“You, of all people, should know I am not self-serving or selfish,” he said. “I care about the world at large far more than any mageborn alive. There’s far more at stake here, Etienne, than Alaric’s life. If Tane Doran is involved, no good will come of this. He’s dangerous and ambitious, and like all bloodmages, he will stop at nothing to have what he desires, and damn what is good for the rest of the world. He will use torture and death to get what he wants now. Well, I’m not going to let that happen to Alaric, no matter what that old hag or Turlough or Alaric or anyone else says or thinks about me…”
He stopped, heaving as he turned away and leaned his back against the wall. There he stood and glared at the floor, his face racked with a multitude of emotions. Etienne sighed.
“Just what happened between you?” she asked. “Less than a few days ago, you were the best of friends…”
“What do you mean?” Fenelon said and his face flushed a darker hue.
“Between you and Alaric…and who is that old hag?”
Fenelon took a deep breath. “Marda Alfrey,” he said.
“I thought you and Marda were old friends. She knows your father.”
“Aye, but when she died, she said a slew of awful and untrue things about me to Alaric. She convinced him I was using him.”
“And what did you do to confirm her lies?” Etienne asked.
Blue eyes flashed deep with ire. Etienne remained stoic, refusing to back down. Come on, Fenelon, don’t think you can hide the truth from me, she thought. He trembled as though he were about to start his tirade anew, then abruptly, he turned and smacked the wall with the flat of his hand.
“All right, so I got a little idiotic,” he sputtered. “I was speculating what this Dragon’s Tongue might be and why we should go after it, and Alaric got…stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” Etienne repeated, letting her brows rise quizzically.
“The Dragon’s Tongue must be what Tane is after,” Fenelon said defensively. “Why else would he have killed Ronan Tey and kidnapped Alaric…and I suggested…” He paused when Etienne cocked her head. Fenelon sighed. “Okay, so maybe I got a little over eager when I suggested we should find the Dragon’s Tongue ourselves. Next thing I knew, Alaric was accusing me of using him and…”
“Was he there when Marda died?” Etienne asked softly.
“Well, yes…”
“And you didn’t actually give him time to finish grieving, or to think her words through before you started hounding him, correct?”
“I suppose,” Fenelon said.
Etienne sighed and brushed his roughened cheek with one hand as she smiled. “No wonder he believed her,” she said. “Patience with others has never been one of your virtues, Fenelon.”
“I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I,” Fenelon said, his voice subdued. “Our friendship is over all because of me…and now he’s in Tane’s hands, and if I had not given him the reason to distrust me, he might have listened to me instead of…” Fenelon closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the stone wall. “Maybe Alaric and Marda were right about me. Maybe I do use people. Maybe I’m no less greedy and impulsive and blind than Turlough…”
“Oh, now I think that’s going a little far,” she chided. “Impulsive, yes, but never greedy or blind. Those are hardly traits I would apply to you, Fenelon Greenfyn. Mayhaps you let your heart get in the way of your head, but your intentions are always noble.”
Fenelon opened one eye, cocking it in her direction. “Why do you do this to me?”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Show me what an idiot I am, then pick me up and dust off my ego?” His hand rose to slide across her cheek, sending little shiver down her spine.
“What are friends for?” she whispered and gave in to her own impulse to kiss him. His arms slid around her, drawing her close, and she returned the gesture. Silence filled the corridor until they broke apart.
“I’d gladly show you what friends are for right now,” he said softly, his forehead touching hers. “But there’s a young man out there who needs my friendship more just now…”
Etienne nodded. It would have been so easy to draw him back inside one of the small wards, to close the door and give herself to him.
But Alaric needed to be found by his friends.
“Then let’s go,” Etienne said, seizing his arm and ushering him along. “And you will apologize to Shona.”
“For what?” Fenelon said.
“Fenelon!”
“Oh…right…if you insist.”
“Of course, I insist,” she said, giving him a sharp look. “I will not have you being rude and intimidating my pupils. That happens to be my privilege.”
She had every intention of keeping him to that promise too.
TWENTY-NINE
Alaric awoke, cold seeping through his bones. Numbness, exhaustion and dull pain greeted him with the semi-darkness that slipped between his eyelids. Oh, Horns, he thought. Was it all a dream? Just a nightmare where he thought he had been crammed into a tiny trunk where he kicked and screamed himself hoarse, and bloodied his hands beating the sides until he could not move. Where no spell, not even one to call light, had worked.
And now he was on his side, wrapped in scratchy woolen blankets thick with the odor of horses. His bed felt lumpier and stiffer than he last recalled. And it smelled horrible. Someone must have let the fire go out, because in spite of the blankets, he felt cold.
Shivering, Alaric opened his eyes. Rotten reeds rested not far from his nose. He saw his own hands had been crudely swaddled in old bandages. What? Panic surged. Dark shadows filled his vision, and only a strip of red-gold light. But it wasn’t fire. It was soft mage light, glowing steadily somewhere above him. With a gasp, he pushed himself up and froze. Stone walls and shadows surrounded him. Towards his feet, stone stairs rose to where the light glowed.
Automatically, Alaric stretched mage senses to orient himself…and felt nothing. Not a whit of essence, not even his own. He pushed harder, and his head spun, but nothing came. He then touched the floor to seek the essence of earth…nothing.
“Solus!” he cried, but his word only echoed. The shadows and the darkness remained. Frantic, he reached into himself, and still, in spite of knowing his own bronze essence, he could not feel it any more than he could make light come…nor fire. He tried that too, nearly in tears. What has happened to my magic? He had become “blind” to the world!
Alaric worked himself to his feet. He hurt all over from the ache of muscles cramped in one position too long. Gingerly, he put a hand to the wall to steady himself. Cold stone greeted his fingers, but in it, he sensed no life. No essence to draw.
What was this place where essence could not be felt? Certainly not a place he wanted to remain. Alaric staggered for the stairs, stumbling over rotten reeds, pulling the blankets close to keep warm. He half crawled to the top, only to pause.
The girl from the manse sat on a blood-stained sheepskin, sucking marrow from the long bones. Horns, he thought, closing his eyes to the terrible sight. By the Silver Wheel, he hoped he wasn’t going to start retching. He opened his eyes again. She had yet to look up. Perhaps he could make it safely to the door, and lock it and get away.
Alaric surged for the final step, only to hit something that felt as solid as stone. With a yelp, he stumbled off the steps, fell to one side and landed on his back with a gooey thwack. At least the rotten reeds were soft enough to break his fall.
For a moment, he lay there cursing under his breath. Then a face, chin dribbling blood, peered over the edge.
“Are you all right?” she—it—asked.
Alaric blinked. The question struck him as absurd for some reason. He looked at her, slowly remembering how she—it—whatever—had been part of the party that set this trap.
“Are you all right?” the creature asked again.
Alaric pushed himself upright, crawling to his feet. He hugged the blankets around him. “Where am I?” he asked.
“Why am I here?”
“Because the master wills it,” the creature said.
“Why?”
The child moved, sitting so her thin legs dangled over the edge. Her dress was starting to show a lot of wear. “Because you are very special, little bard. You hold the key my master wants. If you are wise, you will give it to him when he asks you the first time. If not, he will just hurt you until you do.”
“I don’t have any keys,” Alaric said and shifted. Horns, he was so cold. He moved his hands and whispered a spell to warm the air around him, and still, nothing happened.
“Don’t bother,” the creature said. “Magic doesn’t work down there. That’s why the master didn’t order you bound and gagged and blindfolded. As long as you’re down there, you’re powerless. That pit is a void.”
A void? Alaric thought. Marda had mentioned “voids” as being places where no essence of magic existed, and here no spell could be cast. He frowned and glanced at the stairs. “But there’s a spell up there,” he said. “I felt it…or rather, I found it…” He caught himself rubbing his nose.
“Aye, the master knew you would try to leave that way. I’m just here to make certain you don’t perish.”
“Just who are you?”
“Mortals know me as Vagner, though that is not my True Name. I am a demon, in case you have not guessed so already.”
Alaric shivered. More parts of his memory cleared. “Wait…you’re the one who at attacked me at Dun Gealach that day…the one who tried to kill me…” Terror surged. The winged monster that flew out of the sky imposed itself over her features in his mind. Alaric backed away, only to trip over one of the shackle chains. He sat down hard, his back against the wall. The sweat of fear rolled down his spine.
“Oh, you have nothing to fear from me,” Vagner said, looking a little hurt.
“But you tried to kill me!” Alaric said. He drew his knees to his chest where his heart thundered hammer strokes against his ribs.
“I only wanted to capture you.” Vagner looked even more hurt than before. “The others should not have interfered. I had every right to defend myself. Demons can feel pain when hit with certain spells, you know. My other form may be impervious to mortal steel, but I can still feel pain.”
“So why are you wearing this shape? I know what you really look like…so why hide that form from me?”
Vagner frowned. “I wear this shape by no will of my own,” the demon said. “I would not wear it at all, but this is my punishment for failing to capture you the first time and forcing my master to use a silly ruse to get you away from the Greenfyn.”
Fenelon. Alaric scrambled to his feet. Fenelon had accompanied him to the house. “What happen to Fenelon?” he asked, fearful of the answer.
“The Greenfyn? I cold cocked him with a candlestick.”
“Did you kill him?”
“There was no time,” Vagner said. “Tane wanted to leave immediately and…”
“Tane?” Alaric said. “Tane Doran?”
“The only one I am aware of,” Vagner said.
Alaric sank back against the wall, sliding down as his knees failed him. Blessed Lady of the Silver Wheel. I’m a prisoner of the man who killed Ronan Tey… He closed his eyes, desperately wishing this was all some bad dream. But the cold wall to his back reminded him otherwise. Tane Doran was the bloodmage who hounded Ronan for the great secret he refused to share with any.
But me, and I have no memory of it.
The clatter of the door on the dais drew Alaric’s attention, and when Vagner stiffened, the demon’s motion intensified Alaric’s unease.
The first man through the opening was one of the larger bandits who had pushed Alaric into the trunk, and his companion in that act came in right behind him. A third figure stepped through and rose to his full height. Alaric hitched back harder against the wall. Oh, Horns! It’s him!
The face in the dream of Ronan’s death.
Tane Doran.
Cold eyes settled on Alaric and even from this distance, they bore into him like daggers of ice.
“Awake at last,” Tane said and smiled. He turned his head, the motion rattling the strange beads braided into his hair. “Fetch him out of there. And don’t forget the gag.”
He whispered and moved one hand across the head of the stairs as the two men descended. Alaric held his place. He ached too much to flee. The bandits crossed the floor of the pit in bold, though uneven steps due to the soggy reeds. One on each side, they seized Alaric and forced him upright. One pulled an old leather gag, a scold’s bridle, from his belt and held it up. Alaric took one look at the nasty condition of the leather, and turned his head away.
Wrong move, he quickly learned. One of them seized his hair with one hand and his jaw with the other, ramming a thumb and forefinger into the sensitive joints. Alaric raised his hands to push the scold away. “No!” he cried. “Please! I won’t cast spells, I swear!”
One of them hit him across the face, throwing his head back against the wall. He cried out in pain.
“Stop that!” Tane ordered. “I need his wits whole!”
Both men and Alaric froze. Tane paced the edge of the dais and glared. Vagner stayed back out of his way.
“You would truly give me your word not to cast spells?” Tane said.
Alaric swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” he said.
Tane narrowed his eyes as though considering the offer carefully. “Very well,” he said. “Forget the gag. Just bring him to me…and be careful with him.”
The scold fell to the ground, and Alaric stumbled as they jerked him away from the wall. He managed to get his feet under him again as they hauled him up the stairs. Crossing the top step, he flinched. The door out of the cell gave them a bit of trouble as they tried to keep a firm hold on him and walk at a stoop. Alaric went out of his way to oblige them as best he could, fearful of what they would do if he did not cooperate. He remained docile as they followed the rise of spiraling stairs for several turns. They passed a door that must have been the ground floor entrance, and continued for two more turns. Tane kept the lead all the way, and looking back, Alaric noticed that Vagner followed. Horns, what a procession they might have made to the casual observer.
Tane pushed open a door and motioned for the men to take Alaric through. A square room greeted Alaric’s watchful gaze. To one side near the wall sat a table with a small feast laid across its surface and two chairs. Shelves lined most of the walls, filled with books and urns and cobwebs, while the central floor had been engraved with a carefully marked circle of power.
The grasps on Alaric’s arms fell away as a hand took his shoulder. Alaric flinched, and turned to find Tane at his side. Once more, Alaric was struck by the cold fire in those eyes.
“Come…sit,” Tane said. “You must be famished. I assume you’ve had nothing to eat since we brought you here this morning.
This morning? Alaric thought. How long had he been a prisoner? He looked for a window, hoping for some sign of the time of day. They were all covered with leather skins, allowing no light to pass.
Tane pushed gently, but firmly, guiding Alaric across the room to the chair closest to the circle. One quick glance revealed shackles attached to the thick oak. The sight frightened Alaric into hesitation, but Tane gave no quarter. His grasp tightened, forcing Alaric into that chair with surprising strength. Only then did the bandits rush forward to lock those shackles about him. The ones at his ankles gave him no room to move, while those at his wrists were attached to chains that slid through the arms of the chairs. They could easily be drawn tight enough to immobilize him and snapped to rings on the sides of the seat. He looked at them as a sinking stone of despair weighted his stomach. It grew harder for him to breathe.
“A precaution,” Tane said and patted Alaric’s shoulder. The bandits lifted the chair and bore it closer to the
table. A trencher was pushed into reach, already laden with bits of venison and fowl. Tane seated himself in the chair closer to the wall, pouring two goblets of rich red wine. He set one close to Alaric and took up the other.
“Go on. It’s not poisoned,” Tane said and drank heavily from his own to prove his words.
Alaric swallowed. His throat was too tender just yet for wine. “I would rather have some water…if you don’t mind.”
Tane chuckled. “How polite of you to put it that way,” he said. “Of course, you may have water. Vagner?”
The demon child brought a pitcher, looking perturbed. Water was poured into a wooden mug and given into Alaric’s trembling hands. He sucked it down, relishing the cool, lean flavor. With a sigh and trying to ignore the rattle of the chains, he set the empty mug on the table and glanced cautiously at the demon. Vagner offered a quirky smile and filled it again.
“Please, eat,” Tane insisted. “You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?” Alaric ventured, tearing off a bit of venison.
“It’s going to be a long night,” Tane said with a thin slice of a smile.
Something in the cold delivery of those words stole into Alaric’s soul like a Haxon’s wicked blade. With great effort, Alaric began to nibble on his food.
THIRTY
“Fenelon, we’ve been all through the place from tower to cellar five times now,” Etienne said. “There’s nothing here.”
“I want to be sure,” Fenelon called back over his shoulder as he headed for the tower yet again.
“I might as well talk to the walls,” Etienne muttered and shook her head.
The last of the sun light had already faded, leaving mage light and torches as their only form of illumination. She had brought Tobin and Katriona back to assist on their second sweep because Fenelon thought more heads would be better. Others came of their own accord. Even Wendon and a couple of his friends arrived, eager to assist. They were now re-exploring the cellars, though Etienne suspected the three untapped barrels of ale she had noticed on an earlier visit as their true motive for choosing that dusty place.
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 24
