“Where in the name of Cernunnos are we?” Alaric asked.
“South Lakyle,” Fenelon said.
“Lakyle…near Mallow?” Alaric said. “Isn’t there a demon wandering the wilds of Mallow?”
“Farther in towards the heart of Mallow, actually,” Fenelon said. “Don’t worry, we’re well away from that place, though if you would like to go see if we can find the demon…”
“No, no, no,” Alaric said. “I always thought Lakyle was… rockier.”
“On towards the northwest and the coast,” Fenelon said. “Here it’s a part of the higher bog that drains its groundwater into Mallow.”
“And what are we doing here?” Alaric asked.
“These are Marda’s old stomping grounds. Without a gate spell, it would take her well under a moon to reach this place from Tamnagh. Come on, this road leads to her cottage.”
“How far?” Alaric said.
“About half a league, at least,” Fenelon said and started walking.
“Half a league?” Alaric gasped those words as he started after Fenelon. “Couldn’t you have gated us a little closer?”
“And give Marda plenty of time to bolt or build wards against us when she felt my gate spell…not likely.”
“You could have cloaked it like you did at Dun Gealach,” Alaric groused. Horns, half a league, and me barely out of bed after a bout of mage fever. Just the thought of such a walk was making him tired, for the terrain here was not the least bit flat, and this road did not follow a straight line.
“No need to get nasty, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “Marda is one of those terribly rare mageborn who can feel cloaked spells no matter how good the caster is. Distance is our only ally.”
“And our enemy,” Alaric muttered as he stumbled over the uneven ground. Before he could fall, Fenelon caught his arm.
“Then we’ll take it slow,” Fenelon said.
Alaric sighed.
The road led in and out of patches of trees and over several sharp hills. But at last, it came to a stone cairn, stacked high by some ancient hand and still showing signs of rare offerings. Dead flowers and bits of tattered bones were placed inside the crevices where nature had done its work. Under a cloak of moss, one could still see the symbols of Arianrhod and Cernunnos.
“I thought you said this road led to…” Alaric began, only to have a hand clap firmly across his mouth.
“Shhhh…” Fenelon whispered. “That woman’s got ears like a bat.”
Alaric frowned as he was released. Fenelon stepped around the cairn. On the far side of the stones, the road narrowed to little more than a path. Barely visible, it climbed almost stair-like up the hill. Now Alaric could smell the odor of wood smoke. So the cottage was near after all. He took one more glance at the cairn. Whether the locals made these small offerings to the gods or Marda was unclear.
Fenelon led the way, gesturing for silence. Alaric picked his way carefully along, noticing the stairs might have been natural…or not. He had to move cautiously for recent horse dropping littered part of the steep path. Tangles of hawthorn now leaned close, forming a canopy over the trail.
The landscape suddenly leveled and opened out into a yard bordered by hedges of the prickly trees. Two hens and a rooster scratched the ground for grubs, and a small pony, staked near a watering trough of stone grazed on the sparse grass and a handful of hay. Behind it all stood a house of sod and stone, built into the next rise of the hillside. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the door sat open as though visitors were expected. As they were about to invade the opening, the path was suddenly blocked by a bearded man with treacle-colored hair and eyes. He held forth his staff, and Alaric saw it was oak, carved with the leaves of that tree and with mistletoe. A healer of Diancecht, Alaric thought, and his heart sank.
“Marda? Is she…” Alaric began.
The healer blinked, then stepped forward, losing his ferocious nature. “I’m sorry, I am Brother Oran,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Are you next of kin?”
“Next of kin…” Alaric put a hand to his mouth. The healer’s gaze softened with sympathy.
“We are merely friends who have come to say our farewells, Brother Oran,” Fenelon said. “This is Alaric Braidwine who was likely as close to a son as Marda ever had, and I am Fenelon Greenfyn.”
“Alaric?” the healer repeated. “Ah, she has been saying that someone named Lark will come. I merely thought her mind unclear. Perhaps she was saying Alaric…”
“She knew me as Lark,” Alaric said, fighting the sting of tears. “Please, how is she?”
“I have made her comfortable to the best of my skill,” Brother Oran said. “I fear it is all I can do. She is quite weak and will soon walk into the Summerland…”
“May we speak with her?” Fenelon said.
Brother Oran hesitated at first then nodded. “All right, but please, in the name of the Blessed Brother, do not agitate her.” He stepped aside to allow them to enter the cottage.
Alaric practically flew through the door. The chamber was dimly lit, but mage eyes adjusted to the shadows with ease. The fire was mere lowering embers, and the room was so warm, it felt stifling to Alaric. He glanced at a single chamber with small windows set with wooden shutters and leather coverings. Simple furnishings abound, not at all what one would expect from a mageborn’s dwelling.
Marda lay upon a bed, propped by a number of pillows and smothered in blankets. Her face was as pale as the linens beneath her. As Alaric carefully crossed to room to stand at her side, she opened her eyes and smiled for him.
“Alaric,” she said. “I knew you would come. I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get up any more…”
“You don’t have to,” Alaric said and lowered himself to the edge of the bed, taking her frail hand in his own. Like a raptor’s talon it was. He didn’t remember her being so thin.
Marda’s eyes suddenly narrowed when she spied Fenelon. “What’s he doing here?” she said in a spiteful manner.
“Fenelon is my teacher now,” Alaric said. “He brought me here to find you…”
She snorted. “You best beware of him, Alaric. That damned Greenfyn greed for power and gain will be your undoing if you’re not careful.”
“I think you must have me mixed up with Turlough, Marda,” Fenelon said.
“I knew you as a lad, just as I knew your father,” she said. “The whole lot of you are all alike. Damned, single-minded, stubborn, willful to the last bone of contention, your kind are…Greedy and self serving…filthy Greenfyn taint…”
She started to cough violently.
“Marda, please…” Alaric said, squeezing her hand and leaning closer to assist her. She hacked like a cat, then took a deep breath and closed her eyes. For a moment, Alaric feared she had ceased to be, and guilt over having allowed Fenelon to talk him into coming here surged through Alaric. But then, Marda took another breath. Eyes opened to fix Alaric with a most steely glower.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I came to see you,” he countered. “Please, Marda, if you were so ill, you should not have left Gordslea Hold. Mother and Father would gladly have looked after you…”
“I wanted to die peacefully in my own bed, Alaric,” Marda said, losing some of the fury. “I have known my time was coming for several moons now. It is unfortunate that sometimes we know about our own deaths…” Her gaze fell on his left hand, and her eyes softened with remorse as she rubbed her thumb over the silver band of the ring Alaric wore. “He did, you know…” she said and heaved a ragged sigh,
“But why didn’t you tell me?” he said, his voice growing feeble as he blinked back the threat of tears.
Marda slipped her hand free, and though it trembled, she reached up to cup his cheek. “Poor Lark,” she said. “I did not want to see you grieving as you do now. You should not have come here…”
“Come on, Marda, let’s be honest here,” Fenelon said as he stepped to the foot of the bed and looked down on her, and a fire
came into her eyes as she withdrew her hand and returned the glare. “Tell Alaric the real reason you went away. Tell him you came here to die to keep from having to tell him the truth. That Ronan Tey violated Alaric’s mind with magic, and you were a silent witness to it all…”
“Get out of here, you wretched braggart,” Marda suddenly hissed. “Go away and let an old woman die in peace. Brother Oran. Get this miserable wretch out of my sight! I would not die with his face in my view.”
Brother Oran was suddenly there, putting a hand to Fenelon’s shoulder. “Come sir,” Brother Oran said. “You disturb her…”
“She was disturbed years ago,” Fenelon said in such a harsh tone, Alaric flinched. “Go on, Alaric. Ask her for the truth. She won’t lie to you. She can’t. That’s why she ran away. That’s why she hid herself here…”
“Sir,” Brother Oran said more firmly, grasping Fenelon’s arm, and though Fenelon was taller and could have easily broken the bother’s grip, he allowed himself to be forced from the hut.
“He’s mad as are all his kin,” Marda muttered.
“Then so am I,” Alaric said. “But Fenelon has been good to me. He took me to be his apprentice, and he’s helped me…”
“He helps no one but himself, and he uses others to that end,” Marda said. “You are a fool to trust him, Alaric.” She sighed. “What lies has he told you about me, then?”
“None,” Alaric said. “What lies have you told me?”
Her face fell into such a mask of woe, it rent his heart and soul like claws. He wanted to take back the words, but it was too late.
“I have never lied to you, Alaric,” she said softly and glanced at the ring.
Alaric glanced away. Oh, no? he thought. Taking a deep breath, he looked back at her. “Then don’t lie to me now,” Alaric said. “Tell me why Ronan Tey put a wall around my memories. Tell me what he did to me that day that I cannot remember…”
Her face went white. For a moment, her mouth worked as though she was trying to speak but could not. Then at last, she said, “He never did anything to hurt you, Alaric,” and started to look away from his anger. Alaric gently pulled her face back around. Tears glittered in her eyes, and he took her hand once more, offering a reassuring squeeze.
“How can you be so sure?” Alaric said. “How can I believe that if you won’t tell me?”
“What Ronan did, had to be, Alaric,” Marda said. “But he did not do it to hurt you…you must understand that. Ronan knew he could not escape his own death at Tane Doran’s hands, in spite of having fled the bloodmage for years.”
“Tane Doran?” Alaric said. “But Ronan was killed by bandits…”
Marda shook her head. “That was the story Ronan wanted everyone to hear. It was Tane Doran who took Ronan’s life. Oh, yes, he used bandits…”
Alaric felt his head swimming in confusion. Tidbits of dreams began to emerge. The moors. The man cut off Ronan’s hand. White hair like moonlight, twined into braids with beads of bone…Alaric blinked and the images vanished.
“Tane was as ambitious as any of the Greenfyns,” Marda said, “and he would not stop until he had what Ronan possessed. Ronan did what he did to keep the hope alive, for what he hid within you must never be lost. He told me he had long ago divined there would come a time of great trouble to the world, a darkness that would devour all… You were his last hope to keep the light alive…”
Alaric took a deep breath. His own tears slid down his cheeks. “Marda, I have in the space of this last moon—this last fortnight, even—been attacked by a demon, accused by the High Mage of consorting with demons…and I dreamed that Ronan Tey died at the hand of some blood mage…And now everything I thought was true is turning out to be a lie…I can’t stop wondering what wrong I have done to deserve this fate…”
“Oh, Alaric, don’t blame yourself,” Marda said and closed her eyes. “This had to be. Ronan vowed it would do you no harm. He swore to me you would not even know the wall was there until the need for its secret arose…You didn’t let Fenelon near it did you? You didn’t show it to him willingly, I hope…”
“I found the wall myself,” Alaric said. “I found it in my dreams…now tell me, what is it? What does it hide?”
“I cannot tell you,” she said weakly.
“What?” Alaric bit back the angry retort that rode the tip of his tongue.
“Just as you were not to know of its existence before its time had come, I swore to Ronan Tey to never tell you. But know this. All will be revealed in its proper time, and if you are the chosen one, you will learn the secret for yourself when the time comes. Ronan said so, and he would never lie to me…”
“How can you be so sure?” Alaric said, pain knotting inside him. “He lied to me…he made you lie to me…”
“Please, Alaric, forgive me,” Marda said. “What Ronan did to you may not seem right, but for the sake of the world it has to be. To keep Tane from destroying all that is good Ronan made you the host…”
“Host?” Alaric repeated.
Marda paused, looking startled. “Oh, blessed lady of the Silver Wheel,” she whispered. “I have betrayed him…” Tears filled her eyes. “Go away, Alaric. Ask me no more…they come for me…go, and let me die in peace…”
She turned her face from him and gave a long shuddering breath. His mage hearing counted the last beats of her heart before it stilled. The hand in his own went limp, and he felt the life slip from it.
“Marda?” he said softly, his throat thick with remorse.
The silence whispered to him. Gently, he put her hand upon her chest. Such a simple act, but it fed the hard grief that rose in him. With a cry, he flung himself from the edge of her bed, charged through the door and past the two men who stood outside trading glares of reproach.
“Alaric?” Fenelon called.
Alaric ran on, his chest tight. He half stumbled into the grove of hawthorns and down the steps, and did not stop until he had reached the cairn. There he dropped to the ground, his back against the cold stones wrapped in the thickness of moss. Pulling his knees to his chest, he hid his face in his arms.
Why, Marda, why? Why wouldn’t she tell him.
Sobs tore through Alaric shattering all self control and dignity. He had loved her like a grandmother, and now all this. He did not know what hurt most. To know he had been betrayed or to lose her.
A faint footstep worked past his wall of grief. He ignored it, weeping like a child. A body sank down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. A comforting hand touched his arm. Alaric sensed Fenelon’s quicksilver presence lean against him.
“Alaric,” Fenelon whispered. “I’m sorry…”
“She wouldn’t tell me,” Alaric murmured. “She couldn’t…she…”
“It’s all right,” Fenelon said with a sigh and leaned back against the stone. His hand continued to stroke Alaric’s arm as though seeking to offer come small comfort. “Just let it go.”
Alaric did, spilling his frustration, his anger and his grief with a torrent of tears.
Betrayed.
Who could he trust?
He didn’t know…
~
Having spent all his emotions, Alaric was exhausted. He just wanted to return to Eldon Keep and be left alone. To face his family now would be more than he could endure, for he felt so empty…so drained. And betrayed. Marda had died leaving him with nothing more than cryptic hints and a name.
Tane Doran.
Fenelon knew the name. Alaric watched the older mage’s face harden when they gated back to the tower room at Gordslea Hold. “Aye, I know the wicked bastard. Know him very well. My father knew him… as did my grandfather.”
“Who is he?” Alaric ventured. He’d found water in the tower and used a cleansing spell to purify it so he could wash his face. Afternoon light crawled languidly across the floor. He sat in Marda’s chair now, feeling it was his right to do so, and watched as Fenelon paced back and forth like a cornered wolf.
“Tane Doran is
a bloodmage, a fairly old one, though you wouldn’t know it from the look of him,” Fenelon said. “He hails from Dragon’s Maw. My family has clashed with him a few times…but what would he have to do with what Marda did tell you…”
Alaric sighed. “Ronan’s death was not at the hand of bandits. Marda said it was Tane Doran who killed Ronan. She said Tane Doran was the man pursuing Ronan. That Ronan knew he could not escape Tane and death.”
“All that fits then, in a sense,” Fenelon said. “I had heard Tane and Ronan clashed pretty hard just once after I was born. So perhaps Tane is the one who was after the map, and Ronan didn’t have it, so Tane killed Ronan…Then, two years later, we have a demon attempting to steal that same map, and I’m willing to bet that demon is owned by Tane. And now that demon comes after you—one who was once Ronan’s pupil in song—and putting all that together, my guess would be Ronan knew what the map led to, and Tane knows what it is, and wants this map as well so that he can find it.”
“Then we need to figure out what the map leads to,” Alaric said.
“Precisely,” Fenelon said. “And I have a theory about this hidden treasure.” His face went somber in thought. “Now, you said that Marda said if Tane got his hands on that secret Ronan hid behind the wall in your head, then Tane would possess the power to destroy the hope of all mankind…And since we know the map mentions Na’Sgailean, we can only conclude the map must lead to something capable of destroying her.”
“What do you mean?” Alaric asked.
“I mean this Dragon’s Tongue—or Wyrm Tongue as the map calls it—what if it is some instrument of destruction, like a sword. And I’ll bet what Ronan has hidden in your head is the means to make it work.”
A gleam filled Fenelon’s eyes, and Alaric shivered. What was it Marda said. He helps no one but himself and uses other to that end…
“A very special sword,” Fenelon went on. “Think of it, Alaric. A sword with the power to stop Na’Sgailean herself. A sword forged when the Old Ones ruled. Maybe it is a sword filled with Old One Magic.”
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 19
