It took Fenelon a while to fall asleep that night, and he tossed and turned most of it away. Didn’t help that the noise in the tavern below was ceaseless. When did Dvergar sleep? It wasn’t like they were underground here. Stanehold was admittedly etched into the sides of the mountains around them, but this particular inn was under an overhang of rock and had windows looking out onto the streets where daylight could be seen. But the Stone Folk did not seem to understand that night was for sleeping...well, maybe not for everyone. He recalled there was a time when he preferred the night. When he liked to gate himself to mountain tops just to stare at the stars, or spend all night discoursing magic with other mageborn of a like mind.
He missed those days.
In fact, he had thought that he and Alaric would start doing that...
But first, I have to find Alaric and protect him from Turlough. And my father.
He still harbored a tiny bit of doubt that Gareth would not turn Alaric over to Turlough, though he did not know why. Was it because he figured his father, being a man of his word, would let his promise to Turlough outweigh his own judgment?
Or that he wondered at times if his own father was as mad as Turlough. There was no doubt in Fenelon’s mind that Turlough was mad. He had been that way since the death of the woman he loved. But to convince the rest of the council that Turlough was a dangerous man was not easy. The High Mage had a good number of friends left to him—those he had not driven away in his desire to destroy all who used demons.
There was the sticky point, Fenelon reminded himself. Mageborn did use demons. Every familiar a mageborn ever summoned was a small but intelligent demon that had been coaxed into service. As he remembered one of his own ancestors saying, demons came in many shapes sizes and intellects. The small, intelligent ones made great familiars.
If Turlough was going to declare possession of a demon as a crime worthy of death, he was going to have to execute a lot of his own friends...
Just as long as he does not execute mine, Fenelon thought darkly. And wondered just what Etienne and the others were doing right now. He really had hated leaving her behind.
Those were the thoughts plaguing him as he finally fell asleep. Come morning, he rolled over on his side with a groan.
The other pallets were empty.
Horns, they had let him sleep in. Had they left him?
He sat up. No, the packs were still in the corner. Gareth had gone and bought them from one of the merchants who came to this inn. Two large and one smaller one. Fenelon had thought it a waste. Why carry what you could conjure from your own pantry or home?
Then he remembered Gareth’s time-worn argument. Learn to live without magic. There are times is it useless anyway.
And Turlough would be watching.
Fenelon snorted and crawled off his pallet, pulling on clothes. He then stumbled down to the tavern, seeking something for his stomach.
Hobbler and Gareth were there, leaning over a large sheaf of vellum on a table in the corner.
“And you’re sure about this,” Gareth was saying.
“As sure as I’m sitting here with you,” Hobbler said. He pushed his finger across the surface of the vellum. “We take the chasm trail until we reach Stone Valley. After we cross the valley, we’ll reach the river that snakes through the Gorge of Golduram. If we stick to the shore of the river, it will then take about three days to reach the ford on foot. On the other side is Warrenvale, which has an entrance to the Blackbone Caverns and Baldoran’s Pass. Once we get there, another day on foot should put us in the Stone Forest. Over all, I think we are talking over a sen’night of travel just to get to the pass.”
Fenelon crossed to the table and dropped onto the bench beside Hobbler.
“We’re going all that way on foot?”
“Grown soft, have you?” Gareth asked and gestured to the tavern keeper who was a rather wide Dvergar with his hair and beard braided and one eye missing. “Told you living in a fancy keep was not good for your stamina.”
“I happen to like living at Eldon Keep,” Fenelon retorted. “There’s a great deal of power stored in that tor, and it’s useful.”
“And I like living in the wild where I can be close to the ancient magic of our ancestors. This is why we don’t see one another too often, you know.”
“Are you going to harp on that again,” Fenelon said with a frown. “I have my own life and my own researches to pursue, and following you around the Ranges is dull. You rarely do more than sit on a mountain and record the length and breadth of the land.”
Gareth grinned. “Someone has to do it. How else will we find out why the Great Cataclysm occurred? The land itself gives us many clues. And the wild magic that I find sometimes rivals that power you are so proud of. Where we go now will open your eyes...”
Fenelon rolled his eyes when the tavern keeper arrived with a bowl of gruel and some bread and ale, and these he set before Fenelon without a word. Fenelon eyed the gruel. It looked unattractive and unappetizing. He glanced at the landlord.
“Got any honey?”
“Extra,” the tavern keeper said.
Fenelon glanced at Gareth who nodded to the tavern keeper. The Dvergar grunted and hurried away. He returned with a small bowl of honey and put it down next to Fenelon with a definite thump. “Soft as butter in the head, these man things,” the tavern keeper muttered and marched back to his bar. “Ruin a good gruel with honey...”
“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Hobbler said. “Rockbottom there takes offense when anyone tries to sweeten his gruel.”
Fenelon sighed. “When are we leaving?” he asked as he poured honey over the gruel.
“As soon as you have eaten and we can get supplies for our packs,” Gareth said. “So eat hearty, my son. That may be the only meal you see today.”
Fenelon frowned and tore the bread apart. He dipped it into the honey bowl and began to eat.
Ross-Mhor was a long way, Etienne reminded herself as the dark hour passed. It would take a great deal of power to travel so far through a gate spell. She had rummaged around earlier and found a couple of old lunari stones left over from some Fenelon had given her long ago. As she clutched them in her hand now, they held a fainter essence than she would have liked. Perhaps she would be able to borrow some power from the essence that would soon fill this place once Thera and Wendon began their part. And of course, her own essence was strong at the moment.
But a gate so far would weaken her, and she would have to depend on Shona and the others to get them to a place of safety once they reached her home land. She dared not go to her own village, for knowing Turlough, he might expect her to do that. So she would have to go to one of the others, like Greenwillow or Maplelea. That would buy them time to get rested and then see if they could trace Fenelon.
Etienne pondered this as she stood at the windows overlooking the garden and peered out. There were twice as many guards on the walls, and half of them were watching her balcony.
“No lights,” she whispered to herself. “The spell must have no lights.”
She had extinguished all lanterns so it would seem that they were asleep. The only light to filter in came from the mage globes set around the walls. Pale so they did not disturb sleepers, but enough to let the guards with their mage sight see.
The others were in the main room, huddled before the fire when she pulled herself away from the window and returned. Shona still looked pale, but she was dressed in her warmest clothes and wrapped in her common plaid tartan cloak. Her family colors were more cheerful, as Etienne recalled, but they would make her more obvious to anyone on the way who might hear of their escape.
Assuming we do manage this, Etienne thought.
Thera had been awfully quiet. She had not disagreed with the proposal. Still, her face had yet to rise from staring at her own hands as she sat close to Wendon. They had slept for a while because Etienne thought it would be a good idea.
The plan was simple enough. They would make love so
that their passion filled the chamber, and while they were making love, Etienne would open her gate spell. She and Shona would pass through first then Wendon and Thera would follow. The tricky part, Etienne imagined, was going to be getting the lovers apart for their escape.
But it was worth a try, and she suspected they would only get one chance.
And if we fail, we will likely be confined to the towers as Fenelon was. While Fenelon might figure a way to escape that place, she doubted she could. He was more powerful than she.
She took a deep breath now. Small packs of meager supplies sat nearby. A small partition stood to one side. Behind it was a pallet. Etienne was wearing her money belt. She had stashed as much gold and silver sgillinns as she could find into it, and now it hugged her hips. Wendon was wearing one of Tobin’s loose robes, since he was too stout to comfortably wear the young man’s breeches.
We will clothe him when we get to Ross-Mhor, she thought and offered an encouraging smile.
“Is everyone ready?” she whispered.
There were nods.
“Then shall we begin?”
Again, nods. She sat down on a chair near Shona.
Wendon took a deep breath now. He gently guided Thera behind the partition. Moments passed. Nothing seemed to be happening. She glanced at Shona who had opened a book and was reading it. The idea struck her as a good one...there was no telling how long it would take Thera and Wendon to get into the right mood. But she wanted to be ready.
More moments passed, and now Etienne worried that having her and Shona so near might be interfering...
But then, she felt it, the swell of passion. Faint at first, it built. Gentle moans filled the air too, along with mutters of endearment. Etienne glanced at Shona whose face had turned just a little red. The lass bit her lip.
The passion welled to a greater height, and it filled the chamber like a cushion. Etienne walked over to the door, testing with mage senses. It was going just to the edge of the room. Much further, and the guards might notice.
All right then, she thought. Standing, she picked up her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. Shona grabbed her pack as well and came to stand at Etienne’s side. Taking a deep breath, Etienne drew the lunari stones out of her belt pouch. Clutching them, she coaxed power from them. She whispered the words of her gate spell, and of a cloaking spell to hide its destination, and gestured and thought of the village of Greenwillow. At first, the gate was reluctant to form, and she knew she was lacking the power to do it. She risked drawing essence from the passion in the air and it whirled about her senses with drunken giddiness. Shona gasped. Etienne strengthened her concentration, drawing her own essence into the spell.
The world before her looked wobbly when she opened her eyes. But the gate was forming like a dark whorl. Beyond, she could see a bit of daylight. Early morning light, by the look of it. But it needed to be wider before they could get through.
She pulled more essence from her own core of power. The drain was making her dizzy, but she could not stop now. Behind the partition, she could hear the lovers climaxing, and their sudden ecstasy was the last bit she needed. “Go,” she whispered to Shona as the gap widened.
Shona stepped through first, taking Etienne’s arm and helping her to walk through.
“Come on,” Shona called back.
There was a general rustle. A squeak of laughter, a hurried snatching of the remaining packs. Wendon and Thera rushed at the opening. He was leading the way, dragging her along, and she was half into her clothes.
It was then that Etienne saw movement behind them, and it took her a moment to realize the door to the living chamber was opening and bodies were rushing through the gap.
“No!” someone shouted. “They’re escaping!”
It was a guard, and he was not alone. Several others were on his heels. He leapt out and grabbed the ends of Thera’s cloak just as Wendon plunged through the whorl. The sudden snatching caused her to let go of Wendon’s hand. She screamed, “Go on!”
“No!” Wendon shouted, and he started to turn back.
Shona had the good sense to knock him aside before he could go back through. A good thing too, as Etienne lost her concentration and the whorl collapsed on itself, closing the world of Ard-Taebh from her eyes. To step through a gate as it was closing would have been fatal.
“No!” Wendon shouted. “I have to go back! I have to rescue her! They will torture her. They’ll...”
Etienne sank to the ground. Exhaustion was taking her strength to stand away.
“We cannot go back now,” she whispered weakly.
“But we have to. Turlough will torture her to find out where we have gone.”
“She is not mageborn, Wendon,” Etienne said. “And she does not know where we are now. All they will be able to get from her is how we escaped.”
Wendon knelt before Etienne, fury shifting to remorse. “But, Turlough will kill her.”
“No,” Etienne said. “He will hold her hostage. He will send a message on every ley line in the world to let us know this. But he will not kill her. He cannot. To do so would violate his rules of never harming mortalborn without good cause.”
“But...”
“And besides, Wendon,” Etienne said, touching his face. “I have not the strength to open a gate to go back.”
She felt herself sinking into exhaustion.
“Come on,” Shona said firmly. “Help me get her up.”
“But where are we going?” Wendon said as he assisted Shona and helped Etienne to her feet.
“See that giant willow?” Etienne asked.
Wendon nodded looking at the massive tree that was just down the hill on the side of a river.
“Go to that tree. We will find sanctuary there.”
Wendon made a face to indicate that he was not so sure. Shona merely started them walking down the hill. They pushed through the forest of fronds and both of them stopped and stared in awe.
Around the massive base of the willow spiraled stairs that rose to a platform of wood with a wall and crenelations and even arrow holes. Two guards stood on the edge where the stairs joined it, looking down at the newcomers with mild suspicion. And up in the branches of the tree nested a village of small cottages.
“What...?” Wendon stammered.
“Welcome to Ross-Mhor and the village of Greenwillow,” Etienne said.
Thera sat quietly on the bench as the mageborn and their guards moved around her. When they first laid hands on her, she had struggled, though not much. Admittedly, she had not anticipated being captured, but she and Etienne had secretly agreed that she should be the last one through just in case. In truth, she would rather she had been able to get away with the others, for though she did not fear that she would be harmed, she worried that Wendon might not take it so well. That he might try to return to rescue her.
Etienne will not allow him to try anything so foolish. Thera felt certain of that.
The frenzy of magical activity was interesting to watch. Several mageborn were trying to ascertain where the exact gate had been. One of them was muttering that the place felt like a brothel. Thera wanted to slap him and tell him that he should mind his manners, but she suspected a show of rage on her part would not be wise.
Besides, as she watched, the crowd parted and the Lord Magister of Dun Gealach himself strode through their midst. He walked straight over to Thera, towering over her like some egret in his white and blue robes.
“Has she talked, Lorymer?” he said, glancing at one of the other mageborn.
“No, my lord magister,” the other replied. “She has been as quiet as a mouse.”
Turlough leaned down so he could look her in the eye. “She does not look like a mouse, Lorymer. She has the sharp eyes of a sparrow hawk. Well, we shall make a mouse out of her before this day is done. She will regret what she has done.”
Thera drew herself upright. “I have done nothing,” she said.
“Nothing?” Turlough said. “You
aided and abetted the escape of my prisoners. I would not call that nothing.”
“And how could I have done so, Lord Magister?” Thera asked. “I am but a healer, a servant of Diancecht. I have no power to open gates or conjure spells. I am not one of your mageborn. I answer only to the High Matriarch of the Temple of Diancecht in Caer Keltora, and as a servant of that blessed lady, I have a right to demand that one of my superiors be present at my questioning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Turlough began.
The one called Lorymer cleared his throat. “Actually, my lord magister, she is correct. Healers from the Temple of Diancecht are not bound to answer to any of us without the presence of a Patriarch or Matriarch of their temple. It was one of the laws laid down by the earliest Council of Mageborn to assure that we were not interfering with or causing undue harm to any of the mortalborn.”
“And who made that stupid law?” Turlough snarled.
Lorymer’s face reddened as he took a deep breath. “Actually, my lord magister, it was you.”
Turlough looked as though he had swallowed a rotten prune. Thera bit her tongue to keep from laughing. She glanced down at her hands, folding them carefully in her lap.
“By your own law, Lord Magister, I assert my rights as a servant of Diancecht and demand that one of my superiors be present at my questioning,” she said.
Turlough snarled an oath under his breath and glowered at Lorymer. “Well,” Turlough said. “Send for one of her superiors, then, and be quick about it.”
Lorymer nodded and slipped away. Turlough turned his glower on Thera.
“You will regret this,” he muttered before he left the chamber himself.
THIRTY-THREE
They rode in silence for most of the morning after they left the farmstead. Vagner’s stomach was empty, and the demon was wishing he had been given the opportunity to feed. But Alaric seemed distracted. So did the woman Talena. Ronan was the only one who cared.
“Soon enough,” Ronan said softly as though fearful that Alaric would hear them. But Vagner had noticed that there was a corner of Alaric’s mind where he and Ronan could speak freely. Yet as soon as they left, Vagner would forget what they had spoken of. For that matter, there were holes in his own mind that he could not understand.
Wandering Lark (The Demon-Bound Duology) Page 21
