Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound

by Laura J Underwood

  “Then why do you look so pale?” Wendon clearly looked disappointed that his first attempt at slander had failed.

  Alaric held up his right hand, pointing to the faint scars on his knuckles. “I’ve just been to the infirmary,” he announced. “Nearly broke my hand on the wall last night.

  “Missed him, did you?” Wendon said and smiled wickedly. “Can’t say as I blame you for trying. There’s many a soul from Keltora to Yewer who would like to punch Fenelon’s nose to the back of his head…”

  “I did not try to hit Fenelon,” Alaric said with a sneer. He wasn’t about to admit he’d had his moments. “I tried to punch the wall.”

  “Why?”

  “I was angry at it for blocking my way,” Alaric said, hearing the ire tighten his voice.

  “You were angry at a wall?” Wendon looked horrified. “Poor Alaric. Fenelon’s madness must be contagious…”

  “I was dreaming, Wendon,” Alaric said…then stopped. “I was dreaming the wall was in my way,” he said more to himself.

  “Oh, now that is absurd,” Wendon said. “You’re becoming as mad as Fenelon. Just where was this dream wall?”

  Alaric frowned. “I don’t know. I didn’t want it to be there, but I had no choice. Excuse me…”

  “Where are you going?” Wendon said as Alaric lurched away.

  “To find Fenelon and tell him,” Alaric said.

  He got just a glimpse of the frustration masking Wendon’s face before Alaric fled the hall.

  He could not remember the whole dream, but he could remember the offending presence of the wall.

  ~

  Finding Fenelon proved easier than Alaric hoped, and involved little more than stretching mage senses through the great hive of Dun Gealach to pinpoint that quicksilver presence. Alaric sensed Fenelon in one of the open courtyards, accompanied by Etienne’s warm aura. Eagerly, Alaric worked his way through the warren of adjoining keeps until he found the pair. They were seated together on a bench overlooking a small pool and canopied by a trellis of ivy. Their voices, while soft, carried to Alaric’s ears.

  “Are you certain?” Etienne said.

  “Oh, it’s there,” Fenelon said. “I only got a glimpse of it yesterday, and at the time I didn’t think much of it. I mean, any number of childhood traumas can cause one of those things to manifest within a mageborn’s mind. But with everything that has happened over the last few days…”

  Alaric paused.

  “Do you think he put it there himself?” Etienne asked. “That he built it deliberately?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Fenelon said and shook his head, “though I can’t help wondering why you didn’t notice it that night.”

  “I was only looking for honest answers to Turlough’s questions,” she said. “Had I known there was a real need to look deeper…”

  “Yes, well, likely I’ll try to get a closer look at it the next time I work on teaching him protective spells to stop his dreams.”

  Alaric took a deep breath, frowning. They’re talking about me. He debated retreating then and there, when Fenelon rose suddenly and turned towards the gate where Alaric stood.

  “Alaric?” Fenelon called.

  Alaric froze, feeling like a rabbit that had just seen an owl swooping down from the sky. But Fenelon merely smiled and beckoned.

  “Come on, Alaric,” Fenelon insisted. “We’re not going to bite.”

  Alaric almost wished they would. He’d know how to deal with that. He took another deep breath and slowly crossed the path. Etienne watched him, her expression stoic and guarded. She remained seated and only smiled in acknowledgement when Alaric offered a respectful bow.

  “So, exactly how much did you hear,” Fenelon said.

  Horns! Alaric flinched and turned away, ready to bolt. But Fenelon caught Alaric by the arm and put asunder all hope of retreat. He could do no more than yield as he was drawn over to the bench and firmly seated there. Fenelon’s hand never deserted Alaric’s shoulder as though eager to make certain the younger mageborn stayed.

  “It looks like we need to perfect your skills in the finer art of spying, Alaric,” Fenelon quipped. “You wear guilt like a peacock’s tail.”

  “Fenelon,” Etienne said in soft rebuke.

  “Well, it’s true,” Fenelon said and sat on the bench so Alaric was sandwiched between them.

  No hope of escape at all now. Alaric took a deep breath, never taking his eyes off his own hands which clamped down on his own knees. “I gather I was the subject of this little conversation,” Alaric said.

  “Of course you were,” Fenelon said. “Otherwise, Etienne and I would not have been having it in such a usually private place, and you wouldn’t be so red-faced about sneaking up on us…which I’ll give you credit for locating us when I didn’t tell you where we were to be found.”

  “I was not sneaking,” Alaric said. “I deliberately sought you because I remembered something about last night.”

  He closed his eyes, pulling the anger down.

  Fenelon’s hand squeezed Alaric’s shoulder before deserting it. “We’re not angry with you, Alaric, and you have every right to feel angry yourself,” he said. “I merely wished to discuss this interesting little conundrum with Etienne before I approached you about it.”

  “What conundrum?” Alaric opened his eyes to look at Fenelon.

  “You’ve got a memory wall in your mind, my young friend,” Fenelon said and tapped a finger on Alaric’s forehead. “I saw it yesterday when I was teaching you to build them, but you started fighting back before I could get a good look at it. But even with that brief look, I could tell it was pretty powerful, and I don’t think you’re the one who put it there. A wall like that is a very complex spell that even some master mageborn find difficult to maneuver into place with that much precision.”

  A memory wall? Alaric thought and cocked his head. “I came to tell you I remembered something from my dream last night. I dreamed of a wall in the tower that should not have been there…and I dreamed that I tried to get past it to see what lay being it, but I couldn’t.”

  Fenelon’s left brow rose in a quizzical arch. “Hmmm. Memory walls will sometimes start to break down if something related to the trauma has occurred.”

  “Like being attacked by the demon?” Alaric suggested.

  “Possibly…but have you honestly ever encountered a demon before this one?” Fenelon said.

  Alaric shook his head. “Not that I am aware of. Before a few days ago, the only demons I knew were those in the stories and songs I heard…and the ones in the bad dreams I had as a lad.”

  “Then the demon’s attack may not be the cause…”

  “But if not the demon, then what?”

  “I need to look at that wall, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “I need to go into your mind—without you fighting me—so I can see it for myself. Etienne can monitor the spell, if she’s willing…” He glanced at her, and Alaric turned in time to see her nod and smile. “…And I think we should go back to Eldon Keep to try this. I think it would be wise to be well away from Dun Gealach before I risk this. Are you willing to let me roam around in your mind?”

  “Will you be able to stop me from having bad dreams?” Alaric asked.

  “Only if I put up walls, which I really don’t think would be wise at this stage. On the other hand, if I look at this wall, it might provide some clues to all the things that have happened to you lately. But it’s entirely up to you. I won’t force you to do this…I honestly can’t.”

  Alaric nodded slowly. “All right. What must I do?”

  “We’ll discuss that in detail once we get back to Eldon Keep. Etienne?”

  “I’ll have to come a little later,” she said. “I need to make certain my students have enough studies to keep them occupied should this turn into a long vigil.”

  “Fine,” Fenelon said. He clapped Alaric’s shoulder. “Come on, Alaric. We’ve our own preparations to make.”

  Fenelon hopped agile
ly off the bench and started back up the path. Alaric rose, nodding to Etienne before following.

  By the Silver Wheel, he hoped this would shed some light on matters.

  NINETEEN

  Alaric and Fenelon returned to Eldon Keep to prepare. The hour was moving close to midday. Fenelon’s servants hauled a pair of cots and two stools into the conjuring room, and the housekeeper brought pillows. Fenelon, however, saw to the actual arrangement of the cots, placing them close to the block stone table in the conjuring circle, then putting stools and pillows with each one at opposite ends.

  “Why?” Alaric asked.

  “If I’m going to be wandering around in your mind, I’d like a straight path back to my own should something go wrong,” Fenelon said.

  Alaric frowned. “I don’t understand…”

  “A mageborn can easily lose their mind if they let it wander,” Fenelon said. “I’d prefer not to lose mine if I can help it.”

  Alaric politely refrained from suggesting it might be too late. Besides, the housekeeper came to announce Mistress Savala and one of her pupils were at the main gates requesting permission to enter, and Fenelon occupied himself with the task of playing the charming host.

  Etienne brought Shona Ni’Warden to assist her, saying the lass was good at guiding. All this sounded strange to Alaric. Horns, but there was so much about magic Marda had barely known. He could not say her teachings were useless. Just limited and that saddened Alaric in a way. What had sounded so complex to him when he was learning the art from her now seemed absurdly simple in comparison to what he was being exposed to here.

  He had little time to dwell on those thoughts, though. “You take that cot, Alaric,” Fenelon said and claimed the other. “Etienne, would you be so kind as to close the circle, love?”

  “Of course,” she said and directed Shona to take the stool at the head of the cot Fenelon chose. Alaric claimed the other cot as Etienne walked the edge of the conjuring circle, lighting the cardinal candles with a whisper of a spell. “Wind and Flame, Salt and Sea, Let this circle be closed, I mote it be,” she said as she made a second pass around the circumference. She then claimed the stool at the head of Alaric’s cot, gesturing for him to lie down as Fenelon did.

  “Give me your hand, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “And whatever you do, don’t let go until you feel me pull free.”

  “All right,” Alaric said and set his grasp firmly in place.

  “Now, close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice. Clear your mind as you did yesterday…”

  Alaric obeyed.

  “Think of nothing, and open your mind, Alaric,” Fenelon said.

  Alaric took a deep breath.

  “Now, imagine a corridor opening up, joining your mind to mine,” Fenelon said. “An open corridor in any shape you desire…”

  Alaric drew up the image. It was a long, straight tunnel of stone with a high arched ceiling, one that would not cause him to panic from being closed in. It was well lit, and the stones glowed with power. He sensed more than one essence building those walls. His own, Shona, Etienne, Fenelon, all weaving together to strengthen the bond that now joined them. Peace filled his mind, and he sensed no threat. At the far end of the tunnel, he saw a shadow flicker and take form as it sauntered forward at a familiar gait. Within moment, it was Fenelon who strode boldly down the corridor, smiling as he walked.

  “Well met, Alaric Braidwine,” Fenelon said, but his voice sounded hollow and vibrated gently inside Alaric. “Shall we take the tour?”

  Alaric turned back towards his inner self, and suddenly the corridor widened into an open courtyard.

  Gordslea Hold. He was home, except the whole place seemed oddly bright. His father was at the low wall, discussing cattle with Alaric’s brother-in-law Durbin. Meg was tossing laundry over the line, and her belly was swelling with her first child. Alaric could sense its small life and hear its tiny heart beating swiftly under her own. The two younger of his sisters, Sine and Fiona were hauling water from the well, and Fiona was wearing her usual pout of dismay because the bucket was too heavy.

  “I’ll help,” Alaric said, and started towards her.

  “Don’t,” Fenelon commanded. “These are but recent memories, probably the last ones you saw before you left home. They’re nothing more than images of what you know. Let’s go find that wall. Where is it?”

  “In the tower,” Alaric said and saw the open door and the spiral of stairs going up as the rest of the scenery slipped back into the shadows. “How…”

  “Remember, these are just your own thoughts that you’re seeing,” Fenelon said. “Of course, they will shift and change quickly, just like they do when you dream. Lead on.”

  Alaric sighed—at least in his thoughts—as he stepped through the door and started up the stairs. The climb looked as mysterious as it had that first day when he was seven. His small child’s hand touched the stones as a brace, and he gasped in wonder.

  “Present self, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “Don’t go sliding into the past…not yet.”

  Alaric shook himself and realized he was taller now, and his hand looked normal again.

  “Focus on the purpose,” Fenelon said. “Ignore the rest.”

  Alaric nodded and finished the climb to the landing. He crossed the short distance, light winking through the arrow slit on the opposite wall, and opened the door. Marda sat in her chair by the fire with her mending spread across her lap. She was old, white-headed and thin. Father had called her “That hatchet of a mage woman” in moments of rare frustration, for Marda had a mind of her own and was not afraid to express its whims. Still, for all those moments of agitation, Father had willingly given her the task of educating his mageborn son who endured her occasional tongue lashings because for the most part, Marda was kind, like a wonderful grandmother. As if her image heard that compliment of her character, she looked up and smiled.

  “Focus, Alaric,” Fenelon ordered again.

  Alaric let her image slide away. The tower room was actually a large, square chamber. Its former occupant had used dividers and bookshelves to make it into a veritable maze. Marda had cleared all these out and left the place large and airy. She packed many of the old mageborn relatives’ belongings into the numerous trunks now pushed back into corners and against walls. Alaric had enjoyed visiting the tower far more after her coming. Before, it had been too cramped, a feature that made his fear of small places worse. Except for the crates and trunks and the corner with her curtained bed, there was plenty of room…

  Only now, he saw the wall, and it looked to have grown to encompass a third of the room. The sight of it sent a chill wandering through Alaric.

  “That’s it,” he whispered as though afraid it would hear.

  “Interesting,” Fenelon said. “He approached the wall, eying it in every direction. “Very interesting.”

  “Well?” Alaric said. “How did it get here?”

  “I won’t know that until I see what’s hidden behind it.”

  The moment Fenelon said that, Alaric was seized with such a sense of dread. Cold swept through him, and he drew his arms across his chest to repress a shiver. “You’re not meant to,” he thought, but in here, it echoed as words from his mouth would.

  “I gathered that much,” Fenelon said, looking back with a smile. His attention swung back around to the wall. “Well, let’s see what this does…”

  Fenelon put forth his hand, holding it but inches from the surface, and the tingle of essence being drawn for a spell danced through Alaric. The grey slowly shimmered and began to redden, like a poker held in a fire. A trickle of unease raced down Alaric’s spine. Someone was displeased.

  “Fenelon, be careful,” Alaric whispered.

  “I’m fine,” Fenelon said, but the hint of strain rippled across his tightening shoulders, and his brows drew close in concentration as he whispered his spell. He glared at the wall.

  The red became dark amber, then yellow-gold, spreading to a wider area of the ston
es. Alaric trembled more. Anger seethed around him, and it was not his own. Slowly, yellow brightened to glowing white. Bits of the wall sloughed away, becoming molten slag, and a tremor raced up and down its length. Fenelon shook, his muscled knotted so tightly, they corded about his neck and arms, and a frightful urgency rose in Alaric.

  Stop him! Don’t let him do this! Fight him! A familiar voice was whispering those words to Alaric.

  “Fenelon, stop,” Alaric said, wondering why Fenelon had not heard those words since they seemed to emanate from behind the wall itself.

  “Easy, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “Just stay calm.” The white aura grew, and the wall thinned and rippled like a flag of silk in the wind.

  Stop him! The voice thundered through Alaric, heavy as the beat of a drum.

  “Fenelon, the wall is getting angry,” Alaric cried. “Please stop…”

  “Nonsense,” Fenelon whispered.

  Stop him! the other voice roared.

  Alaric clapped hands over his ears. “Fenelon!” he shouted.

  Maybe it was the urgency in Alaric’s voice that caused Fenelon to step back. But suddenly the wall began to collapse and spew a mixture of darkness and glowing slag, throwing it at Fenelon who cried out and tried to pull back. Stone became liquid, washing over Fenelon like a wave.

  “No!” Alaric cried and charged at the mountain of liquid, but it flowed across him as well and trapped him like a tomb. With a shout, Alaric kicked and beat at the surface, but it pressed him down, closing in on him like the lid of that damned trunk. He suddenly turned seven again, shrieking in terror, imprisoned in a darkness that kept getting smaller and smaller. Panic surged through him, choking him, burying him…

  And then pain, and a voice that cried, “Alaric, open your eyes! Please, open your eyes!”

  Alaric did with a gasp, and for a moment, Etienne’s face swam before his own. Then Shona cried, “I can’t pull him out! He’s gone too deep…”

  Etienne disappeared.

  Alaric heard her shouting Fenelon’s name. He pushed himself groggily to his elbows in time to see Etienne rear back and slap Fenelon hard.

  “Horns,” Fenelon sputtered, and his hands flew up to block the next blow. “Okay, I’m out…oh, horns, my head…” He sat up, hiding his face in his hands, swaying like a drunk. “Horns,” he muttered again. “Now that was an exciting adventure.”