Wandering Lark

by Laura J Underwood

  Etienne took a deep breath and looked at the sky. “Blessed Brother, you do still look after me, don’t you,” she said aloud.

  A white dove flitted overhead and landed on the rail. Etienne swore that it winked at her before it flew away. And where it had landed, she saw several sprigs of green. She rose from the bench and crossed over to the rail and lifted it for closer inspection.

  It was a sprig of mistletoe and a leaf of oak.

  Smiling, Eithne closed her hand over them, and whispered a silent thank you to the god of healers.

  The interior of the inn was loud and boisterous, but at the same time, rather nice. Alaric stepped through the door to a room full of good odors. Most predominant was the scent of roast venison. He could have stood there just enjoying that smell for hours had he not felt Vagner push up close beside him. In his head, the demon muttered, “Pah... cooked meat.”

  Alaric smiled and automatically patted the demon’s hound head. I suppose you’d rather go out hunting fresh game? he thought back.

  “Excuse me, good sir,” a voice said in the Aelfyn tongue, and Alaric stepped aside, startled to find several men and one woman in the black clothes of Temple Bounty Hunters attempting to get in around him.

  “My pardon, good sirs, my lady,” Alaric replied as he felt Ronan grow tense with dread. “I meant not to block the way, but the odor of the roast so entranced me.”

  “A bard,” one of the men said with a good-natured smile. “Better to be eating it than sniffing it, sir.”

  “Oh, most certainly,” Alaric said, and Ronan hissed, “Bow, Lark.” Alaric managed to execute a sweeping gesture without looking too startled or clumsy.

  His heart certainly thundered for a few moments. How am I to avoid them when they walk right up behind me? he thought.

  “Never mind,” Ronan responded. “Head for the bar. We must inquire about a room for the night. And this time, I’ll handle the coin.”

  Alaric fought the urge to frown over being chided like a small child. Still, he threaded his way through the throng of bodies, Vagner staying pressed at his side as though the demon feared being separated from him.

  The bar was full occupied, and Alaric took a moment to find a way to squeeze in through the mass of men and women there. He found the barkeeper was moving up and down with swift and precise motions, taking care of several customers at a time. Upon spying a new face, the barkeeper moved over to face Alaric and smiled.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said in that melodious tongue. “How may I serve you?”

  “A room for the night,” Alaric replied. “And a meal.”

  “Would you prefer to dine down here or in private.”

  “Private, I think,” Alaric said. “I’m road weary and not in the mood for company of any save the dog.”

  The barkeeper’s lips twitched just slightly, and Alaric couldn’t help but wonder what he found so amusing about Ronan’s request. “As you will, good sir,” the barkeeper said. “Private rooms are but two silver shillings, and the meal is another six brass farthings.”

  “Two and six,” Alaric said, and he detected a hint of surprise in his own voice. “A bit steep for my purse, I fear. Why so high?”

  The barkeeper shrugged. “The common room is but twelve farthings, but you’ll get no privacy there. We’ve not raised the rates in five winters now...”

  “Outrageous,” Alaric said. He was willing to bet it had been longer than that since Ronan had been here. “I had no idea prices were so high.”

  “They’re high everywhere,” the barkeeper said with a frown.

  “Indeed,” Alaric said. “In that case, since I see that you have no entertainment for your other guests, mayhaps we can work out an agreement?”

  “What skills do you have?” the barkeeper asked.

  “Get the harp, Lark,” Ronan said in Alaric’s head, and Alaric opened his travel satchel to obey. He drew forth the little willow harp. “Songs and music from many lands are in my repertoire, good sir,” Ronan said to the barkeeper. With that, he directed Alaric to stroke the strings with an arpeggio. The music rang, and a number of heads rose in response.

  “Do you know dance tunes?” the barkeeper asked. “Men and women get thirsty when they dance.”

  “I’ll have them dancing up to the bar, good sir,” Alaric said.

  “We’ll see,” the barkeeper said. “Make merry, and then come to me afterwards, and I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  “As you will,” Alaric said, and Ronan indicated that Alaric should offer another pretty bow.

  What happened to food in a private room? Alaric thought.

  “It would appear that we will need more coin than I had in that sack if we are to survive in this land. Six brass farthings for a meal? Absurd. In my day, I could get the room and the meal for six.”

  Your day here was long ago, Alaric thought softly.

  “Apparently,” Ronan replied with an internal sigh. “Ah, well, to work, Alaric. Do you remember the Fairy King’s Jig that I taught you?”

  Quite well, Alaric said.

  “We’ll start with that,” Ronan decided as Alaric made for the only clear corner in the tavern to set up and play. Vagner followed and lay down at Alaric’s feet when he seated himself on a small stool there and began to pluck songs from the small harp.

  It felt good, at least, for the moment, to forget why he was here and let the music take his troubles away.

  NINE

  The student halls of Dun Gealach were much too quiet in Wendon’s opinion. It was not that he missed the constant stirrings Fenelon Greenfyn was apt to manage with his rogue spell casting. Quite frankly, he was glad to see the insane upstart was in shackles in the tower.

  He would have been there long ago, were I in charge.

  Still, without Fenelon’s vibrant presence, there was an air of gloom that hovered like the mist on the mountains. No one was interested in discussing new spells at all, and that left Wendon with naught but his own old spells. How one was expected to become a Master Mage when one was not given any of the greater spells to work with was as beyond him as the title to which he aspired.

  For the fifth time, he concentrated on bending fire into a sphere. It was supposed to be a simple enough spell, but Wendon lacked skill with fire in general. Not to worry, he was told. It was not unusual for a mage to feel greater kinship to some elements more than others. Not unusual at all for them to find one or the other element would not bend to their will no matter how hard they tried. Maybe Fenelon was right when he compared Wendon to stone. He had always been better with stone.

  But what Wendon wanted was to control fire.

  Specifically, he wanted to control the flames in the brazier before him. He wanted to shape them into a sphere. So far, all he had managed was to make them rise in some oblong manner that would never hold shape for more than a heartbeat or two before it would scatter back into its natural multitude of lashing tongues.

  Not fair, he thought. He once stood in one of the chambers among other hopefuls seeking the status of master mageborn and watched Fenelon take a single flame and make a perfect sphere, then divide that sphere into smaller ones until he had a goodly number of tiny spheres of fire freefloating around him in a ring. Very impressive, Wendon had heard the older mageborn who watched say.

  Show off, had been Wendon’s thoughts.

  He bit back the urge to curse and tried again, willing the fire to shape itself into a sphere. Again, it turned into an oblong shape, almost obscene in the manner in which it wagged back and forth before it shattered.

  “Horns!” Wendon snapped and slapped the edge of the stone brazier, only to feel the sting of its hard surface. “Horns!” he cried again. This time he lurched back and danced around and blew on his throbbing fingers. His swirling gyrations sent him reeling toward the open door where a young woman in healer’s robes stood. Wendon stopped so that he was but a few feet from her, meeting her quizzical stare.

  “Shall I kiss it and ask the Blessed
Brother to make it better?” she asked.

  “Uh.” Wendon felt the bloom of blood in his cheeks, because it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she could kiss any part of him she wished.

  She merely took his hand in hers and examined it. That touch sent wild shivers of delight across his skin.

  “Doesn’t appear to be broken,” she said. “You really shouldn’t take out your aggressions on stone, you know.”

  “I, uh.” Wendon swallowed as she released his hand to him. He looked at it then frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m Thera,” she said, “a healer of Diancecht, and they told me I could find you here. You are Wendon Stanewold, are you not?”

  “Yes,” he said, his curiosity curbing his embarrassment.

  “Good,” she said. “I have a message for you from Etienne Savala.” She reached into her sleeve and drew forth a letter packet bearing a small seal and Wendon’s name etched across the parchment in a pretty hand. “I am to wait for your reply.”

  Wendon took the letter, stepping back towards the center of the room as he broke the seal. His eyes traveled over the words twice before he looked back at the young woman who now casually leaned against the doorjamb and fixed him with such an examining stare.

  “Do...do you know what this says?” he asked, holding the letter toward her.

  “I did not read it, if that’s what you mean,” she said, looking a little unhappy to be so accused.

  “She wants me to commit a treason,” he said.

  “Treason?” Thera’s eyebrows rose. “What sort of treason?”

  “She wants me to take Fenelon’s place in the tower.”

  “Oh, yes, well, I think her cause is a worthy one,” Thera said and smiled. “Elsewise, I would not have agreed to bring you the letter.”

  “Magister Greenfyn should be told of this,” Wendon insisted.

  “Why?” Thera asked.

  “What do you mean, why?” he said.

  Thera stepped into the chamber and closed the door. “Why would you want to throw away the opportunity to become a Master Mageborn? Isn’t that why you came to Dun Gealach?”

  “How do you know so much about me?” Wendon asked.

  Her smile was as beguiling as a siren’s song. “I asked,” she said.

  For a moment, he felt uncertain. Why would she ask about him? For that matter, why would anyone tell her about him? It did occur to him that there were handsome lads who would have been more apt to steer her false in hopes of claiming her heart.

  Wendon took a deep breath. He glanced at the letter again. “...For Alaric’s sake, will you at least consider helping us?” he read. “You would be richly rewarded with what you need to make Master mage class...”

  All he had ever wanted was to be a Master mage. To hear himself referred to as “Magister Stanewold” instead of “Warthog.” He glanced at Thera.

  “You think I should do this?” he asked.

  “I think you should follow your heart,” she said. “The Blessed Brother would ask that you look inside it when you do.”

  “But...they’ll never let us in to see him.”

  “One healer and one mageborn...no,” she said. “But I also have a letter from the Patriarch of the Temple of Diancecht. He wrote it as a favor to Mistress Savala. It allows two healers to visit Master Fenelon on the grounds that we have heard vicious rumors concerning the ill treatment of prisoners, and that we would like to be certain they are in excellent health. Now, how say you? Will you join our cause to free the world from tyranny and destruction? Or will you betray us to those who would stop us from serving a just cause? The choice is yours.”

  Wendon blinked then shrugged. All his life, he had wanted the master mage class. He had also hated Fenelon from the first day he met the man. Still, there was something so beguiling in her eyes and her smile. Horns, I think I’m in love.

  “Would you...come eat with me,” Wendon asked. “Before we go see Fenelon?”

  Her smile was soft and genuine. “Certainly,” she said.

  Wendon took another deep breath, this one filled with renewed confidence. He offered Thera his arm, and she took it.

  Together, they left the practice chambers.

  Talena Elderwood managed to find the stone just as the last of the sun was setting. The light washed the grey surface like blood as she reined in her mare Kessa. The small blood bay danced nervously in a circle. Talena spoke gently to her and once the mare was still, she dismounted. Tying Kessa to a tree at a safe distance, Talena advanced on the stone.

  Places like this gave her the willies. Small hairs rose on the back of her neck. The gate stones were places where much magic was still to be found. That was why the Watchers of the Temples kept an eye on them. Heretics were fond of coming to these stones, of dancing around them under moonlight and calling the Hidden Folk out of the woods. Or so Talena had been told.

  With a deep breath, Talena reached into her pouch and drew forth a medallion. A moonstone set at its heart picked up bits of the last light. Talena blew on the stone, warming it with her breath. The runes around the moonstone began to glow.

  Heretic sign was everywhere for the medallion thrummed in her hand as though she had captured a small bee. The closer to the stone she moved, the stronger it grew. Sweat began to pour from her, and she wriggled her free hand in a gesture of warding herself against evil...a childish gesture, but it brought some comfort to her all the same.

  She never much liked being this close to the power...not since...

  She shook herself of the thought before it could form. Do not remember, she told herself. It will only distract you from your purpose here.

  Another deep breath and Talena moved the medallion around her. It vibrated strongest when it crossed the trail of the one who had passed this way. The heretic moved off into the tall grasses that graced the hillside, following an erratic path. Talena snorted to herself, for the motions reminded her of a hound on the scent. She shook her head and went back to here Kessa was tugging nervously at her reins. Talena loosened the mare’s tether and mounted the dancing beast with practiced ease.

  “Easy, Kessa,” Talena whispered as she used knees and reins to guide the mare into the tall grass.

  This was going to look strange, riding all over the field this way. Talena hoped none of the farm folk in the valley below were watching.

  Besides, it was the only way she could tell where the heretic had gone.

  Ronan knew a lot more songs than he had shared with Alaric over the years, and many of them in that sweet Aelfyn tongue. Alaric would listen hard to the words. The bond he shared with the bard made it easy to translate them to his own tongue, but still, Alaric thought it would be marvelous to learn them in Ronan’s tongue. In fact, some of the songs he did know sounded better in Ronan’s language, and hearing them made him understand them all the more.

  At last the room began to thin out as the afternoon wore on. Their host provided them with ale and bread and a platter of onions and cheese. Alaric wasn’t sure he wanted to eat the onions at first.

  “They’re good for digestions,” Ronan assured him, “And I think you will find them tasty. Besides, to refuse them would be to offend the landlord.”

  Alaric sighed and took a bite, and found it was very sweet. Almost like sugar, he thought.

  “That’s why we call them sweet onions,” Ronan said. “Children are known to raid gardens to get them. They’re actually considered a delicacy by some.”

  Finishing the meal, Alaric went back to performing. As darkness settled, more folk came in, a lot more wearing the Temple Guard colors. They were everywhere, it seemed. But at least, they were appreciative and not overly noisy as some tavern guests Alaric had performed for in the past. In fact, all that was missing here was to have Fenelon and his bevy of lasses.

  Alaric felt Ronan stir with a hint of anger. “Will you forget about him,” the bard scolded. Alaric missed a note on the harp and winced. Renan goaded Alaric’s
fingers into continuing, seeming to momentarily take over control in a way that made Alaric nervous. But then the control relaxed, and Alaric was back to being in charge.

  “What’s wrong with remembering Fenelon?” Alaric thought.

  Ronan sighed inside him. “Lets just play music for a while and not sing, all right?”

  “All right,” Alaric thought in return.

  He ended the sweet song he was warbling and turned to flicking fingers across the strings. Alaric danced out some lively tunes to keep the landlord happy and his customers lively.

  “Now, why should I not think about Fenelon?” Alaric glanced down at Vagner whose hound face was looking up at him in puzzlement.

  “I would think that would be obvious,” Ronan said. “You dwell on him too much.”

  “And you don’t like him—or any of the Greenfyns.”

  Silence filled Alaric’s head for a moment, as though Ronan were drawing away to himself. Then at length, he made his presence felt again.

  “No, I do not,” Ronan said. “The Greenfyns are greedy when it comes to magic. If they had their way, they would overrun the entire world and be its rulers...”

  “Well, now,” Alaric thought. “I can see Turlough having that sort of ambition, but Fenelon? He just likes to have fun. Sometimes too much fun, I will admit, but he’s always struck me as being more decent and honest than...”

  “Than who?” Ronan thought sharply. “Me?”

  Alaric sighed. “Well, now that you mention it. I always trusted you until I learned what you and Marda did to me.”

  “I did what I did for the sake of the world, Alaric. Best you understand that now. Fenelon does only what serves him.”

  Alaric tried not to frown. He was the first to admit there seemed to be a selfish side to Fenelon, but he had never seen evidence that Fenelon would put himself before the world. Still, he decided this was not the time to play with those thoughts. Besides, as he glanced across the room towards the door someone was stepping inside. Green eyes met his briefly then passed over the room. The owner was short under the dark cloak that bore none of the decorations Alaric had seen on folk. He had glimpsed little more than an eldritch face and hints of hair the color of a fiery sunset.