It was as though he was struggling with himself. The hand clamped over her throat alternately tightened and loosened. She let her fighting instincts take over. As soon as she felt it loosen, she shoved herself away from the wall, and it worked, knocking him back. Talena fell to her knees, gasping for air. Her hand groped along the ground, and she found one half of the rake. She seized it up, planning to use it.
“Very well!” Lark cried. “She lives...for now!”
Talena hesitated. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said and started to swing.
Lark spun around, and his eyes were glowing in the dark like twin embers of gold. He lashed out and knocked the broken rake from her grasp as he had the knife. She wanted to run, but that gaze froze her where she stood, and she felt like a rabbit about to be devoured.
“What are you?” she asked weakly.
“It does not matter, for you will not remember,” Lark said. His words glided through her like honey smothering every sensation of her nerves, sinking her into oblivion. She tasted the bitter sweetness of cinnamon on her tongue. “Return to your bed,” he commanded under it all. “Forget all you have seen. Go back to sleep, and remember not.”
What is not to remember? Talena thought before the world went dark.
THIRTY
“Horns,” Alaric moaned when he opened his eyes. A beam of sunlight was working through the curtain that covered his sleeping niche and assailing his gaze. Around him, he could hear the sounds of morning life stirring, but he felt tired and worn, and had no desire to join them.
He rolled over on his stomach...
“Ahhhh!” he moaned as pain awoke him. He felt as though he had been kicked by a horse, and even as he lay on his side and looked at his belly, there was a dark bruise just under the ribs.
“What the...?” Where are my clothes? He’d had them on when he went to sleep last night, but now all he wore was his trews and stockings.
Just what in the name of Cernunnos did I do last night? The whole evening was a blank. Well, not all of it. He remembered singing and playing harp. He remembered wine, good wine, in fact. A reward from their host who declared it the best of his cellar and insisted it was only good enough for good company.
“Clearly, Lark, you have no head for Synalian wine,” Ronan whispered.
Alaric frowned. I’m not hung over, he thought ruefully. I’m just in pain.
“Synalian wine is famous for not causing a hangover.”
Then why am I so sore? Alaric retorted. And where did I get this bruise?
Ronan chuckled. “Oh, Lark, you fell flat on your face, you got so drunk. Our host had to have his sons carry you to your bed and strip you down.”
“I was still dressed when I went to bed,” Alaric muttered aloud.
“Well, yes, when they carried you to bed,” Ronan said. “But they undressed you because they feared you might purge on yourself in the night—really, you were very drunk.”
“Okay, okay,” Alaric groaned and crawled off the pallet. His shirt was lying over the small bench at the foot of the bed. He reached for it and for the short jerkin...and watched as bits of chaff floated to the floor.
Were we dancing in the barn? he asked.
“Of course,” Ronan said and laughed again. “These country folk are quite fond of their barn dances.”
Alaric sighed and shook out his clothes before he pulled them on. He then dug around until he located his boots and jerked them on over his stockings. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he stumbled out of the niche.
Everyone else must have been up, for all the other niches were open and empty...well all but one, and the curtain of that one flapped open just as he reached it. Talena staggered out, squinting in the bright light of morning. There was a bit of straw tangled into the braid of her hair, which was now skewed and stringy. She rubbed her throat as though it troubled her. He met her bleary gaze when it turned in his direction.
“You too?” he asked.
Talena blinked and touched her throat again. Alaric saw bruises under her fingers, matching the pattern of a hand. The corner of one of her eyes was developing a bruise as well.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “You look as though you were in a fight.”
“I do?” she muttered hazily. “The last thing I remember is you harping for our host and singing some song about Dvergar women’s soft downy beards and what happens when they get shaved off. Didn’t he give us wine?”
Alaric nodded. “I think so, Synalian wine.”
“Must have been the good stuff,” she muttered and started on. “I don’t remember a damned thing.”
Ronan chuckled again and whispered, “Nor will you,” in a way that made Alaric frown.
Ronan, you’re not putting walls up in my head again, are you?
“Me?” Ronan cried. “You know perfectly well after all that has happened, I would never do that to you, Lark. I gave you my word. I swore that I would never do anything like that to you again.”
All right! Alaric thought grumpily and followed the path Talena had taken. The farm folk were already at their chores, but there were still plenty of them in the kitchen. Talena wandered through their numbers and headed out the back door. Alaric reached the door in time to see her at the watering trough. She doused her head and came up flinging water everywhere. Pushing her damp locks out of her face, she looked at him.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“Do you have any idea what happened to your throat?” he asked.
“My throat?” Talena repeated and frowned. She reached into her jerkin and pulled out the silvered bit of glass, using it to look at herself.
Alaric shivered. That’s one of the things that reeked of magic, he thought. He resisted the urge to scry her, remembering how she reacted before. She might not be mageborn, but she clearly possessed enough sensitivity to some forms of magic.
“What the...” She studied her bruises and shook her head. “I don’t understand. It looks like someone tried to throttle me.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Alaric said.
A tiny speck of an image flashed from the depths of his mind. Talena pressed against the wall, a hand wearing a ring of silver clutching her throat. So close, as though he was looking at her through his own eyes...and then it disappeared as quickly as it came. Alaric glanced down at his own hands. At the ring he had worn since Marda gifted it to him, a ring that once belonged to Ronan.
Ronan, did I...?
“Oh, no, it was not you,” Ronan said. “I can swear to that.”
Then who?
“She’s a mercenary, Lark. No doubt, she has many enemies. In fact, I am quite certain that she has had those marks for a while. They look old.”
Alaric frowned. Then why do I feel so guilty?
“You are wasting time worrying about nothing, Alaric,” Ronan said fiercely. “You are not to blame! The demon is hungry and needs feeding.”
Alaric glanced towards the barn. He could hear some activity there. A voice raised in anger. He wandered over to the doorway and stopped. Master Gloster was waving a rake and pointing to the wall. “There were three last night,” he snarled at his youngest son. “What happened to the third?”
“I don’t know!” the lad grumbled back. “I put it there.”
Master Gloster started to raise his hand to strike the lad when he spied Alaric in the doorway. He stayed the blow and even backed away. “Master Bard,” he said carefully. “I was about to send Philton to fetch you.”
“Why?” Alaric asked.
Master Gloster pointed towards the stall where Vagner was. Alaric walked over to peer over the stall door. The demon was still in horse form, but he was lying on his back, all four legs up in the air. A ludicrous sight, except in Alaric’s experience, horses did not sleep that way.
“Is he dead?” the lad asked.
Master Gloster glanced warily at Alaric. “Mayhaps the hay was bad and he took a fit of colic and died?” he suggested.
“He
didn’t eat the hay,” Philton said and pointed to the pile of in the corner.
“He’s probably just asleep,” Alaric said.
“I’ve never seen a horse sleep that way,” Master Gloster said.
“Breed trait,” Alaric said. “He’s a rare breed from foreign parts...and he’s...different.”
Alaric bit his own tongue to stave the desire to laugh. It didn’t help that Ronan roared with merriment inside his head.
“What shall we do?” Master Gloster asked
“Wake him up,” Ronan said, still chortling. “Use his True Name.”
Alaric kicked the stall door and shouted, “Whup!” But in his mind, he concentrated on the link he shared with the demon, calling Vagner’s True Name. Ronan added a forceful sting before Alaric could stop him.
Vagner made a noise that was a cross between a squawk and a whinny, and charged to his feet. The demon twisted his head back and forth, scanning the stall for danger. Then he spied Alaric and Master Gloster, and the wary look of Philton and gave an equine whuffle. Alaric could see the look in those eyes. Vagner was not amused.
“See, he’s fine,” Alaric said. He turned away and marched out of the stables, passing Talena who looked puzzled over all the commotion.
The sooner we leave this place, the better.
THIRTY-ONE
It was a much more congenial Wendon who had emerged from Tobin’s chamber with Thera later that afternoon. Etienne could not help but notice how the two acted like a pair of newlyweds. By nightfall, she was convinced that they were engaged. They would sit together, holding hands or look through the books on Etienne’s shelves with only mild interest in the tomes.
She said nothing for a time. But as the sleeping hour rolled around, she knew she could not be silent for much longer. She drew them to the fire, hoping the crackle and pop of the logs would keep more sensitive ears from hearing what she had to say...
“This is going to sound a little strange,” she whispered, “but I could not help but notice the passion you two have for one another...”
Wendon’s face flushed red even faster than Thera’s. He stammered, “And what of it...I mean...I...”
Etienne waved her hands back and forth and shook her head. “There is nothing wrong with it at all,” she said and smiled. “I am very happy for you. I hope you will do the right thing, Wendon.”
Wendon cleared his throat. “Uh, of course. I didn’t mean...”
“Just listen to what I must say, please,” Etienne said. “What you did today...” Both Wendon and Thera stiffened, and Etienne wondered if she could get through this without laughing at their obvious sense of guilt. “...Is nothing to be ashamed of. But I could not help but notice that while the two of you were engaged, the very air in this place was stifled with your essence. So much so, that I cast a small fire spell, and those who guard us did not even detect it.”
“Really?” Wendon sat upright as though pondering this matter in a new light. It was an expression she would have expected from Fenelon. Perhaps there is more to our Wendon that we have ever assumed, she thought.
“It was as though your passion created a void...” she said.
Wendon shook his head. “Not a void,” he said. “More like a cloaking spell. When I was first apprenticed to Magister Keir, he commented on what he called my tendency to cloud spell matters with my emotions. He said it was one of the reasons I had so much trouble with certain spells...” Wendon paused, looking as though the memory of those words pained him. “But he pointed out that it could be used much like a cloaking spell. The problem, he said, was that emotions did not always follow a controlled path.”
“Controlled or not, it worked,” Etienne said. “Which is why I feel obligated to at least make a suggestion, and you can agree with it or not. I will not hold it against either of you.”
“Suggestion?” Wendon frowned with suspicion. “What sort of suggestion.”
“It is becoming quite clear that Magister Turlough is...not himself at the moment,” she said carefully. “I fear that he is not to be trusted to keep his word not to harm any of us...”
“Well, if you would just tell him where Alaric is, I’m sure he would...”
“You do not know him as well as I do, Wendon,” Etienne said. “He is a determined and sometimes misguided man who cares only for his own appearance and his revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“A demon killed the woman he loved, and because of this, he has declared that all demons are terrible creatures. But having spent time in Vagner’s company, I am coming to see that we might all be mistaken as to the true nature of demons. Not all of them are mindless, ravenous monsters. They have feelings.”
“I once heard a theory that demons were the creations of the gods, and that it was not until the corruption of the Dark Mother of ancient times that they became despised,” Thera said.
“Precisely. As there are likeable and dislikeable people, there are likeable and dislikeable demons. The creature that killed Turlough’s love was merely the pawn of a bloodmage. But Turlough would blame all demons.”
“And your suggestion?” Wendon asked again, still looking suspicious.
“We must not stay here and let Turlough decide our fates,” she said.
“But, what choice do we have?” Wendon asked. “We have broken the rules.”
“We have broken Turlough’s rules,” Etienne was quick to amend. “I myself am a member of the Council, remember. I know the laws under which mageborn must live better than any. They were made only to keep us from using our powers to enslave mortal kind, to keep us from misusing the power we possess. Mageborn uncontrolled and untrained are a danger to themselves and all around them. This is why we encourage teaching the spell work as we do. And I can assure you that Turlough would have us become the masters of the world if he had his way. It has long been his desire to have mageborn kings on the thrones of Ard-Taebh. He believes mageborn should rule instead of serve.”
“And why not?” Wendon asked. “We live longer and are smarter and more powerful and...” He stopped when he saw the look in Etienne’s eye.
“And we are in the minority,” she said. “For every one of us, there are thousands of mortalborn in the world. It is said that before the great cataclysm, mortal men were in the minority. There were Old Ones, Dark Ones, Stone Folk, Hidden Folk, and numerous other races of magical beings. But the Great Cataclysm changed all that. The balance shifted, and now we are the few...and because we are the few, we must guard against anything that would put us in ill favor with the mortalborn of the world. As it is, there are small factions who believe we should all be eliminated. They do not distinguish between us and the blood mages as we do. Magic is magic to them, and we have it and they do not, and that makes them distrust us all the more. The Council keeps Turlough from taking the reins of power over the whole world.”
“And what has that to do with this suggestion you still have not told us about,” Wendon said.
“Turlough would use this matter of demons as a catalyst to take total power. He would unseat from the Council all those who oppose him, and if he can make an example of Alaric, then he can make examples of all those mageborn he thinks would oppose him. Many mageborn do have familiars of one sort or another, and we know that when you take away the trappings, those creatures we bind to our will are little more than minor demons. Turlough would use his quest to kill Alaric as a means of pushing to get rid of all opposition, and then he would move to rule the world his way...as a master mage and emperor of all.”
“What are you planning to do?” Thera asked in a calm voice.
“We must leave this place,” Etienne said. “We must find Fenelon and help him find Alaric, and we must protect Alaric before Turlough can kill the young man. But to do so, we must escape here without them knowing we have done. And to do that, I will have to ask you, Wendon—and you, Thera—to create another shield of passion while I work a gate spell to take us to Ross-Mhor. Once there, we will be sa
fe to try and find Fenelon and Gareth and eventually, we hope, rescue Alaric.”
Wendon frowned. “I have lost my place here, I am certain. I have disgraced myself by helping Fenelon to escape...and yet...”
“What?” Etienne tried not to look too hopeful.
“If what you say about Magister Turlough is true, then we are all doomed unless we escape.” He took a deep breath and looked at Thera. “I am willing to try, but only if we all leave.”
“We will all leave,” Etienne said. “You, Thera, myself and Shona.”
“But Shona is unconscious, is she not?”
“She is not,” a voice said from the doorway.
They all looked up. Shona was standing there, wrapped in a plaid blanket, clutching the frame of the door.
“And you know very well that there is no way I will let you leave me behind,” she added.
“We will not,” Etienne said. She rose from her chair and crossed the room to assist the young woman over to the fire. “So, we are all in agreement,” she said.
Heads nodded all around.
“Good. We will wait until well after the dark hour...that way, it will be dawn when we go to Ross-Mhor.”
Again, they all nodded. Etienne closed her eyes, feeling relieved.
THIRTY-TWO
Fenelon’s bed felt like someone had placed a large number of fist-sized stones under the mattress. How Hobbler and his father could sleep under these circumstances was beyond him. Then again, he remembered that Gareth was used to adverse conditions. Any man who had spent much of his life wandering remote parts of the landscape instead of sharing his late wife’s warm bed probably thought these pallets were a luxury.
I have let magic spoil me, Fenelon thought. It would have been so easy to summon a feather mattress, but Gareth kept insisting it would not be wise for Fenelon to use magic until they were well into the Ranges. He seemed to think Turlough would find them otherwise.
It took Fenelon a while to fall asleep that night, and he tossed and turned most of it away. Didn’t help that the noise in the tavern below was ceaseless. When did Dvergar sleep? It wasn’t like they were underground here. Stanehold was admittedly etched into the sides of the mountains around them, but this particular inn was under an overhang of rock and had windows looking out onto the streets where daylight could be seen. But the Stone Folk did not seem to understand that night was for sleeping...well, maybe not for everyone. He recalled there was a time when he preferred the night. When he liked to gate himself to mountain tops just to stare at the stars, or spend all night discoursing magic with other mageborn of a like mind.
Wandering Lark Page 20
