Read Angst (Book 4) for Free Online Page B

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