The great thunder of a magical blast ripped one of the doors out of its frame and sent it slamming into the wall across the corridor. Splinters of wood and an acrid smoke filled the air. Alaric heard Wendon curse soundly, and the rumble of feet as a number of bodies, male and female, swarmed into the corridor. That he stood in a great pond of mage essence didn’t amaze Alaric half as much as the sight that greeted him in what had once been the doorway.
A man emerged from the chamber, stepping over the rubble. He was a tall youth who could not have been too many years older than Alaric. Fiery hair topped the handsome face. The cut of his clothes seemed almost obscene, yet highly fashionable, and he dusted them with the casual nature of one who was not truly upset to be dirty. He was barely disheveled otherwise as he stepped out of the remains of the chamber and surveyed the damage with critical eyes as blue as a summer sky.
“Hmmmm,” he said. “Perhaps I should have aimed towards the windows instead.”
Alaric was about to ask what the fellow meant by that when a voice shouted, “Fenelon Greenfyn, what in the name of Cernunnos have you been doing?”
A gale wind of a man flew up the corridor at a furious pace, and only through Wendon’s intervention was Alaric pulled to safety before he could be blown away like a leaf in a storm. White filled his vision. Soft flowing tresses of lengthy hair and beard streaming like the mane of a stallion in the wind. The shining robes trimmed in brilliant blue flapped long sleeves like the wings of a harpy hawk. And he was tall, for his head rose above all others. His very presence filled the air with a wintry chill.
“Good day, Uncle Turlough,” the redhead said, crossing his arms and drawing his own head high, though he was nowhere near as ominously impressive.
Turlough? Alaric thought. Turlough Greenfyn? The High Mage of the Council of Mageborn himself? Alaric felt himself start shaking. Turlough Greenfyn’s name and deeds were legendary among mageborn, as was his temper. And this youth has the audacity to call him Uncle in such a familiar way? Alaric would have been a puddle on the floor by now.
“Don’t good day me, you impudent rogue!” Turlough retorted. “What, by the tail barb of the Demon of Mallow, did you just do, Fenelon?”
Fenelon pulled back, looking genuinely hurt by the accusation. “But Uncle, why must you always assume every disaster within these walls is my doing?”
“Because I have yet to see proof that they are not!” Turlough said, one long finger punching the younger mage’s chest.
“Well, if you must know,” Fenelon said with a put-upon sigh, “I was testing the volatility of oil in an enclosed bottle, and seeing if it was possible to put mage fire inside the sealed container to set it aflame from afar. There have been times of war when such a skill might have easily turned the tide of events…”
“You were practicing battle-magic in Dun Gealach?” Turlough snarled. “Where are your wits, Fenelon? You could have turned this entire keep into a flaming…”
“Oh, no I could not,” Fenelon said. “After all, there are the wards and I was being cautious about the strictures…”
“You call this stricturing a spell?” Turlough said and gestured towards the shattered door. “I call this nearly the most idiotic blunder you have committed, only to be exceeded by that time you nearly killed me by gating that fire spell to another place…”
“How was I to know you were going to the garderobe just then…”
“Enough!” Turlough shouted, and Alaric could feel every essence present tremble in fearful response. “There will be no more experiments in these walls! You are hereby forbidden to practice any manner of fire magic within Dun Gealach. And do not think that because you are my blood kin that I will overlook even the slightest infraction of that rule in the future. It is high time you became a responsible mage instead of a raging looney with lofty ideals about magic and its uses. We are bound by our vow to never commit any act of magic that will interfere with the lives and wellbeing of the mortalborn. You are the sort of mageborn who causes the rest of us to be frowned upon by mortalborn. If I catch even a whiff of fire magic and your essence in the same vicinity, I will personally whip you and send you back to Eldon Forest in shame! Do I make myself clear?”
Fenelon’s face remained stoic, but his blue eyes betrayed his displeasure at being lectured so vehemently in front of his peers. And Alaric noticed that not one of them dared move or respond in any manner.
Slowly, Fenelon nodded, and bowed his head in a gesture of respect. “As you will, Uncle,” he said quietly.
“Damn right, as I will!” Turlough said and turned with a huff to head back up the corridor. “Back to your own affairs, all of you!” He waved an arm to emphasize his desire, and briefly his gaze fell on Alaric who quickly ducked his own eyes and bowed. Turlough passed on by, the wind of his abrupt departure stirring Alaric’s hair.
“Perhaps we’d best go elsewhere now,” Wendon finally said, and firmly took Alaric’s arm to start him down the corridor in the same general direction.
Alaric gave in to the tug, but his gaze swiftly shot back at Fenelon, whose mouth was set in a thoughtful pursing of lips, and whose eyes were crinking around with a hint of defiance.
“Don’t look at him,” Wendon said. “It will only encourage him and bring you nothing but trouble to make the acquaintanceship of Fenelon Greenfyn.”
Trouble, Alaric thought, is the last thing I need. I promised father I would avoid those who gambled or drank in excess, be courteous to my betters, and stay away from those who would gladly lead a good man’s son into a host of immoral temptations…
“If you are wise,” Wendon said, “you will go out of your way to stay clear of him.”
“I heard that, Wendon,” Fenelon said, and Alaric shot another look back in time to see Fenelon gesture and the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. A whisper of magic crossed Alaric’s skin, and his gaze drew towards the back of Wendon’s robe where suddenly letters in glowing green, like foxfire, appeared, displaying the words Warthog.
Alaric shot his gaze forward and bit his tongue. As he and Wendon strolled through the corridors, Alaric heard muffled snickers in their wake. Horns, perhaps he should have said something to Wendon…
But Wendon remained oblivious to it all.
THREE
Wendon took Alaric to the dining hall where lunch was in progress. Within moments, Wendon was engaged in an argument with another youth concerning demonic thermaugy. Sensing the tour was over, and Wendon was too preoccupied to remember he had been assigned to be a guide, Alaric chose to depart.
For a time, Alaric wandered aimlessly. He found the library easily enough, and it was an impressive sight. But he still felt a hint of unease as he moved quietly among the mage scholars, and decided it would probably be wise to retreat to his room once more. After taking time to sort and store his personal possessions, he sat on the bed, door open to keep from jangling his nerves with the closeness of the place. With the psaltery across his lap, he gently stroked the strings and played a melody. His voice joined the affair, and soon he felt more satisfied with himself and what he was doing, enough so to forget his unease.
He’d gone from a simple waulking ditty to The Lays of The Lady of Loughan when he became aware of an audience. Alaric looked up to find Fenelon Greenfyn stood in the opening. He leaned one shoulder against the jam of the door and offered a smile.
“Is the door open for a reason?” Fenelon asked.
“I’m sorry,” Alaric said, feeling his face redden. “I felt a little closed in, that’s all.”
“Small wonder, in these closets they give out for quarters,” Fenelon said. “I can certainly understand that. Just work your way to master class as quickly as possible, and they’ll give you a bigger space to call your own.”
“Listen, if my music is disturbing you, I’ll gladly close the door…”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” Fenelon said. “I was just curious as to who this newcomer with the fine voice was, especially since Wen
don seemed quite eager to warn you away from me.”
“Alaric Braidwine,” Alaric said, his face coloring. “And…thank you for the compliment.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” Fenelon said. “And I am Fenelon Greenfyn, though I’m sure you already know that from the way they shout my name with such venom around here. May I come in?”
Alaric shrugged. He had a feeling that a refusal would be ignored. “Please do.”
Fenelon promptly made himself at home on the trunk at the foot of the bed. “First time away from Tamnagh?” he said cheerfully.
Alaric looked puzzled. “How do you know where I’m from?”
Fenelon merely gestured to the lute laid carefully on the table. The case had a standard ribbon tied around its neck showing a white unicorn on a green field. “Royal connections?” Fenelon asked with a smile.
“Oh, no,” Alaric said. “I was given that when I was but a lad by a great, great uncle who served as an advisor at Caer Tamnagh before he retired.”
“Ah,” Fenelon said. “But you are from Tamnagh?”
“Gordslea Hold,” Alaric said.
“Old Marda Alfrey’s present stomping grounds?” Fenelon asked.
“You knew Marda?” Alaric said. “She was my teacher.”
“Delightful woman. She taught me this…” Fenelon wove his fingers into a gesture that caused a small pale figure of a unicorn to start dancing across the palm of his hand.
“She taught me that too,” Alaric said. “Only I could never quite get it to move as well.”
“Takes practice, that’s all. So this is your first time away from home, is it?”
Alaric grinned. “Does it show that much?”
“Like foxfire in a forest…which reminds me. Did Wendon discover my little prank?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Alaric said. “I left him posturing with some of his friends.”
“Good old Wendon,” Fenelon said. “I doubt he’ll have a kind word to spare me for that one.”
“Why warthog?” Alaric asked.
“That’s his nickname,” Fenelon said. “At least, it’s the one I gave him because he always acts like one. Charging about and huffing indignantly over every little infraction I commit.”
“You don’t seem to care,” Alaric said.
“Why should I?” Fenelon said. “I have the coveted master’s status, something Wendon has yet to achieve.”
“You’re a master mage?” Alaric said. “But I thought…”
“That I was a student?” Fenelon said and grinned. “Horns, no! Admittedly, I am the youngest master here, but I achieved that level of skill at least five years ago. You see, I manifested mage sign when I was six, so I got an early start on my skills. Makes Wendon so jealous. He’s ten years older than I am, and still hasn’t mastered half the higher spells.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume…”
“Do you always apologize to everyone?” Fenelon asked.
“My father always said it was a good idea,” Alaric said.
“But surely, you don’t believe you should continuously apologize to others for not knowing something you couldn’t possibly know to begin with,” Fenelon insisted.
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” Alaric blurted.
Fenelon laughed, and the sound was infectious enough to make Alaric smile. He took a deep breath and glanced aside.
“Well,” Fenelon said and rose, “Have you eaten yet?”
“The bell for supper hasn’t rung yet, has it?” Alaric said. “Wendon said something about the three bells at sunset being the signal for the evening meal.”
“Surely you don’t plan to eat the stuff they call food in this hall,” Fenelon said, making a comical face as though he’d bitten into sour fruit. “I know a great little tavern on the lower edge that serves a fine but reasonable board, and has the best wine and women in Caer Keltora.”
Alaric frowned. “But I thought mages in training were not allowed to leave the keep without a master…”
“That rule applies to apprentices under eighteen,” Fenelon said. “And besides, you will be with a master mage, remember?”
“But it’s raining,” Alaric protested with a glance towards the windows. “I’ve already gotten wet once today, and I’m apt to catch a chill if I get damp again…”
“Who said anything about stepping out in the rain,” Fenelon said. “Geata foisgail…” He gestured as he continued to speak in the mage tongue, and Alaric felt the magic was being cloaked as it danced lightly across his skin. The world split open, revealing an archway where torches burned.
A gate spell? Alaric had only heard of them. Poor Marda had never been fortunate enough to learn one which was why Alaric had been forced to travel overland to reach Caer Keltora.
“Well? Are you coming?” Fenelon asked.
“Wouldn’t you rather be with your own friends?” Alaric asked.
“I fear my friends are not exactly in great abundance within these walls,” Fenelon said, and only a faint hint of wistfulness softened his eyes. “And except for the indomitable Wendon, my guess would be that you have none here at the moment. And trust me, Wendon is as dull a friend as you’ll ever find, apart from the fact he’s totally tone deaf and doesn’t know a single good song.”
Alaric’s mind was telling him he’d be wise to heed Wendon’s warning and avoid this man, master mage or not. But Alaric’s soul told him that there were times when he was too scornful of even a little adventure, and unless he wanted to end up with a nickname like “warthog,” there was likely no harm in accompanying Fenelon. Besides, he could use a cup of ale.
“Well,” Alaric said, “As long as we’re not going to get into trouble.” He rose and started to lay the psaltery aside and reached for his cloak still hanging over the chair to dry.
“Why I wouldn’t dream of taking you there, Alaric,” Fenelon said with a wicked gleam of mischief. “Oh, and bring the psaltery. With your voice and my connections, I’m willing to bet we could earn ourselves a free meal.”
Alaric sighed as he slipped the psaltery into a sack and slung it over his shoulder.
Horns, he thought. I hope I’m not going to regret this decision.
With a sigh, he followed Fenelon through the magical gate.
~
Vagner remembered an old demon once telling him human magic and demon magic were of two different origins. While humans drew their power from the magical essence that dwelled in everything in their world, demons drew their magic from within. To a human, demon magic felt like a burn, or bitterness on the tongue, while a demon found the workings of human magic sometimes so overly sweet and cloying as to make one ill. Only blood magic lacked the sugary taint.
Which was why Vagner was rousted from his lone observation by the scent of a mageborn spell. A rift opened not far from where the demon kept watch. He could tell it had been cloaked to hide it from other mageborn because it felt muted, and as he turned his attention towards the source, he saw two figures who stank of mageborn essence, and one rather familiar to him.
Ah, yes, Vagner thought. The young one who could not hide his own essence well.
Strange that two would be leaving the keep by this secret method. Normally, mageborn, unless traveling long distance, used the front door of the place. But as Vagner glided closer to observe the pair, he was struck by the thought that such a deception could only mean one thing.
The one who cast the spell had cloaked it, so he obviously did not want to be noticed by those within the keep. That, Vagner thought, might just be to his own advantage. For if they planned to leave unnoticed, surely they would return in the same manner. And a clever demon who was so masterful at disguising himself would likely find a way to slip back in with that cloaked spell and enter the fortress of Dun Gealach unnoticed.
The two didn’t look to be going on a long journey, and demon curiosity being an unquenchable matter, Vagner decided to follow. It had to be more interesting than hanging around this place, hoping for another
means of entry to present itself.
Vagner quickly shifted to his own shadow form and slid along the edges and cracks of buildings to follow the pair. The one with the fiery hair had cast a spell to keep them from getting wet, and another filled the air with warmth. The younger of the two seemed quite amazed and just a little nervous. He cast his eyes back over his shoulders more than once. Must be sensitive to demons, Vagner thought. I’d best keep my distance.
They wandered down the streets, making turns that took them into the Lower Edge of Caer Keltora, and there, they entered a tavern where the essence of man almost made the demon’s mouth water. Warm light exuded from the place, which would mean hardly a corner to hide in.
Vagner slipped off the edge of the guttering of a building, and into an alley. Picking up a handful of pebbles, he shifted into the form of a young man who looked like he might have a bit of coin to spare. The stones became silver sgillinns in his hand, and he pocketed them with a smile. The tavern owner would not discover that he’d been paid with stones before dawn when the spell would wear off. And then, he was more than likely to believe one of his servants had been into the till.
Grinning, Vagner stepped out into the street and lingered but a moment at the tavern door before he pushed his way inside. His two mages were easy enough to find. The older ushered the younger into a corner by the hearth. Several buxom wenches suddenly rushed at the fire-haired one, lavishing him with their attention. The younger looked a little uneasy.
This was going to be interesting, the demon decided. Selecting a corner that afforded him a view of the room, he caught hold of one of the passing wenches, gave her a customary squeeze and ordered an ale.
~
Alaric had a feeling he was being watched. He told himself that it was a silly notion. No one here knew him. Still, as the wenches jockeyed for Fenelon’s attention, Alaric looked around the room and searched for the source of his unease.
There was a bitter taste in his mouth just now. He had noticed it as soon as he stepped through Fenelon’s gate spell and into the street. Fear? Surely not. Who would have bothered to follow them? Even Alaric could tell Fenelon had cloaked his spell so well it barely left a trace of itself on Alaric’s nerves.
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 2
