Wandering Lark (11 page)

“Shall I kiss it and ask the Blessed Brother to make it better?” she asked.

“Uh.” Wendon felt the bloom of blood in his cheeks, because it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she could kiss any part of him she wished.

She merely took his hand in hers and examined it. That touch sent wild shivers of delight across his skin.

“Doesn’t appear to be broken,” she said. “You really shouldn’t take out your aggressions on stone, you know.”

“I, uh.” Wendon swallowed as she released his hand to him. He looked at it then frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Thera,” she said, “a healer of Diancecht, and they told me I could find you here. You are Wendon Stanewold, are you not?”

“Yes,” he said, his curiosity curbing his embarrassment.

“Good,” she said. “I have a message for you from Etienne Savala.” She reached into her sleeve and drew forth a letter packet bearing a small seal and Wendon’s name etched across the parchment in a pretty hand. “I am to wait for your reply.”

Wendon took the letter, stepping back towards the center of the room as he broke the seal. His eyes traveled over the words twice before he looked back at the young woman who now casually leaned against the doorjamb and fixed him with such an examining stare.

“Do...do you know what this says?” he asked, holding the letter toward her.

“I did not read it, if that’s what you mean,” she said, looking a little unhappy to be so accused.

“She wants me to commit a treason,” he said.

“Treason?” Thera’s eyebrows rose. “What sort of treason?”

“She wants me to take Fenelon’s place in the tower.”

“Oh, yes, well, I think her cause is a worthy one,” Thera said and smiled. “Elsewise, I would not have agreed to bring you the letter.”

“Magister Greenfyn should be told of this,” Wendon insisted.

“Why?” Thera asked.

“What do you mean, why?” he said.

Thera stepped into the chamber and closed the door. “Why would you want to throw away the opportunity to become a Master Mageborn? Isn’t that why you came to Dun Gealach?”

“How do you know so much about me?” Wendon asked.

Her smile was as beguiling as a siren’s song. “I asked,” she said.

For a moment, he felt uncertain. Why would she ask about him? For that matter, why would anyone tell her about him? It did occur to him that there were handsome lads who would have been more apt to steer her false in hopes of claiming her heart.

Wendon took a deep breath. He glanced at the letter again.
“...For Alaric’s sake, will you at least consider helping us?”
he read.
“You would be richly rewarded with what you need to make Master mage class...”

All he had ever wanted was to be a Master mage. To hear himself referred to as “Magister Stanewold” instead of “Warthog.” He glanced at Thera.

“You think I should do this?” he asked.

“I think you should follow your heart,” she said. “The Blessed Brother would ask that you look inside it when you do.”

“But...they’ll never let us in to see him.”

“One healer and one mageborn...no,” she said. “But I also have a letter from the Patriarch of the Temple of Diancecht. He wrote it as a favor to Mistress Savala. It allows two healers to visit Master Fenelon on the grounds that we have heard vicious rumors concerning the ill treatment of prisoners, and that we would like to be certain they are in excellent health. Now, how say you? Will you join our cause to free the world from tyranny and destruction? Or will you betray us to those who would stop us from serving a just cause? The choice is yours.”

Wendon blinked then shrugged. All his life, he had wanted the master mage class. He had also hated Fenelon from the first day he met the man. Still, there was something so beguiling in her eyes and her smile.
Horns, I think I’m in love.

“Would you...come eat with me,” Wendon asked. “Before we go see Fenelon?”

Her smile was soft and genuine. “Certainly,” she said.

Wendon took another deep breath, this one filled with renewed confidence. He offered Thera his arm, and she took it.

Together, they left the practice chambers.

Talena Elderwood managed to find
the stone just as the last of the sun was setting. The light washed the grey surface like blood as she reined in her mare Kessa. The small blood bay danced nervously in a circle. Talena spoke gently to her and once the mare was still, she dismounted. Tying Kessa to a tree at a safe distance, Talena advanced on the stone.

Places like this gave her the willies. Small hairs rose on the back of her neck. The gate stones were places where much magic was still to be found. That was why the Watchers of the Temples kept an eye on them. Heretics were fond of coming to these stones, of dancing around them under moonlight and calling the Hidden Folk out of the woods. Or so Talena had been told.

With a deep breath, Talena reached into her pouch and drew forth a medallion. A moonstone set at its heart picked up bits of the last light. Talena blew on the stone, warming it with her breath. The runes around the moonstone began to glow.

Heretic sign was everywhere for the medallion thrummed in her hand as though she had captured a small bee. The closer to the stone she moved, the stronger it grew. Sweat began to pour from her, and she wriggled her free hand in a gesture of warding herself against evil...a childish gesture, but it brought some comfort to her all the same.

She never much liked being this close to the power...not since...

She shook herself of the thought before it could form.
Do not remember,
she told herself.
It will only distract you from your purpose here.

Another deep breath and Talena moved the medallion around her. It vibrated strongest when it crossed the trail of the one who had passed this way. The heretic moved off into the tall grasses that graced the hillside, following an erratic path. Talena snorted to herself, for the motions reminded her of a hound on the scent. She shook her head and went back to here Kessa was tugging nervously at her reins. Talena loosened the mare’s tether and mounted the dancing beast with practiced ease.

“Easy, Kessa,” Talena whispered as she used knees and reins to guide the mare into the tall grass.

This was going to look strange, riding all over the field this way. Talena hoped none of the farm folk in the valley below were watching.

Besides, it was the only way she could tell where the heretic had gone.

Ronan knew a lot more songs
than he had shared with Alaric over the years, and many of them in that sweet Aelfyn tongue. Alaric would listen hard to the words. The bond he shared with the bard made it easy to translate them to his own tongue, but still, Alaric thought it would be marvelous to learn them in Ronan’s tongue. In fact, some of the songs he did know sounded better in Ronan’s language, and hearing them made him understand them all the more.

At last the room began to thin out as the afternoon wore on. Their host provided them with ale and bread and a platter of onions and cheese. Alaric wasn’t sure he wanted to eat the onions at first.

“They’re good for digestions,”
Ronan assured him,
“And I think you will find them tasty. Besides, to refuse them would be to offend the landlord.”

Alaric sighed and took a bite, and found it was very sweet.
Almost like sugar,
he thought.

“That’s why we call them sweet onions,”
Ronan said.
“Children are known to raid gardens to get them. They’re actually considered a delicacy by some.”

Finishing the meal, Alaric went back to performing. As darkness settled, more folk came in, a lot more wearing the Temple Guard colors. They were everywhere, it seemed. But at least, they were appreciative and not overly noisy as some tavern guests Alaric had performed for in the past. In fact, all that was missing here was to have Fenelon and his bevy of lasses.

Alaric felt Ronan stir with a hint of anger.
“Will you forget about him,”
the bard scolded. Alaric missed a note on the harp and winced. Renan goaded Alaric’s fingers into continuing, seeming to momentarily take over control in a way that made Alaric nervous. But then the control relaxed, and Alaric was back to being in charge.

“What’s wrong with remembering Fenelon?”
Alaric thought.

Ronan sighed inside him.
“Lets just play music for a while and not sing, all right?”

“All right,”
Alaric thought in return.

He ended the sweet song he was warbling and turned to flicking fingers across the strings. Alaric danced out some lively tunes to keep the landlord happy and his customers lively.

“Now, why should I not think about Fenelon?”
Alaric glanced down at Vagner whose hound face was looking up at him in puzzlement.

“I would think that would be obvious,”
Ronan said.
“You dwell on him too much.”

“And you don’t like him—or any of the Greenfyns.”

Silence filled Alaric’s head for a moment, as though Ronan were drawing away to himself. Then at length, he made his presence felt again.

“No, I do not,”
Ronan said.
“The Greenfyns are greedy when it comes to magic. If they had their way, they would overrun the entire world and be its rulers...”

“Well, now,”
Alaric thought.
“I can see Turlough having that sort of ambition, but Fenelon? He just likes to have fun. Sometimes too much fun, I will admit, but he’s always struck me as being more decent and honest than...”

“Than who?”
Ronan thought sharply.
“Me?”

Alaric sighed.
“Well, now that you mention it. I always trusted you until I learned what you and Marda did to me.”

“I did what I did for the sake of the world, Alaric. Best you understand that now. Fenelon does only what serves him.”

Alaric tried not to frown. He was the first to admit there seemed to be a selfish side to Fenelon, but he had never seen evidence that Fenelon would put himself before the world. Still, he decided this was not the time to play with those thoughts. Besides, as he glanced across the room towards the door someone was stepping inside. Green eyes met his briefly then passed over the room. The owner was short under the dark cloak that bore none of the decorations Alaric had seen on folk. He had glimpsed little more than an eldritch face and hints of hair the color of a fiery sunset.

She—
yes, it is a she,
he thought—crossed the chamber and claimed a table, pulling off gauntlets and cloak. The landlord rushed over to her rather than wait for her to go to the bar as most of those who came into his establishment did. Alaric watched the man bob like a puppet before he rushed away. The woman sat down and fixed Alaric with brazen appreciation. She smiled when he looked right at her then sprawled back in her chair with an almost masculine and casual air. Her clothes were more suited to a warrior than a maiden.

“Forget that one right away,”
Ronan said.
“She’s not your type.”

“How would you know what my type is?”
Alaric retorted in his head.

“Your type is a sweet young lass who nearly gave her life for you down in the caverns of the Dragon’s Tongue,”
Ronan insisted. 
“That one will be nothing but trouble.”

“What makes you say that?”
Alaric said.
“She’s not wearing Temple colors...”

“No, but she acts like a mercenary, and they can be worse than Temple Bounty Hunters,”
Ronan said.

“How can you know that?”

“Trust me. I know a freelance mercenary when I see one.”

Alaric frowned this time, unwittingly allowing the look to take over his face before he could stop it. The lass saw this change of expression and cocked one eyebrow in thought.