Wandering Lark (The Demon-Bound Duology)

by Laura J Underwood

  “I have failed,” she said softly.

  “In what way, child?” he asked.

  “I thought to use her to bring down our enemies and earn my freedom.”

  “Her?”

  “My cousin...Talena...I would have used her to bring down the greatest prize a Bounty Hunter could present to you. But...I have underestimated the power of the heretic with which she travels.”

  “What heretic?”

  “The bard,” she said. “The one they called Lark the Wanderer. I told you he was not a heretic...I lied.”

  “Why?” Rothanan seized her shoulders and shook her hard. She cried out in pain, and he let her fall, glaring at the blood on his hands. He wanted to strike her, but the blow would likely kill her before he could learn what she meant. He frowned down on her as though she were a piece of offal in his path. “I gave you life,” he snarled. “I gave you a purpose, a way to redeem yourself for being what you are. Why would you risk your immortal soul this way?”

  “Because...my soul is immortal,” Desura replied. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye. “But my power is spent. Ymir’s heart is beating more powerfully that before. I can hear it... And I know now that all the Temple stands for is a lie. You took me from my family. You stole the lives of those I gave you. But I will not give you what you have most desired...”

  “And what is that?” He leaned down.

  “The Dragon lives,” she said wearily. “The Dragon is alive, and her avatar has come. The Balance will be whole again, and the Temples will fall. And I will not tell you where the Dragon can be found.”

  “What? Do you know where the Dragon is?”

  Desura moved her lips. He leaned down closer still. He put his head so close he could hear her heart slowing down...

  And then she put a hand on his face, and he felt cold fire burning his nerves. His very breath seemed to be ripped from his lungs. He seized his own throat, gasping for air as she whispered a single word...

  “Loisg!”

  Before Rothanan could draw away, white fire lit his hair and his robes. He screamed, as did the attendants for in front of their eyes, the Lord Patriarch became a torch.

  He crashed to the floor beside her, and just before the roaring pain took his life, he heard her voice in his head.

  “That is for my cousin who swore to one day to take your life,” she said. “Just as you took the life of her mother and her father, so shall the flames take you.”

  The blackness overwhelmed him.

  Desura tried to rise from her pallet, but pain held her down. She could hear the fading screams of the attendants as they fled the chamber and left her alone. The acrid odor of burnt flesh filled her nose. She gagged, fighting to draw air into her lungs, but every breath stank with death, and the fetid odor appalled her.

  Weakly, she felt around her for something to cling to—something that would let her find power, but there was nothing, and the effort was more than she could bear.

  She was dying, and she knew there was nothing she could do to stop her death.

  So she closed her eyes.

  And then she was gone.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Alaric was taken to the dining hall after he had finished changing. Halathor came to offer escort, and even bid Vagner to come as well. The demon walked along behind Alaric like a servant, and as far as Alaric was concerned, it was hard to think of the demon as anything other than a friend.

  The dining hall was white marble as well, tastefully decorated with splashes of green and gold. Alaric marveled at the height of the ceiling which was painted with a portrait of a white dragon and a dark dragon intertwined for they formed a knotwork circle. And around them were images of figures representing the elements. Air, Fire, Earth, Water, plus Sky and Stone. And painted in the center, a woman robed in white, bearing a dragon torc of white gold about her throat, and a balancing scale in one hand, the lobes of which were black and white.

  Like the one in the Shadow Vale, he thought.

  What was it Ronan has called her? She who Sits At the Center of All Things...

  “I see you are admiring the architecture,” King Culann called from his place at the head table.

  Alaric walked into the center of the chamber and bowed. He noticed that Master Fion was there, as was his demonic companion. She was finely robed, and wore the guise of a sylvan woman as she sat at his side, her blue eyes lowered, but Alaric caught the motion when they briefly flicked a glance at him. Fire filled her stare. That she hated him for some reason he could not fathom was clear.

  Have I wronged her in some way? Alaric thought.

  “Come, sit, have your fill. We understand you are a bard in your own land, and we would hear some of your songs in your own tongue.”

  My own tongue, Alaric thought and wondered if he even remembered how to speak the language to which he had been born.

  But he seated himself in the chair that one of the servants pulled out. Vagner took a stance at Alaric’s back. Within moments, Alaric was eating one of the best meals he had been fortunate enough to devour in days...

  All the while, he noticed that Master Fion’s eyes never left him.

  For a while, Talena wondered if they had forgotten her. She watched the creep of light across the floor, and eventually, it began to fade, indicating the gloaming was falling on the land. Were they going to leave her here in this cold tower chamber without a light or a bed?

  As the light dimmed, she started to notice the walls glowing faintly, like foxfire, and when the sun was gone, the glow deepened. She also noticed something that she had not seen before. A bed and a small tray of food.

  What the...

  No one had come in that she had seen. How?

  She looked over at the door. Her guard had changed. This time it was a woman who stared through the bars. Talena frowned and got out of the chair, walking over to examine the tray. Bread and soft white cheese, bits of smoked fish, a cup of something that smelled like mead when she lifted it to her nose. She frowned and took a sip.

  Yes, it was mead. She took a deep slug, relishing the way it warmed her. Then she sat down on the pallet and started to devour the contents of the tray. The fish was sweet and almost melted in her mouth. The cheese had a tangy flavor. She spread it on the bread, which was dark and tasted of roasted grains. She ate her fill, tucking some of the bread away for later. Why, she did not know, but she knew she could not stay here much longer.

  She had no idea what they wanted to do to her. For that matter, she had no idea if that voice was going to come back. And since she did not relish the idea of talking to someone who did not have a physical existence, she decided she had to think of a way to escape.

  But first, she had to figure out a way to get that guard away from the door.

  And then it hit her.

  “I need a chamber pot,” she said, getting up and walking over to the door. “Can you fetch me one?”

  The guard merely pointed towards the pallet. Talena turned and frowned.

  There was a chamber pot sitting where one had not been before.

  Cold fear swept her nerves. She backed into the door, staring at it. How...where had it come from? It was not there before.

  Cautiously, she pulled away from the door, edging her way around the room to where the pallet and the pot were. Then with a determined frown, she walked across the chamber...and realized the chair in the middle was now gone.

  “What is this place?” she insisted. “Who is doing all this?”

  The guard at the door merely smiled. “You are, of course,” she said.

  “What?

  “You ask, and it appears,” the guard said.

  “But...how...why?”

  The guard’s eyes were all Talena could actually see through the opening in the door, but they crinkled around the corners as though she smiled.

  “You will soon understand,” she said.

  “I want to understand now!” Talena snarled and backed over to where the pallet was.<
br />
  “I am not at liberty to explain more than I already have,” the guard said.

  Talena sighed and sat down.

  I ask and it appears?

  “I want a door out of here,” she said.

  Nothing happened.

  Well, so much for giving me what I want.

  “You will have your door when you learn,” the disembodied voice floated around her.

  “Learn what?” she demanded.

  “To accept what you are,” the voice said.

  “And what am I?” Talena said.

  “Only you can answer that,” the voice said, fading.

  More riddles, Talena thought, crossing her arms over her chest and drawing her knees up as she leaned against the wall.

  She would rather have the door.

  Alaric ate his fill before they offered him a chair in the middle of the dining hall. One of the servants had brought his harp from his bedchamber and placed it there with the chair. Now, feeling sated but still curious, he took himself to that chair, picked up the harp and began to sing and play songs of his own land. His audience listened, enraptured by words he knew they could not possibly understand. Yet, they looked sad at his ballad of a lass who gives her life so her unborn child might live, and cheered at the tale of the valiant knight who fought the Haxons. And they clapped. All save Sedar and Fion. The Dvergar merely smiled. The demon remained silent and stoic, though her gaze narrowed on Alaric from time to time.

  At last, Alaric stopped playing. Only then did King Culann rise and bow.

  “You are indeed a master of bard craft as well as Magister,” King Culann said. “I thank you for your songs. Now, if you will forgive me, my family and I shall take our leave.”

  Many of the people at the tables rose and bowed as King Culann took his queen and his nearly sleeping young prince and left the chamber with a small army of servants and guards at their heels. In fact, the chamber emptied out until the only ones there were Alaric, Fion, Vagner, Sedar and Captain Halathor.

  Master Fion then rose and gestured, and Captain Halathor bowed and left. So now Alaric found himself sitting in a chair, looking up at the Dvergar expectantly. Vagner crept around the tables to join him, keeping an eye on Sedar.

  “So, what now?” Alaric asked. “Are you the Elder?”

  Fion smiled. “In some ways, you could say that I am the Eldest,” he said.

  “Then you are the one I have sought,” Alaric said.

  “To what purpose?” Fion asked.

  “I...I wish to break my bond with this demon, without hurting the demon or myself.”

  Fion’s face crinkled with mischief. “And why would you want to do that?”

  “Because in my own land, I am hunted now,” Alaric said. “Where I come from, it is forbidden to take on the mark of a demon...” He held up his hand to show off the pale scar. “And if I don’t rid myself of it, I cannot go back and help my friends.”

  Fion leaned back in the chair. “Your friends are in no danger,” the Dvergar said. “Not at this time.”

  “What?” Alaric rose.

  “It is late,” Fion said. “You should rest. The next few days will be very busy ones for you. I think that King Culann would like to show you around his palace. In three days, I will return for you. Come Sedar.”

  Master Fion rose from his chair. Sedar offered her hand. Together, they wandered towards the back of the hall. Alaric rose, opening his mouth to protest, but there was a flash of bright light, and both Dvergar and demon were gone.

  “Of all the...” Alaric turned to where Vagner stood. The demon shrugged.

  “Shall we go back to our chamber?” he asked.

  “Yes, by all means,” he said. “And from there, I am going to scry and see if I can find Talena. We should never have come here.”

  He started for the arches, then stopped

  “Uh, you don’t remember the way back, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” the demon replied. “This way.”

  Vagner headed for one of the arches with Alaric following close.

  Three days, indeed. Why should he stick around here for three days waiting for some arrogant Dvergar to tell him what he wanted to know?

  He would rather go back to Ard-Taebh and help his friends. Even if it meant sending Vagner far away and giving himself over to Turlough’s warped sense of justice.

  Why had he allowed Ronan to talk him into coming here?

  Because he didn’t give me a choice, Alaric thought bitterly. He has forced me to run where he tells me. He has tried to force me to kill. Why should I believe anything he tells me?

  Maybe Turlough would be forgiving.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Vagner sat in the corner of the bedchamber, demon eyes and ears trained on the night. In the shadows, the room was not so white...well except where the swatch of moonlight swept in through the tall archway that led to a balcony. It slashed brilliant across the bed where Alaric lay sleeping.

  For nearly two candlemarks after returning here, Vagner had watched Alaric trying to scry for Talena. But his mage senses met a number of barriers. Even with Vagner’s essence to assist him, Alaric was unable to detect anything outside the room. And when at last he stopped trying, he walked around and looked at the walls.

  Glyphs were everywhere.

  “I suppose,” Vagner suggested as he watched the young man frown at the marks, “in a land where everyone is mageborn, it is better this way? At least, it assures them of privacy...”

  “And secrets,” Alaric finally said and sank to the edge of the bed. “I suppose I could go out myself and see if I can find her, but this is an awfully big palace...”

  Vagner would have suggested that he sally forth on this quest. Being a demon, it might be easier for him to cover enormous amounts of ground. But Alaric looked tired. The strain of scrying was taking its toll. So instead, he kicked off his boots and curled up on the bed. Within moments, he was asleep.

  How much time passed was irrelevant in Vagner’s perception. He did not need to sleep, and tonight, there seemed to be no urge to do so as had happened in the recent past.

  He wished he could remember why he fell asleep.

  The guards on the walk called the Dark Hour. Vagner was shifting position out of boredom instead of discomfort, when he saw Alaric stir gently. Like a cat unfolding from a nap, Alaric stretched out his limbs and sat up on the bed. He turned to look at Vagner, and the demon saw that Alaric’s eyes were not quite his own. Oh, the color was the same, but the look was not.

  “Ronan?” the demon said.

  Ronan put a finger to his lips. “Do not speak my name,” he said with Alaric’s voice. “The walls might have ears.”

  Carefully, he stood up and stretched, moving with his eldritch grace. Like an athlete preparing for contest, he twisted and turned and rolled his shoulders and back. Then he began to strip out of every stitch of his clothing, tossing them onto the bed.

  “What are you doing now?” Vagner asked.

  “I have a job to do, my friend,” Ronan said. “One that I would prefer not be seen.”

  “Oh, well taking off your clothes will certainly make you invisible,” the demon said ruefully. “Just what would that job be?”

  Ronan smiled with Alaric’s face, though it was not Alaric’s smile. “That is for me to know,” he said softly. “And you to discover.”

  He crossed the room to the balcony door. Curious, Vagner followed.

  “It’s not good for him, you taking over like this,” Vagner said as Ronan stopped in the opening and peered out at the night. “And if you step out there like that, he’ll catch his death. Humans are not so resilient when it comes to the cold. At least put a cloak on and...”

  “Shhhhhh... All is well,” Ronan said. “Lark is in a deep sleep this time, and will not know. And you have no reason to concern yourself that I will let this body come to harm. Not when I need it as I do.”

  “Deep sleep?” Vagner frowned.

  Ronan l
ooked back at the demon and smiled. “Yes, as you shall be too.”

  “But demons do not sleep,” Vagner said.

  “Sleep anyway, Youngerkin” Ronan said and as he whispered those words, he invoked the music of Vagner’s True Name.

  The demon had no choice but to sink to the floor in slumber.

  This has got to be the strangest dream I have ever had, Alaric thought. Because why else would he be standing naked on a moonlit balcony watching the pattern of the guards on the walls. Every other man walked up and down twice between two stationary guards. When those walked stopped in the middle, the stationary ones would move. It was all cleverly synchronized in Alaric’s opinion, for it meant that no man stood so still long enough to fall asleep at his post.

  It also meant that there would constantly be a pair of eyes on multiple parts of the palace at any given time.

  But he did not feel the least bit concerned because for some reason, he felt as though he was invisible.

  This is such a strange dream, he thought. He could feel the wind in his hair and skin, and smell the odors of the night with even greater accuracy than he was used to. Hear the calls of servants and guard alike. And his eyes could see the most minute’ details of the world, that it was uncanny. Mageborn could see in the dark, but this was weird.

  He turned and looked back at the palace from which he had emerged. The walls were smooth marble, illustrious white. He wondered briefly where they had been quarried. But then, he walked straight over to the wall and put a hand to it. And his hand became white as the marble was.

  Horns, he thought. That was a new trick. He looked down and realized his entire body—Just where are my clothes? he wondered as he tried vainly to will them back into existence—had that same color.

  Then, to his amazement, he started to climb the wall as a spider would. His stomach tightened as he though of just how high that wall went yet his body crawled up it with the speed of a lizard. Within moments, he had reached the top and was huddling between the tall merlons, looking around at the height he had attained.