At that moment, he heard a vicious snarl. Alaric turned just in time to see the large dog form of the demon launch at his attacker. Jaws snapping, Vagner seized the Bounty Hunter by the throat and bore him down. Vagner, no! Alaric thought. Too late, the demon shook the man hard enough to tear his throat open, then turned to seek another victim.
Alaric was being dragged to his feet just as other Bounty Hunters arrived, and some of the guards of the local watch as well. The latter were armed with crossbows, and they raised them, bolts pointed at the demon.
“No, he’ll be revealed for what he is!” Ronan shouted in Alaric’s head.
Alaric knew what Ronan meant too. The demon was impervious to mortal weapons. Those bolts would not kill him. And then they would know for certain what Alaric was and the demon was.
Vagner, leave! Alaric cried, and in his head, he lashed out with the demon’s true name. Vagner looked stunned, but the demon turned and ran. Bolts were fired, but they skidded into the ground and struck the corner of the inn as the dog form dashed around the end of the building and out of their range.
“Forget the dog!” one of the Bounty Hunters ordered. “Look to Malthorn. You...gag this heretic and take him to the temple. If he is truly what we think, we will be well rewarded, and he will pay for the death of our comrade.”
Someone produced a gag of cloth and bound it firmly in place. Another cuffed Alaric hard, then they started to drag him across the cobbles towards the temple.
Inside him, he could feel Ronan raging.
“We are lost!” the bard cried. “And you are to blame!”
That did not make Alaric feel like he had a chance of coming out of that dreadful place alive.
Talena could hardly believe her eyes. Corran and Serapha had stolen her bounty right out from under her. I should have known those two were up to something when I saw them last night. Now, they were hauling Lark into the temple, and there was nothing Talena could do to stop them...
Desura will know what to do, she thought.
Then again, for all she knew, it was Desura who had betrayed her bounty.
No, Desura was the one who led Talena to the bard and his strange killer dog. She felt no pity for the Bounty Hunter who had died under those snapping jaws, though part of her wished it had been either of her competitors.
She waited only until they had all gone into the Temple before she slipped out of her hiding place and crossed the common. Vendors were already setting up. Talena debated walking straight into the mouth of the temple then decided against that route. She knew another way in. She walked around the outer edges of the temple walls and made for the back gate. There she encountered a guard or two, but she showed them her badge—the one Desura gave her—and was allowed to pass. Quickly, she headed for the Watcher’s chambers below ground.
Desura was back at her scrying stone when Talena arrived. The Watcher looked up in surprise.
“We must speak,” Talena said.
Desura sighed and glanced at her attendants. “Leave us.”
“But my lady,” one of the attendants started to protest.
“I will call if I need you,” Desura added. “Now go!”
The attendants reluctantly left the chamber. One of them sneered at Talena before slipping out of the room and closing the doors.
“Now what is it, cousin?” Desura asked.
“My bounty...the bard I was following?” Talena began.
“What of him?”
“He has been taken by Corran and his bitch Serapha,” Talena said. “They waited with at least four others, and called guards as well.”
Desura frowned. “So you lost the heretic,” she said. “This does present a problem, since it was his beast that was our concern.”
“Yes, well his beast has taken off after killing one of the Bounty Hunters, and now the bard is in Temple hands. So there is no way we can find out his true purpose in coming here with the heretic.”
“Actually, there is,” Desura said. “I am the only Watcher here who can read truth, remember. They will send for me when they are ready to question him.”
“And then what?”
“And then...I will tell them he is not a heretic and that they should free him,” Desura said. “And then you will go help him find his way, and in the process, you will find out why he really came to our land.”
“Just what are you playing at, Desura?”
Desura closed her eyes wearily. “Last night, I had a vision,” she said. “I have not told the High Lord Patriarch of this, but I saw the White Dragon...”
Talena frowned. “The White One?”
“Yes...as clearly as I see you now, and she sent me a vision and said that there would come a stranger who must be allowed to come to her or death and destruction would claim the world.”
“And you believe that?” Talena said. “That’s what the Temple stands against, the voice of the Dragon tempting our people back to the old ways...”
Desura opened her eyes. “And I would be put to the stake were it known I had such visions,” she said with a sigh. “The Temple hates anything that might cause heretics to rise and reclaim their rightful place in this land.”
Talena bit her tongue. You help them, she thought, to quell these rebellions. But so do I in a sense. That thought made her stomach twist.
“So what is your plan?”
“I believe that to stop these visions...and to save the Temple and keep their law, that we must find the Dragon,” Desura said. “We must let the bard and his heretic lead us to her.”
“To what purpose?”
“You know that I hear what they say, even when they think that I do not,” Desura said. “The Lord Patriarch Rothanan has long believed that the White One still dwells in the land of Taneslaw...that the Tannish king gives her sanctuary there, and that his people still worship her. He would find a way to prove this and use that means as an excuse to invade Taneslaw.”
Talena shrugged. “So?”
“Our Synalian King is reluctant to invade Taneslaw,” she said. “There are some who say he has a new advisor at Court, one who would put the Temple High Lords in their place. One who sympathizes with the heretics, and who would make peace with Taneslaw and allow trade to resume between our lands.”
“And this would be a terrible thing?” Talena asked.
Desura frowned. “If the Temple loses the respect of the people, what then? What will stop them from returning to the old ways and bring back the dreaded darkness that once shadowed all the lands?”
“So what do you want me to do?”
Desura gestured for Talena to come closer. She reached into the voluminous depths of her own white robes and came forth with two packages. One was wrapped in white linen, the other in black velvet. Still keeping one hand on the scrying stone bowl, she laid the items on the rim.
“Open the white package first,” Desura ordered.
Talena hesitated then obeyed. It contained a mirror wrought around with a silver frame into which gold had been inlaid. The weight of it felt cold in Talena’s hand, and she shivered.
“That is a scrying mirror,” Desura said. “Hold it under running water, and I can see you and hear you. That way, you can keep me abreast of what you are doing. Keep it with you at all times. Now open the other.”
Talena slipped the mirror back into the folds of linen and put it into a pocket inside her jerkin. She carefully unfolded the black velvet when a bright white light sprang forth. With a cry, Talena threw a hand over her eyes.
“Be not afraid,” Desura said. “Look at it.”
Still shading her eyes, Talena glanced at the object nestled inside the folds. It was long and pointed like a dagger, and set into a hilt of bronze. But it was not like any dagger she had ever seen, for the blade was crystal clear.
“What is it?”
“It is called The Mother’s Tear,” Desura said. “When I was first brought here, it was shown to me.”
“You stole this from the Temple Tre
asury?”
“Treasury?” Desura said and laughed. “No, these are items the Temple has stolen from the heretics they have slain. The legend goes that in the days of the great darkness, the White One cried to see the world so scarred, and where her tears fell, they hardened into these crystal clear stones, and that one of the Stone Folk took up a tear and set it into bronze and gave it as a gift to one of the Six Children of the White One. But the Child who wielded it died in the Great Battle between the Dragons, and it was taken by the Child’s Avatar. That Avatar was one of the Elders that the Temple chose to execute as a heretic long before you and I were born. And the Temple has kept this hidden ever since.”
“What am I to do with it?” Talena pushed the folds of the velvet back over the dagger for it was straining her eyes.
“Kill the White One,” Desura said.
Talena frowned. “What?”
“Do you wish to be truly considered a great Bounty Hunter?” Desura said. “Then let the bard lead you to the White One and kill her. When you bring back proof of her death, they will reward you greatly, Talena. They will make you a captain of the Temple Bounty Hunters, for by killing the White One, you will prove beyond all doubt that they were right and should invade Taneslaw. Once the White One is dead, the Tannish king will be defenseless against us.”
“This is madness,” Talena said softly. “You want me to kill a god.”
“A dragon,” Desura said. “The dragon who left our people to rebuild without help after the war she caused to ravage our lands. The dragon in whose name death and destruction was wrought. Think about it...with the dragon dead, there will be no need for Watchers, and I will be free.”
Talena held her thoughts to herself.
Set you free? They will never set you free. Once the Dragon is gone, they will kill you as they have killed all born of the heretic blood.
But Desura did not look like she would have believed that anyway.
“Now, go,” Desura said. “Wait for the bard. He will not stay long, I can assure you.”
Slowly, Talena took the dagger and slipped it into her vest.
She just hoped no one noticed that she was carrying something so precious.
EIGHTEEN
Fenelon awoke before the others. He had conjured himself a comfy pallet the night before, having no desire to sleep on the floor. Now he sat on it, watching the rise and fall of his father’s chest and listening to the strange snoring of the Dvergar. Horns, he would love to know how his father came to know the little man.
Closing his eyes, Fenelon stretched mage senses to test the wards and the world. The wards Father insisted on laying about them were strong. Fenelon was amused when in the middle of the night Hobbler got up and tested the door. The wooden handle stung his hand, and he had hopped back like a startled toad.
“Do you think it will be so easy to leave?” Fenelon had whispered so as not to awaken his father who managed to stay in slumber throughout the whole ordeal.
“One cannot say I did not try,” Hobbler had replied. “And anyway, just wanted to make sure we were safe, that’s all.”
“Safe from what?” Fenelon asked.
“Oh...a certain smith and his relations.”
Fenelon started to ask what a smith would be doing in Ross-Mhor since nearly everything these people made was manufactured from wood. They imported any metal they used at all, though Fenelon had heard much of it came from the mines that littered the edges of the Ranges. But he decided that he was not in the mood to play word games with the little man.
“Why are you here?” he had asked instead.
Hobbler shrugged and crawled back into his trundle. “You’ll have to ask your father,” he said. “Good night.”
Fenelon figured that could wait until morning.
Now as he stretched mage senses, they revealed that the world beyond was already stirring. The landlord of this establishment was berating one of his daughters, and Fenelon frowned when he realized she was one of the pair he dallied with last night. He hoped she was wise enough not to say anything. Etienne would say it was no less than he deserved if the girl’s father decided to tip Fenelon out of Blue Oak. “It’s the favorite way of dispensing with ungallant rogues in Ross-Mhor,” she had assured him with her most beguiling smile.
The image of her encouraged him to smile. Fenelon took a deep breath and pushed his concentration out more. He found a ley line and latched his awareness to it. The line soared into the Ranges and then just stopped high in the air...or so it seemed. When Fenelon tried to push against it and go on, he found what felt like a barrier of solid air.
What was it his father once said? That there were parts of the Ranges no mageborn could scry into. He had always assumed there were huge voids in them, but having seen the mountains and the Shadow Vale, now he was not so sure. For certain, there was ancient magic at work in those places.
Magic that Ronan had apparently known how to tap.
Fenelon withdrew his mage senses to himself and gathered his knees to his chest as he sat thinking. What was it he knew about Ronan? What were the stories Ronan had told of his own past? A bard of high rank, forced to leave his homeland. Why? Fenelon was sure he had heard the reason, but now that he thought about it, there were so many things about Ronan no one knew.
Except Marda.
And she was dead...sundered too, all because she had tried to tell Fenelon something and could not.
He made Alaric the key.
Key to what? To the Dragon’s Tongue, most certainly, and yet now that was buried deep under tons of rock and no threat to anyone.
We hope.
Alaric himself admitted that Ronan had made him a bridge. And that he now carried the essence of the bard as well as the memories Ronan had locked away in Alaric’s head.
And for what purpose? To hide a piece of rock that contained enough essence of the Na’Sgailean to give her life again?
Or was there some other purpose in Ronan’s mind. Why not just give Alaric the knowledge and leave it at that? Why become a parasite in the young man’s body as well, sharing flesh and essence and thoughts and...
Fenelon cocked an eyebrow and stretched his limbs.
By nature, a mageborn spirit could only reside in a willing host.
And Marda had said that Ronan made certain Alaric was a willing host. And in Fenelon’s mind, there could only be one reason for making certain Alaric would comply.
Ronan wants to live again.
It could be done. It was an ancient spell Fenelon had only heard about. One he would give nearly anything to possess.
Ronan knew it, he would willingly bet. Ronan knew a lot of ancient magic. Spells of that sort were only known to exist before the Great Cataclysm.
Ronan was not that old. He had said he was born just after the Unification...so he was not old enough to know spells that had been used before the Great Cataclysm.
Or was he?
A most perplexing puzzle in Fenelon’s opinion. He wished he knew a way to find those answers. But without Ronan or Alaric in present company, that would be a little difficult.
So I guess we will have to go after them and ask Ronan in person...or spirit...or whatever form he claims.
The thought still rolled around in Fenelon’s head as the others began to stir. Gareth rolled over on his back and rubbed his eyes. His shift stirred Hobbler’s trundle. The Dvergar jerked his face up out of his pillow and looked startled.
Fenelon merely rose and prepared himself for the day. He had a feeling, between his father and Hobbler, it was going to be a long one.
They took Alaric into a foyer that was so grand that it stole his breath away with wonder. Marble inlaid with what looked like lapis lazuli and gold, friezes depicting families, and stained-glass windows greeted him. But then, they threw a blindfold over his eyes and began to march him through a series of twists and turns. He fought the age-old panic that small spaces usually induced and tried to concentrate on how many steps he was taking and how m
any turns. Anything to distract him from the sense of impending doom.
At last they stopped, and he was pushed into a chair. His heart thundered as brief memories of being Tane Doran’s prisoner stirred. They tied his wrists to the arms of the chair with ropes instead of metal shackles.
“Do not think of such things,” Ronan whispered in his head.
It’s hard not to, Alaric thought back.
He heard the fading of footsteps as most of his captors left the chamber. But he sensed that two of them remained in the room with him.
Ronan went silent. One of the captors pulled the blindfold off. Alaric blinked and saw that the pair who stood to either side of him was the man and woman who had entered the inn last night in his wake. She stepped close, leaned over and smiled at him.
“Such a pretty one, Corran” she said and glanced at her partner.
Corran made a rude noise. “Forget it, Serapha,” he said. “If you wanted to play with him first, you should have said so before we told the others.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Well, bard,” she said as she straightened up. “Would you like to make it easy on yourself? Speak now, confess, and we can avoid a lot of messy torture.”
“Torture?” Alaric said. “For what? What have I done?”
“Playing innocent is never wise, heretic,” Corran said.
“Heretic? You have me mistaken for someone else,” Alaric said. “I’m a bard. Lark is my name, and I play and sing songs and travel, and nothing more.”
Wandering Lark Page 12
