He could rest there. He could heal there.
Still the body, he thought, feeling an immediate sense of comfort from the mantra. Still the mind. Still the body…
Ten minutes later, the pain was still there, but it had settled into the background as a manageable bit of static that he could ignore. It helped, and he made good time for the rest of the afternoon. But when he sat down for the evening and let the mantra slip from his mind, it was all he could do to keep from screaming as the repressed agony flooded through him.
He fainted.
He slept.
He dreamt a dragon had caught him; it was dangling him upside down over a pool of crystal clear water. In the reflection, he saw the dragon—a fierce-looking, scaly blackish-red brute—snorting thin streaks of fire across his feet, its forked tongue flicking out to see if they were done….
7
It took Angus four days to reach the first village.
Still the body.
He was limping severely and leaned heavily against a makeshift staff.
Still the mind.
He was feverish and only vaguely aware of his surroundings.
Still the body.
But he was alive.
Still the mind.
He had made it to the village. Did it have a name?
Still the body.
Fellwood. That’s what he decided to call it.
Still the mind.
Did Fellwood have an inn?
Still the body.
Yes. That was his goal. An inn.
Still the mind.
He needed to find the inn.
Still the body.
He wandered through the village of Fellwood—a small patch of perhaps a dozen thatch-roofed houses—as a scattering of villagers stared at him.
Still the mind.
Why were they staring? They surely must have had visitors before.
Still the body.
Pain shot up through his leg, and he blinked away the questions, the eyes of the villagers.
Still the body.
Still the body.
Still the body.
They were distractions.
Still the mind.
What was he doing?
Still the body.
The inn. He needed to find the inn. How could he do that?
Still the mind.
One of the villagers approached, said something. He ignored it. It wasn’t about the inn.
Still the body.
An inn would have a sign.
Still the mind.
That was what he was looking for: a sign. A sign like an axe cleaving a slab of meat? Yes, that would be the inn. Food for woodsmen. Beds….
Still the body.
He turned toward it, and the villager—a young, stout fellow taller than himself—put his arm around his back, his hand circling under his armpit.
Still the mind.
Angus turned to him. He was supposed to do something, wasn’t he? What was it?
Still the body.
The villager guided him toward the largest building in the village, one that had two stories and a slate roof. It was the one with the sign, so he followed where the boy led.
Still the mind.
He frowned. He wasn’t supposed to let him do that, was he?
Still the body.
The villager opened the door, yelled “Nargeth!”
Still the mind.
A foreign language? It sounded like one. But then he yelled it again, and a doughty old matron waddled quickly to his other side. Together, they led him to a chair at a table near the door and helped him into it.
Still the body.
“Can you help him?”
She touched his forehead. She wasn’t supposed to touch his forehead. He was supposed to do something. What was it?
Still the mind.
“Fever,” she tutted, shaking her head. “Find Ulrich.”
The inn. He needed to find the inn. He tried to stand up— Still the body.— but she gently held him down.
“Quickly!” she said. “He’s addle-minded.”
He smiled.
Still the addled mind.
His mantra slipped, but the pain did not overwhelm him.
Still the broken body.
The pain had become so much a part of him that he simply accepted it as if it were a pair of comfortable boots: always there but seldom noticed.
Still the idle mind.
He blinked and shook his head. Addle-minded? Who’s addle-minded? He could help them.
Find the addled mind.
He looked around the room, trying to find the addle-minded one. He tried to rise again.
Still the body.
“Now you be still,” the old matron said.
Still. Still. Still the mindbody.
She was at least fifty if a day, her face plump with concern.
Still her rattled body?
“I am looking for the inn,” Angus said, his voice calm, clear, and drained of energy. “I need rest.”
Still the tired body. Tired….
Her eyes were brown, the kind of milky brown that you could find in a not-quite-ripe walnut. He smiled at her.
Steal her body?
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “This be the inn,” she said.
Steal her mind?
He reached into a pocket and brought out a gold coin. He held it out to her. “How long?” he asked.
She barely hesitated before snatching up the coin.
Will she mind?
She smelled it, licked it, pinched it, and nodded. “Long enough,” she said. “You need mending.”
Mend the body.
He chuckled softly. The sound was hollow and weak at first, but gradually bloomed into a full-blown guffaw that left him so exhausted that he slumped forward.
Mend the mind.
He would have fallen to the floor if Nargeth had not caught him.
Mind the body.
He sagged against her shoulder as the world slipped quietly away….
8
Angus rolled over on the straw mattress, the dry stalks grating noisily against each other. He sighed. It was warm in the comfortable little cocoon he had hollowed out from under the coverlet, and he wallowed in it for several minutes before sitting up.
He frowned. This was not his bed or his room. Everything in Voltari’s Tower were drab shades of black and gray, and the coverlet was a lively array of homespun wool squares dyed indigo, forest green, and red ochre. It was beautiful, and if it hadn’t been made from wool, he would think it ostentatious. Voltari was strictly practical with his adornments; he had no aesthetic sense whatsoever.
Where am I?
He eased his feet out from under the warm cocoon and set them on the cold floor. A slight twinge of pain ran through both soles, and he gasped. He looked down at them and discovered they were covered in bandages.
He lifted his right foot to his lap and gingerly tested its sole. It was tender, but the pain was little more than a reminder of what it had been. The inn, he thought. I must be in the inn. He tested his left foot and frowned. How long have I been here?
He began unwinding the bandage—but stopped almost immediately. He wanted to find out how bad his feet looked, but if the bandages were ready to be removed, whoever had put them on would have already removed them. Besides, what could he do about it? He was no healer. He gingerly let his foot fall back to the floor. Still the body, he thought, slowing his breathing and heartbeat. Still the mind. He wanted to reconstruct his memory of what had happened, and needed a clear mind to do it.
His feet had been injured in the stream. He remembered that much. It was a foolish mistake, one he vowed never to make again. Then he compounded the mistake when he had kept walking. He should have waited for the soles to heal instead of aggravating them. But he hadn’t. He had kept walking, and the wounds had gotten infected.
Then he found the village. Fellwood? Isn’t that what it was? Voltari’s m
ap didn’t show the village, but it was there. He was there. And it had an inn. Nargeth…. He had given her a gold coin! How could he have been so foolish?
He was naked.
Where were his things? His heartbeat quickened, despite his efforts to calm it, and he stood up. He surveyed the room quickly, finding his backpack next to the table—which had a basin, ewer, loaf of bread, and slab of cheese placed on it. He paused only long enough to rip some of the bread free before tossing the empty basin on the mattress and putting his backpack in its place. He opened the backpack and was relieved to see the scrolls Voltari had given him still there, seemingly undisturbed. He took a breath and drank from the pitcher to wash down the dry, crumbly bread crumbs before biting into the cheese. It had a tangy, peppery flavor and bits of it pasted themselves to his teeth as he chewed. He quickly counted the scrolls—they were the correct number—and took the first one out. He unrolled it far enough to recognized it, and then moved on to the next one. He continued checking them until he had confirmed that all of the scrolls were still there. But his map was missing, and so were his clothes.
He looked under the bed and in the bedding, and walked around the small chamber three times before he conceded it was a waste of time. At least there was a chamber pot, and the air was warm enough that he didn’t need any clothes. Still, he felt almost trapped in the room without them, and he needed to leave the room to find out what had happened.
He draped the coverlet over his shoulders and wrapped it around himself. It was still warm from his body heat, and it trailed behind him a few feet as he hobbled up to the door. He tried the latch—It was locked! He tried it again, rattling the door on its hinges. He stood there trying to decide what to do until he heard footfalls on stairs.
He backed away from the door and concentrated, bringing the magical energies around him into focus.
There was a key in the door.
It turned.
He dropped the coverlet and reached for a soft crimson strand and wrapped his right index finger around it. He felt the weak, quivering of its power, and prepared his mind and body to receive it and redirect it into the simple knots