Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (22 page)

Cold air filled the tower. It felt like a tomb when Alaric stepped in, void of all life save his own and that of the mageborn who followed him. Alaric moved forward and looked around.

All of Marda’s belongings had vanished. She had never really owned much. Several changed of clothes, a winter cloak, a good pair of boots, a few books and baubles, and a large satchel to carry them all in. She had a staff of birch, peeled and white, and carved up and down its length with ancient symbols. A pendant of wood with Arianrhod’s marks etched into its surface. Alaric could have counted all she owned on his fingers and toes, and now he could see that every one of them was gone.

Well, almost. A small wooden box was sitting in Marda’s chair. Alaric often saw it opened, and Marda would pull forth the few precious things she possessed, one of which had been a silver rune-worked ring. A gift to her from Ronan, as he recalled.

Fenelon was busy marching the perimeter, studying books and trunks with great interest. Alaric went straight to the chair. Her chair as he would always consider it. He was never allowed to sit there, and even now, old habits rose. He lowered himself to the small stool at its side and reached with trembling fingers to lift the box and place it on his knees.

Marda’s essence was there when his fingers brushed the lid. Alaric took a deep breath.

“Lucian’s Plant Lore!” Fenelon suddenly declared. “Why you never told me you had that…”

Alaric ignored Fenelon and carefully lifted the lid. The box was carved from the same birch that had been the source of Marda’s staff, or so she had once told him. Inside, the box was lined with a bed of green embroidered silk. Nestled therein was a fold of parchment, which he carefully lifted, and beneath that lay the silver ring.

“Alaric?” Fenelon said.

Alaric merely unfolded the parchment and stared at the familiar, spidery handwriting laced across the page.

Alaric,

I meant to give you this before you left, as I am sure Ronan would have wanted you to have it after me.

Please forgive me, My time is nearly at an end in this world, and I do hate goodbyes.

Be good, my little Lark. And be well.

With Love,

Marda Alfrey.

The words blurred before his eyes. Alaric blinked, and letting the parchment fall, he picked up the ring and carefully slid it onto the pointing finger of his left hand. That was how Ronan wore it when he first came to Gordslea Hold. Alaric felt the faintest tingle of essence—Ronan’s essence—and bitterness like cinnamon or cloves burned his tongue before the cold metal warmed as though it belonged there…

Fenelon quickly snatched up the parchment and scanned it with a dubious frown.

“She’s gone away to die,” Alaric said, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. “Why? Why wouldn’t she tell me…”

Kneeling at Alaric’s side, Fenelon touched the box and closed his eyes. A moment later, he took a deep breath. “She’s still alive,” he said.

“But…where is she?” Alaric asked.

“I think I know. Come on.” Fenelon rose, putting the letter back in the box and offering Alaric a hand.

Alaric took the hand, using it to pull himself up from the small stool. But his eyes remained riveted to the silver ring as Fenelon called a gate spell. Only then did he look up.

“Wait,” Alaric said. “My mother expects us…”

“We’ll come back when we’re done,” Fenelon said as the spell tore open the fabric of the world. “Don’t worry. I’d sooner face a Haxon raid alone than have your mother’s ill graces to fall on my head…”

Alaric cocked an eyebrow. Were it not for the gravity of all this, he would have laughed. Instead, he sighed and stepped through the gate spell in Fenelon’s wake.

TWENTY THREE

The gate spell faded, leaving Alaric and Fenelon standing on a dry road. All around them, Alaric saw nothing but bogs and tangled trees and scattered grey stones dressed in lichens and moss.

“Where in the name of Cernunnos are we?” Alaric asked.

“South Lakyle,” Fenelon said.

“Lakyle…near Mallow?” Alaric said. “Isn’t there a demon wandering the wilds of Mallow?”

“Farther in towards the heart of Mallow, actually,” Fenelon said. “Don’t worry, we’re well away from that place, though if you would like to go see if we can find the demon…”

“No, no, no,” Alaric said. “I always thought Lakyle was… rockier.”

“On towards the northwest and the coast,” Fenelon said. “Here it’s a part of the higher bog that drains its groundwater into Mallow.”

“And what are we doing here?” Alaric asked.

“These are Marda’s old stomping grounds. Without a gate spell, it would take her well under a moon to reach this place from Tamnagh. Come on, this road leads to her cottage.”

“How far?” Alaric said.

“About half a league, at least,” Fenelon said and started walking.

“Half a league?” Alaric gasped those words as he started after Fenelon. “Couldn’t you have gated us a little closer?”

“And give Marda plenty of time to bolt or build wards against us when she felt my gate spell…not likely.”

“You could have cloaked it like you did at Dun Gealach,” Alaric groused.
Horns, half a league, and me barely out of bed after a bout of mage fever.
Just the thought of such a walk was making him tired, for the terrain here was not the least bit flat, and this road did not follow a straight line.

“No need to get nasty, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “Marda is one of those terribly rare mageborn who can feel cloaked spells no matter how good the caster is. Distance is our only ally.”

“And our enemy,” Alaric muttered as he stumbled over the uneven ground. Before he could fall, Fenelon caught his arm.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” Fenelon said.

Alaric sighed.

The road led in and out of patches of trees and over several sharp hills. But at last, it came to a stone cairn, stacked high by some ancient hand and still showing signs of rare offerings. Dead flowers and bits of tattered bones were placed inside the crevices where nature had done its work. Under a cloak of moss, one could still see the symbols of Arianrhod and Cernunnos.

“I thought you said this road led to…” Alaric began, only to have a hand clap firmly across his mouth.

“Shhhh…” Fenelon whispered. “That woman’s got ears like a bat.”

Alaric frowned as he was released. Fenelon stepped around the cairn. On the far side of the stones, the road narrowed to little more than a path. Barely visible, it climbed almost stair-like up the hill. Now Alaric could smell the odor of wood smoke. So the cottage was near after all. He took one more glance at the cairn. Whether the locals made these small offerings to the gods or Marda was unclear.

Fenelon led the way, gesturing for silence. Alaric picked his way carefully along, noticing the stairs might have been natural…or not. He had to move cautiously for recent horse dropping littered part of the steep path. Tangles of hawthorn now leaned close, forming a canopy over the trail.

The landscape suddenly leveled and opened out into a yard bordered by hedges of the prickly trees. Two hens and a rooster scratched the ground for grubs, and a small pony, staked near a watering trough of stone grazed on the sparse grass and a handful of hay. Behind it all stood a house of sod and stone, built into the next rise of the hillside. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the door sat open as though visitors were expected. As they were about to invade the opening, the path was suddenly blocked by a bearded man with treacle-colored hair and eyes. He held forth his staff, and Alaric saw it was oak, carved with the leaves of that tree and with mistletoe.
A healer of Diancecht,
Alaric thought, and his heart sank.

“Marda? Is she…” Alaric began.

The healer blinked, then stepped forward, losing his ferocious nature. “I’m sorry, I am Brother Oran,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Are you next of kin?”

“Next of kin…” Alaric put a hand to his mouth. The healer’s gaze softened with sympathy.

“We are merely friends who have come to say our farewells, Brother Oran,” Fenelon said. “This is Alaric Braidwine who was likely as close to a son as Marda ever had, and I am Fenelon Greenfyn.”

“Alaric?” the healer repeated. “Ah, she has been saying that someone named Lark will come. I merely thought her mind unclear. Perhaps she was saying Alaric…”

“She knew me as Lark,” Alaric said, fighting the sting of tears. “Please, how is she?”

“I have made her comfortable to the best of my skill,” Brother Oran said. “I fear it is all I can do. She is quite weak and will soon walk into the Summerland…”

“May we speak with her?” Fenelon said.

Brother Oran hesitated at first then nodded. “All right, but please, in the name of the Blessed Brother, do not agitate her.” He stepped aside to allow them to enter the cottage.

Alaric practically flew through the door. The chamber was dimly lit, but mage eyes adjusted to the shadows with ease. The fire was mere lowering embers, and the room was so warm, it felt stifling to Alaric. He glanced at a single chamber with small windows set with wooden shutters and leather coverings. Simple furnishings abound, not at all what one would expect from a mageborn’s dwelling.

Marda lay upon a bed, propped by a number of pillows and smothered in blankets. Her face was as pale as the linens beneath her. As Alaric carefully crossed to room to stand at her side, she opened her eyes and smiled for him.

“Alaric,” she said. “I knew you would come. I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get up any more…”

“You don’t have to,” Alaric said and lowered himself to the edge of the bed, taking her frail hand in his own. Like a raptor’s talon it was. He didn’t remember her being so thin.

Marda’s eyes suddenly narrowed when she spied Fenelon. “What’s he doing here?” she said in a spiteful manner.

“Fenelon is my teacher now,” Alaric said. “He brought me here to find you…”

She snorted. “You best beware of him, Alaric. That damned Greenfyn greed for power and gain will be your undoing if you’re not careful.”

“I think you must have me mixed up with Turlough, Marda,” Fenelon said.

“I knew you as a lad, just as I knew your father,” she said. “The whole lot of you are all alike. Damned, single-minded, stubborn, willful to the last bone of contention, your kind are…Greedy and self serving…filthy Greenfyn taint…”

She started to cough violently.

“Marda, please…” Alaric said, squeezing her hand and leaning closer to assist her. She hacked like a cat, then took a deep breath and closed her eyes. For a moment, Alaric feared she had ceased to be, and guilt over having allowed Fenelon to talk him into coming here surged through Alaric. But then, Marda took another breath. Eyes opened to fix Alaric with a most steely glower.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I came to see you,” he countered. “Please, Marda, if you were so ill, you should not have left Gordslea Hold. Mother and Father would gladly have looked after you…”

“I wanted to die peacefully in my own bed, Alaric,” Marda said, losing some of the fury. “I have known my time was coming for several moons now. It is unfortunate that sometimes we know about our own deaths…” Her gaze fell on his left hand, and her eyes softened with remorse as she rubbed her thumb over the silver band of the ring Alaric wore. “He did, you know…” she said and heaved a ragged sigh,

“But why didn’t you tell me?” he said, his voice growing feeble as he blinked back the threat of tears.

Marda slipped her hand free, and though it trembled, she reached up to cup his cheek. “Poor Lark,” she said. “I did not want to see you grieving as you do now. You should not have come here…”

“Come on, Marda, let’s be honest here,” Fenelon said as he stepped to the foot of the bed and looked down on her, and a fire came into her eyes as she withdrew her hand and returned the glare. “Tell Alaric the real reason you went away. Tell him you came here to die to keep from having to tell him the truth. That Ronan Tey violated Alaric’s mind with magic, and you were a silent witness to it all…”

“Get out of here, you wretched braggart,” Marda suddenly hissed. “Go away and let an old woman die in peace. Brother Oran. Get this miserable wretch out of my sight! I would not die with his face in my view.”

Brother Oran was suddenly there, putting a hand to Fenelon’s shoulder. “Come sir,” Brother Oran said. “You disturb her…”

“She was disturbed years ago,” Fenelon said in such a harsh tone, Alaric flinched. “Go on, Alaric. Ask her for the truth. She won’t lie to you. She can’t. That’s why she ran away. That’s why she hid herself here…”

“Sir,” Brother Oran said more firmly, grasping Fenelon’s arm, and though Fenelon was taller and could have easily broken the bother’s grip, he allowed himself to be forced from the hut.

“He’s mad as are all his kin,” Marda muttered.

“Then so am I,” Alaric said. “But Fenelon has been good to me. He took me to be his apprentice, and he’s helped me…”

“He helps no one but himself, and he uses others to that end,” Marda said. “You are a fool to trust him, Alaric.” She sighed. “What lies has he told you about me, then?”

“None,” Alaric said. “What lies have you told me?”

Her face fell into such a mask of woe, it rent his heart and soul like claws. He wanted to take back the words, but it was too late.

“I have never lied to you, Alaric,” she said softly and glanced at the ring.

Alaric glanced away.
Oh, no?
he thought. Taking a deep breath, he looked back at her. “Then don’t lie to me now,” Alaric said. “Tell me why Ronan Tey put a wall around my memories. Tell me what he did to me that day that I cannot remember…”

Her face went white. For a moment, her mouth worked as though she was trying to speak but could not. Then at last, she said, “He never did anything to hurt you, Alaric,” and started to look away from his anger. Alaric gently pulled her face back around. Tears glittered in her eyes, and he took her hand once more, offering a reassuring squeeze.

“How can you be so sure?” Alaric said. “How can I believe that if you won’t tell me?”

“What Ronan did, had to be, Alaric,” Marda said. “But he did not do it to hurt you…you must understand that. Ronan knew he could not escape his own death at Tane Doran’s hands, in spite of having fled the bloodmage for years.”

“Tane Doran?” Alaric said. “But Ronan was killed by bandits…”

Marda shook her head. “That was the story Ronan wanted everyone to hear. It was Tane Doran who took Ronan’s life. Oh, yes, he used bandits…”

Alaric felt his head swimming in confusion. Tidbits of dreams began to emerge. The moors. The man cut off Ronan’s hand. White hair like moonlight, twined into braids with beads of bone…Alaric blinked and the images vanished.

“Tane was as ambitious as any of the Greenfyns,” Marda said, “and he would not stop until he had what Ronan possessed. Ronan did what he did to keep the hope alive, for what he hid within you must never be lost. He told me he had long ago divined there would come a time of great trouble to the world, a darkness that would devour all… You were his last hope to keep the light alive…”

Alaric took a deep breath. His own tears slid down his cheeks. “Marda, I have in the space of this last moon—this last fortnight, even—been attacked by a demon, accused by the High Mage of consorting with demons…and I dreamed that Ronan Tey died at the hand of some blood mage…And now everything I thought was true is turning out to be a lie…I can’t stop wondering what wrong I have done to deserve this fate…”