“Well, yes, because I knew you were here…” Fenelon made a face. “And if the mageborn had the skill and knowledge to find this place and felt you elsewhere…”
“They would know I was cloaked in misdirection and come here first,” Alaric said.
“Brilliant, Father…just brilliant!” Fenelon muttered. “Misdirection with a side effect. Might as well put a sign over the hut that says, hey, look here! We’re really here!”
“He meant well,” Alaric said.
“Alaric’s right,” Etienne said, folding up the last of the bandages to pack them away and gesturing to Alaric that it was okay to put his shirt back on. “Your father could have refused to offer any help and left us on our own. He was under no obligation to hide his own son from the Mage Council.”
“He could have remembered the source of the misdirection spell needs to be cloaked so it cannot accidentally be invoked by a random scryer,” Fenelon said. “That’s what he always told me, at any rate. Horns. We’ll have to leave at first light…In fact, we should leave now…”
“That would be both foolish and dangerous,” Etienne said. “It gets dark early in these mountains, and the magic hidden in that fog makes for far too much uncertainty. For all we know, our spells will not work in it. And the essence is too ancient and inaccessible for us to use safely.”
Fenelon looked displeased. “Fine. We’ll post watches, then. But the sooner we get down there, stop Tane and get rid of that demon…” He jerked a thumb at Vagner as he spoke. The demon raised an eyebrow in response. “…the sooner we can prove Alaric innocent of all charges and put an end to Turlough’s manhunt.”
“So we shall rise and leave with the dawn,” Etienne said.
“I could keep watch outside,” Vagner offered. “I do not feel the cold in my true form…and that way, all of you could sleep.”
Four faces turned in Vagner’s direction. Three wore contemplative masks as though they liked the suggestion. Fenelon, however, looked far less pleased. Distrust masked his features.
Vagner merely smiled and hurried out the door.
~
Alaric had been sleeping peacefully when a chill swept him. He awoke with a start, sitting up on the furs. Mage eyes quickly adjusted to the faint embers glow, letting him see the whole hut. On the far side of the chamber, Etienne and Shona shared a pallet, huddled together for warmth in spite of the warming spells. Fenelon was in a chair by the door, heels resting on a bench, head bowed. The rise and fall of his chest would seem to indicate that in spite of the self-imposed duty, he dozed.
Some guard, Alaric mused and started to lie back down. But the chill came on him once more. What? It was not from the air around him. No, it seemed to have an unnatural source. Alaric closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stretched mage senses.
Something was wrong. Something was missing.
But what?
He felt as though some part of him had gone away.
And then it struck him. He could not feel Vagner at all.
What?
Alaric rose quickly. He pulled on boots and drew his ensorcelled bearskin around his shoulders. For a moment, he considered waking Fenelon. And have him chide me as foolish for worrying about a demon. Oh, no, that was not an embarrassment Alaric needed at the moment. Quiet as the snow fall, he picked his way across the hut to the door. Fenelon did not even stir as Alaric lifted the bar across the magically restored door.
Dark shadows flooded the snow, and yet with the trickle of moonlight peeping down from the sky, it glowed as bright as day. Alaric stepped out, leaving the warmth at the door. He moved several times his own length across the snow which showed signs of Haxon trampling and Etienne’s conjurations.
“Vagner?” Alaric whispered.
Even that subtle call hissed and echoed, but no answer came. Alaric took a deep breath, drawing icy air into his lungs. He shivered, and his teeth chattered together, but he fought the discomfort and honed in on the part of himself the demon carried, as well as the essence of the demon he now harbored within. Sweetly, Alaric let his mind sing Vagner’s True Name.
Cold snapped through Alaric, almost like being slapped. He staggered, then tumbled to his knees. Horns! What was that?
“Be still,” he heard Ronan whisper. “Do not move, do not cast. Be as still as stone.”
Alaric paused, holding his breath, waiting as icy fear and worldly cold chilled him from within. Horns. What was he to do? What had happened? Questions raced about in his head.
And then, the demon’s mark on his hand began to burn like a firebrand. Alaric hissed and drew the hand before his face. The mark was raw and oozing pus as though newly infected. At the sight of it, Alaric cried, “No!” as its pain ate into him. He thrust it deep into the snow, biting sobs of pain, but still it burned.
Calm…Stay calm…
Was it Ronan’s voice? His own? Alaric could not say. His awareness focused far too much on the pain.
And then it was gone, and only the burn of the cold remained. Icy tears trickled down Alaric’s cheeks, freezing to his skin. He slowly withdrew his hand.
A white scar in the shape of the demon’s rune met his gaze. No pus, no raw inflammation. Just the healing pink of an older wound.
“Alaric?” Fenelon’s voice startled Alaric who jerked around. Fenelon stood but an arm’s length away, looking concerned. “Horns, Alaric, what are you doing out here?”
Warm hands clutched Alaric’s own, making him all the more aware of how cold he was.
“Come on, let’s get you inside before you become a glacier,” Fenelon said. Strong arms surrounded Alaric, hauling him cloak and all under Fenelon’s garb. A few staggering steps later Alaric was back inside the hut. He could not stop shaking now as he was bundled over to the hearth where Fenelon called forth flames to heat the air as well as the warming spells. He stripped Alaric of cloak and boots and tunic and breeches, all of which were soaked from the snow. Then he buried Alaric under many blankets and thrust hot liquid into his hands. Alaric kept trembling, unable to throw off the cold.
In desperation, Fenelon threw off his own shirt and tunic, slipped inside the blankets to pull Alaric close and pressed warm flesh against him with a curse. “Horns, Alaric, you’re colder than a Haxon’s wench.” Alaric coughed something of a laugh. At least, it had the proper effect and brought his blood to racing so that his teeth stopped chattering and his limbs ceased to tremble.
“Better?” Fenelon asked.
Alaric nodded.
“Good, because you’re a cold body to cuddle up against, Alaric,” Fenelon said, drawing back a bit. “Horns, I pity any woman who shares your bed…”
“Very funny,” Alaric muttered, and wished he had some way to push cold feet against Fenelon who was still wearing his trews.
Fenelon extracted himself from the blankets and yanked his shirt and tunic back on. “Want to tell me what you were doing out there?” he askd.
“Trying to find Vagner,” Alaric said.
“Why?”
“Because I think something is wrong,” Alaric said. “I think he is in danger.”
Fenelon looked dubious for a moment. Then he signed and said, “Have you tried to summon him?”
“That’s what I was doing out there,” Alaric said.
“Hmmm,” Fenelon said. “Try again.”
Alaric frowned, but he closed his eyes and sang the musical name in his head. Within moments, he felt a response, the answering song of the essence conjoined with his own. It grew strong swiftly, and Vagner practically flew through the door, though Alaric realized the demon had opened its gate.
“Little master, are you hurt? Are you ill?” Vagner asked.
Alaric fixed the demon with as hard a stare as he could muster. “Where were you?” he asked.
The demon frowned. “Out scouting around the mist,” he said.
“For what?” Fenelon asked before Alaric could.
“I thought I felt Tane,” the demon said, looking genuinely hurt
by Fenelon’s accusatory tone. “I wanted to see if it was him…”
Alaric frowned and concentrated on the bond they shared. If it was a lie, he could not tell. But would I truly be able to with Ronan tied to me as well? he wondered. “Did you find him?”
The demon shook his head. “Confounded mist…It’s full of old magic. I lost my way until you called.”
Alaric sighed. All this felt like the truth, even if it did not satisfy Alaric as to why the demon had thought he felt Tane when Alaric could not.
“Well, don’t do it again without telling me first,” Alaric said.
“As you will,” the demon said.
Alaric caught Fenelon’s expression. Bemusement lit the master mageborn’s face with a smile. Alaric cleared his throat and huddled deeper into his blankets.
“You might as well take watch,” Fenelon said and patted Alaric’s back. “Dawn’s just a few hours away.”
Alaric merely nodded and reached for dry clothes. He dragged them on with deliberately slow gestures while Fenelon sank into the deserted pallet of furs. Wrapped in Fenelon’s white cloak since it was still dry and warm, Alaric took his place by the door. Vagner reached for the handle.
“Don’t,” Alaric said. “Stay here instead.” The demon hesitated, puzzlement masking his bat-like features. “Less chance you’ll get lost in the mist chasing phantoms,” Alaric added. “And I would be willing to bet you need to rest.”
“Very well,” Vagner said and settled onto the floor next to Alaric. “Demons do not sleep, you know.” His chiropteran form shimmered as Vagner shrank into a smaller and less imposing size. “But as you will, little master.”
Vagner coiled up like a large sheep dog at Alaric’s feet, eyes closed. Alaric leaned his head against the doorframe and sighed as he took one more look at the demon’s mark in his hand.
FORTY NINE
“No one would believe I used to skip about the Highland Ranges like a mountain goat when I was a lass,” Shona muttered aloud, and Etienne caught Shona’s arm as she slipped for the third time on something hidden beneath the snow.
Around the little party, a thick mist moved like heavy draperies. In spite of the fact that the sun had risen and the cold wind blew sharp, the world stayed a gloomy shade of grey. Magic mist, to be certain, for it showed no sign of blowing away. Etienne was grateful Fenelon agreed to lash everyone together. She could barely make out Alaric just ahead of Shona in his dark bearskin cloak. Fenelon, all festooned in white fur, might as well have been a spirit as he led the party across the vast tundra. At least, their sticks were still visible from the last visit.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to recognize landmarks in all this,” Alaric said, and in spite of shouting to be heard, his voice had a haunted quality.
“I was wondering that myself,” Fenelon said, his voice as disembodied as his presence.
I swear I shall dye that cloak a bright scarlet the next opportunity I get, Etienne thought as she moved on. Somewhere off to the left, she heard Vagner’s heavy tread.
“I could fly you above all this,” the demon said.
“Would it be warmer?” Alaric asked through teeth gritted against chattering.
“Forget it,” Fenelon said. “We’re not separating. No telling how many other mageborn Turlough’s got out scrying for you, Alaric. At least here in the mist, it’ll be difficult for them to find you.”
Etienne bit her tongue rather than suggest their own difficulty might force them all to depend on the demon’s good graces. For some reason, Vagner had no difficulty finding his way, making Etienne wonder if the perversity of the demon’s own essence was what gave him immunity to the ancient magic that sometimes scratched her own senses with tiny claws of static.
“Horns!” Alaric hissed and stumbled over something buried in a drift. Before he could land face first in the snow, the demon suddenly appeared and caught him.
“Oh, my,” Shona said, looking into the crevice opened by Alaric’s tumble. “It’s a sheep.”
“Several, actually,” Vagner said, gesturing towards the field of mounds about them. “They must have been grazing when it happened.”
Indeed, the creature beneath the drift was a ewe suckling a lamb, both frozen for an eternity. Etienne started to question whether there was a shepherd as well. No, I really don’t want to know that, she thought.
“Come on, we’re wasting time,” Fenelon called from the front, and for good measure, he gave the rope an impatient tug.
With various sighs of resignation, the others followed. They must have trudged off trail, for Etienne had not thought it this far to the edge she and Fenelon found…and then it also occurred to her they had lost sight of the trail of sticks.
“Fenelon, are you certain we’re going the right way?” Etienne called forward.
“Of course, we’re going the right way,” he insisted. “I know where I’m going.”
“Well, actually, you’re not heading for the cliffs overlooking the valley anymore,” Vagner said.
“Who asked you?” Fenelon groused.
“I was just trying to be helpful,” the demon said.
“Aye and the last time you helped, I ended up with a lump on the back of my skull, and Alaric ended up in a trunk!” Fenelon said testily.
“Which way are the cliffs, Vagner?” Etienne asked firmly.
“That way,” the demon said. “The valley is east of the trail we are following just now.”
Etienne observed the frown on Fenelon’s face as he cast a surly look in her direction. She merely pursed her lips and quirked her brows in response, and he turned away to glare at the demon. “Okay, so why don’t you lead,” Fenelon said.
“My pleasure,” Vagner said and whipped his tail around towards Fenelon. “Just hold on…and mind the barb.”
Fenelon’s face twisted into the expression of a man offered some odious bit of human offal. Still, with a grimace, he seized the demon’s tail just above the wicked barb that held its deadliest venom. Vagner turned and took off at a steady pace over the snowdrifts, plowing a clear path for the others.
At length, they came to the edge, and as before, nothing could be seen.
“How far down to you suppose it is?” Shona asked as Fenelon made a ball of snow and tossed it over the edge. A dull thump answered within a few breaths.
“Not too far,” the demon said. With that, Vagner launched over the edge and down into the mist. Fenelon barely released the barbed tail in time. They heard the heavy thump of the demon’s landing on what must have been a solid surface. “Not far at all,” his voice called back.
“Depends on your point of view,” Fenelon said.
He gave a startled shout and fell back into a snowdrift when the demon’s head popped out of the mist, practically in his face. Vagner revealed a garrison of teeth when he grinned. Fenelon struggled upright and glared. Both Shona and Alaric covered their mouths with gloved hands and pretended to look elsewhere.
“Will the two of you stop larking about?” Etienne said, stepping past the pair to glower at Fenelon and the demon.
“My apologies,” Vagner said. “If you will come to the edge, I shall gladly assist you down, my lady.
Fenelon started to protest, but Etienne was already there, holding out her arms in acceptance. The demon picked her up as though she were a child, and it took her only a moment to realize he had stretched his body three times its normal length as she descended through the layer of clouds and felt an icy surface beneath her feet. Here, the clouds hovered far enough above to let her see that the ice stretched as far as the eye could see.
“Blessed Lady of the Silver Wheel,” Etienne muttered.
She was quickly joined by Shona, then Alaric, and finally a rather reluctant looking Fenelon. Their mouths fell open as hers had to see they stood on a thick layer of ice nearly as clear as glass. And that below that ceiling, they could see the shadowy green of trees tops.
~
Like a swift summer storm, memories
flooded Alaric’s mind in rapid succession. He had stood on this surface before…Not at this very spot, but not too far from here either. Marda had stood to his left, clutching her cloak tight about her thinly fleshed frame, her brows a single line of disapproval. Ronan in his bardic greens was beckoning and saying, “You must stand in the center to understand.” And Alaric, frozen with unnamed dread, had stared transfixed at the tree tops of the forest and the central valley still many dozens of ells below them.
The flood of images was so great Alaric sat down to stop his head from spinning like a top.
“I was here,” he said in a weak voice and covered his face as he fought to sort the past from the present. At once, he felt bodies around him. Fenelon took Alaric’s wrists and pulled them downward, forcing Alaric to face rich blue eyes filled with concern.
“Deep breaths,” Fenelon said.
“I’m all right,” Alaric said.
“Are you certain?” Etienne asked, her hand slipping out of its wool gauntlet to touch his forehead.
“Really, I’m fine,” Alaric insisted.
“Are you always as white as that snowbank when you’re all right?” Fenelon said, and gestured to the walls of drifts collected at the edges where ice met stone cliffs.
“It just hit so fast,” Alaric said. He pushed hands away and gingerly picked himself up from the surface of the ice. Closer to the cliffs, hoarfrost obliterated the clear view, but away from the cliffs, it bore a resemblance to uneven glass, giving him a distorted, stomach-churning peek at the world below.
“That’s the Shadow Vale, isn’t it,” Etienne said as though noticing the direction of his gaze.
Alaric nodded, grateful for the boots with the roughed leather soles that allowed him to cling to the otherwise slick ice with relative ease.
“And Dragon’s Tongue is here, right?” Fenelon asked.
Alaric felt Ronan’s hint of ire and barely bit back the bard’s accusation of greed. “Yes, it’s here,” Alaric said in measured words. “Down there somewhere.”
“Is there a way to get down there?” Fenelon asked.
Alaric started to shake his head as it occurred to him that he might actually know. But Vagner saved him the utterance when the demon answered quite suddenly, “Oh, yes, there’s a old shepherd’s trail back that way that follows the cliff face down…”
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 38
