Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (4 page)

“And you don’t want Magister Turlough to know you’ve been breaking the rules again?” Alaric said with a suspicious squint and a hint more accusation than he intended.

But Fenelon merely smiled. “You catch on very quickly, friend Alaric,” Fenelon said. “It is forbidden for any mage to gate in and out of the interior keeps of Dun Gealach—except in dire emergencies—without the permission of the High Mage. It is also forbidden to cloak such spells on the grounds they could mean the caster has treasonous intentions. However, we are merely sneaking in because it would be a disaster for both of us to be caught drunk. So do not even consider following my example. I get away with such things only because I know how, and because of who I am. Now take my hand and let’s get on with this.”

At least, he’s honest
. Alaric reached out and seized Fenelon’s hand and nearly stumbled in the process. “Now what?”

“Close your eyes and let your mage senses touch me,” Fenelon said.

Alaric obeyed, closing his eyes and stretching mage senses. He was jolted by the quicksilver essence that burned so bright within Fenelon.

“
Geata foisgal
…” Fenelon began, speaking the incantation in the mage tongue. The spell words were merely the tip of a magical iceberg. Alaric felt the essence pulled from everything, air, fire, earth and water. Felt the rich thrum of magic as it was woven into a single cloth. That cloth was shadowed by another spell, and Alaric realized if he were not inside the magic, feeling it as Fenelon did, he would never have known the spell was there. He opened his eyes, eager to witness the power at play. A rift opened before them, dexterously splitting the world into a mouth on end. Beyond it, Alaric saw his room. Then something brushed his mage senses and replaced his wonder with a whisper of unease. A sharp bitter tang invaded his tongue, not unlike what he had felt when the barmaid kissed him…

Before he could ponder the sensation further, he was tugged forward but a few steps. The rough cobbles were replaced by the smoother stones and woven rushes of his own floor. Fenelon suddenly let go. The magic fell away, leaving Alaric with naught but the aftertaste of copper still lingering in his mouth.

“Do gate spell always taste so foul?” he asked as he set the psaltery and its case on the table. He whispered “
Solus
” and a ball of mage light blossomed to bathe the room in a soft white sheen, making it seem larger.

Fenelon’s brows rose. “Not that I’ve ever noticed. Maybe the cloaking spell gave it an adverse taste. Or something in the ale you drank, though Master Dobrin’s hops are rarely lacking in quality, but he could have gotten a bad batch.”

“And I am tired,” Alaric agreed.

“I’ll take that as a hint, and leave you to your privacy,” Fenelon said, making for the door. “Thank you for coming along, Alaric. You made the evening a great pleasure.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Alaric said.

“We’ll work more on the gate spell,” Fenelon said. “I think once you get the hang of it, you’ll find it easy and useful.”

Fenelon pulled the door open, only to pause. A thick brown shape filled the gap, one fist raised as though about to knock.

“So, there you are,” Alaric,” Wendon said, giving Fenelon little more than a cursory glance.

“Hello, Wendon,” Fenelon said in a cheerful manner.

“I’m not speaking to you,” Wendon said. “I know all about that spell you put on me today. Warthog, indeed!”

“If you’re not speaking to me,” Fenelon said, leaning towards the wider mage, “then why do your lips keep moving?”

Wendon opened his mouth as though about to refute that accusation, but wisely thought better of it. He jutted his lower lip in defiance, turning his gaze once more to Alaric.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Wendon said. “Where have you been?”

“Why, we’ve been out and about discussing various spells and trading songs,” Fenelon said before Alaric could even hesitate to think of an excuse that would not put either of them in a bad light.

“I see,” Wendon said, frowning. “Are you up to more talk, Alaric? I would dearly love to hear some of your songs, and we really should discuss the spells you will need to learn. The Council will want a list of the spells you already know so they can choose the right master to train you.”

“Actually, Wendon,” Alaric said, “I’m quite tired.”
Not to mention, quite drunk
, he thought. And there were too many bodies crowding this small space to make Alaric feel comfortable. His palms were already growing moist as the old unease rose.
Don’t think of the size of the room.
He just hoped Wendon could not see the tremor of Alaric’s hands. “If you don’t mind awfully, could we talk magic and lists tomorrow?”

Wendon looked clearly disappointed, but he nodded. “Tomorrow after lunch, perhaps. I’ve practice with my master in the morning, and since Master Fenelon has deprived us of a working chamber.”

Fenelon merely smiled. “Glad to oblige, Wendon,” he said as he took the thicker mage by the arm and propelled him back. “Best we leave now. It’s getting a little close in here, don’t you agree?”

Wendon still frowned, but did not protest as he was guided out of the chamber. Alaric quickly closed the door in their wake, grateful to have both of them gone. He carefully worked his mage-lock in place, drawing the glyphs with his fingers, then whispered “
Loisg
,” to the brazier and watched flames wrap around the coals and fill the air with welcome warmth. Stripping down to his breechclout, he pulled on a thick nightshirt and debated adding stockings as well.

You’re a mage
.
Warm the room, you fool
!

With a sigh, he called a warming spell, then drawing back the fresh blankets, Alaric crawled into bed.

“
Solus dubh
,” he whispered and waved his hand.

His magelight fell into shadow, leaving only the warm glow of the brazier to penetrate the dark as Alaric closed his eyes. Hopefully, the bitter tang on his tongue would be gone when he awoke.

FIVE

Patience was a necessary virtue to one whose very longevity depended on that wisdom. While most members of demonkind lacked it, Vagner made an effort to display the trait from time to time. Patience came in handy while serving a bloodmage like Tane Doran. Still, once the magelight faded so only the fiery glow of the brazier warmed the dark and seeped through the seams of the psaltery case, and the soft breathing of the young mageborn became shallow and even, Vagner eagerly flowed out of the instrument and found a shadow in which to stand while getting his bearings.

He was in a small chamber, and his demon senses were surrounded by wards set about the perimeters to detect magic, as well as the heady scent of mageborn essence. Like demons, mageborn were kept young by their magical essence, but their flesh was as mortal as any and quite tempting to one who found it succulent. The warm scent of blood would have made Vagner salivate, had he not been in shadow form. He had not eaten since earlier in the day, and already, his stomach taunted his better judgment.

His awareness lingered on the most immediate delicacy at hand, and it was all the demon could do to contain his appetite. Oh, how swiftly he could take this one’s delicious life and savor it as a fine feast. No one was likely to miss the youth until morn, and by then, the demon would have made his escape. But Vagner’s awareness also fell upon the instrument of wood which brought him here. His thoughts brimmed with the ecstasy he had felt as the youth’s music vibrated through Vagner’s being, almost like a lover. It was that beautiful memory that kept the demon from succumbing to the urge to sate his hunger on the mageborn’s tender flesh. Only a fool would destroy a thing that gave so much pleasure. And besides, there was always the chance the youth would awaken and cry out, alerting others, and that would destroy Vagner’s chances of fulfilling his mission for certain.

With a sigh, Vagner turned his attentions elsewhere. The door was mage locked from within, but that was a minor difficulty for a demon of his experience. There would be worse ones around the library, to be sure. The walls around this room were not marked by the mage lock spell, though here and there, other spell wardings vibrated. Demon awareness could “see” these things and easily avoid them.

Vagner pressed himself into the stone of the floor, gliding down through the tiniest cracks with liquid ease, and made his being part of them. He proceeded to swim through the flagstones as though they were water, carefully picking his way to avoid the spells placed here and there. From time to time, he rose in a wall and “peered” out at the halls. Due to the lateness of the hour, he was more often greeted by corridors where mage lights glittered in place of torches. When Vagner saw mageborn, he would sit still in the stone until they passed. Now and again, one would stop and glance over their shoulder as though sensing him. Vagner would retreat deeper into the stone. This was a dangerous game for a demon to play. There were those among mageborn who were more sensitive to his kind than others. If he were detected by one of the greater mageborn, all his efforts would be for naught. Tane Doran would be most unforgiving if Vagner was caught and destroyed.

As the complexity of the protective spells grew, Vagner knew he was close to the place he sought. He continued to move through stone until it as no longer possible. The scent of magic and parchment and old leather filled the very halls. Cautiously, he pulled himself out of the wall in an empty corridor and traveled up to one of the overhead beams where he would not be immediately noticed. There, his form shrank and shimmered into that of a mouse, and he hurried along the rafters, keeping a careful eye out for cats. It would be to his disadvantage to try and glide through stone now, but there would be mouse holes aplenty, for mice were persistent little things and always managed to take up residence where there was plenty of paper to nest in, no matter how many spells of protection and diversion the mageborn here might lay. Some creatures were just too simple-minded to even notice such spells. And no mageborn was going to care about a mouse in the rafters.

Vagner readily found the holes which stank of the vermin whose disguise he wore. Where beams went through stone, there were often cracks and gaps, and rodents had tunneled and chewed some of the filled spaces into perfect passages. He followed a well-worn path until it opened out on the other side of the wall. And there he found himself looking down from lofty heights at rows upon rows of cabinets and shelves.

He was in the outer library. The simple success goaded him into a smile that would have sent a cat scurrying. The first goal was achieved. Now to find where the maps were kept.

That, he knew, would take more time, and while his shadow form would have been able to search more swiftly, Vagner dared not change at this time. He could sense a number of mageborn who kept late hours wandering the stacks, and even if they did not notice him now in this small, insignificant form, the magic of shapeshifting into shadow was too much of a risk. He could not change into any other form until he found what he sought if he did not wish to give himself away.

So he began the long and arduous task of creeping about the beams in search of the maps.

Tane Doran would owe the demon a mighty meal for this.

~

Alaric dreamed of a time long ago. He was seven and his father had just become the heir of Gordslea Hold. When their wagon first rumbled up to the gates, it was late in the afternoon, and Alaric recalled leaning against his father half asleep when he was nudged awake for his first glimpse of his new home.

It was huge, or so it seemed to a lad who had spent his earliest years in a four room cottage with a loft, attached to his father’s smithy. The gates alone would have encased his old home with room to spare.

The wagon bounced across cobbles as it passed under the massive stone structure. Inside was a farmstead that had grown hither and yon about the perimeter of a square, stone keep. At the time, Alaric thought they now owned a whole village, and only later did he learn that the real village was outside a gate on the far side of the keep. Nor was the place as grand as he first imagined. There were parts in much need of repair. True, his father’s mageborn kin had been a wealthy man, but apparently the old mage was too involved in his studies in magic to worry about the fact his back wall had tumbled down or his dust was developing a life of its own.

Father made the best of it, though. He was a wise businessman and put his new fortune to work to repair and restore the place and make it livable once more. He bought some of the adjoining lands from tired farmers, tore down the outer wall that was falling, and built a low stone fence with a wooden gate opening out into his newly acquired pastures. These, he filled with fine fat cattle which he bought at first, and later raised. It amused Alaric as he grew to watch his burly father go from a hard-muscled smith to a gentleman farmer who found pleasure in discussing the gestation of cows and the attributes of bulls.

But on that first day, when they arrived at Gordslea Hold, Alaric’s mother made clucking sounds about the shambles of the rooms and quickly put her daughters to work creating a new order out of them. Alaric was supposed to be helping his father, but Haldane Braidwine recognized the glimmer of adventure lighting his son’s eyes with curiosity, and let Alaric wander off to explore the keep.

Alaric had found a narrow hall and even narrower stairs that took him up to a tower. There, he pushed open a great wooden door and discovered a room filled with many strange things. Later, this would become the room Marda was given as her own, the place where she trained young Alaric to his powers. But now, it was quiet in an ominous fashion. So still, save the coo of the doves in the rafters…

Alaric was never quite sure how it happened. He was exploring as lads were wont to do, picking his way in and out among piles of books and chests, when something moved. Just a shadow, but he froze, his small heart racing madly in his chest. Quietly, he had crept over towards the source of the motion. His path took him around a trunk, and in a brief glance, he saw that it sat with its lid open, propped by a stick, and was filled with musty old cloth.

But it lost his attention to the horror which stood before a window, a silhouette of some ghost or monster. A tall, shadowy shape with a high collar and a long cloak. Later, he would learn, it was little more than a mannequin placed before an open window to take advantage of the light. It had been draped with an old robe that was being mended. All Alaric knew then was that it suddenly moved, raising arms that flapped in the half light as a moan filled the room. With a terrified shriek, he retreated in haste. Alas, looking back over his shoulder proved foolish, for he ran full tilt into the edge of the open trunk. His own momentum tumbled him into its depths, and his flailing limbs had knocked the brace free. The lid slammed down on top of him, its latch falling into place, and no amount of kicking and shoving would lodge it free.

In reality, Alaric knew the moan had been nothing more than the wind passing over the eaves, and when it had whipped through the open window it had stirred the robe into life-like motion. And while as a child, he thought he was trapped for days, in truth, it had been but moments. His father, always alert to such things, had heard the commotion and promptly pulled Alaric, sobbing and shivering, out of the stygian depths. His sisters had already done their part to traumatize him then, having locked him into cupboards, and once in the grain bin, when they thought he was being too much of a pest.

Hours passed before he stopped shaking and weeping, alternately clinging to which ever parent was close at hand. His sisters had a field day teasing him sorely for weeks on end.

Alaric had dreamed this very event before, but tonight, it was different. Tonight, the thing in the corner developed fangs and claws as he fell into the trunk. And when the lip came open, there reared over him a darkness with burning red eyes and huge slavering jaws, and breath that reeked of death.

He flailed his way upright, determined to escape the fiend…and found himself sitting upright in his new bed with a thundering head and a stomach that heaved.

He barely reached his chamber pot before the ale and the remains of his dinner took residence there. And when he was finally able to get off the stone floor and crawl back into bed, he noticed the coppery tang on his tongue was replaced by the bitterness of bile…

But he was far too tired to care.

~

Several hourglasses past the beginning of Dark Watch, Vagner finally found the place where the maps were stored. Good. He had pretty well searched nearly half the library. More than once, he found mageborn pouring over old texts or quietly discoursing matters of spell alignments and strictures. A couple were making rude remarks about someone they referred to as “Warthog” having his nickname magically tattooed across his backside. Others shook their heads and expressed mixed opinions about a mageborn they called Fenelon who had apparently made a mess of one of the conjuring rooms. Nothing more than bits of information to a demon who has his own agenda…though the latter name struck Vagner as vaguely familiar.

Vagner thought he was about to achieve his end, but like all best laid plans of mice and mortals, Vagner had not anticipated that part of his quest would be delayed.

He had crawled out of a hole and had scurried half way across the beam before he even spotted the cat. It was a big one too, as black as the Shadow Pits. The beast lounged on the beam with its back to Vagner, forepaws tucked beneath its chest as it dozed, so it almost looked like a shadow itself. At least, the demon hoped it was dozing. He froze.

Barbs and Balls, the beast was practically covering every bit of the beam. So far, it showed no sign of awareness. Vagner frowned. He couldn’t go back, not now. He could smell the magic that told him his destination was close, mere double ells away. There had to be a way to get past the cat.

Moving towards the edge of the beam, Vagner looked over. Too far to jump to the floor. He could go back to the previous wall and use the shelves to descend to the floor. Too bad he couldn’t figure out a way to walk under the beam. Mice forms were adept at going up, down and across, but not under.

No, the only choice was the open floor. No rushes. Only stones. Vagner frowned as much as a mouse could, and turned back. At the end of the beam, he dropped to the top of the shelves that lined the hall…

The cat’s ears twitched towards him, and the face rounded back with a half-slit stare. Horns! The demon rushed for the edge just as the beast rousted itself and started back towards him. He succeeded in getting down several shelves, using the leathery spines of books as anchors for tiny paws just as the cat made the top of the shelves. A long paw swiped downward, missing Vagner by inches.