Wandering Lark

by Laura J Underwood

  “Now, Marda, you know that is not true. We are descended from the oldest and most powerful line of Old Ones to occupy this world.”

  “Spawn of wyrms,” she muttered and crouched with her arms wrapped around her knees. The ashes of the hearth barely stirred as she moved.

  “You always were fond of making jests,” Fenelon said. He stepped over to the hearth and crouched so he could face her. “Now, Marda,” he said. “Where is Alaric?”

  “Gone,” she said and pursed her lips in a pout.

  “Gone where?”

  She shrugged and sighed. “Who can say? Gone to where he was taken, I imagine.”

  “And where would that be?” Fenelon asked.

  “I do not know,” she said and looked away. “I cannot tell you what I do not know, except to say that wherever Ronan is from, that is where Alaric has gone. Ronan bade it and Alaric could do nothing but obey.”

  Obey? Fenelon frowned and raised a hand in a threatening gesture. “You know, Marda, I could bind you to that stone forever.”

  She glanced back and sneered. “So do it,” she said. “It will not help you.”

  “But I would much rather let you go free,” he said. “Just as I know you would want me to help Alaric before Ronan does something bad to him.”

  Remorse saddened her eyes. “I never wanted Alaric to be hurt,” she said softly. “You must believe...I would never have allowed it had I known.”

  “I do,” Fenelon said gently. “What did Ronan do to Alaric?”

  “Made him the key,” she said. “But you knew that.”

  “He did more than make Alaric the key,” Fenelon said.

  Her eyes dampened and she looked away.

  “Marda, please,” Fenelon said. “Turlough wants Alaric’s head. I have to find him before my father does, or Alaric’s life is as sure as forfeit.”

  “He said it was the only way,” Marda said. “I told him it was wrong, but he said it was the only way.”

  “Only way to what?”

  “The only way the key could be preserved,” she said, and translucent tears tracked down wan, misty cheeks. “He swore Alaric would not come to harm, but then...when he began the spell, I realized that he...that he...” She started to writhe against the words.

  “Marda, what?” Fenelon said.

  “I cannot speak of it,” she said and grimaced. “He bade me never say. He commanded it...he marked me and he bound the promise to me in pain.”

  Fenelon frowned. Damn Ronan and his ancient spells. This was going no where. “All right. What if I speculate, and you tell me if I am right or wrong. Can you do that?”

  Slowly, Marda nodded.

  “Ronan knew that Tane was going to kill him,” Fenelon began.

  She nodded.

  “And so he decided he needed a vessel...another mageborn to house the key, which is the riddle Alaric knew but did not know because Ronan put that wall in his head.”

  Again, Marda nodded.

  “But now that Ronan is alive again in Alaric, he does not want to leave...”

  Her face whitened and shook her head slightly.

  “What?” Fenelon rose and stormed across the room. “What do you mean no. Ronan does not want to be ejected from Alaric.”

  “True but.” When Fenelon turned back, she put a hand over her mouth, and he saw her flinch as though something had hurt her. “Ronan...Ronan knew all along that only one essence could truly survive in Alaric without tearing him apart.”

  “But mageborn spirits can only share flesh as long as the one who owns the flesh allows it.”

  “Ronan made certain it would be allowed,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Fenelon rushed back to the hearth and knelt.

  “What do you mean, he made sure?”

  Marda’s spirit convulsed as though about to vomit. She bobbed her head up and down like a puppet. “He...he...he marked Alaric as his own...”

  “How?” Fenelon said.

  But clearly Marda was having trouble speaking...and holding her ethereal form. It expanded and contracted and shifted around, and she started to scream. Frantic, Fenelon removed the binding, hoping it would ease her discomfort, but she shrieked and her mage spirit ballooned like a puffer fish, and with a soft pop, she vanished.

  “Marda!” Fenelon shouted and surged to his feet. “Marda!”

  He cast mage senses about searching for some hint of her.

  But there was none.

  It was a good audience in Alaric’s opinion. They didn’t get rowdy. No fights started. In fact, they were surprisingly civil for commoners. Were it not for the occasional eruption of laughter from various quarters, Alaric would have thought the tavern empty.

  He did notice that his “benefactress” vanished, but he thought little of it since others were taking their leave. At last, he decided that his tunes were no longer needed, and he started to pack the harp away when he saw the tavern keeper crossing the reeds.

  Must not have made him happy, Alaric thought. The man wore a furrowed brow as he approached.

  “Young master bard, your room is ready,” the tavern keeper said. “And your table is set as you requested. I even found a large soup bone for the hound.”

  “And what is all this to cost me?” Alaric ventured at Ronan’s prompting.

  “Oh, no charge, Master Lark,” the tavern keeper said and smiled in a good-natured way. “You were a fine performer this evening. I did not realize I had the privilege of having a master bard under my roof. Pray, follow me, and I will take you to your chamber.”

  Alaric raised an eyebrow. This was a rather abrupt change of heart. Earlier, Alaric had been convinced they would lose half their purse to this man just to sleep in front of his fire. Now he was giving room and board away?

  “Do not question good fortune, Lark,” Ronan whispered. “You are a good bard. Accept this as your due.”

  Alaric said nothing. He gathered his gear and followed the tavern keeper when the man stopped on the stairs and waited. They climbed to the third level of the inn where the private rooms occupied a warren of halls. Alaric was led to a chamber to the front of the building. The tavern keeper opened the door to reveal a large room with a dormer alcove. The window overlooked the market and the temple beyond. And the bed was a real one with a goose-down mattress, and not just ticking or a pallet. To one side sat a table and on it a fare more suited to a prince.

  “I...this is too generous, sir,” Alaric said, staring at the fireplace where flames lapped logs. “Surely, you must have some noble who will be wanting this chamber.”

  “Tonight, it is yours, Master Lark,” the tavern keeper said. “If you need anything. Bath...a woman...a man...let me know.”

  “The bath, perhaps,” Alaric said slowly.

  “I’ll have it warmed and brought up directly, sir,” the tavern keeper said. He bowed as though he were showing respect to a noble, and backed out, closing the door.

  Alaric gently placed the harp on the bed and looked around. Vagner was already claiming a place by the fire. Several blankets had been laid there, and the demon settled down on them as though they were his due.

  “I could get used to this,” Vagner said.

  “Hush,” Ronan hissed through Alaric’s lips. “The Temple might have someone listening...”

  The demon signed and settled down with a hound-like huff.

  Alaric glanced around. “Why do I not trust this?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Look out the window,” Ronan said. “The Temple of the Triad casts a long shadow...as long as Na’Sgailean.”

  Bitterness underlined the words. Alaric crossed his arms over his chest and glanced out the window at the tall tower of the temple structure. With the buttresses, there was something rather dragon-like about the shadow. It reminded Alaric of a dragon in flight.

  And cold. Alaric shivered in response and turned away. The sight of the food was far more beckoning. So he stepped over to the table and sampled a bit of the meat. Roasted boar, a
nd it was juicy. Alaric seated himself and began to dine.

  Okay, so if he were to live in style, he would take advantage of it.

  And who knew when he might get another good meal.

  The room was rather opulent in Vagner’s humble opinion, but he was grateful that he did not have to curl up on a hard wooden floor. Admittedly, demons had no trouble with discomfort when they were in their own resilient forms. But his time with Tane Doran had taught Vagner that one should never assume invulnerability was a given. Tane had taught Vagner more about pain than the demon ever wanted to know.

  Still, one should never complain when the luxuries were free. But the demon could not help wondering how they became so fortunate. He wondered if it had anything to do with the woman who tried to pet him. She had gone over and spoken to the tavern keeper as Alaric was playing. Vagner had watched her closely because something about her did not “smell” right to demon senses. There was magic on her, and he could sense that her blood contained hint of mage essence, though it was not quite like any he had encountered before.

  All the more reason not to trust her, he decided.

  Alaric had finished his meal quickly. He offered the demon the scraps. Vagner chewed on the bone a bit because it had not been cooked, and was close enough to carrion to whet his appetite. Unfortunately, it made his stomach rumble in protest. Were he not in this dog form, he would be tempted to sneak out and prowl for his own prey.

  After eating and bathing, Alaric retired. Vagner checked around to make certain there were no hidden places where enemies could hide then settled down on his comfortable blankets.

  Darkness filled the small chamber when Alaric snuffed the candles. Soon his breathing stabilized into the softness of slumber. Only then did Vagner feel safe enough to lay his huge head on his paws and barely closed his eyes. Demons did not sleep, but they did need to rest if they were not eating regular meals. Vagner had not tried to do so in a long time.

  How much time passed, he could not say, but when he suddenly sensed that something was not right. He opened his eyes again.

  Alaric was sitting up in bed. At least, his body was upright. He was stretching and flexing, and his eyes would stare intently at his own hands as he opened and closed his fists. The demon concentrated, and in the dark, he spied an aura of red and white surrounding Alaric...and knew from the bond they shared that it was not Alaric’s essence but Ronan’s.

  “Is something wrong?” Vagner softly whispered.

  Alaric’s face jerked up as though startled. His eyes were not normal. Behind them, Vagner could see Ronan struggling to stay focused. His waivering presence was visible as a faint glow that grew and faded in Alaric’s eyes.

  “Nothing,” Ronan said in a jerky manner. “Nothing is the matter.”

  “You should be careful,” Vagner said. “His body still needs sleep.”

  “I know what I am doing,” Ronan said and managed to spread a smile across Alaric’s lips. But the smile did not match the face. It was sinister...unnatural even to a demon.

  “Are you certain?” Vagner said. “If you do that for long, you could hurt him...physically, I mean. Even now, I can see that it’s a strain for you to hold on...”

  “Silence, demon!” Ronan hissed, and the order burned with Vagner’s True Name. Vagner winced from the sharp attack on his essence. “All is well,” Ronan said in a more soothing manner. “There is no reason for you to be alarmed. I would not hurt this body for the world...”

  “That’s good to know,” Vagner said carefully. “Because without that body, you have no where to live.”

  The sharp glance was filled with warning. “You should not say such things, especially not where Alaric can hear.”

  “But Alaric is asleep,” Vagner said.

  “As you should be,” Ronan said. He whispered the demon’s True Name once more, and this time it was a sweet sound full of promise. “Now, sleep, demon,” Ronan said in an ancient tongue that held some familiarity, though for the life of him, Vagner could not say why, “and remember not.”

  What’s not to remember? Vagner thought before an unnatural sleep overtook him.

  TWELVE

  Etienne knew she was restless because she had rearranged the books on her private shelves three times since “Wendon” left. And for what purpose? Because it gave her something to do in the senseless hours of waiting. There was embroidery, but she was better at stitching wounds than images on a piece of linen or silk.

  It’s no use, she thought. I just cannot function without my students.

  She hated feeling as though she had no purpose.

  For that matter, the confinement was starting to weigh on her as well. Oh, she could go out on the balcony overlooking the garden, but that was not enough now. What would she give to be able to fly over those walls and escape Dun Gealach? She wanted to go with Fenelon now.

  You cannot leave. You must think of Shona.

  And of the real Wendon, sitting up in the tower in Fenelon’s place.

  Poor Wendon. Little did he know what would happen to him if he were to be discovered before Fenelon completed whatever mission he had in mind. The title of Magister would be denied Wendon, and he would be sent out of Dun Gealach in shame.

  That would be a small price compared to what Turlough might do to Fenelon.

  Etienne shook her head and was about to start rearranging the books again when she heard a faint whimper. She froze with her hands mere inches from the spine of Aramath’s Herb Lore, and listened. Nothing. Silence remained. Etienne sighed and reached for the book once more.

  “ALARIC!” The scream tore through Etienne’s quarters like some banshee wail of grief. Etienne abandoned her self-assumed chore and ran towards the bedchambers. She heard fists thundering on her main door and ignored them since she knew it was not locked. She practically threw herself through the last door.

  Shona writhed on the bed, throwing the bedclothes askew and Thera had her hands full trying to subdue the young woman. Etienne plunged over to the side of the bed to assist just as Shona sat up and screamed, “ALARIC!” again.

  “Shona, it’s all right, you’re safe,” Etienne said. She pushed past the healer and seized Shona’s shoulders. The grasp caused Shona to struggle, but Etienne had handled patients with fevers and fits. She elbowed aside the flailing arms and pushed Shona back down on the bedding. “Shona! It’s me! Etienne!” She shook Shona for good measure.

  Whether it was the voice or the shaking, Shona stopped struggling and blinked. She looked up at Etienne, her glance filled at first with puzzlement.

  “Etienne,” she whispered in the hoarse manner of one who had strained their voice. “Where’s...where’s Alaric?”

  Etienne sighed and relaxed her grasp. She smiled and pushed Shona’s hair back from her face. Sweat trailed off Shona’s pale skin and plastered her hair to her neck. When had this fever come? Etienne wondered.

  “Where’s Alaric?” Shona asked again.

  Before Etienne could answer, the thunder of heels on the stone floor sounded from the corridor. Etienne gestured for silence on Shona’s part just as a pair of mageborn guards barreled into the chamber. Etienne turned to them, rising from the edge of the bed. The healer quickly rearranged the covers.

  “All is well,” Etienne said gently. “She was dreaming.”

  “Then she is awake?” one of the guards asked and leaned so he could look around Etienne. She glanced back and saw that Shona had closed her eyes and the healer was bathing her brow.

  “No,” Etienne said. “It is not uncommon for one in mage fever to scream and have dreams, you know.”

  The guards both took deep breaths. “We are to report to the High Mage the moment she awakens,” one said. “He wants to question her.”

  Etienne frowned. “Well, as you can see, she is still asleep, and it would do no good to call him here because she screamed in her sleep. He would not be pleased if you disturbed him for such a trifle.”

  They traded looks and nodded.
“You will tell us the moment she does awaken?” one asked.

  “Of course, I will,” Etienne said. “I will see you out. So sorry that you were disturbed.”

  She glanced at Thera who nodded. With all the strength of a matron, Etienne gently herded the guards from the chamber, back down the corridor and out her main door. She closed it behind them and leaned on the wood, gathering her wits, then rushed for the chamber.

  Shona sat up, bolstered by pillows that had been carefully arranged by Thera. Crossing the room, Etienne drew a chair over to the opposite side of the bed and sat down.

  “You do realize, Sister, that you have now withheld the truth from guards who report directly to the High Mage,” Etienne said.

  “I am already part of this conspiracy,” Thera said with a smile. “And anyway, I said nothing because I had nothing to say. So I cannot be blamed for the inobservant nature of the High Mage’s guards.”

  “Conspiracy?” Shona said, her voice still rough.

  “Here, drink this,” Thera said, and helped Shona up enough to put the cup to her lips. Etienne smelled the herbs. A mixture intended to strengthen the blood. Shona drank it in tentative sips. Once the cup was empty, she eased back into her pillows and looked at Etienne.

  “You don’t want them to know I am awake?” Shona asked. “May I know why?”

  “It’s a long story,” Etienne said softly. “We are prisoners of the High Mage, you and I. Thera is our only contact with the world beyond this chamber. We are awaiting the High Mage’s justice for conspiring to keep him from killing Alaric Braidwine.”

  “Where is Alaric?” Shona suddenly asked.

  “I do not know,” Etienne said. “Fenelon gated him away before Turlough could lay hands on the lad.”

  “Then he lives,” she said. “Oh, Lady of the Silver Wheel, he lives.”

  “Why would he not?”

  “I thought Tane Doran would have killed him...”

  “As I understand it,” Etienne said, “Tane now resides in the belly of a demon.”

  Shona sighed. “Good. Far better than that wicked man deserves.”