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

by Laura J Underwood

  Rumors about the motive for Alaric’s abduction ran wild through Dun Gealach. How the news had spread so fast was anyone’s guess. Shona knew better. Etienne could only conclude that someone in the infirmary—a guard or one of Mistress Miranda’s assistant healers—had overheard Fenelon’s rant and gossiped to others. It was a wonder to her Turlough had not chosen to add his presence to the fray. She had heard his remarks on how he believed Alaric’s involvement with demons was going to be proven any day now. What made him think that was beyond her comprehension.

  “I wish you could talk to the walls,” Fenelon suddenly called down from above, startling her from her thoughts. “They could probably tell us what happened here.”

  Etienne rolled her eyes. She passed Shona who sat on the stairs rubbing her feet, and followed Fenelon up into the tower once more.

  He roamed about the center of the chamber by the time Etienne arrived. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his shoulders hunched, and he rubbed his own chin. His “pose regardful,” as she called it, one he often took in moments of deep thought. He circled closely around the fallen lute, his gaze fixed on the instrument. The magic of his scry spell hummed on Etienne’s mage senses.

  “He disappeared from here,” Fenelon said.

  “We already know that,” Etienne said.

  He looked up, perturbed. “I was thinking aloud,” he said.

  “Beg pardon,” Etienne said, not hiding her own irritation. Times like this made her grateful their relationship had never gained any commitment deeper than the love they shared. Being wife to someone like Fenelon would have been more than her patience could bear. She took a deep breath to relax herself and stepped around the outer edge of the room, carefully regarding his demeanor. Her foot kicked a broken bit of wood and sent it skittering across the floor. Fenelon turned towards the sound.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Part of the broken psaltery,” she said.

  “Psaltery,” he repeated, more for his own benefit. He suddenly charged across the chamber like a child in pursuit of a favorite toy. “Psaltery,” he said and snatched up one of the fragments, dangling wire strings like spider legs.

  “It’s not his,” Etienne reminded him. “I don’t think Alaric ever even touched it.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Fenelon agreed, grinning. “But he didn’t bring his own psaltery here either. He didn’t know he would need it.”

  “Your point being?” She asked.

  “It’s still back at Eldon Keep.”

  “Ah, and we can use it…”

  “To trace him, of course!” Fenelon said and tossed the broken instrument aside. “It will be full of Alaric’s essence.”

  “Aye, but only as long as they haven’t taken him too far from Caer Keltora,” she said.

  “No problem,” Fenelon said cheerfully. “My father showed me how to stretch the limits of normal scrying from a few leagues to many. All we need are seven willing mageborn.”

  “Seven?”

  “Aye, one for each of the seven points of power,” he said. “Now, we’ll need the big conjuring room at Dun Gealach. Why don’t you go make the arrangements. I’ll head for Eldon and fetch the psaltery and my notes.”

  “And just who are you proposing to assist us with this spell?” Etienne said.

  “You, me, Shona, Tobin, Katriona…” he said.

  “That’s only five, and three are mere apprentices.”

  “Ah, but they are your apprentices, which means they are good. And besides, I’m sure we can recruit a few others at Dun Gealach to assist us. The Wall…maybe even Wendon.”

  “Wendon won’t agree.”

  “He will if he thinks he gets credit towards achieving the master magehood he covets, all for assisting.”

  “Why not ask Turlough…or Lorymer?”

  “Turlough would just as soon let Alaric rot, and Lorymer is not so powerful as loyal to Turlough’s whims, and anyway, Turlough is the reason Alaric’s in this mess. If Turlough hadn’t given in to his natural greed…”

  “And just how do you know it was greed?” Etienne insisted.

  “I know Turlough, love. Greed is his god. Now, you get everyone together. I’ll meet you all in the conjuring chamber.”

  He backed away and started to open a spell gate.

  “But we have yet to have supper,” she said. “I’m famished, and I know my students are. How can we possibly concentrate on an empty stomach?”

  “Good practice,” he said. “We’ll eat.”

  “When?”

  “Soon,” Fenelon said, and before she could demand clarification, he was swallowed by his gate spell.

  Etienne threw up her hands and raced from the tower to gather the others.

  She only hoped, for Alaric’s sake, this was going to work.

  ~

  Tane chatted amicably through the meal, though his friendly conversation did little to relax Alaric. He watched gestures and listened to the tone of Tane’s voice instead of paying attention to the words. Good practice in some ways, he told himself. Listening to tones and nuances kept him from dwelling on his own dilemma. Letting his musician’s ear tune itself into the sound made it easier to deal with his fear.

  Alaric so wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “So, I am given to understand that you know a great number of songs,” Tane said. “Is this true?”

  “I…know a few,” Alaric said, startled to be asked such a question under the circumstance.

  “Modesty does not become a bard,” Tane said with a turn of his head. “The greatest bards are always sure of their skill and their knowledge. You must learn this if you wish to live up to your old master’s standards. Ronan Tey was very much a braggart.”

  Tane reached down and stroked the amulet he wore, a collection of hand bones bound together in harp wire, and as he stroked it, a sense of dread rose in Alaric.

  “My parents never approved of boasting,” Alaric said. “My father thought it bad character to do so.”

  Tane chuckled. “No matter. Likely, you do possess a great deal of talent and skill. And I am sure you know many more songs than you would admit in your modesty.”

  Alaric frowned. “I have never admitted to knowing anything I did not. Lying was another trait my father would never tolerate.”

  “Really,” Tane said with a smile. “So you consider yourself an honest man?”

  “As honest as I am able to be,” Alaric said.

  “Good,” Tane said, and waved his eating dagger back and forth like a wand. “Then tell me. Do you know a song that goes by the title of The Dragon’s Tongue Key?”

  Alaric frowned. “I don’t believe I know that one.”

  Tane lost his smile. “Are you certain? Because I was given to understand you boasted of learning the song from Ronan Tey himself.”

  Alaric’s dread deepened. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “You were misinformed, sir,” he said carefully. “Ronan never taught me such a song.”

  Several inches of the eating dagger buried itself in the center of Alaric’s trencher. He flung himself back against the chair as Tane leaned across the narrow table.

  “And you call yourself an honest man,” Tane said. “I have no more tolerance for liars than your father.” Alaric flinched. “I want the Dragon’s Tongue Key, and you will give it to me if you value your life.”

  “But I don’t know it,” Alaric said softly. “I swear to you, I have never heard such a song…or been taught its like.”

  Tane roared as he wrenched the dagger out of the trencher and buried its blade in the frame of the chair quite close to Alaric’s head. “Liar!” Tane shouted. “I have a witness who says you bragged of knowing this song to none other than Fenelon Greenfyn!”

  “When?” Alaric whispered, afraid to move or speak louder.

  Tane drew back and turned his angry glower on Vagner. The demon flinched visibly, then spoke. “The night you went to the tavern in Caer Keltora, you came out and told Fenelon
the names of the songs you had learned from Ronan Tey. You said you knew The Dragon’s Tongue Key. I heard you.”

  “Just where were you?” Alaric asked.

  “In your psaltery,” Vagner replied.

  “Oh,” Alaric said and closed his eyes. He opened them again to find Tane’s glare had returned to him. “Look, I was drunk when I left the inn that night. Most of that evening is a blur. I don’t drink, and I don’t hold ale or wine well. I’m likely to have said anything and remember none of it.”

  The demon’s face fell into a pout. “You sounded quite sure of yourself then.”

  “I swear to you,” Alaric said. “I never learned any song with Dragon in the title, and certainly not from Ronan who made me sing every song twenty times in a row when he taught it to me until I grew sick of some of them, but I could sing them in my sleep. There was never a Dragon’s Tongue Key among them, and that is the truth.”

  Tane pulled back, his gaze shifting from Alaric to the demon and back several times. “Well, one of you is lying, and since my demon is bound to me by its True Name, and cannot lie to me if I ask a direct question, that leads me to conclude you are the liar here, Master Braidwine.”

  Tane gestured sharply. Alaric’s chair lurched as it was seized and lifted. “Horns!” Alaric hissed when the back of his head thumped roughly against the wood. He felt his stomach hitch in protest as he was carried over to the center of the circle and dropped abruptly enough to jar his teeth. A man on each side seized the chains that bound his wrists and pulled them tight, hooking them to the seat so Alaric’s palms were pinioned to the chair arms. He bit his lip and jerked experimentally to no avail. The shackles held fast.

  “I had so hoped you would be cooperative so we could do this the easy way,” Tane said.

  Alaric looked up as the bloodmage pulled off his cloak and tossed it across the back of his own chair.

  “I do hate to waste time torturing people just to get what I want,” Tane continued, but his expression belied his words.

  “But I don’t know the song,” Alaric said and shook his head as fear tore into him.

  Tane paced into the circle until he faced the chair. He touched the bone amulet around his neck, stroking it like a pet. Then he began to pace again, and this time, he whispered words of power. Alaric felt the circle close around them. Oh, Bright Lady, preserve me, he thought and briefly closed his eyes. He opened them to find Tane leaning close, narrow features hardening into a scowl.

  A slender dagger appeared out of nowhere. Alaric winced as the tip of it traced the backs of his knuckles, barely reopening the cuts left from his battering the lid of the trunk. The blade looked very much like the one he had watched Tane shove under Ronan’s nails in that awful dream. Alaric began to shake hard.

  “Please…” he whispered. “Please don’t do to me what you did to Ronan the night you killed him…for pity’s sake, please…”

  Tane paused. “How did you know I killed Ronan Tey?”

  “I…I saw you do it in a dream…your bandits captured him, but you tortured him, and you cut off his hand, and you…”

  “You saw all that in a dream,?” Tane reared back, looking genuinely impressed. “You actually dreamed of my killing Ronan Tey?”

  “Yes,” Alaric said.

  Tane’s free hand cupped Alaric’s jaw, gently drawing his face from one side to the other as though examining a prize gem. “Just what sort of mageborn are you to possess the power to see the past in his dreams?”

  Alaric swallowed hard. “One who wishes he’d never been anything but a bard.”

  Tane let go and reared back, smiling. “I can see why Ronan chose you,” he said. “You have a fine sense of humor. I appreciate that in a man who is about to be tortured. I will give you another chance to save yourself a great deal of pain, Alaric Braidwine. Tell me what I want to know, and you will not have to suffer.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Alaric said, fighting the urge to sob. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. By all the gods, why had he not listened to Fenelon?

  Tane’s deep breath took an eternity before he spoke again. “That’s too bad,” he said and rested his hand atop Alaric’s head as though blessing him. “I fear it really is going to be a long night for both of us.”

  Tane began to whisper spell words, drawing essence into the air and conjuring white fire into his thin-bladed knife. Alaric could smell hot metal, much like being in his father’s forge when he was a lad.

  The first pain was nowhere near the worst.

  THIRTY ONE

  At first, the master of Chambers was reluctant to allow Etienne and her companions to use the large conjuring chamber. “Magister Alden has it reserved for two days hence and wishes it be completely cleansed of all magic before then.

  “So we will cleanse it when we are through,” Etienne insisted. “This is a matter of life and death. For all we know, it’s too late to save a young mageborn’s life. Would you wish to be responsible for assisting in his death by delaying our need?”

  “Your cleansing will leave residue,” he argued.

  “Look. I am a magister of First Rank on the Council of Mageborn, and I will go to Turlough himself and report your refusal, and I can promise it will not go well for you when I do. Now give me those keys before I am forced to leave your residue from here to Yewer.” Horns, but she hated to lose control in that fashion.

  “All right, all right,” the Master of Chambers said wearily. He opened his mage-locked cabinet and drew forth a ring of keys. “But you really must make certain no residue remains. Magister Alden will be just as unkind as you, my lady, if the chamber is not to his liking…”

  “We are doing a simple scry spell,” she said testily. “There will be precious little residue, but you have my word it will be dealt with properly!”

  She snatched the keys from his hand before he could change his mind.

  The others waited in the corridor. Wendon looked a little worn, but so did her own apprentices. Only Mistress Wallace carried herself tall and alert. On the other hand, she had likely already had a proper meal.

  Fenelon, you will owe us a banquet for this!

  Etienne did her best to look cheerful as she raised the keys for all to see then used them to unlock the ornate doors.

  Fenelon arrived within moments of their entry, carrying the psaltery under one arm and a ream of bound parchment under the other. His grin flashed over the small party. “Friends, thank you all for attending…you too, Wendon.”

  Wendon frowned. “Just why are we here?” he asked.

  “Why, we have come together to join our skills and find poor Alaric before he becomes a demon’s supper, of course,” Fenelon said. “Someone close the door and bolt it, please.”

  “Join our skills?” Wendon said. “How?”

  I knew Wendon would be disagreeable, Etienne thought as she folded her arms. Tobin stood closest to the door. He eagerly obliged Fenelon who marched into the middle of the huge, concentrically drawn conjuring circle with the four tall elemental menhirs standing like sentries at the cardinal points.

  “How?” Fenelon said. “Well, that’s the magic of it all, Wendon, and if you keep your tongue still long enough, you’re likely to learn some magic that will increase your chances of becoming a Master Mageborn much sooner than expected…”

  Etienne covered her face with her hands. She expected Wendon to explode with rage and leave. To his credit, he folded his arms and clamped his mouth into a bull terrier grimace.

  “All right, listen to me, everyone. This spell is very intricate, and I will need your full cooperation. Anyone who cannot give that, or take instruction without questions should leave now. Poor Alaric is depending on us, and we must work together to make this spell possible.”

  No one moved or spoke. A good sign, in Etienne’s estimation.

  “Good,” Fenelon said. He removed the psaltery from its sack and placed it on the floor in the middle of the innermost circle, then he flipped
open the pages of the ratty parchment and scanned them briefly. “Now, we are going to be creating three circles of power here,” he said. “A prime circle, a secondary circle, and a heart circle.”

  Etienne worked her brows together. Three circles? That would require a lot of energy and essence. She cast a quick glance at the four elemental stones marking the cardinal points of the outermost circle. Let us hope they are in a generous mood, she thought.

  “All right, then. Prime circle must be formed and closed first,” Fenelon said. “Katriona, you shall hold the fortress of air.”

  Katriona looked startled to be the first one called, but she took her place before the northern menhir and faced inward, fluttering her hands with excitement.

  “Etienne, my love,” Fenelon said. “You will take charge of fire,” Fenelon said.

  “But fire is masculine,” Wendon said, clearly disappointed.

  “True,” Fenelon agreed with a grin. “But I know of no other woman whose heart and soul could wield fire so well. And since our gender is vastly outnumbered here, Wendon, we must put everyone to their best use.”

  “Flatterer,” Etienne said and took her place at the southern stone. Even without scrying it with mage senses, she felt the elemental at its heart grow alert and eager. Another good sign…she hoped.

  “Mistress Wallace, earth shall be your domain,” Fenelon said with a bow in the large woman’s direction. “Guard her fortress well.”

  “I always do,” Mistress Wallace said with a tilt of her head. Like a proud leviathan, she took her place before the eastern stone.”

  “And you, Tobin, shall be water,” Fenelon said. “That way, lad.”

  Tobin beamed at being handed such a responsibility. He rapidly took his place before the western stone.

  “Now, you four must close the first circle,” Fenelon said.

  “Wind and Flame, Salt and Sea,” Etienne chanted with the others as she drew fire’s essence. It raced wildly over her skin, sparkling ruby lights that spread as she directed them around the prime circle’s edge. They met and mingled with the verdant and aqua essence spreading from the stones to her left and right. “Let the circle be closed. We Mote It Be…”