“Come, ladies, let me introduce you to the finest bard in all of Ard-Taebh, Master Alaric Braidwine,” Fenelon said.
Alaric opened his mouth to refute the claim, but had little time. Two of the lasses detached themselves from Fenelon and dove on Alaric like a pair of greedy hawks after a succulent rabbit. He suddenly found himself sandwiched between the giggling pair who had more hands than he could count and no qualms about finding places to put them—or their lips. Alaric fought against the urge to panic as warmth clouded his good sense. Horns, he was not a total innocent. He’d kissed a scullery maid or two in his past. But his precious psaltery sack nearly left his lap, and he had to push at least one of his attackers away to keep it from falling to the floor. She laughed as though it were sport and immediately came at him again.
“Fenelon, I thought we were here to eat,” Alaric said breathlessly, casting a pleading glance at his companion.
Fenelon laughed. “All right, ladies, your master’s finest, please, for we are famished.”
There were a few mutters of protest that were brought to a close when the landlord shouted for the girls to get about their business as they had other customers to attend. Fenelon kissed at least two of them and stroked the lips of a third before they hurried away.
“You promised you weren’t going to get me into any trouble,” Alaric said wearily.
“And I’ll keep that promise,” Fenelon said as two ales were delivered. “Now go on, wet your throat and give us a song. Relax. Have a little fun. Life’s too short, even if you are mageborn. Do you really want to be a dull stump of wood all your life, Alaric?”
Alaric sighed, snatching up one of the ales.
He still couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched from afar.
FOUR
The pale one had a fine voice in Vagner’s opinion, and he plucked his psaltery with an enviable skill. In fact, the demon found his delight in the sensation of music vibrating his essence had overwhelmed his sense of duty. He would gladly have traded masters were this one to seek a familiar’s services. Alas, mageborn were not as tolerant of demonkind as their bloodmage counterparts.
The youth was singing the Ballad of the Minstrel’s Daughter when Vagner began to form a plan. This young mage was holding the very means by which the demon could easily travel past the wards. The psaltery his fingers tripped across would be a perfect place for the demon to stow himself, and so long as the other mage planned to cloak their return as he had their escape, Vagner would not have to worry about risking discovery.
The demon smiled, and the expression earned him the immediate attention of a few mortals in close proximity. At least one of the wenches took that expression as a cue this handsome being sought a willing companion. Even better, the demon thought as she stopped at his table.
“What’s your pleasure now, sir?” she asked.
Vagner winked. “A bit of sport in the stables, I think,” he said and touched her hand, sending a trace of his essence into her flesh.
While she did not stiffen or flinch from his “touch,” her eyes took on a blank, submissive stare as he wove himself into her puny mortalborn will. Still, she stayed upright as he rose and took her arm, and he even made her cock her head in a coy manner should anyone be watching and wonder what was afoot. Vagner tossed a few phony coins upon the table and led her out of the tavern.
The street was still lively enough to make him cautious, but it was a simple matter to skirt the tavern yard and find privacy in the stables. There, Vagner looked at the wench with a sense of longing. Not for her body, though, as he was not a breed of demon possessed of anything akin to human lust, but rather as a creature whose appetite for flesh was in a more…culinary range.
She would not, however, be of any use to him if he ate her here and now. So instead, he whispered his desires, implanting the instructions into her mind. She stood motionless as he dared to extend a tongue as long as a man’s arm with a forked tip and lightly caress her cheek and throat, then allowed the tongue to slide down between her breasts where the gamy salt of her skin was especially delicious. Just a taste, he told himself. An appetizer. She closed her eyes and moaned in ecstasy, and the sound sharpened his hunger.
Before he could give in to the temptation to bite off her head and suck the sweet matter of her brains out of her skull, Vagner shifted forms. His body became a long shawl of white silk draped about her neck and shoulders.
And she, docile as a lamb, left the stables to do his bidding.
~
Alaric felt parched as he warbled song after song and plucked the strings of his psaltery. He would have asked for another ale, but Fenelon was preoccupied with trading attentions with the various wenches. Besides, it was nice to have an appreciative audience now and again, and those who occupied this tavern were just that. They were calling out requests from time to time, and Alaric obliged them where he was able. The meal had been good, and had cost nothing, thanks to his skill. Even the ale had relaxed him to the point the cares of the day flitted out of his mind.
He was concentrating on the intricate fingerings of The Landlord’s Jig when a hand brushed his cheek. Alaric looked up to find one of the wenches—an auburn-haired beauty—practically nose to nose with him. She leaned over, trailing a length of white silk from her neck and shoulders. Small hairs stood on end when it touched his skin. The silk burned like nettles. He gasped.
“I like your songs,” she said.
“Why…thank you,” he said, trying to ignore the sting of the cloth. Why was it doing that?
“You have great skill of voice and hand,” she went on, and Alaric blinked. He thought it strange to hear such proper speech from one who spent her life on the streets and in taverns. “I am certain you will go far in whatever profession you choose…”
Alaric was about to ask what she meant by that when she took firm possession of his lips. And what lips they were that swallowed his, warm, sweet and lush. He quite forgot himself in the moment, wanting the kiss to last, to go beyond lips. Her shawl tumbled down his chest like fine hair and slid over his psaltery, mixing pleasure and pain in the contact.
But suddenly, she broke free, drew back and simply walked away.
Alaric sat there for a moment, confused and dazed. Then Fenelon called for another song. Still washed under a sense of wonder and lust, Alaric began a new ballad. He reached down to pluck the strings with his fingers.
Strange. He thought she had dropped her silk shawl, but he saw no sign of it about him. There lingered but a fading memory of that nettle-like sting.
He shrugged and began to play The White Hart’s Ramble.
~
Vagner felt the thrum of the psaltery as the pale mageborn plucked the strings. The sound vibrated through the demon as he wallowed among the shadows of the soundbox, being careful not to expand himself so he interfered with the tone of the wood. He loved being a part of the music that touched him like a lover’s hand and sent ecstasy through his being.
Too bad this pleasure would have to end, but even now, Vagner sensed his master’s impatience. Tane Doran was on the road. He would reach Caer Keltora by tomorrow night.
If Vagner failed to have the map by then, the demon did not want to contemplate the consequences.
He just hoped the young bard didn’t get too drunk to remember to take his instrument home with him.
~
It was getting late by the time Fenelon had his fill of fun, and even then he only gave up his pleasures because Alaric made it known he needed to go to sleep. He wanted his first full day at Dun Gealach to be better than his arrival.
Getting out of his chair, Alaric felt his senses spin. Horns, he’d had a little too much good ale. His head was light and his psaltery was heavy…at least, it seemed heavier than he recalled. He gave it a shake, and thought he felt something shift. Peering into the hole, all he saw was a shadow. He shook it again, but this time nothing moved.
I must be drunk…and tired. There was a bitter taste o
n his tongue, like he’d been sucking copper. He sighed, put the psaltery into its case, and slung the strap across his shoulder. It thumped against his back, an unfamiliar weight.
Moments passed like hours. Fenelon said good-bye to every woman in the place, some more than once. We’re never going to get out of here, Alaric thought. Time for him to take a stand before he became incapable of standing at all. He growled under his breath as he snagged Fenelon’s arm and hissed, “Will you come on before I pass out now!”
“Oh, yes,” Fenelon said, giving Alaric a critical look. “Sorry, my beauties but I must leave now. Time to get this wee one warm in his trundle…”
Some of the lasses giggled. Alaric bit his tongue and headed for the door, dragging Fenelon who went more willingly than expected. Of course, Alaric realized that if Fenelon chose to resist, Alaric would not have been able to move the taller mage. Still, it gave Alaric a sense of satisfaction to be in charge for the moment.
Outside, the streets were dark, save the amber, gold and rosy flicker of torches and watch fires on some corners. Mage eyes did not care. Like cats, mageborn could see in the near dark, allowing Alaric to avoid the puddles gathered on the cobbles. The rain had stopped, and a thick mist hung tattered draperies on the cool air.
Fenelon took a deep breath and clapped Alaric on the shoulder, nearly spilling the unsteady youth. “Well, did you enjoy yourself, my friend?” Fenelon asked.
Alaric nodded, staggering several steps until he caught his balance again. Horns, he really was drunk, and at this rate, was likely to be suffering a hangover tomorrow. “Yes, I did, but I think I’m rather drunk just now, for I’m tired and just want to go to bed.”
“Not used to city air, I would imagine,” Fenelon said with a smile. “You know, you play very well. Some of those songs you sang sounded familiar? Who taught them to you?”
“Ronan Tey,” Alaric replied.
Fenelon gave Alaric a wide-eyed look of admiration. “You learned bard craft from Ronan Tey?”
“Yes,” Alaric said. “He was an old friend of Marda’s and used to come by Gordslea Hold often. My sisters were madly in love with him, but he always ignored them and spent his time with me and Marda instead.”
“That’s because Ronan Tey was never one for the ladies,” Fenelon said with a look of mischief that made Alaric frown as he wondered just what the master mage meant. “Go on…”
“Well, he taught me all sorts of songs, and he would talk about the old days with Marda, which always seemed odd to me since he barely looked half her age.”
“Actually, Ronan Tey was much older than Marda,” Fenelon said. “He was mageborn.”
“Really?” It was Alaric’s turn to look surprised. “He never mentioned it.”
“He was not terribly fond of the power,” Fenelon said. “The one time I met him was in Marda’s company almost twenty years ago. I knew at once he was mageborn, which fit the rumors I had heard of how he denied his power for the sake of his music. Of course, he couldn’t resist putting a little magic in some of his riddle songs, but he refused to share them with me or anyone else at the time. He said that knowing magic and mixing it with songs had only brought him grief, so he ignored his mageborn heritage at every turn.”
Alaric nodded in thought. He could hardly blame Ronan, for Alaric had often felt the same way when he found out he was destined to carry the mageborn gift.
“What songs did he teach you, if you don’t mind my asking?” Fenelon said with renewed curiosity.
“Quite a few, actually,” Alaric said. “There was something called The Unicorn’s Well.”
“A lovely piece,” Fenelon said. “I got to hear him sing that one. He had such a wondrous voice.”
Alaric smiled. “He also taught me The Battle of Brenhorn, The Dragon’s Tongue Key, The Mist in the Willows, White Maiden’t Lament, Down Among the Rushes… quite a lot more than I could name off the top of my head.”
“That sounds like quite a noble collection,” Fenelon said. “And you are such a fine singer—ever write any music of your own?”
“I wrote every stanza of The Ballad of Ronan Tey, though I can never sing it without wanting to cry…” Alaric blinked and looked aside. Horns, I’m drunk, I’m tired, and I am getting maudlin… “Can we go home now? I’m starting to feel a bit ill…”
“Ah, then we’d best get you home post haste. Ever done a gate spell?”
“No,” Alaric said.
“Want to learn?” Fenelon said.
“Is that allowed?” Alaric said. “You teaching me magic here on the streets and not strictured in some mage cell?”
“Of course, it is,” Fenelon said with a laugh. “As a master mage, I have the authority to teach you any spell you want to learn.”
“So what must I do?” Alaric asked.
“Well, for the first time, you must take my hand.”
Alaric cocked an uneasy eye at the appendage that stretched out to him.
“Oh, come on, Alaric, don’t be such a prude,” Fenelon said. “Gate walking is a very complex bit of spell work, and before you can ever attempt one or even hope to learn the spell, you must first know what one feels like. Oh, and I will be cloaking the spell. Major spells are forbidden in the sleeping quarters, you know.”
“And you don’t want Magister Turlough to know you’ve been breaking the rules again?” Alaric said with a suspicious squint and a hint more accusation than he intended.
But Fenelon merely smiled. “You catch on very quickly, friend Alaric,” Fenelon said. “It is forbidden for any mage to gate in and out of the interior keeps of Dun Gealach—except in dire emergencies—without the permission of the High Mage. It is also forbidden to cloak such spells on the grounds they could mean the caster has treasonous intentions. However, we are merely sneaking in because it would be a disaster for both of us to be caught drunk. So do not even consider following my example. I get away with such things only because I know how, and because of who I am. Now take my hand and let’s get on with this.”
At least, he’s honest. Alaric reached out and seized Fenelon’s hand and nearly stumbled in the process. “Now what?”
“Close your eyes and let your mage senses touch me,” Fenelon said.
Alaric obeyed, closing his eyes and stretching mage senses. He was jolted by the quicksilver essence that burned so bright within Fenelon.
“Geata foisgal…” Fenelon began, speaking the incantation in the mage tongue. The spell words were merely the tip of a magical iceberg. Alaric felt the essence pulled from everything, air, fire, earth and water. Felt the rich thrum of magic as it was woven into a single cloth. That cloth was shadowed by another spell, and Alaric realized if he were not inside the magic, feeling it as Fenelon did, he would never have known the spell was there. He opened his eyes, eager to witness the power at play. A rift opened before them, dexterously splitting the world into a mouth on end. Beyond it, Alaric saw his room. Then something brushed his mage senses and replaced his wonder with a whisper of unease. A sharp bitter tang invaded his tongue, not unlike what he had felt when the barmaid kissed him…
Before he could ponder the sensation further, he was tugged forward but a few steps. The rough cobbles were replaced by the smoother stones and woven rushes of his own floor. Fenelon suddenly let go. The magic fell away, leaving Alaric with naught but the aftertaste of copper still lingering in his mouth.
“Do gate spell always taste so foul?” he asked as he set the psaltery and its case on the table. He whispered “Solus” and a ball of mage light blossomed to bathe the room in a soft white sheen, making it seem larger.
Fenelon’s brows rose. “Not that I’ve ever noticed. Maybe the cloaking spell gave it an adverse taste. Or something in the ale you drank, though Master Dobrin’s hops are rarely lacking in quality, but he could have gotten a bad batch.”
“And I am tired,” Alaric agreed.
“I’ll take that as a hint, and leave you to your privacy,” Fenelon said, making for the door. �
��Thank you for coming along, Alaric. You made the evening a great pleasure.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Alaric said.
“We’ll work more on the gate spell,” Fenelon said. “I think once you get the hang of it, you’ll find it easy and useful.”
Fenelon pulled the door open, only to pause. A thick brown shape filled the gap, one fist raised as though about to knock.
“So, there you are,” Alaric,” Wendon said, giving Fenelon little more than a cursory glance.
“Hello, Wendon,” Fenelon said in a cheerful manner.
“I’m not speaking to you,” Wendon said. “I know all about that spell you put on me today. Warthog, indeed!”
“If you’re not speaking to me,” Fenelon said, leaning towards the wider mage, “then why do your lips keep moving?”
Wendon opened his mouth as though about to refute that accusation, but wisely thought better of it. He jutted his lower lip in defiance, turning his gaze once more to Alaric.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Wendon said. “Where have you been?”
“Why, we’ve been out and about discussing various spells and trading songs,” Fenelon said before Alaric could even hesitate to think of an excuse that would not put either of them in a bad light.
“I see,” Wendon said, frowning. “Are you up to more talk, Alaric? I would dearly love to hear some of your songs, and we really should discuss the spells you will need to learn. The Council will want a list of the spells you already know so they can choose the right master to train you.”
“Actually, Wendon,” Alaric said, “I’m quite tired.” Not to mention, quite drunk, he thought. And there were too many bodies crowding this small space to make Alaric feel comfortable. His palms were already growing moist as the old unease rose. Don’t think of the size of the room. He just hoped Wendon could not see the tremor of Alaric’s hands. “If you don’t mind awfully, could we talk magic and lists tomorrow?”
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 3
