FIFTEEN
Wendon was sweating. Holding Fenelon’s form was proving more of a challenge than holding fire in the shape of a sphere. Granted, the real Fenelon had gathered a king’s ransom of elemental essence to assist Wendon in holding the shape-shifting spell. It had surprised him at how simple a spell it was to master. He certainly hoped it would bring him the status he desired when all this ordeal was over.
“I’ll gladly speakl to the Council of Mageborn on your behalf,” Fenelon had said. He was wearing that smile of his, the one that Wendon thought a little too sincere. But in spite of thinking Fenelon was a rogue, Wendon reminded himself that the Master Mage did have a lot of influence with them. Probably why the High Mage has found it difficult to oust Fenelon from Dun Gealach, Wendon assumed. Fenelon had too many friends in high places, including at court. Even Wendon knew that while the High Mage could rule Dun Gealach with an iron hand, he could not go against the will of the crown or the dukes and barons that supported it.
Perhaps once Wendon had Master Mage status, he could develop powerful friends among the royal household. That would certainly be quite a feat for the son of a poor carpenter.
Wendon sighed. He was growing uncomfortable in these chains. Why had Fenelon made him wear them? Oh, yes, something about how it would look wrong if Wendon were not in them...or had it been that Fenelon said Wendon looked natural that way? He was getting a little confused, for holding the spell was taking all of his concentration. Which was a good thing since it left him little time to fret.
Of course it occurred to Wendon that this could have been another of Fenelon’s ruses. That Fenelon was just using Wendon to escape. But Thera seemed to think it was for the good of all humankind that Wendon should allow himself to be used in this fashion. Just the thought of her lent him strength. She was a pretty little creature in her own way, pleasant to look at...and her smell. The scent of herbs had made him dizzy as they heightened his senses and his awareness of her. He wondered if she would allow him to see her again. Surely she would. She seemed to like him.
Then again, he told himself that could have been part of the ruse to get him to come here and stand in for Fenelon this way. Thera could have played Wendon for a fool. He could be standing here waiting for the High Mage to decide to bring Fenelon to trial and execute him.
“No less than he deserves,” Wendon muttered, and realized too late that the voice that issued from his lips was his own and not Fenelon’s...
And then he heard the door.
Panic seized throat. Wendon pressed back against the wall. Had the gaolers heard him? Was he about to be betrayed? Curse Fenelon and his seductive ways!
The door opened slowly. Wendon closed his eyes. He felt his false shape quivering as anticipation gave rise to fear and reduced his ability to hold the spell. He gasped and seized at the stored essence in the small pouch around his neck—the pouch that Fenelon had given Wendon before chaining him to the wall.
“Magister Fenelon?” It was a woman’s voice. Thera’s voice. Wendon opened his eyes. Relief flooded him. She was standing just inside the chamber and the door was closing behind her.
“Thera?” he said softly, aware that the voice was still his.
“I have come to make certain you are well,” she said in a professional manner. She crossed the room to stand before him. Wendon looked into doe-like eyes and wanted to melt...well, most of him wanted to melt. Part of him was growing stiff and unwieldy. Not good because the one thing that could not be changed by the spell was his clothes, and this had meant he had to trade outfits with Fenelon whose pants were, in Wendon’s opinion, already too tight.
“I am well,” he whispered. “But I am not terribly comfortable at the moment.”
Her eyes strayed down just briefly. He saw her cheeks bloom with a hint of color as her eyes flitted back up at his face.
“I can see that,” she said and glanced quickly towards the door. She stepped closer...much closer. Wendon wanted to moan. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to grab her, push her to the floor...good thing he was chained, he told himself, or his reputation, hers and the whole damned plan would go up in the smoke of ruthless passion.
“Are you certain you’re all right,” Thera said in a low voice as she pretended to adjust his sleeves and check his wrists. Her very touch on his skin was a firebrand. Oh horns, he thought, what a waste. “You seem to be sweating a lot,” she continued. She put a hand to his forehead. “No fever...”
Wendon swallowed hard, “Please, don’t touch me,” he said. “You’re... distracting me.”
Thera smiled. “Of course, and while I am distracting you, why not draw a little more essence from me to feed that in the spell sack?”
“Oh,” he said and blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Etienne thought it would help,” Thera said. She glanced at the door, then leaned closer still, so close, her breath ruffled his hair. “And I certainly don’t think it will hurt you.”
“No, it won’t,” he agreed. “But...”
“But what?”
“I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but...you do smell very nice and it’s making me...well...”
“Yes, I can see that,” she said and pressed so close to him he thought he would explode. “And I think I can remedy that as well.”
“What?”
“Is it not true that the act of love can heighten the essence and give the mageborn more strength?”
“Well...yes...but...” Wendon hesitate. “I’m tied up and...”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem at all,” she said before she claimed his lips.
He felt her hand at the waist of Fenelon’s trews. Felt fingers tugging the tight laces free.
A great deal of relief followed...and with the power it gave him, he would have sworn he could have lifted all of Dun Gealach to the moon.
SIXTEEN
Alaric woke up with a head that felt just a little thick. Hangover? He hadn’t really drank so much last night. He lay on the bed, rubbing the spot between his eyes and his forehead in an attempt to relieve the mild headache. Sunlight was peeping through cracks in the shutters. Alaric gave himself a moment to get his wits in order and gingerly sat up so as not to inflame the pain.
The first thing he noticed was that his muscles felt stiff, as if he had physically exerted himself in some fashion. In fact, it reminded him of how he felt after sword practice. He took a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed and working out the kinks...and that was when he noticed that his belonging had been shoved over into a corner. Odd. Alaric would have sworn he had left them by the chair...which strangely enough was also pushed back against he wall, as was the table. He frowned. “Vagner?”
He glanced over at the canine form lolling on its back, legs splayed in a rather indignant posture. The demon’s tongue was hanging out of its mouth, and a pool of saliva formed on the floor. Alaric grimaced.
“Vagner, wake up,” he said.
“Mrrrufffow.” Vagner rolled over on his side and began to snore.
“Great,” Alaric muttered. Heaving a sigh, he got off the bed and walked over and poked the demon with a toe. Not the smartest move, he imagined. Vagner yelped like a dog and sprang up, snapping with those huge jaws, and only the fact that the yelp startled Alaric into stepping back saved him from being bitten. “Hey, easy!” Alaric said, raising his hands in his own defense.
Vagner stopped. Embarrassment hounded his doggy features. He backed up and sat down. “Sorry,” the demon said. “I thought...”
“Thought what?”
“Never mind. Must have been dreaming.” The demon’s head swiveled back and forth. “What happened to the room?”
“I was going to ask you that,” Alaric said. “Nothing is where it was when I went to bed last night.”
“Of course it is,” a soft voice whispered in his head.
Ronan? Alaric thought.
“Everything is exactly as you left it,” Ronan insisted. “You obviously have no head
for Synalian wine.”
Alaric frowned. Well, he had found it delightfully sweet on the palate. But he had not thought it was that strong. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Why would I lie?” Ronan asked.
“Well, I better put it back,” Alaric said.
“Leave it,” Ronan said. “The landlord will put everything back. We need to get on the road and start heading east.”
“Why east?” Alaric asked. He saw Vagner’s puzzle gaze settle on him, and he pointed to his head to assure the demon it was Ronan.
“East is Taneslaw,” Ronan said. “And Taneslaw is the best place to find an Elder.”
“Exactly what is an Elder?” Alaric queried.
“Not something you should ask about when the Temple’s shadow is on you,” Ronan said, and his words broke with fear. So Alaric chose to end the questions and pull on his over clothes.
“Can we have breakfast first?” Alaric said.
“Yes, breakfast,” Vagner agreed. “The sooner we get on the road, the sooner I can hunt live prey. I’m famished.”
“You’re always famished,” Alaric said. “And last night, you must have snagged a dozen coneys in that field.”
“Two dozen,” the demon said. “Hardly more than a light snack.”
Alaric shook his head and finished dressing. He gathered his belongings and slipped out of the chamber, heading for the stairs.
Talena sat in her usual spot, watching the stairs. The landlord assured her that their “guest” was still under his roof as he had set several of his servants to keep watch on all means of exit. Furthermore, there had been a tremendous amount of thumping about in his room. The landlord thought it might have been the dog, but he could not be certain.
The dog, Talena thought and blew a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. The dog set off the medallion. The dog who tried to take off my hand. She wished she knew more about the ways of heretics. From her youth, she remembered old tales of how they came in a variety of shapes. Supposedly some looked like really beautiful people while others were hideous and misshapen. Her late father used to tell her of the heretic with the upper body of a woman and the lower half of a fish that dwelled in the bottom of a lake and dragged people who came to the shores down to a watery death, then ate them.
Did the temple really know what a heretic looked like?
The temple had declared Desura a heretic because she saw things in water and made small lights appear with a whisper. Desura was no monster, though she was pretty. Talena had always considered her cousin the prettiest lass alive, and would never have considered her a heretic. She had loved her cousin as more than the sister she did not have...though she had hidden the true depths of her feelings because her father had warned her that expressing them would likely get her declared a heretic. The temple frowned on any union that did not produce a child.
Talena frowned. Desura had changed once she became a Watcher, and sometimes Talena forgot that she had once lusted after her cousin...
She sighed. Noise on the stairs caught her attention, the thunder of more legs than a single man possessed. The dog came first, casting its gaze about in such a watchful way, Talena wanted to withdraw behind the nearest door.
The bard was right on the dog’s heels. He stepped over to the landlord who was arranging a buffet for morning meal.
“Good morrow to you, Master Lark,” the landlord said and cast a cautious look in Talena’s direction. And she wanted to kick him when he did because the hound and its master both glanced her way. The bard turned back, but the hound’s glower lingered.
“And good morrow to you, landlord,” Lark said. “My thanks for your generosity, but now I must be on the road.”
“So soon?” the landlord said. “At least stay and have a bit to eat.”
“Well, I was going to ask you the price of some bread and cheese for the road,” Lark said.
The landlord smiled. “Then sit down, and I’ll fetch them for you, sir. You have earned them.”
Talena nodded. Good. Get the bard to stay a little longer. She crawled to her feet and made for the door.
She would fetch her mare now and find a place to wait and watch for the bard.
And then try to figure out a way to follow him.
But just as she was stepping out of the inn, she saw movement over in the shadows of the temple. Several black-clothed bodies were milling. She recognized the Temple Bounty Hunters Corran and Serapha among their numbers. Now what in the name of the Triad would they be doing milling around corners so early in the morning? she asked herself. Granted, she held no ill will against them, but Corran and Serapha always worked as a team, and this was a virtual army of Temple Bounty Hunters gathering. Whatever was about to happen had to be important.
So perhaps she should hold off going to fetch her horse and hang around. Talena made for the stable where Kessa was waiting, but once she was inside, she settled herself close to the doorway and looked out at the common.
It couldn’t hurt to find out what the competition were up to. Especially since it occurred to her that Corran and Serapha had been in the inn last night.
SEVENTEEN
Ronan’s restlessness was reaching a new height, and it was all Alaric could do to keep from snapping aloud at the bard spirit. While it would have given him no end of pleasure to do so, he was not certain the innkeeper would understand. But the nattering in his head was growing more and more annoying to the point that he purposely slowed down eating his breakfast.
“How long is this meal going to take?” Ronan said. “We should have already been on the road.”
Look, I’m not Vagner, Alaric retorted in his head. I can’t just open my mouth and swallow stuff whole.
“You can make light all you want,” Ronan said. “But I sense that all is not well in the world here, Alaric. We are in danger.”
Alaric glanced around the inn. The woman who had spoken to him last night was gone. In fact, the only person there other than himself was the innkeeper, and that man was busy sweeping the old reeds out the door.
In danger from what? Alaric thought challengingly. The only danger I see is what could happen if you cause me to accidentally speak aloud.
Ronan ceased his tirade, but off in the corner of his mind, Alaric could still feel that the bard spirit was snarling privately.
Can it be considered talking to yourself if its someone else talking to yourself? Alaric wondered.
He shook his head and finished the meal. It would not do to go on the road with an empty stomach. Who knew when he would find a place to have his next meal? It wasn’t like he could use magic to open a gate to the next village in line.
“There are no other villages in line,” Ronan said.
And how would you know, considering how much things have changed since your time here? Alaric asked.
Ronan retreated again. Alaric was starting to like this, having the last word. Let him grump all he wants, he thought. This is my life, my body.
His left hand flinched then formed a fist for no apparent reason, interrupting the train of thought. The metal ring grew warm about his finger. Alaric frowned at it and got up, though he was not sure he had made the decision to rise.
Ronan, what are you doing?
“Nothing!” came the surly protest in his head. “Let us leave this place before the landlord comes up with another reason to delay us.”
Well, that was as good a reason as any, Alaric would agree. The ring stopped feeling too warm as he gathered his gear and called to Vagner. He saluted the landlord and stepped out of the inn.
A wide range of activity, on the common market before the temple, had just started to blossom for the day. The sky was clear and autumn air was crisp in his nose as he drew a breath. He had never been in a village or a township that seemed to lack the odors of livestock and fires and cooking. This one did, as if the air stayed sweet all the time. Strange, he thought.
Which way?
“Away from the temple, foremost,”
Ronan said. “And you will need transportation. A horse.”
Like I can afford to buy one here? Alaric thought and shook his head.
“We don’t need to buy one,” Ronan said. “We can make one instead.”
Alaric felt the urge to turn and look at Vagner. The demon’s doggy features took on an uncertain look.
“Well, don’t look at me,” the demon’s voice whispered in Alaric’s head. “I’m a dog, not a horse.”
“That could change,” Ronan said.
“I would not recommend it,” the demon argued. “Not here...not with those men watching.”
Alaric turned suddenly in the direction Vagner was looking. A sense of panic rose in him to see five men and a woman in black crossing the cobbles, coming straight at him.
“You there,” the one in the lead said, and Alaric had a vague recollection that it was one of the two he had seen last night when he first arrived at the inn. “Stand and be accounted for.”
“Accounted for?” Alaric repeated as they hurried towards him at a swift pace. He didn’t like the look of this, and was not pleased when Ronan whispered, “I think we better run.”
Alaric turned as though about to do so, but there were others coming from the nearest corner of the inn.
Horns! There was no place to go except back inside the inn now. But even as he contemplated that, the gap closed rapidly between him and the bounty hunters. They surrounded him in a small crush of bodies, giving him little more than an arms length of personal space.
“You will come with us,” the first one said. “The Patriarchs would have you give account of yourself...”
“I...was just leaving, actually,” Alaric said. “I haven’t done anything, have I?” His mind was racing over bits and pieces. Had he given himself away in some manner of which he was not aware?
“That is for the Master Patriarchs to decide,” the leader said. “Give us your weapons and come quietly now.”
“But I...”
“Take him,” the leader said.
Two of them reached for Alaric, a man and a woman dressed in black leather armor. As soon as they seized him, he felt Ronan surge with fright. “No!” the bard spirit protested, and his words spilled across Alaric’s lips as though he owned them. He tried to jerk free of their grasps and felt his limbs reacting in a way he did not think they had been trained. Twisting to one side, he thrust his leg between those of the man and kicked. The Bounty Hunter went down with a cry, releasing his grasp. Alaric pushed against the female, and she fell back into another. A gap opened, and he sprinted for it like a mad man. But even as he took steps towards his freedom, one of the Bounty hunters cut into his path. The man’s arm shot out and caught Alaric across the chest, knocking him back. He hit the cobbles hard, winding himself.
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