Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (21 page)

“Yes,” Tane said, smiling, “and worth the sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” the demon said, sounding hopeful. Sacrifices generally meant leftovers to feed the demon.

“Well, I can hardly expect to bribe the High Mage of Dun Gealach with anything less than a grand token of my esteem,” Tane said as he held the gem on eye level and allowed the light of the candle on his table to play through its facets. “And I certainly can’t risk sending him anything false or imbued with magic. Besides, once he has this lovely gem, I think he will more than show his gratitude by sending young Alaric Braidwine here to teach my darling granddaughter about playing the psaltery.”

Vagner wrinkled his tiny nose in disgust. Humans and their greed. He would never understand how they could think amassing wealth made them important. If it had no magic and could not be eaten, what good was it?

With a sigh, the demon slipped away. He would seek other sport while Tane composed his letter to the High Mage. There were plenty of rats in the cellar. Vagner could sense them…

He was hungry again, and rats were better than nothing.

~

Alaric surfaced again after a hard sleep without dreams. He felt the urgency of his bladder as he tried to sit up. The room was filled with grey light—
morning or evening,
he pondered—and Fenelon was dozing on the pallet across the way.

Horns,
Alaric thought as the effort to get upright exhausted him. He made it to the edge of the bed, and clinging firmly to the wooden frame, he leaned over to look for the chamber pot.

Not good, he quickly learned. In his weakened state, his shift of position only served to slowly pitch him forward.

“Hey!” he heard Fenelon call, and just when Alaric thought he would be bouncing his nose off the floor, hands caught him by the shoulders, and a body worked him back upright.

“I don’t think you’re ready for that just yet,” Fenelon teased.

“Chamber pot,” Alaric muttered.

“Ah,” Fenelon said. He used one hand to hold Alaric in place and reached under the bed for the chamber pot. “One chamber pot. Do you need a hand?”

“I’ve got two,” Alaric muttered and tried to stand.

Fenelon held Alaric down and pushed the pot between his knees. “I’m pleased to know that bardic wit is also intact, but I think you should sit this one out,” he said with a grin.

Fortunately, they had stripped Alaric down to a nightshirt, reducing the need to fumble with laces or breechclout. And he was too weak to argue modesty as he relieved himself. Once the chore was finished, Fenelon put the chamber pot out of the way and got Alaric back under the blankets.

“How do you feel?” Fenelon said.

Alaric flopped himself into the pillow, lying on his side. “Like I was in the path of a stampede of boulders,” he said. “How long did I sleep?”

“Most of the night,” Fenelon said. “It’s nearly dawn. Mistress Miranda ought to be making the rounds in a short time. We’ll see what she says about getting you healed up, out of this bed and back on your feet again.”

“Do I have feet?” Alaric muttered and closed his eyes. Right now, his whole body reminded him of limp cabbage.

Fenelon chuckled. Alaric heard the chair bump the side of the bed. He pried open one eye and met a smile.

“Aye, you’ve got them, and I need you on them as soon as possible,” Fenelon said.

“Why?” Alaric asked.

“Because, we need to go visit Marda.”

“Marda? Why?”

“I’ve been thinking. This thing you’ve got walled up in your head…it’s not that old. It’s something more recent.”

“How can you tell?” Alaric asked, sounding puzzled.

“Trust me I was introduced to its presence enough to figure that out.”

“Are you suggesting Marda put it there?” Alaric said.

“No, but she might know who did,” Fenelon said with a guarded smile. “And her knowledge could be in some way tied to the map and all the recent events…”

“How?”

“Well, I don’t know that you’re up to all this information just now,” Fenelon said.

“How?” Alaric repeated and tried to push his face out of the pillow. The effort cost him dearly. He dropped into the soft surface again, too weak to try a third time.

“All right, all right,” Fenelon said and leaned forward. “I did a little checking on the origin of that map—or rather, Etienne did it for me since I’ve hardly left your side. My grandfather Colm Greenfyn was the one who wrested it from a bloodmage named Eleron Blackwind.”

Alaric frowned. Why did that name sound familiar? Something to do with one of Alaric’s dreams?

“It seems Eleron came by the map by stealing it from none other than Ronan Tey himself, almost a hundred years ago. And we know this to be true because my grandfather’s journals mention that Ronan told Grandfather of the theft in hopes of gaining his assistance in the matter. However, Ronan never told Grandfather how he happened to come by the map, or even why he had it to begin with. Now you come along, a former student of the elusive Ronan Tey, with a wall in your head that is blocking some memory, and getting yourself one walloping case of mage fever when you finally touch the map once in Ronan’s possession. And during that time, you start singing a song in the Old Tongue you could not possibly know unless…”

“Unless Ronan gave me the song,” Alaric whispered, and felt just a twinge of dull pain from behind his eyes.

“Precisely,” Fenelon said. “Too many little coincidences to ignore, Alaric. A demon stole the copy of the map, but a demon would have no use for such a thing, so it must have been working for a bloodmage.”

Alaric blinked. “But…what has all this to do with going to see Marda?” he said, wishing he could sort it all in his head.

“I think Ronan Tey is the one who put that wall in your head, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “And I think Marda knows why, and she is the one person who would be able to tie all this together into a neat little package.”

“Then you go ask her,” Alaric said, the slow tide of weariness overtaking him.

“I will,” Fenelon said. “Or rather, we will.”

“We?” Alaric said.

“I’ve known Marda Alfrey most of my life,” Fenelon said. “My father knew her as well. She’s a crafty old crow at times. She would likely tell me off and lie through her teeth if I asked her. But there’s no way she is going to lie to you…”

“Why not,” Alaric said. Tears formed behind his eyes as the thought that she had betrayed him now for two years rose to thicken his throat. “When she has lied to me all along…”

“But I’m willing to bet you’ve never asked her to tell you the truth where this is concerned.

Alaric shook his head and closed his eyes.
What have you done to me Marda?
he thought fighting the pain of grief.
What did you let Ronan Tey do to me?

TWENTY TWO

In less than two days, Alaric was back on his feet, walking up the road to Gordslea Hold. Fenelon had gated them to a point within easy distance to travel on foot. The overcast sky, Alaric reflected, was too appropriate. He felt grey just now, what with old dreads rumbling around in his stomach like hunger pangs. They got worse as the gate and the village and the tower of the keep loomed into view over the rolling hills and through the trees. More than once, Alaric considered turning around and heading the other way. Facing Marda had never frightened him so much as it did now. But if Fenelon was right…

Activity was prevalent among the steady working crofters who helped look after his father’s lands and cattle. Alaric saw Meg’s husband Durbin driving a herd with the assistance of two other men and a pair of rowdy dogs. Some women and younger men in one of the fields assisted the harrowing of the soil. A few heads turned at the approach of the son of their current master, but Alaric suspected most of them were staring in astonishment at Fenelon. As usual, he wore a brilliant white cloak with a matching fur collar and trim, and embroidered with runes in silver thread draped over his bright blue tunic and breeches. His black boots were highly polished, and he probably looked like some fool dandy to these simple folk who thought clothes should be practical and preferred to blend with their surroundings rather than stand out like a peacock among brown hens.

Someone must have run on to tell Haldane Braidwine his son was on the road and coming this way, because Alaric and Fenelon had hardly reached the first yard when Alaric’s family came bursting out of various quarters. His sisters engulfed him in modest kisses and hugs then set to flirting with their eyes.

Father had been trading conversation with the farrier who was busy trimming the hooves of one of the cart horses when Alaric arrived. He too joined the greeting party, pushing his daughters aside to reach his son.

“Lark, what are you doing back so soon,” Father said, first embracing Alaric then holding him at arm’s length. Father’s square face took on a paternal scowl. “You haven’t gone and gotten yourself tossed out for bad behavior, have you, lad?”

“No, Father,” Alaric said, declining to mention the rest of his adventures. “I’m only here for a visit.”

“Lark?” Fenelon said and grinned, and that brought Father’s protective glower around to seek a new target.

“Father, this is Fenelon Greenfyn,” Alaric began, casting Fenelon a warning glance. “I have been apprenticed to Magister Greenfyn to learn the greater magics…”

“Of the Greenfyns of Loughan?” Father said, looking at Fenelon with a new curiosity.

“One and the same,” Fenelon said.

“And they picked you to teach my son what Marda could not?”

“Yes, and a fine student he is, sir,” Fenelon said. “I say, Alaric, you never told me you had such lovely sisters…”

Alaric narrowed his eyes. Horns, they’d only been here a few moments. Fiona and Sine were practically bouncing for the opportunity to be noticed, and even Meg was wearing a temptress smile, casting sidelong glances under her lashes.

“A rather grand family, you have,” Father went on as though Alaric’s sisters were not even present. “Nearly all mageborn from what I hear…”

“The bloodline does run rampant with magic,” Fenelon agreed and winked at Sine.

“You best teach my son well, then,” Father said. “I’ll not have him learning any second rate spells.”

“Oh, I can assure you, I will teach him only the best of spell work,” Fenelon said. “He’ll be a master mage like myself in no time…”

“That’s what worries me,” Father said with a dubious glance at Fenelon’s apparel.

Alaric rolled his eyes. Obviously, it was time to get Fenelon well away from his sisters and his father who apparently had some strange notions of his own about what all this magical learning should mean. “Father, we’ve come to see Marda,” Alaric said pointedly. “Is she up in the tower?”

“Unlikely,” Father said.

“Well, where is she?” Alaric asked.

Father shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Lark. She packed her things and left the very day I put you on a wagon to Caer Keltora.”

“She left?” Alaric could not keep the surprise out of his voice. “Why?”

“Damned if I know, Lark,” Father said, looking a bit testy his own son should be so bold as to ask for more detail than he
 
thought necessary to give. “She said her work was done, and the tower was yours, and then she was gone. Oh, and she must have put some sort of magic on the door because it won’t open. Your mother’s been trying to get in to clean it for nearly a moon now…”

Alaric turned to Fenelon. At least, this bit of information had distracted the older mageborn from flirting.

“Then perhaps we’d best go in and take a look at this door, Lark,” Fenelon said and winked.

“Aye, you lads do that,” Father said. “I’ve got to finish me own business now. Oh, and you’d best stop and greet your mother afore you go traipsing up to the tower, Lark. She’ll give me no end of grief if you don’t.”

“I will,” Alaric said, seizing Fenelon’s arm.

Fenelon bowed to Alaric’s sisters. “Later, ladies,” he said with a charming smile.

Alaric bit back a retort. He dragged Fenelon towards the gate to the kitchen yard, and from there, into the keep. Mother was nearly always in the kitchen. Being wife to a man of property had not changed her one whit. She worked hard in the days when she was a mere smith’s wife, and having servants to assist her had not suited her. She was at the hearth even now, fussing with the kneading board. Breads fresh odor filled the air. Alaric’s mouth watered. One thing he missed at Dun Gealach was his mother’s bread.

“Mother?” Alaric called, and she turned with a frown that quickly melted.

“Alaric, my son,” she said, dusting flour from her hands and she hurried across the room to greet him. She was not much shorter than her son, and it was rather obvious even to Alaric that while he had his father’s pale hair and hazel eyes, he had inherited his mother’s more delicate features with just a hint more strength of jaw.

She pulled him into an embrace, fighting tears then fussed at the mess she made of his clothes. “Oh, look at you…you’ll have to let me clean those now…who’s this?”

“Fenelon Greenfyn at your service, Mistress Braidwine,” Fenelon said with a gallant bow. “And let me say I am stunned by your presence and that it is rather obvious where your daughters come by their radiant looks…”

Alaric bit his lip, lest he give away the moment. Mother put her hands on her hips, and Fenelon seized one, intent upon kissing the fingers. She practically jerked the appendage free before his lips arrived, leaving him coughing from the puff of flour that went into his throat. Alaric bit his tongue hard as his mother fixed Fenelon with a peevish sneer.

“Them airs won’t get you far in this house, laddie,” she said. “Alaric, don’t you ever let me catch you carrying on like this randy cock, or I swear, I’ll box your ears.”

“Have no fear, mother,” Alaric said, unable to repress a smile at Fenelon’s startled expression. “Master Fenelon is my tutor in magic now, but not in graces…”

“Good lad,” she said and pushed a hand through his hair. “Always remember who you are first. So what brings you home so soon?”

“We came to see Marda, but Father tells me she’s left Gordslea Hold,” Alaric said.

“Aye and locked that bloody tower up tighter than a well-fed tick, she did,” Mother said. “I’ll be damned if I’ll leave it to get all muckety and foosty as it was when we first came to live here.”

“Perhaps we can get it open, madam,” Fenelon said in a more serious manner. “Alaric shall we head for the tower?”

“Oh, I suppose,” Alaric said.

“My lady,” Fenelon said, and this time his bow was of a more subdued nature. “If you will excuse us…”

“Excuse yerselves,” Mother said. “I’ve bread to finish. Alaric, you’ll stay to supper…”

“Of course, Mother,” Alaric said. He pecked her cheek and started on. “That is, if Magister Greenfyn doesn’t object.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Fenelon said, and this time it was he who took Alaric’s arm and urged him on. Alaric was smiling even more as they left the kitchen and started for the back stairs.

“Remind me if I ever need an army to face a horde, to recruit your mother first,” Fenelon said. “I dare say she could stop a Haxon cold in his tracks with that steely glower and sharp tongue of hers…”

“Oh, like you didn’t ask for that,” Alaric said.

“You could have warned me,” Fenelon said, looking around. “Hey, this looks just like the place in your dream…”

“Wonder why?” Alaric said with a shake of his head.

They had reached the narrow stairs. Alaric started up them first, his childhood playing over and over in his mind. “Besides, I’d rather warn you about my sisters,” he said. “My mother tolerates no nonsense from anyone and loves my father heart and soul. But my sisters will likely throw a net over you, drag you out to the barn, and ravage you with the rest of the livestock.”

“That sounds promising,” Fenelon said.

“After which, Meg’s husband Durbin and Sine’s fiancé’ Malcolm would probably beat you into a pulp and feed you to old Tappan’s pigs…”

“Who’s old Tappan?” Fenelon asked.

“He’s one of the crofters, and when I was a lad, they always said to stay away from Tappan because some folks thought he had killed his own wife and fed her to the pigs.”

“Did he?” Fenelon asked, sounding keenly interested.

“No. His wife ran off with a tinker,” Alaric said. “He just likes for people to
think
he had fed her to the pigs…”

Alaric stopped. The short hall lay cloaked in darkness in spite of the arrow slit window on the opposite side from the wooden door.

“Loisg,”
Alaric said, concentrating on the torches to either side of the door. They burst into flames.

“Very good,” Fenelon said. “Very precise, and no waste. You’ve a knack for this magic stuff, I’ll wager…”

The compliment and the teasing slid far from Alaric’s focus. The old dread was coming back. Fenelon put a hand out to test the door, and briefly, the angry wall’s lash rose to haunt Alaric again. He held his breath, half expecting the horror to repeat itself, and unsure as to why…

“It’s marked with your essence, Alaric,” Fenelon said.

“My essence?” Alaric said. He stretched mage senses to touch the door, closing his eyes. Glyphs—simple locking glyphs—appeared to him. He could see his own name entwined in the spell, and feel the brush of his own essence as thought he’d laid the spell himself.”

“How could she do that?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“She trained you, Alaric. She knows you. I bet you gave her some gift as a lad that is filled with your essence.”

Alaric frowned. Well, there was that river stone with the hole in it. His father had said such things were luck, so Alaric used magic to etch a crude design into its surface and threaded it on a strip of leather. He presented it to Marda when he turned eleven. His sisters had laughed at the sight of the pendant…laughed at him for making it…and he almost threw it away in disgust. But Marda had found him about to do so, and he could do no more than hand it to her. She smiled, and wore it proudly at the evening meal, and when his sisters dared to whisper in mockery, she had fixed them with such a wintry scowl, they did not dare speak in her presence for days…

“Alaric, you have to open it,” Fenelon said in a voice that indicated he’d said so more than once.

“Oh, yes,” Alaric said. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath and touched the glyphs, tracing their order with his fingers and whispering their names and his own. Within moments, the magic marks had faded, and Alaric pushed the door inward. It did not creak or groan. Marda hated hinges that moaned.