“I don’t see an entrance,” she said as they sauntered over to the edge of the river. “It’s just a solid block of ice.”
“That’s an illusion,” Alaric said, trying not to wonder how he knew that. He knelt over the fissure and pushed his hand into the ice as though it were not there. His mage senses quivered with delight.
“I guess that means I have to trust you,” she said as he crawled down to the bank and offered her a hand. She seemed lighter to him than before. Why do I feel so strong?
“You are the Champion of Light,” Ronan said. “Be grateful for what the White one gives you while you are here. You will not be able to take any of it with you…only the knowledge.”
Alaric looked at the fissure and fought the urge to frown. It looked rather small. And with that thought, the old fears began to grope in him. Small spaces…he couldn’t…”
“It will be much bigger inside,” Ronan insisted.
Alaric swallowed and nodded.
He certainly hoped so.
FIFTY FOUR
Matters were just not looking well in Etienne’s opinion. For one thing, she was not fond of levitating. Oh, heights were fine so long as there was something solid beneath her feet. She just didn’t like to free fall. The sensation always made her feel like her stomach was attempting to force itself into her throat. Or was it her heart?
Fenelon had the audacity to suggest they make the descent swiftly. Etienne refused. “If I must go down, I will go soft and gentle like milkweed, not plummeting like a stone.”
“I won’t let you fall, love,” Fenelon said with a coy smile.
“That may be true,” she said stiffly, “but I go down slowly or I go up and find a path…”
“All right,” he agreed as he took her hand, and she wondered if he did so just to keep her from making good that threat. “But let’s go before something terrible happens to that pair.”
She sighed and reached into herself to touch her own core of power. The heart flame that burned within every mageborn’s soul was tied to the magic in their blood, and like the essence that filled the world it could be harvested to feed a mageborn’s spells. But the risk was that a mageborn who did not rest and replenish themselves after using magic was certainly destined to be left exhausted and as helpless as a newborn.
Drawing a bit of her own essence, Etienne whispered “Adhar cum tog mi,” as Fenelon did. Together, they stepped off the ledge, rotating in midair so they faced the cliff they had abandoned. Handholds were aplenty, and Etienne had practiced this exercise enough to move in any direction, so long as she had a surface to aid her. The secret was not to push off and end up with nothing solid within her grasp. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and hand under hand, she began to lower herself towards the floor of the crater.
Once she had hold of the wall, Fenelon released her hand. He was in the act of flipping over so he could go down head first—a position, she wryly noted, which would allow his cloak to fall over his head—when he paused.
“Horns,” he muttered. “We’re about to have company, my love.”
Etienne followed the direction of his gaze.
A whorl of gold and red had formed just under the ceiling of ice, and only a spring-green apprentice would not have recognized it for what it was; a mage gate of rather large proportions. Turlough’s gate to be precise. Etienne had seen it often enough. Why would he make it so large? she wondered. It looked like some vast whirlpool in sunset colors. He must have brought a lot of Lunari stones.
The answer became clear within moments as a large oval platform floated through the spell gate. The runes of levitation and flying etched around its base glowed like beacons. Nine forms stood on the platform. The wind fluttered their cloaks, giving them the appearance of birds of prey as the whorl vanished.
Oh, dear, Etienne thought. Even from here, she recognized the brilliant whites of Turlough Greenfyn, the High Mage of Dun Gealach.
“Horns, he must have brought a whole horde of Lunari stones to make that thing work in here,” Fenelon muttered. “I’m suddenly wishing I had never built it.”
Wonderful, we can blame you for their mode of transportation, she thought as she frowned. Turlough must truly be upset with us if he is willing to use something as precious and rare as Lunari stones to chase us down and fly that thing. Lunari stones contained a life-like essence a mageborn could use anywhere to cast spells. Perfect for a place like this where magic was difficult to draw from the world. Nor was she surprised to know Turlough had a ready supply of the pea-sized gems. Such a waste.
Too bad Fenelon had not thought to bring his own, as they would have been most useful just now.
But for the moment, she had little time to fret so.
“Come on, time to run,” Fenelon said. With that, he finished his flip and scrambled for the ground, reminding her of some hyper lizard. Oh, no, I cannot do that, she thought worriedly. She took the route of a crayfish, scuttling backwards in her descent. Too bad levitation would not allow one to run down a wall. The action would only propel one out into the middle of the air with nothing to anchor to. She knew this from experience.
Her progress was slower…perhaps too slow, for when she glanced down, she saw Fenelon had already reached the ground, and she had gone little more than a third of the distance. The temptation to overcome her fear was strong. To turn and scuttle as he had.
Too late. A hand clamped her shoulder. She turned to sling out with her hands, but someone pushed her against the wall and clamped a hand over her mouth. She found herself looking into angry, cold eyes in the face of a battlemage guard she did not personally know. He hovered like an oversized hummingbird with the aid of a fly spell. Turlough would send his biggest brute after me, she thought. Then she noticed Turlough was there as well, standing on the platform.
“Etienne!” Fenelon shouted from below. “Turlough! Let her go!”
“Surrender, Fenelon!” Turlough shouted down, leaning on the rail to glare at the mageborn below.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” Fenelon said. He turned and dashed for the nearest copse of trees, sprinting like a deer.
Just like him not to make matters easy, she thought as she watched him flee. Turlough gestured, and four of the battlemages leapt from the platform, calling their spells of flight as they sped after Fenelon. Her captor suddenly pulled her away from the cliff. Etienne gasped as he drew her onto the platform. She let her spell dissipate just as another mage walked towards her carrying a gag. At the sight of it, she tried to draw back, angry to think they would treat her this way, but the battlemage guard who held her was much too strong.
“I will allow you a choice, my dear,” Turlough said and stepped between her and the mageborn with the gag. “If you give me your solemn word you will not speak or call spells, I will not have you gagged.”
Etienne nodded. A gesture from the High Mage, and her captor removed his hand from her mouth. She glanced enviously at the string of Lunari stones about his neck. The temptation to steal the power in those stones and use them to escape quickly fled when Turlough planted himself in her line of vision. He frowned so his brows formed a line. Etienne pushed the thought of white wooly worms from her mind. Now was not a good time for flippancy.
“Well, madam, what have you to say for yourself?” Turlough asked.
“I thought I was not permitted to speak,” she said.
Turlough managed to deepen his frown. “I would expect this sort of behavior from Fenelon, but not from you,” he said in a stiff manner.
“Then you know less about me than you think,” Etienne said.
“Where are the others?” Turlough asked.
“Others?” she said.
“Don’t be coy, madam. It does not become you. Now where is that young man and his demon?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Etienne said. “When the trees started falling, he rather disappeared.”
Turlough’s expression hardened another degree. How does he do that? she wondere
d.
“We shall see,” Turlough said. He glanced at the mage in the center of the platform whose hands rested on what looked like a globe. “Take us down,” Turlough said, “But do not land until they have captured Fenelon.”
The mageborn nodded. Etienne heard him whisper the words of a spell, and the platform began to descend. Not quite as smoothly as she would have liked. Her hand reached out and seized Turlough’s arm for support. He looked mildly amused, and took her arm with surprising gentleness for a man who had been threatening her with a gag just moments before.
“I am not so fond of this contraption myself,” he said. “One of Fenelon’s more useful ideas, I hate to admit.”
Etienne nodded and watched as the green below came steadily closer. From the copse, she heard much thrashing. The four battlemage guards who had been sent in had yet to emerge. From all the disturbance, she was willing to bet he was going out of his way to be difficult.
“Watch your head,” Fenelon called gleefully. There was a crash, then a familiar laugh. “I warned you…hey!”
The rustling increased. A magebolt flew up in the air, then faded. Next, a flash of blue and white broke out of the green, bare arm’s length ahead of a battlemage. Two more broke cover to either side. Fenelon sprinted for all he was worth, and Etienne was willing to believe he might actually escape. Alas, the odds were against him. For one thing, all the battlemage guards wore Lunari stones.
The man hot on Fenelon’s heels shouted a spell and a rope of light shot forth from his hands, forming a noose in the air. Fenelon twisted and dodged to one side, apparently aware of his pursuer’s intentions, but the move also threw him off the straight shot to freedom.
Etienne saw the mageborn to one side gesture and shout, “Adhar buail!”
Fenelon was hit by an invisible fist of air. He fell as though he had run into a wall.
“Fenelon!” Etienne cried. Turlough’s grasp on her arm tightened and stopped her as she surged towards the open edge of the platform.
The mageborn all caught up with Fenelon as he struggled to rise, addled by the blow. A trickle of crimson ran from his nose as the mages held him up.
“Take us down,” Turlough said. The platform dropped almost too abruptly for Etienne’s comfort. Once it reached the ground, two of the battlemages hauled Fenelon onboard. The third raced back into the copse.
“I think you’ll find him by that large rock,” Fenelon called. He turned back and fixed Turlough with a sardonic smile.
Turlough, however, showed no sympathy in his expression or his stance. “So what have you to say for yourself?” he asked.
“I rather suspect nothing I have to say will change your mind about me, Uncle,” Fenelon replied. “Do your worst.”
Turlough looked doubly displeased to be reminded of the relationship. “Where is your wayward apprentice?”
“Well, I’m not quite certain at the moment,” Fenelon said. “Trees started to fall, and I lost sight of him. He just disappeared.”
“Really?” Turlough said. “And I imagine the two of you rehearsed that answer when you realized I had found you…”
“I never rehearse,” Fenelon said. “Spontaneity is so much more fun, though I will admit I am surprised you found us.”
“You can thank your father for that,” Turlough said.
“What?” Fenelon’s demeanor lost its humor.
“His magic made it easy,” Turlough said. “It always did possess a particular taint I could follow anywhere I pleased. It was a simple matter of following the stench”
Fenelon’s face twisted in anger. He lunged, only to be brought up short by his captors. “You take that back! My father is a better mageborn than you anyway, and certainly a man more worthy of your post than you’ll ever be! He had nothing to do with…”
Turlough’s hand came up swiftly, and the backhand blow cut off Fenelon’s tirade. “Your father betrayed you by giving you spells I could easily trace,” Turlough said. “And now, you are going to betray your evil apprentice so I can sunder his power and have him tried and executed. As I should have done the first time I suspected he had bonded himself with that thieving demon!”
Fenelon’s teeth were white in a tight smile. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” he spat through them.
“We shall see,” Turlough said. “Hold him steady.”
He reached into a pouch and drew forth a Lunari stone as large as a walnut, and closed his hand over it. Then he raised the other to touch Fenelon’s forehead.
Blessed Lady of the Silver Wheel, Etienne thought. But at the moment, she knew nothing short of the ceiling of ice falling on their heads would stop Turlough Greenfyn from invading Fenelon’s mind.
FIFTY FIVE
Vagner could not help but marvel at the ancient magic that filled this place. It had a sweet music, not unlike the little master’s voice when he spoke the demon’s True Name.
The path beyond the illusion of ice was wide enough to accommodate several walking abreast, and it curved at a gentle downward slope. This was not nature’s work either, for it seemed to have some plan of design, visible in the cut of the stone that glittered like glass in the little master’s mage light. How Alaric had summoned that illumination was a mystery, for he did not seem to be using his own essence, nor had he drawn any from the demon.
The curve of the path reminded Vagner of a spiral shell. He was considering this when he noticed the angle of the ceiling suddenly dropped ahead, and the path ended its circling slope at a set of spiraling stairs. Steeper here, he thought. They were traveling deep into the heart of the mountains.
“Will you look at that,” Shona said, her voice filled with wonder as they made the first turn.
“I’m looking,” Alaric said with a smile. He shifted his light so he could peer down the stairs. “This is certainly nothing nature has done.”
He moved his light more. A niche was visible on the outer edge of the stairs. The space within contained a statue of a woman in wind-swept flowing robes. She had been artfully carved out of the obsidian that filled these caverns, and stood out in sharp detail when the light glanced off the minute details.
“The element of air,” Alaric said.
He took the stairs and came abreast of the next niche. This one held a masculine figure barely clothed in tongues of flame.
“Fire,” Shona said. “He’s rather…attractive.”
“Really?” Alaric said, waving his torch. “Looks rather girlish, if you ask me.”
“Jealous?”
Alaric failed to hide his smile as he continued. Vagner stopped and looked at the figure of fire. Demon senses quivered. Something about the statue he faced did not feel right, as an aura had been concealed in the shadows that stood behind it. The demon was about to reach for the face of the statue when his sense were assaulted by a cloying scent of mageborn magic with an all too familiar taint. The demon jerked back from the statue and stared up the stairs. He had felt that magic before in the Greenfyn’s keep. It clung to the one they called Turlough. By the Barb, is he here now? The prickle of magic came from somewhere above.
The demon glanced at the pair who continued slowly down the stairs, giggling over something one of them must have said. They seemed rather absorbed in the wonders of the next niche just visible around the curve, a beautiful earth mother with a bountiful and ripe figure. I could go up and take a quick look, the demon decided. And be back before they go too far.
Vagner became a shadow and surged up the steps at his fastest speed, then followed the spiral of the path upward. He pushed his head through the illusionary ice and squinted at the world, giving his sight a moment to adjust to the change in light.
A whorl of gold and red beneath the ice ceiling above looked frightening. Even more so were the figures on the platform that soared through the whorl then hovered like a great bird of prey. Turlough! the demon thought. This was not good. Vagner had best go back and tell the little master Turlough was here. This was not good at all<
br />
The demon pulled back inside and turned…And froze when he saw the shadow resembling the graven image of fire now blocked the passage. For a moment, the demon waited, unsure of what to expect since in his experience stone and shadows rarely walked on their own. But then, the dark patina fell away like a black dust, shimmering and falling and vanishing to reveal a more familiar face. The demon was unsure now whether to run or shout as he faced the dreaded glower on the face of Tane Doran.
The bloodmage did not look pleased.
“Hello, Vagner,” Tane said.
“M…master,” the demon said. “What a surprise. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Really?” Tane stepped closer, and Vagner pulled back, only to realize that another step would throw him out into plain view of the mageborn who had come through the whorl. “Considering we were together just last night? But then, I consider this most fortuitous, monster.”
“Is that so?” Vagner said, glancing from side to side and wondering how quickly he could slip past Tane.
“Yes,” Tane said darkly, “because now I can punish you for lying!”
“Lying?” Vagner repeated. “But I cannot lie to you…why…”
“Of course, you can lie to me now, demon,” Tane said. “Just as you lied to me last night when you told me fire had freed you from my spell. And when you told me Alaric Braidwine was dead.”
“Well, he came very close to dying, no thanks to you,” Vagner blurted, then flinched.
“And here I find you helping him, following him into these caverns like an obedient dog,” Tane went on. “Now, I had to ask myself, why would a demon bound to me willingly follow a young mageborn he was supposed to have watched die. And the only answer that comes to my mind is that the demon was so foolish as to bind himself to that same youth.”
Vagner would gladly have shifted shapes and fled, but he could sense Tane’s power. The bloodmage was reaching into the demon, using his True Name to keep Vagner rooted to the place he stood.
“You lied to me, monster, and now you help him!”
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 42
