“So how do they make magic without hurting themselves?” she asked.
“It’s very simple,” Alaric said. “There is power in everything in the world. The elements, the plants, the animals...even rocks have earth magic locked inside them. A mageborn can draw this essence and use it to feed their spell, and in doing so, they avoid harming themselves.”
“And what of the thing you draw this power from?” she asked, sounding more interested than she did before. “What becomes of it?”
“That depends as well,” Alaric said. “If I draw essence from a stone, it is not hurt since stones have no feelings. But if I draw the essence too fast—draw all of it at once out of a single stone then the stone will crumble to dust. If I were to do that to a plant or a tree, I would make it wither and die.”
“And animals?”
Alaric sighed. “They will die too.”
“Then what good is it to draw power from others if it will kill them?”
“Mageborn are taught from early age that they must respect all living things with the same regard they hold for their own lives,” he said. “The woman who first taught me the use of my power was very firm in teaching me right from wrong. We must never ever draw essence so that it causes harm to others. All mageborn are required to take that vow, and those who refuse risk having their power sundered from them. Unfortunately, not all mageborn gladly adhere to that law. There are some mages who take great pleasure in causing harm to others. They will steal lives to feed their spells and to extend their own. We call this blood magic.”
“Have you ever...” Talena hesitated.
Alaric shook his head. “Old Marda would have taken a birch to me if I had ever dared do so, though I will admit that I have never had to face that challenge.”
Talena frowned. “So where are you from that these mageborn are allowed to live as free men?”
“Careful, Lark,” Ronan whispered. “Do not tell her.”
Alaric mentally shoved Ronan back. “I was born in the kingdom of Tamnagh, which is one of the Fourteen Kingdoms of...”
His words faltered when Ronan lashed back with a mental blow that hurt like a firebrand. Alaric gasped from the scourge of pain, grabbing his temples as they throbbed in agony.
“You tell her too much!” Ronan roared. “You would destroy all I have worked to achieve.”
“Stop it!” Alaric cried.
The blinding pain drove him to his knees. The hand with the ring felt as though it was on fire, and the bitterness of cinnamon burned his tongue. He fought against the pain, trying to do as Fenelon taught him and drew a soothing shield of power around himself, but Ronan’s attacks were like the slashing of demon claws, and tore into each shield before Alaric could draw more power and restore them.
“Stop it, Ronan!” Alaric shouted again.
“Leave him alone, Ronan!” Alaric heard Vagner bellow, and he could not be sure if the voice was in his ears or in his head. But suddenly, there was a wash of demon essence growing around Alaric, protecting him with a shield of impenetrable power.
The pain subsided quite suddenly then. Alaric gasped for air and leaned over, touching his forehead to the cool ground. Horns, Ronan, he thought as he rubbed his temples. If you wanted me to keep silent about your presence, that was not the way...
But Ronan was silent inside him, seething with anger as his spirit essence retreated.
Alaric opened his eyes to find Talena kneeling in front of him. Her eyes were soft with a look of concern. “Lark, are you all right?”
Slowly, he nodded, fearful that the scourge would start again, but it did not.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A sudden headache,” he said. “Nothing more. Really, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ve got some willow bark syrup in my pack,” she said. “A dose of that ought to help.”
He blinked, startled by her concern. “Yes, thank you,” he said.
Talena hopped up and hurried over to where her packs were. Alaric glanced at Vagner. The demon must not have spoken aloud after all. His equine face wore an expression of deep thought and concentration, and Alaric could feel power thrumming along the thread of the bond they shared.
Ronan attacked me and Vagner saved me.
He wanted to know why, but Ronan had already retreated so deep into some part of Alaric’s being, that he could not find the bard’s essence without serious searching. He would have to ask later, he supposed.
For now, at least, the pain was but a memory.
He said Ronan, Talena thought as she dug the syrup out of her pack and brought it back. Stop it, Ronan. And that puzzled her because for some reason, she knew that name.
A rude ditty her father once sang, perhaps?
There once was a bard named Ronan,
Who kept all the lasses a-moaning.
He would do as he pleased
With a lad on his knees
But for lasses, his coming was roaming...
There were more verses, but she couldn’t remember the rest. Or didn’t want to, more likely.
Lark’s face had a pinched look, and he was a little grey around the mouth. She handed him the stoppered bottle. “Just a sip,” she said. “Too much will make you sleepy.”
He nodded and slugged a small dose of the syrup. A startled look filled his eye. He barely managed to swallow before he started coughing. Talena rescued the bottle before he could drop it.
“Horns, what’s in there besides willow bark?” he asked when he was finally able to speak again.
Talena looked into the bottle and shrugged. “There may be a bit of barley brew. And honey and strand berries to make it palatable.”
“Right,” he said and snagged his water skin from beside where he had slept. He took a drink of water then grimaced. “It’s awfully bitter even with the honey.”
She stoppered the bottle again.
“It works,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”
Lark nodded, and the tension in his face lessened. “Well, you’re right on that account,” he said, looking surprised. “My head feels much better. Time we were off, I imagine.”
He stood up quickly and made for his horse. The yellow monster still wore all its tack. Kessa now rubbed her head against Ordha as though he was the best friend she had ever had. The golden horse seemed more interested in watching Lark, and as soon as he reached the animal’s side, Ordha pushed his head against Lark and stayed there a moment. The bard’s face knitted into a frown. He reached out and rubbed the horse’s neck as though reassuring him.
Frowning, Talena reached into her jerkin and felt for the medallion. It was vibrating as always.
“Listen, I’m going to fill the water skins,” Talena said.
“All right,” Alaric said. “And I’ll finish packing up the camp.”
Talena grabbed the skins—his and her own—and sprinted for the door.
In daylight, the raveners were scarce. Indeed, as Talena stepped out of the ruins, she saw one scuttling back into the deep shadows. Another vanished into the bole of a tree.
She walked carefully across the fern covered courtyard. Off to one side was the trickle of an old fountain, clearly fed by a natural spring since it was still working after all this time. Kneeling beside the shallow flow water, she set her waterskin aside and dipped the silvered glass into the trickle that was not much deeper than ditch after rain.
“Desura?” she said.
For a moment, there was nothing, and Talena started to wonder, considering the hour, if her cousin had retired and left another to watch. But then the glass went smoky as before, and a familiar face appeared.
“What have you found?” Desura said, though Talena did not see her cousin’s lips move.
“We have not quite reached Taneslaw yet,” Talena said. “But there was something I thought you would be interested in hearing.”
“And that is?”
“He is a heretic,” Talena said. “And he comes from a foreign land. He wal
ked through the stones.”
“Has he led you to the White One yet?”
“No,” Talena said, “but he told me something about how heretics in his land keep young and strong. They find something he called essence in other living things. Rocks, trees, grass, animals—even people. And they draw this essence to feed their spells. That way, they don’t tire themselves.”
“And your point is?” Desura asked, looking as though she did not care.
“The point is you can actually kill someone by pulling their essence out of them. But you can use their essence so you don’t have to use up your own. Think about it. Watchers have always died young because they use themselves up. But what if you could draw essence from other things, you would live so much longer. I just know it.”
“Yes, I see,” Desura said and frowned.
“There is this word he used to make fire too,” Talena said. “Loisg. You should see if you can make fire like he does and...”
“I must go now. I hear the High Patriarch coming.”
“Desura, you should try it.”
“Later,” Desura said and her image faded. The mirror had been warm in Talena’s hand, but now the glass went cold as the water in which it was held.
Frowning, Talena drew it out and dried it off. She filled her water skin as well, just so she could say she had actually done so. And carefully, she picked her way back into the keep.
Nothing had changed there. Alaric was rolling the pallets up. The horses still stood side by side.
But she noticed there was an odd feeling that sent trickles of sweat down her back.
Like she was still being watched.
Desura frowned at the image that faded as she broke contact with Talena. There was no High Patriarch. There was only her desire to break off this insane conversation before...
With a shake of her head, Desura glanced at her attendants. They dozed, as they were wont to do at this late hour. She could have reported them to the High Patriarch, and they would have been punished or even reassigned, but she had no desire to lose them now. Their tendency to slumber at this hour was actually a blessing.
For one thing, it gave her freedom.
She pulled her hands away from the stone and carefully seated herself in the chair that stood behind her. Rarely did she try to use it, but now, if she was going to try this thing Talena mentioned.
She had learned early in her years of training at the temple that there were times when she could see the essence of others. So she closed her eyes and concentrated on the attendants. An aura glowed about each of them, revealed to her inner vision. She smiled and like a child sneaking sweets, she reached out with invisible fingers and pinched a bit of it.
To her surprise, it came to her quite easily, almost begging her to steal more. And she might have tried to do so, but she sensed that her pinching even that small bit of essence had disturbed the attendant from which it came. The woman made a choking noise.
Desura opened her eyes, ceasing the draw. The attendant stumbled out of her chair, clutching a hand to her throat. Her sudden actions awoke the other. For moments, she watched them. One gasping for breath, the other fluttering around like a frightened hen.
They both looked at Desura, sitting calmly in her chair. A pair of frowns briefly greeted her.
“I was tired,” Desura said. “I needed to rest a moment and you were both asleep, and I just hated to disturb you... Are you ill? You seemed to be choking.”
The attendants—she had never known their names, for the Temple High Patriarchs thought she did not need to know such thing—traded uneasy glances, then came over to offer their assistance. She let them help her up and get her back to the bowl.
But what she was pleased to note inside herself was that she felt like she could have walked without them.
FORTY-ONE
The long road to Eldon Keep started at the old road that ran from the township of Wendon to the gates of the Barony of Bengore. As Turlough recalled, somewhere west of his nephew’s haven was a road leading north to a village called Claggen where there had been whispers of religious unrest. To the immediate north was the village of Eldon itself, though in Turlough’s opinion, it was little more than a gathering of pig farms with a dozen or so families.
He could have waited there. Small as it was, there was probably a local tavern, since even pig farmers liked their ale. But Turlough felt a growing air of impatience eating at his nerves. He doubted he would have the patience to put up with the smell. So he sat in the carriage at the foot of the trail and watched the trees sway gently back and forth while littering the ground with their autumn colors, and waited for Lorymer to return. His faithful—though sometimes more open-mouthed than was good for him—apprentice and assistant had taken the trail by horse. And this only because Turlough sensed that Fenelon’s ward had been tightened by some magic specifically designed to repel the High Mage.
And we assume he will reach the top without incident.
Where Fenelon was involved, one could never be certain.
Damn the arrogant rogue, Turlough fumed and tightened his robes about him.
Questioning the little healer had proven useless. Her mentor from the Temple of Diancecht never once allowed Turlough a moment alone with the chit. Oh he could smell the essence of sex on her. She and that toad Wendon had been dallying, and more than once. The air of their passion still clung to her clothes. Horns, had it not grown to a proportion that could be felt so far out of Mistress Savala’s quarters, she might have escaped with the others...
Turlough frowned and looked at the mageborn guards who surrounded him. He wondered how many of their tongues would wag and warble the story of the great escape? Could he really trust any who served him?
It still galled him, knowing he had been betrayed by Etienne, not once, but twice now. Granted, he had always thought she had the makings of a High Mage—still did, as far as he was concerned—but this little episode would make him think twice about listing her as a possible heir to his throne in the event that something happened to him.
Nothing will happen to me, he thought.
There had been two attempts to assassinate him in the last twenty years. One he felt certain, had been connected to no less an enemy than Nanani Gallowgreen. If he ever caught that woman, he would strangle her with his own bare hands.
The other had been puzzling for the assassin was mortalborn instead of mageborn and had entered Dun Gealach like a thief and waited for a Council Meeting to begin. An arrow meant to pierce Turlough’s heart had crossed the chamber from one of the corners of the room.
And he was not pleased to know that it had been young Fenelon Greenfyn, there as a mere youth apprenticed to his own father and being introduced to the ways of the Council, who had saved Turlough’s life in front of everyone. The quick-witted lad had snapped the arrow in two in midair with a single magebolt, and sent the halves harmlessly skittering to the floor while his father and others had tackled and restrained the assassin.
Alas, the assassin had known that he would not escape with his life, and even as he was snagged, he managed to swallow a small philter of poisonous extract. About all they were able to determine was that he was hardly more than a man in years, and that his bow had been manufactured in Loughan.
A single magebolt and young Fenelon earned himself many a friend that day, Turlough fumed. The members of the Council surged forward in droves to congratulate the lad. Not one of them came and asked me if I was all right. On, no, they were all far more eager to congratulate the descendant of my own brother Phelon.
He had been chosen first for Turlough’s coveted position. But turned it down on the grounds that mageborn did not need a single leader with so much power.
From that day forward, the rumors flew that there was at last a worthy successor to the line of Phelon Greenfyn who would one day sit on the Council High Seat as its new master.
At least Gareth, of course, had the good sense to insist that his son had a lot to learn b
efore he had so wise a head on his shoulders as to be trusted with such a great responsibility. Sometimes I wonder if Gareth feared his son’s life would be in jeopardy from then on. I heard rumors that a number of mageborn were thinking this.
And who did they dare suggest the danger would come from? Me!
The mere suggestion was like a blow to the heart. Before that moment, Turlough had thought very little ill of the lad or his precocious skill. But from that day, he swore that just because he did not like what the lad’s bravery inspired, he would do whatever he could to see to it that Fenelon Greenfyn did not gain the High Seat.
For a time, Turlough thought he would groom his own apprentice Lorymer for the position. But as time passed, he came to see that Lorymer had a soft side to his nature. He felt sorry for those less fortunate mageborn who were unable to achieve Master Mage level. Where Turlough believed that mageborn would survive only so long as the strongest among them were in charge, Lorymer once dared to suggest that great magic did not necessarily make for great leaders.
Nonsense! Before the Great Cataclysm, the Old Ones ruled the world, not the mortalborn.
That was when Etienne came to Dun Gealach to perfect her skill. She was an ice maiden at first, never allowing any emotion to interfere with her judgment. Turlough admired her discipline and skill. He thought her perfect for the post he held, and set about at once to groom her for the position. He even looked upon her as someone with whom he might be willing to spend the rest of his life, someone who could make him forget the love he had lost to evil magic. Etienne brooked no nonsense. She worked hard at her spell craft.
But then, she had fallen under Fenelon’s spell. By the time she came to Dun Gealach, Fenelon had grown from gangly clever lad to handsome rogue almost overnight. With his smile and his charm alone, he broke the crystal cage that had surrounded the ice maiden’s heart.
He did what I could not do! He won her affection and her loyalty! He stole her from me...
Wandering Lark Page 27
