Wandering Lark (The Demon-Bound Duology)

by Laura J Underwood

  “Not good,” Fenelon said. “I was hoping we could put them to work.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Errands, of course,” Fenelon said. “We need someone we can trust who can run errands.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Because, I have no intention of staying cooped up in this tower any longer than I have to,” Fenelon said and smiled. “Which means I need someone to come in here and take my place.”

  Eithne pulled back, fixing him with a startled look. “I’m not sure I like the way you have said that,” she whispered and wagged a finger at him. “If you fail.”

  Fenelon drew her back to renew the contact. Once more, she felt him pushing his thoughts into her head. “I can’t get into any deeper trouble than I already am,” Fenelon said.

  “Ha,” she said. “Just who did you have in mind to replace you?”

  “Wendon,” he said.

  Etienne drew back as though he had presented her with a serpent. “Wendon?” she whispered. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” he said and pulled her close. “Stop breaking away, love. I’m very serious. Remember, if I transform someone so they will look like me, they have to be about the same size.”

  “Wendon is no where near your height or coloring.”

  “But he’s the right weight, and that means his change would make him my height,” Fenelon said.

  “And just what makes you think he will go along with this?”

  “Wendon wants knowledge, love,” Fenelon said. “He wants to be a master mage, and he’ll gladly pay the price no matter what it costs.”

  This time, Fenelon released her and chucked a finger under her chin. She took a deep breath and glanced towards the door. “All right, I’ll see what I can arrange. Mind you, it won’t be easy.”

  He smiled and kissed her quickly. “Nothing ever is, love,” he said and lowered his voice. “The next time you see me, I won’t be in this tower. I won’t even look like me.”

  “Just be careful,” she said.

  “For Alaric’s sake, I have to.”

  The door bolts were pulled suddenly. Fenelon threw himself against the wall, and the shackles locked back into place as the door opened. Etienne felt her heart beating rapidly, and knew her face was flushed.

  “Well, well, look who’s here,” Fenelon said. “Don’t you have some small children to frighten?”

  Turlough stepped in. “Is he going to tell you where he sent Alaric Braidwine?” the High Mage asked.

  Etienne shook her head and rubbed her hands together. “It is cold in here,” she said. “I wish to return to my rooms now.”

  Turlough nodded, gesturing to his assistant and the guards. “They will accompany you,” he said. “I have unfinished business to attend here.”

  “Wonderful,” Fenelon muttered.

  Etienne sighed and crossed the room at a slow pace, making for the door. She glanced over at Fenelon once more. He was smiling at Turlough who was not smiling back. Then the door closed, taking the sight away.

  It hardly seemed fair to Alaric. A scant few hours ago, he was grumbling about having to rise before the dawn. Not even noon when Ronan opened the gateway to this distant land. Now Alaric was walking a lengthy road towards a distant village with the sun hovering just over the horizon to his back.

  “It’s the way of the world,” Ronan said and chuckled. “Dawn in one place is dusk in another.”

  I’ll never be able to go to sleep, Alaric thought. He was practicing hard not to speak aloud. Already, as he walked the road towards Ravenhold, he had heard some of the farmer folk speaking, though not to him. They were yelling at livestock or one another in a musical tongue that Alaric wished right away he could understand. The language was beautiful to his bard-trained ears.

  “Then listen when I speak through you,” Ronan said, “and perhaps you will be able to master the Aelfyn tongue.”

  Encouraged by that prospect, Alaric did listen.

  There was still a fair exchange of folk passing in and out of the gates by the time Alaric arrived, enough so that his presence received little more than a cursory glance from the gate guards. Alaric noticed their features were fey and fox-like as he remembered Ronan looking in life. Here and there, he might see someone with a burly build, but for the most part, these folk were willowy and thin. At least height was not a problem. His own lacked stature, but here he found with few exceptions, the majority of the folk were no taller than he... in fact, there were many who were actually shorter.

  They wore clothing much like what he had on. He had passed a troop of soldiers decked out in grey, and the guards at the gate were all decked in brown leather armor. Every man had on the long shirts belted in, short jerkins with epaulettes, boots and tartan-colored trews that reminded him a lot of the great ells of tartan wool the Keltorans wore. In fact, some of these folk wore loose folds of tartan cloth for cloaks as well. But these folk hardly looked like Keltorans.

  Many of the women he passed wore shirts so long they passed for dresses and the same sort of jerkins. Some of them had their long hair braided and coiled. Older women, he noticed kept those coils tucked under tartan scarves. And almost everyone else wore the same shade, an earthy sort of green, as if no other color was allowed.

  “Your colors are determined by your station,” Ronan said. “Commoners wear green, depending on where they are from. Temple acolytes wear tan, while their masters wear saffron. Royalty dresses in white with gold and silver trim. Mauve is the color of a prostitute, and you will not see them on the streets, for the temple forbids it, but if you go into the houses of pleasure, you will find the color everywhere.”

  And my colors mean? Alaric ventured.

  “That you are of middling rank by birth, and that you have a bard’s trade,” Ronan said. “The color will put you in a position to earn the respect of most folks in this land. However, beware of those who wear black, and do nothing to attract their attention.”

  Why? Alaric thought.

  “Black is the color of Temple Bounty Hunters,” Ronan said. “They serve the temple as guardians of the laws. Many of them are highly skilled in weaponry, and all of them are trained to spot heretics.”

  Wonderful. Alaric glanced around quickly. So far, he didn’t see anyone in black.

  “Let’s head for the market first and get you a cloak before the merchants shut down their stalls,” Ronan said. “Then we can head for the Green Cockerel and see about a room for the night. We must pay special attention to the gossip as well.”

  Why?

  “A good way to learn what roads to Taneslaw might be blocked.” Ronan said.

  Blocked. Even more wonderful, Alaric thought.

  “Go straight,” Ronan said. “The market is by the Temple.”

  Alaric followed the directions easily enough. And the Temple was not hard to locate. It towered above all the other buildings in the square, a structure of white stone, draped with saffron banners all bearing a triangular knotwork pattern.

  “That symbol is one you should memorize, if you wish to avoid learning about true intolerance the hard way,” Ronan said, and his voice in Alaric’s head hinted at a bit of loathing. “You would do well to avoid this place.”

  If you say so, Alaric thought.

  The market was not overly crowded, but it was obvious that some of the merchants were starting to put away their wares. At Ronan’s direction, Alaric moved among the stalls closer to the Temple. There were so many things to see, and he found himself wanting to look at everything, but Ronan impatiently pressed Alaric to move on until they came to a merchant stall where a number of cloaks were draped over a table.

  The merchant was a small woman of advanced years. She smiled and spoke, and for a moment, Alaric felt confusion. But then, he felt Ronan’s presence grow stronger, and his awareness intertwined with that of the bard. “...These are from the finest sheep in Synalia...” she was saying. And though the words still sounded strange, he could understand them because Ro
nan did. That was a relief.

  “And well do they look, good mother,” Ronan said using Alaric’s voice. “Would you have anything fit for a humble bard’s purse?”

  “How humble, master?” she asked.

  “I have only just arrived in Ravenhold,” Ronan replied, “and I have but twelve few brass farthings and some silver shillings.”

  Alaric nearly gasped. Why was Ronan telling the woman what he had? What if others of less honorable intentions overheard? And I end up gutted in some alley?

  “Relax,” Ronan thought back. “This is custom in business.”

  Not a very wise one in Alaric’s opinion.

  “For a silver, I can give you a nice cloak, master,” she said. “One that will keep you warm at night upon the road. “Throw in two farthings, and I can offer the certainty of a good fit.”

  “One silver and two farthings then, good mother, for it would ill behoove a man of my station to wear a cloak that fits him poorly.”

  She bobbed her head and pushed aside several cloaks in the pile then plucked one from the depths that was a beautiful blue that nearly matched the shirt Alaric wore. Deftly, she flicked it out, then had it draped about his shoulders. It settled there as though made for him.

  “This is a most generous offering, good mother,” Ronan said. “I accept with my humble thanks, and shall remember you with great fondness on winter nights.”

  She actually blushed, and it took a strong effort on Alaric’s part not to laugh. Not just at the flowery words Ronan insisted on spouting like poetry, but at the flirtatious flutter of her eyes. Alaric reached into the pouch, only to feel his hand resist.

  “Not yet,” Ronan scolded. “To pay quickly would be rude.” He then urged Alaric to turn around and make grand motions with his arms. “Now this is a cloak worthy of a prince,” Ronan said aloud. “You are to be commended, good mother. That was one silver and one farthing?”

  Her eyes narrowed only a hint. “Oh, but master, it was two farthings. You would not cheat an old woman of her daily bread, would you?”

  Just pay her, Alaric thought...

  “Was it two,” Ronan said, and Alaric’s hand flew to his chest before he had time to consider the motion. He nearly lost his composure... Horns, Ronan. Give me some warning.

  He felt Ronan’s inner thoughts stiffen. “Patience!” the bard snapped in his head. “Oh, very well, good mother,” Ronan said aloud. “Two it shall be.” And then he thought, “Now, Alaric, reach into the pouch. One silver and only one brass.”

  Alaric obeyed, reaching in. He pulled out the silver, then sorted through the smaller coins and drew more than two out as he looked at them.

  “Why, sir, you are most generous,” the old woman cried and snatched them from his hand before he could protest. And Alaric only then realized that he had drawn half a dozen pieces of brass.

  “Say nothing,” Ronan hissed sharply even as Alaric opened his mouth to protest. He then forced Alaric into a bow and said, “Your servant thanks you, my lady.” Sweeping low in the gesture, his hand passed near the table. “For you just reminded me that I did have need of a scarf.”

  With that, Ronan forced Alaric to snatch a bit of silk from another pile. The old woman’s eyes widened, and Alaric thought she was going to scream for the watch. But then, the old woman clamped her lips into a tight line. Ronan stuffed nearly the entire length of the blue scarf into a sleeve like a trophy and turned Alaric on his heels.

  “And good day to you, master,” the woman said with a sneer.

  What did you do that for? Alaric said. What if she calls the watch?

  “Fortunately, she will not,” Ronan said. “She was cheating us with the cost of the cloak. I could have charmed her down to less if I chose, but I did not want to bring attention to us. Now, you forced me to take what rightfully fills the cost. Perhaps it is a good thing that you will not be able to sleep this night. Apparently, I am going to have to spend the time lecturing you on the local customs before you cost us the entire purse.”

  Ronan’s tone nearly made Alaric wince. Nor could he protest as the bard directed their steps at a hard march across the cobbles toward a side street.

  And then it hit him, a strange, tingling sensation, like the tickle of ants down his spine. Alaric swore he could feel eyes piercing his back with a black look, and only the fact that Ronan was taking charge kept Alaric from looking back to see why.

  EIGHT

  The guards and Turlough’s assistant took Etienne straight back to her own quarters, and even accompanied her to the door in the women’s hall, in spite of Mistress Wallace’s dark looks. Once Etienne was inside, she wondered to herself if the guards remained outside. The temptation to scry them was strong, but she suspected they would know since they were sensitive to magic themselves, and then she would have Turlough angry over the idea that she had once more broken her vow not to use magic.

  There were guards watching the gardens. That she already knew, for she fixed herself a cup of tea and took it out on the balcony overlooking the garden. There she sat on a bench, enjoying the rare bit of sunshine Keltora was blessed with this day, and took account of just how many guards were on the walls, and how many were watching in her general direction. So much for that route of escape...not that she planned to. No, she would rather sit quiet and keep her own council. Let Fenelon be the bold one.

  But it would have been nice to have one means of privately going about what little nefarious business she would allow herself.

  Like convincing Wendon his part in Fenelon’s scheme would be a worthy risk.

  Of course, first, she had to find a way to get in touch with Wendon. That would not be a simple task. If she asked the guards to deliver a message, likely, it would be brought to Turlough’s attention.

  What I need, she thought, is an accomplice.

  Since her other apprentices has been removed, it was a sure thing that she could not ask one of them to help. And poor Shona, still under the sleep of healing, was not destined to come out any time soon, and as one of the “guilty” would not likely possess the necessary freedom if she was awake.

  A dilemma to be sure.

  If only she had someone she could trust. Someone who was free to come and go who would not reveal anything to Turlough.

  “Mistress Savala?” a soft voice spoke her name from the door.

  Etienne turned on her bench. The young healer’s assistant stood in the opening. She had her hands folded inside the voluminous sleeves of her simple robe.

  “I’m sorry, I just realized that I have never asked you your name,” Etienne said.

  The healer smiled. “Thera,” she said.

  “Thera. Very lovely,” Etienne said.

  Thera blushed slightly. “I just came to tell you that Mistress Shona is still asleep, and I am going back to my own quarters for a rest...and I was wondering if there was anything I could bring you upon my return?”

  Etienne held her breath. Was this the answer to her prayers? Then she patted the bench at her side. Thera’s brows rose slightly, but she stepped out and took the proffered seat, giving Etienne a good look at the bird-like features, the dark eyes and the auburn hair coiled over one shoulder in a long braid.

  “May I confide in you?” Etienne asked.

  “Why, certainly,” Thera said. “My vows do not allow me to be free with whatever I am told. Only to answer the needs of others. Does something trouble you, Mistress Savala?”

  Etienne took a deep breath. “Well, as you are certainly aware, I am a prisoner here until Turlough Greenfyn decrees otherwise.” She noticed that the mentioning of the High Mage’s name brought just a hint of a furrow to Thera’s brow. “And there are certain persons with whom I must correspond without his knowledge.”

  “You would like me to deliver a message that the guards do not know about?” Thera said, and there was a hint of worry in her tone. “May I ask why?”

  “Because Fenelon is in the tower, and I am here, and so long as we are prisoners, ther
e will be no one to assist poor Alaric Braidwine. In spite of Lord Magister Greenfyn’s declarations, Alaric is not evil or possessed by a lust for wicked power. He’s a good young man, and he has saved the world at great risk to himself. Granted, his attachment to a greater demon makes him suspect, but he had no choice.”

  Thera nodded. “True, as the Brother teaches us, there are times when one must take a darker path for the good of all concerned.”

  “Both Fenelon and I fear that Turlough will not listen to the young man before he destroys him. So I need someone outside to assist me in finding Alaric Braidwine first.”

  “To whom would I need to deliver this missive?” Thera asked.

  “Wendon Stanewold,” Etienne said. “He’s one of the mageborn students here.”

  “Say no more. Write your missive, Mistress Savala, and it shall be as good as in his hands.”

  “You are certain?” Etienne said. “After all, if Turlough catches wind of any of this, I fear it would not go well for you.”

  Thera sighed. “Shall I tell you what my Mistress has said about him?”

  “Is it terrible?” Etienne asked.

  “Muchly so, and I am inclined to agree,” Thera said. “For Lord Magister Greenfyn always strikes me as a man who walks a precarious balance between good and evil... She says that he is mad, and that he was made so by love.”

  “This does not frighten you?” Etienne asked.

  Thera shook her head. “I do as the Blessed Brother of all Healers wills, Mistress Savala. I do not believe what you are proposing is for any ill. And I am certainly not convinced that what Lord Magister Greenfyn does is always right... I will take your missive, for that part is as simple as can be, and will not fault me in the least.”

  “Thank you, Thera,” Etienne said. “It may take me a little while to compose this missive...”

  “I shall wait,” Thera said and smiled. “And if you have no objection, I can sleep in one of the other rooms while you do...”

  “I have no objection at all, my dear,” Etienne said. “We’ve plenty of spare room.”