he didn’t have to answer to them. He ignored Hobart’s impatient frown and moved in behind Ortis as they left.
The second Ortis came up beside Angus and looked at him for a long moment before urging his horse a few paces in front of him.
Giorge made a point to fall behind him, joining the third Ortis at the rear.
Late in the late afternoon, a light drizzle began to fall….
3
The drizzle continued for two days, and they rode at a guarded pace.
On the first day, it was fairly easy to follow the road; it hugged the edge of the mountain to the north and skirted the boundary of a sparse pine forest to the south. The pine trees near the road were mostly young ones scarcely taller than a mounted man, and there was plenty of room between most of them. But deeper into the plateau the trees were densely packed old growth, towering trees that had been living on the plateau for hundreds of years.
They made good time despite the weather, and at the end of the day, they camped under an overhang. It wasn’t quite a cave, but it was large enough for both men and horses to keep dry. The dismal weather dampened their spirits, and there was little conversation around the sputtering smoke of the fire they had coaxed to life.
Early on the second day, the road turned southwest, deeper into the forest, and became more difficult to follow. By midday, a thick undergrowth of bushes and vines swarmed over the road, and they lost track of it several times as they rode around them. Each time they left the road behind, they traveled southwest until they found it again; each time it became more difficult to find it.
Late in the afternoon they moved south around yet another sprawling, thorn-encrusted berry patch, and Ortis reined in his steed to wait for them. He had found a trail.
“What do you think made it?” Hobart asked, dismounting to join Ortis as he knelt before the trail.
“Deer, mostly,” he said. “A small herd uses this trail often. Eight, maybe ten individuals. They went that way??
?” he pointed to the south “—this morning.”
“Deer?” Hobart repeated. “Perhaps we should camp nearby? Fresh meat would be most welcome, don’t you think?”
Ortis didn’t respond; he was studying the tracks. “There are other tracks,” he said. “But they haven’t been through here in some time. The deer tracks have covered them up too much to identify them. There are claw prints, like a large cat, but it isn’t a mountain lion—or any other cat I’ve seen. It looks like it walks on two legs, and the rest of the foot is elongated, like our own.”
“Cat people?” Giorge asked.
Ortis shrugged. “No way to tell,” he said. “The sign is too faint.”
“What do you think they were doing?” Hobart asked.
“Stalking deer,” Ortis said. “Their impressions are shallower going that way—” he pointed north “—than when they came back. They were probably carrying one or more deer with them when they returned.”
“How long since they went through?”
“About a week, maybe a little more. It’s difficult to tell.”
“Then we don’t need to worry about them,” Angus said.
Ortis shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. Winter is getting close, and they may be filling their larder. If they are, they’ll be back for more deer.”
“Do any of you feel like we’re being watched?” Hobart asked. “Like when we did when we