Wandering Lark

by Laura J Underwood

  But Nanani got away, and Turlough vowed on Briana’s tomb that no mage who consorted with demons would be allowed to live.

  And Alaric Braidwine will not escape my justice either, Turlough thought as he tightened his hand around the lock of Briana’s hair. As long as I rule these lands, no demon lover will ever be allowed to live.

  He slipped the beribboned lock back into the depths of his robes and lurched out of his chair, new fire raging in his heart.

  He would have the secret of where Fenelon sent Alaric Braidwine if it meant tearing his nephew’s mind to shreds.

  THREE

  Alaric did not get more than a few hours of sleep before he was abruptly awakened by Ronan’s internal call.

  “We need to leave,” Ronan said.

  “Why?” Alaric protested in a grumpy voice.

  “They will come soon enough,” Ronan said. “Better we leave this place and go elsewhere to gate. Vagner?”

  The demon had been lying at the door, and now Vagner rose with a frown.

  “You will need a disguise,” Ronan said. “Be as a deerhound.”

  “What?” Vagner said, starting to protest, but even Alaric sensed that as Ronan gave the order, he laced the demon’s True Name into the command. Vagner could do nothing to stop his own transformation. Within moments, he stood before Alaric in the guise of a large Keltoran deerhound. “Hmmmmph,” the demon snarled. “Thank you for giving me a choice.”

  “I could have made you a lapdog,” Ronan said. “But I think a bard traveling the road alone is more likely to have a deerhound for a companion...”

  “A bard?” Alaric said.

  “Oh, you don’t think you will simply appear in the house of an Elder and be set free immediately, do you?” Ronan insisted. “Until we find an Elder who can assist us, you need some means of supporting yourself and your hound. So why not the trade to which you were first trained?”

  “But I thought you knew where we could find an Elder,” Alaric protested, gathering a few of the remaining items from the hut that he might find useful. He marveled that he knew where everything, including a set of clothes that looked a little different from anything he had seen in Ard-Taebh, could be found.

  “I know how to get to Garrowye,” Ronan said. “But the place I was born may no longer have an Elder among the folk. Many of them were forced into hiding when the ban on magic was issued by the High King of Synalia.”

  “What do you mean, ban on magic?” Alaric said.

  “Magic is forbidden in Garrowye. Or didn’t I tell you that, Lark,” Ronan said.

  “No, you didn’t,” Alaric said.

  “Put the clothes on, Lark,” Ronan ordered. “What you’re wearing now will just make you stand out like a sore thumb...”

  The outfit Alaric put on in exchange for his own warm things was a pair of loose trews of tartan cloth, a long blue shirt, thick and soft, and a short leather jerkin. Even the boots were different from anything he had seen made in Ard-Taebh. There was a belt to hold the volume of the shirt in, and a sword.

  “Yes, you better put that on,” Ronan said. “Not wearing a weapon in Garrowye means you are a scholar of the Triad.”

  “The Triad?” Alaric said. “What’s that?” He finished stuffing his own clothes into a satchel, along with flint and steel, and a blanket from Marda’s shelves. Ronan urged him to move her bed aside. Under the pallet, Alaric found a loose patch that turned out to be a slab of wood over a hole, and within the hole, he found a sack of coins that did not look at all like the sgillinns of Ard-Taebh, and in another sack there was a beautifully ornate small harp.

  “You do still remember how to play one, I assume,” Ronan said. “And if not, I will assist you.”

  “I remember,” Alaric said, and he ran a finger over the strings. It only had thirteen brass ones, and they rang softly under his touch. The harp itself was made of willow, carved from one piece of wood. A marvel in Alaric’s opinion. “Was this yours?”

  “It was made by an Elder in Garrowye,” Ronan said. “A gift for favors.”

  “What sort of favors?” Alaric asked as he carefully slipped it into the sack.

  “Do you really want to know?” Ronan asked in a teasing manner.

  Alaric decided he didn’t and rose. He stepped outside the hut. The air had a chilling bite that made him wish for a cloak.

  “Sorry, but I was buried in mine,” Ronan said.

  “And I left mine stuck to a tree in that hole in the ice,” Alaric said.

  “We’ll barter for one. Better if you have one of Garrowyen manufacture. Anything foreign will be suspect. The Aelfyn are a very suspicious people, and rather loathe foreigners.”

  “Wonderful,” Alaric said. “Then maybe you should tell me what this Triad is so I don’t accidentally commit some sort of infraction against their rules...”

  “Merely the religious and political leaders of nearly all of Garrowye,” Ronan said as Alaric started down the path at a brisk pace that he hoped would warm his limbs. “You see, long ago, when the Great Cataclysm shook all the known worlds and turned Haxony into the Ice Plains, Aelfyn blamed the Elders and the White Ones for what had happened, as if the Dark Mother and her evil minions had nothing to do with destroying the Balance of All Things. So those who practiced the old ways of magic, and who worshiped the White Ones, were declared heretics. Any who wore the White One’s mark was put to death. That was why I left. I could not be revealed for what I was, the grandson of the greatest Avatar of them all, Je’Rhel of Garrowye. Anyway, distrustful of magic, folk turned to the royal family for solace, and began to worship a new order. The Triad which is represented by the presence of the Holy Father, Holy Mother and Holy Child.”

  “What do they do to heretics?” Alaric asked.

  “Burn them,” Ronan said. “Which is why it is imperative that you practice no magic other than your skill of voice and harp while we are there, at least not where others can see.”

  “And how can I find one of the Elders to help me?” Alaric said.

  “Many of them went into Taneslaw,” Ronan said. “The rulers of Taneslaw owe much to the White Ones and continue to worship them, in spite of High King’s law. Taneslaw’s earliest king was Tane vo Fylor.”

  “Tane?” Alaric repeated. “Any relation to...?”

  “It’s a common name among Aelfyn. All the kings of Taneslaw are named Tane. And no, they are not related to Tane Doran, though it has often been hinted that some of Aelfyn blood went into the Dragon’s Maw where Tane was born.”

  “That’s a relief,” Alaric said. It was going to be a long time before he got over that part of his recent history.

  “As I was saying, the earliest king of Taneslaw was himself an Avatar of the White Ones, known as The Champion of Light, and the Tannish Aelfyn were there with the White Ones the first time the Balance was threatened. So naturally, they continued to worship the White Ones and held respect for the Elders, and did everything they could to keep the Balance intact. Even when the Great Cataclysm took place, they did not lose faith in them.”

  “Does that mean there was another Great Cataclysm?” Alaric suddenly found his bard self fascinated by this new history.

  “Almost. The first time Darkness and Light fought such a battle happened so long ago, there are no chronicles to tell of it, except in Taneslaw where all such chronicles are written in stone and in song. It’s referred to in those histories as the Darkening. What is called the Great Cataclysm here, is known there as the Sixth Darkening. At any rate, there are many border wars as the result of this schism between the countries. We will start in Garrowye, but we will head for Taneslaw, and hopefully avoid any skirmishes along the way.”

  Alaric frowned, watching his footing on the uneven path.

  Somehow, this was all starting to sound a little more dangerous than he liked. But at least, the sun was starting to show its face over the eastern horizon.

  Etienne was soon taken back to her own chambers. She had difficulty meeting the pu
zzled and sad looks on the faces of Tobin and Kathleen as they were forced to pack their things and leave. “All will be well,” she assured them with a little smile as she hugged each of them in turn. She just wished she could believe that for herself. It was very hard.

  Shona was in her chamber, lying on a bed. Next to her sat one of the Head Healer’s assistants, a matronly woman skilled in herb craft. She looked up from quiet eyes as Etienne entered the room.

  “How is she?” Etienne asked.

  “She has not changed,” the healer said. “You look as though you could use a rest yourself... I have been told to stay. Why don’t you bathe and get some sleep.”

  Etienne nodded. She stepped over to the side of the bed long enough to take Shona’s hand in her own and pat it. The appendage remained limp and lifeless in her grasp.

  “Please, little one,” Etienne said. “Be strong for his sake as much as your own.”

  On the other hand, if they were all to be tried and executed at Turlough’s command, would it not be better for Shona to die this way?

  Etienne frowned. Such gloomy thoughts were not like her. She wished they would have let her see Fenelon, but her house arrest forbade contact with him. Which was why she considered it a blessing that they would at least let her have Shona’s silent company.

  Then again, perhaps Turlough thought this would keep Etienne complacent. With Shona to look after, Etienne would not consider trying to escape or helping Fenelon do so.

  We have escaped much already, she thought.

  “Go,” the healer said softly and smiled. “Rest. You need to rest.”

  “Yes,” Etienne agreed. “However, I fear I am under orders to use no magic in any place. I gave my word.”

  “No trouble,” the healer said. “I will ask one of the others to heat your water.”

  “Thank you,” Etienne said and left the room for her own.

  FOUR

  Gareth Greenfyn had gone back to Elenthorn and the keep of his cousin. He had a bone to pick with Renton.

  You betrayed me. You betrayed my son!

  Gareth had learned this the hard way. He had been scrying after Fenelon and his party. It was not that he did not believe that Fenelon could manage affairs for himself. I did not raise my son to be a fool, for all his rogue ways. But Gareth had feared all along, that in spite of his assistance, something would go amiss. He knew Turlough all too well. Better than he had known Renton Morwaine, he reflected as he stormed the keep in search of his wily relative. For to Gareth’s dismay, he had scried that Turlough and a number of mageborn were on their way to the Valley of Shadows in the Great Ranges. And that the one who told them where the party was headed was none other than Renton.

  I should never have trusted you.

  Renton was not the least bit humble about it either. “Your son,” he retorted in his effete manner as he waved his pudgy fingers, “has gone totally mad. Everyone knows that. I mean, consorting with a demon master...”

  “That boy,” Gareth spat, “is not a demon master, but the spirit within him is.”

  Renton made a face. “Spirit within?” he said. “Whatever are you blethering about...”

  Gareth chose not to waste any more breath. He left the keep still standing, though the temptation to the contrary was pretty strong. Still, his parting words were not kind. He warned Renton that he should never ask to see Gareth Greenfyn’s face again, for it would certainly be the last thing his piggy eyes perceived.

  As Gareth stalked out of the keep, he felt the shift in the ley lines that circled the world. A message from Caer Keltora and Dun Gealach was hard not to notice when it had your name attached. Gareth closed his eyes and stretched mage senses, attuning them to the line.

  “Gareth Greenfyn, if you value the life of your son Fenelon, you will come to Dun Gealach at once as the High Mage commands.”

  Horns, Gareth thought. What now? Were they not successful? Did Tane have the Dragon’s Tongue?

  Opening a gate to Dun Gealach, Gareth arrived to find much turmoil. He was greeted by Turlough’s assistant Lorymer and another, and to his surprise, they did not bother to check his intentions, but whisked him past all manner of guards and wards, straight to the heart of the keep of Dun Gealach and Turlough’s quarters.

  The High Mage was at his worktable, and the magical map of Ard-Taebh and most of the known territories it housed was glowing under the glass. Turlough stared at the map as though lost in thought, and Gareth noticed too that the rest of the chamber was empty. Even his escorts and the guards at the door departed.

  At last, Turlough looked up, and there was a hint of the old madness in his eyes. A madness Gareth had hoped time had healed. Obviously, he was wrong.

  “Your son is a traitor,” Turlough said.

  “And you think it’s my fault?” Gareth asked, letting one eyebrow rise.

  Turlough frowned. “Is there something in your branch of the family that breeds men with contempt for authority?”

  “And women,” Gareth said. “Now, you’re wasting my time, Turlough, and I’ve work to finish. What is all this about my son’s life being at stake?”

  “I plan to convene a council of trial,” Turlough said. “I plan to try your son as a traitor to the crown and to the Mage Council. I plan to push for the sundering of his powers...and for his death, unless I am assured that you will do something for me.”

  “May I see my son?” Gareth asked.

  “Why should I let you. He’s a prisoner in the towers, chained up like the mad dog he is.”

  “Because I have asked,” Gareth said, “and because it is my right. Or shall I go to the king and get his permission.”

  “You would not dare!” Turlough blurted. “The king of Keltora would not listen to you...”

  “Perhaps not, but I was thinking of going to the High King. He owes me a favor, you know. In fact, he would likely work a pardon for my son, if I asked.”

  “Your son has assisted that demon lover to escape!” Turlough shouted, slamming fists on the map table. The image rippled then flowed back into place. “And he will not tell me where he sent him!”

  “Well, if this is how you asked him,” Gareth said as he fought the urge to smile.

  Turlough closed his eyes and sought some semblance of calm. Slowly, he raised his head and glared at Gareth.

  “I want Alaric Braidwine,” Turlough said, “and his filthy demon. And I am willing to trade your son’s life and freedom for that. Now, as a father, how can you refuse?”

  “I said I could go to the High King.”

  “I will let you speak to him,” Turlough said. “I will let you ask him what he will not tell me. And if he will cooperate, all will be well. If not, then I will give you one of two choices.”

  “And what might those be?”

  “Find Alaric Braidwine and his demon, and bring them back to me.”

  “And the second choice?”

  “Stay in the tower with your son tonight, under the charges of being a traitor to the Keltoran crown, and watch him executed in the morning.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Gareth said.

  “Oh, but I would, Gareth,” Turlough said. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to watch his death, except, perhaps, to see Alaric Braidwine and his demon die.”

  “You have gone mad, haven’t you?” Gareth said.

  “There are those who swear all Greenfyns are mad,” Turlough said. “Now, choose, Gareth.”

  “Let me see my son, alone, and then I will choose,” Gareth said.

  Turlough nodded. Gareth felt a tickle of magic invoked, and the doors behind him opened. Two battlemages and one of the Turlough’s assistants entered the chamber. “Take him to see his son. Let them have a moment alone.”

  “Thank you,” Gareth said and nodded respectfully, though he could not keep a hint of defiance from narrowing his eyes.

  They took him to the tower straight away. The place had a stark feeling, made more obvious by the intricate wards of magic e
tched into every inch of stone and wood. A mageborn who had been placed in these towers could not pass them in either direction without permission of his jaoler.

  At the head of the stairs was a narrow hall running down the center of the tower to a landing at the far end, and lining that corridor were four doors, two on each side. If Gareth remembered correctly, there were more stairs leading up to the top of the tower from there. That was where prisoners were executed instead of down on the ground. It made sundering and scattering their power simpler, casting it to the winds, before they had their heads cut off. He’d attended a couple of executions himself. In fact, he had been one of those who did the sundering on more occasions than he cared to think about.

  Horns, are we so far from civilized that we murder our own kind for sport and pleasure? It was one of the reasons he stayed far away from Dun Gealach. He was sickened to remember that he had once participated in the execution of other mageborn.

  Gareth’s escorts led him to the center of the corridor, one guard ahead and one behind. The assistant mageborn touched the lock of the second door to the left and worked the intricate spells that would open the door. He did so, then stepped aside and gestured that Gareth was free to enter. Gareth stepped through the opening, fully aware that the assistant was tightening the wards on the threshold. I will not be leaving this place unless I consent to Turlough’s madness, he thought.

  The chamber into which he stepped was almost a quarter of the tower in size with two straight walls, and one curved one. There was a stone window-seat in the curved portion, and over the windows were bars of brass that had been inscribed with spells to keep them from being removed by magic or other means.

  Fenelon was not just fettered. He was chained to the right-hand wall, arms and legs spread. His eyes were closed, and Gareth sensed that his son was not feigning illness, but actually meditating, apparently seeking some source of power outside the tower. At least, they had removed the gag. But then, in here, there was no need for it. A mageborn might as well be inside a void.