Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (23 page)

“Oh, Alaric, don’t blame yourself,” Marda said and closed her eyes. “This had to be. Ronan vowed it would do you no harm. He swore to me you would not even know the wall was there until the need for its secret arose…You didn’t let Fenelon near it did you? You didn’t show it to him willingly, I hope…”

“I found the wall myself,” Alaric said. “I found it in my dreams…now tell me, what is it? What does it hide?”

“I cannot tell you,” she said weakly.

“What?” Alaric bit back the angry retort that rode the tip of his tongue.

“Just as you were not to know of its existence before its time had come, I swore to Ronan Tey to never tell you. But know this. All will be revealed in its proper time, and if you are the chosen one, you will learn the secret for yourself when the time comes. Ronan said so, and he would never lie to me…”

“How can you be so sure?” Alaric said, pain knotting inside him. “He lied to me…he made you lie to me…”

“Please, Alaric, forgive me,” Marda said. “What Ronan did to you may not seem right, but for the sake of the world it has to be. To keep Tane from destroying all that is good Ronan made you the host…”

“Host?” Alaric repeated.

Marda paused, looking startled. “Oh, blessed lady of the Silver Wheel,” she whispered. “I have betrayed him…” Tears filled her eyes. “Go away, Alaric. Ask me no more…they come for me…go, and let me die in peace…”

She turned her face from him and gave a long shuddering breath. His mage hearing counted the last beats of her heart before it stilled. The hand in his own went limp, and he felt the life slip from it.

“Marda?” he said softly, his throat thick with remorse.

The silence whispered to him. Gently, he put her hand upon her chest. Such a simple act, but it fed the hard grief that rose in him. With a cry, he flung himself from the edge of her bed, charged through the door and past the two men who stood outside trading glares of reproach.

“Alaric?” Fenelon called.

Alaric ran on, his chest tight. He half stumbled into the grove of hawthorns and down the steps, and did not stop until he had reached the cairn. There he dropped to the ground, his back against the cold stones wrapped in the thickness of moss. Pulling his knees to his chest, he hid his face in his arms.

Why, Marda, why?
Why wouldn’t she tell him.

Sobs tore through Alaric shattering all self control and dignity. He had loved her like a grandmother, and now all this. He did not know what hurt most. To know he had been betrayed or to lose her.

A faint footstep worked past his wall of grief. He ignored it, weeping like a child. A body sank down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. A comforting hand touched his arm. Alaric sensed Fenelon’s quicksilver presence lean against him.

“Alaric,” Fenelon whispered. “I’m sorry…”

“She wouldn’t tell me,” Alaric murmured. “She couldn’t…she…”

“It’s all right,” Fenelon said with a sigh and leaned back against the stone. His hand continued to stroke Alaric’s arm as though seeking to offer come small comfort. “Just let it go.”

Alaric did, spilling his frustration, his anger and his grief with a torrent of tears.

Betrayed.

Who could he trust?

He didn’t know…

~

Having spent all his emotions, Alaric was exhausted. He just wanted to return to Eldon Keep and be left alone. To face his family now would be more than he could endure, for he felt so empty…so drained. And betrayed. Marda had died leaving him with nothing more than cryptic hints and a name.

Tane Doran.

Fenelon knew the name. Alaric watched the older mage’s face harden when they gated back to the tower room at Gordslea Hold. “Aye, I know the wicked bastard. Know him very well. My father knew him… as did my grandfather.”

“Who is he?” Alaric ventured. He’d found water in the tower and used a cleansing spell to purify it so he could wash his face. Afternoon light crawled languidly across the floor. He sat in Marda’s chair now, feeling it was his right to do so, and watched as Fenelon paced back and forth like a cornered wolf.

“Tane Doran is a bloodmage, a fairly old one, though you wouldn’t know it from the look of him,” Fenelon said. “He hails from Dragon’s Maw. My family has clashed with him a few times…but what would he have to do with what Marda did tell you…”

Alaric sighed. “Ronan’s death was not at the hand of bandits. Marda said it was Tane Doran who killed Ronan. She said Tane Doran was the man pursuing Ronan. That Ronan knew he could not escape Tane and death.”

“All that fits then, in a sense,” Fenelon said. “I had heard Tane and Ronan clashed pretty hard just once after I was born. So perhaps Tane is the one who was after the map, and Ronan didn’t have it, so Tane killed Ronan…Then, two years later, we have a demon attempting to steal that same map, and I’m willing to bet that demon is owned by Tane. And now that demon comes after you—one who was once Ronan’s pupil in song—and putting all that together, my guess would be Ronan knew what the map led to, and Tane knows what it is, and wants this map as well so that he can find it.”

“Then we need to figure out what the map leads to,” Alaric said.

“Precisely,” Fenelon said. “And I have a theory about this hidden treasure.” His face went somber in thought. “Now, you said that Marda said if Tane got his hands on that secret Ronan hid behind the wall in your head, then Tane would possess the power to destroy the hope of all mankind…And since we know the map mentions Na’Sgailean, we can only conclude the map must lead to something capable of destroying her.”

“What do you mean?” Alaric asked.

“I mean this Dragon’s Tongue—or Wyrm Tongue as the map calls it—what if it is some instrument of destruction, like a sword. And I’ll bet what Ronan has hidden in your head is the means to make it work.”

A gleam filled Fenelon’s eyes, and Alaric shivered. What was it Marda said.
He helps no one but himself and uses other to that end…

“A very special sword,” Fenelon went on. “Think of it, Alaric. A sword with the power to stop Na’Sgailean herself. A sword forged when the Old Ones ruled. Maybe it is a sword filled with Old One Magic.”

“What makes you think it’s a sword?”

“Because how else could you cut a goddess like the Na’Sgailean into small pieces? It would have to be a sword.”

“But…Etienne said the Dark Mother was smashed to pieces with a magic hammer.”

“Oh, that’s a silly Haxon myth,” Fenelon said. “They think everything is done with a hammer.”

Alaric shook his head. “Just what would a bloodmage want with a sword like that?”

“For the power, of course,” Fenelon said. “Ancient magic, like that of the gods. Such power could make a mageborn seem like a god if he knew how to use it.”

“Then maybe it would be better for this sword to stay hidden,” Alaric said. “Power like that would only corrupt a man.”

“Are you crazy?” Fenelon said, stalking over to the chair and leaning over Alaric. “Something with that kind of power must never be left to mere chance. It needs to be found, but by us and not Tane Doran. It needs to be brought to Dun Gealach where it can be studied and put in the Deep to keep it from falling into the wrong hands.

Alaric froze. The fire in Fenelon’s eyes was rekindling fear in Alaric’s soul. Could Marda be right?

Marda betrayed me,
he thought.
She may not have lied, but she kept the truth from me…

And Ronan? He was a part of this grim secret as well. As much as Alaric had loved Ronan as an older brother, a mentor and a friend, he could not shake the pain of knowing all that had happened to him of late was Ronan’s fault.

Fenelon glowered like a madman as he stood over Alaric.

“Fenelon,” Alaric whispered and shook his head. “I don’t want to think about all this now. I just want to go home.”

Fenelon straightened up, opening his mouth as though about to deliver a lecture. He was interrupted when a fist struck the door.

“You in there still, Lark?” It was Father’s voice.

“Yes, Father,” Alaric called.

“Good, because your mother’s got dinner on the table, and she won’t like to make it wait long.”

Alaric slipped out of the chair. “We’re coming, Father,” he said.

He listened to his father clumping back down the stairs. With a sigh, he headed for the door.

“We’ll discuss this later, Alaric,” Fenelon said, still frowning.

 
Alaric trembled. Horns, he didn’t want to be alone with Fenelon just now. He hurried from the tower, eager to escape the memories and the dread.

TWENTY-FOUR

As much of a pain as Alaric’s sisters had been to him during his growing years, he was glad for their company this evening. He dreaded going back to Eldon Keep to be alone with Fenelon. The master mage was behaving like a merry guest, but now and again he would glance thoughtfully at Alaric as though trying to decipher his deepest thoughts. Those glances had an unnerving quality that deepened the dread in the pit of Alaric’s stomach.

At last, there came the moment Alaric feared. Fenelon said they needed to leave, and Alaric’s father fretted the suggestion they get on the road in the dark. “We’re not immune to bandits in these parts,” Father said with a frown. “Why just a fortnight back, auld Tappan was accosted by a young rogue demanding a purse. Of course, that was foolish of the thief. Tappan just gave the begger a nasty clout…”

“Is this the same Tappan who fed his wife to his pigs?” Fenelon asked, and Alaric almost choked in response.

“Aye, one and the same,” Father said with a dark look at his only son.

“Then likely the bandit joined her,” Fenelon quipped. “Really, we’ll be perfectly safe, sir. After all, we are mageborn, Alaric and I. Besides, it won’t take more than a heart beat and a bit of magic to see us safely home before we catch the attention of any of your local rogues.”

But will home be safe for me?
Alaric wondered.

When the gate spell coughed them out in Fenelon’s conjuring room, Alaric practically bolted for the door to make good his escape. He was half way up the stairs when he heard Fenelon call his name. Alaric pretended not to hear, increasing his speed and barreling up to the next level. He ran half the length of the upper corridor when a ripple in the air tore open. Fenelon stepped out into Alaric’s path, forcing Alaric to slide to a halt.

“Horns!” Alaric hissed and clutched his chest in fright.

“And just where are you heading off to in such a hurry?” Fenelon asked, one eyebrow cocked at its usual angle.

“I…” Alaric frowned, knowing he was a poor liar. “I need to get to the garderobe.”

“Are you ill?” Fenelon asked, and the concern sounded genuine.

Still, Alaric felt the growing distrust he did not truly understand. “I will be,” he muttered and pushed past Fenelon to continue down the corridor. He passed his on room and sprinted around the turn to the garderobe entrance to keep from compounding his lie. There, he slammed the outer door, throwing the bolt for good measure, then leaned against the wood, shaking hard and gasping for air. His lungs were about to burst on him, and he could not say it was exertion that caused it but fear for the walls of the garderobe were close enough to make him frantic. Alaric bit down the panic, closing his eyes, fighting to breathe.

“Alaric,” Fenelon called through the door. “If you’re not feeling well, perhaps I should send for Etienne…”

Oh, right,
Alaric thought.
Bring her here and make me look like a fool.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, turning to face the door and pressing an ear to the wood. “Please, I’m just tired…and my stomach hurts, and I’d just rather be left alone.”

“In a small room without windows?” Fenelon said, but his voice came from behind Alaric now. “Not at all you’re style.”

Alaric turned with a gasp. Fenelon stood but a few feet away, whispering
“Solus feith”
and setting a glow of mage light to the wall.
 
He looked more than a little amused.

“Damn you!” Alaric snapped and swung a fist without thinking.

Fenelon outstepped Alaric’s reach with practiced ease. In anger, Alaric turned and seized the bolt. He threw it and pulled the door open. Two steps were all he took when he heard Fenelon say,
“Adhar clach.”
 
Alaric hit an invisible wall. The force bounced him back into Fenelon’s arms.

“Horns!” Alaric shouted and flailed.

“Hey!” Fenelon’s greater height and strength were apparent. Alaric fell to his knees, then on to the floor with Fenelon pinning him there. “You know,” he said. “This is going to look pretty strange to the servants should any of them come up to see what all the commotion is.”

“Let go of me!” Alaric practically shrieked those words.

“All right, all right,” Fenelon said. “But only if you stop running and promise to be reasonable.”

“Me, be reasonable? You use people! You want to use me! Marda warned me!”

The pressure deserted Alaric in a flash. He was practically lifted from the floor and pushed against the wall. “And just what sort of blether is that?” Fenelon said. “What in the name of Cernunnos did that old hag say to you?”

“She said not to trust you!” Alaric said, and pushed against Fenelon’s chest, hoping to break free of his grasp.

The hands released him. Fenelon stepped back, looking affronted and wounded at first. But he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the wide corridor, giving Alaric ample freedom and space.

“May I ask why Marda told you not to trust me?” Fenelon said.

“She said you would just use me as a means to your own ends,” Alaric said and looked at the floor. “That you were using me now.”

“To do what?” Fenelon said. His voice grew soft with puzzlement.

Alaric shrugged. Suddenly, it all sounded very absurd and weak. Still he muttered the fears riding foremost in his thoughts. “You want me to help you find whatever that stupid demon map leads to just so you can add to your own glory…”

Silence disappeared with the shift of cloth. Fenelon crossed the distance and crouched so he was in Alaric’s line of sight. “Is that what this is all about?” he ventured. “Do you honestly believe that I made friends with you just because you might be able to decipher the secret hidden by that stupid demon map as you so quaintly put it?”

Alaric shrugged again, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Why else?” he asked in a faint voice, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Fenelon merely pulled back, waving his hand and whispering. The magic wall shimmered and vanished. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Alaric now. “Horns, Alaric, I thought you needed a friend,” Fenelon said. “I thought you were a likeable, open-minded sort of fellow. But if you’re not willing to trust me because of the babblings of some crazy old woman on her death bed, then I don’t see any reason to force you to stay here with me. A master cannot train an apprentice who is not willing to trust him. I’ll take you back to Dun Gealach tomorrow, and we’ll ask Turlough to find you a new master. Someone you
will
trust.”

Fenelon walked away then. Alaric stayed where he was, watching the master mageborn head for his own chambers. The closing of Fenelon’s door was like a blow to the gut. Alaric sank to the ground, clutching himself. He stuffed a hand in his mouth and fought the need to moan.

Horns, he didn’t know who to believe now.

~

It was not a night for sleeping. Alaric all but crawled to his chamber, moody and unable to focus or clear his mind. His thoughts tore back and forth on the day’s events, and what little sleep he did manage would plunge him into frantic dreams where Marda alternated from graceful grandmother to treacherous hag, while Fenelon shifted back and forth, from demon to demi-god and friend to foe. And in the middle of it all would be Ronan Tey, watching with such bright eyes as Alaric’s emotions were split between grief and rage.

The only peaceful sleep came with the grey film of dawn on the horizon, but that was the dead sleep of total exhaustion. Alaric wadded himself into the depths of the pillow and awoke in the exact same position, limbs stiff as new leather.

And then Fenelon pounded on the door and shouted like a costermonger. “Alaric, come on. It’s time to go.”

Alaric winced, unwilling to answer.

“Come on, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “You should know by now that there isn’t a locked door in this keep I can’t get past.”

“It’s not locked,” Alaric muttered more for his own benefit and was not surprised to hear the door open with a faint whoosh of air. He didn’t move as boots thumped across the floor. The bed shifted from the sudden presence of weight, and a deep sigh shattered the silence.

“Come on, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “It’s time to go.”

“Go? Where?” Alaric asked.

“Dun Gealach,” Fenelon said.

“What if I don’t want to go to Dun Gealach. What if I don’t want to go anywhere?”

Fenelon sighed again. “Look, Alaric, I don’t know what bee has gotten into your breech clout. If I was pushy yesterday, I apologize, but you’ve made it quite clear you don’t trust me, and I can’t teach you magic if you aren’t willing to give me that trust…”

“Maybe I don’t trust anyone any more,” Alaric said. “Maybe that’s my whole problem. I don’t know who to trust any more. I trusted Marda, but now I know she hid the truth from me. I trusted Ronan, but he used me to house some secret I can’t remember, and I’m not sure I want to remember. Then you start hounding me to dig out that secret just to find some stupid sword, and suddenly what Marda said about you sounds like it’s the truth, so how am I to know if I can trust you?”

“Trust has to be earned,” Fenelon said. “Proven and earned… My father said that to me a lot. He taught me everything I know about being a mage.”

“Did you trust him?” Alaric ventured.

“Still do, but then, he is my father,” Fenelon said. “Granted there are times I think he is totally cracksie—like when I start hearing yet another tale of what he’s up to over in the Ranges. He is bull-headed, and highly opinionated, and speaks his mind no matter what the consequences.”

“So that’s where you get it from,” Alaric said.

“Like as not,” Fenelon said with a short chuckle. “I will admit there are times when I do not agree with him. Even times I fight tooth and nail with him. But I always trusted him, because in the end, I knew he knew more than I did about the world and its ways, and he cared about me enough that no matter what madness he might get into, he would never bring me to any harm.

Alaric sighed. This was the first time he’d heard Fenelon say anything that came close to what he was feeling.
Maybe I’m not meant for this world,
Alaric thought and blinked. Suddenly, he missed his family very much.

“Maybe I should forget ever going back to Dun Gealach again,” he said. “I don’t belong there. I think I’d be much happier as a bard than a mage.” Alaric pushed back the blanket and sat up, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. He turned so he could look at Fenelon who wore a mournful frown. “I’ll go back to Gordslea Hold. I’ll tell my father I don’t really want to be a master mage. That it is not worth the time. I’ll study the stuff his great uncle left in the tower, and maybe I can glean a few spells here and there on my own, not that I’ll need them. But I’d rather be a bard like Ronan Tey…knowing magic but caring only for music.” Alaric dropped to the floor. “Take me back to Gordslea Hold, Fenelon. I want to go home.”

Fenelon started to shake his head.

“Take me back, or if you won’t, then tell me which road leads to Tamnagh so I can be on my way.”

“I can’t do that, Alaric,” Fenelon said.

“Can’t tell me how to get to Tamnagh?” Alaric said, moving around the room to gather his clothes.

“No, but I can’t let you go back to Gordslea Hold just yet,” Fenelon said.

“And why not?” Alaric asked, tossing down the shirt in his hand and rounding angrily towards Fenelon who was standing by the bed.

“Because Turlough sent a summons,” Fenelon said. “He wants to see you.”

“Turlough? Whatever for?” Alaric said as old fears and distress crawled around in him like prickly grubs.

Fenelon shrugged and cocked his head. “I have no idea, and neither will you unless we go now. But the message said it was an urgent matter…”