Wandering Lark (13 page)

Etienne shook her head. “I had enough fun, Fenelon,” she said. “Mind you, I would love to help, but I cannot in a clear conscious leave poor Shona alone here, even with Thera to look after her. Besides, I can run interference from here much better.”

Fenelon nodded. “All right, love. I better go before they start questioning my extended stay.”

“Where did you get that letter?”

“What letter?” he asked, his face serious in its innocence.

“The one from Turlough...” she insisted.

“What letter?” he repeated, and mischief drew the lips into a smile.

“Very well, keep your secrets,” Etienne said. “Just be careful...”

“Kiss me for luck?” he said.

Etienne hesitated. Fenelon laughed, and briefly, his form shimmered and lengthened into the man she knew. He took her in his arms and pressed lips to her as his hands slid around her waist. Then, he pulled away, and once more Wendon’s smiling mask replaced his.

“My lady,” he said with a bow. She followed as he made for the main door. She opened it for him, smiling as he passed over the threshold and out into the corridor.

He ambled down the hall at Wendon’s rolling gait. Etienne closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh.

“Blessed Lady and Lord Protector, keep him safe,” she said then headed for the entrance to Shona’s room.

The guards at the gates of Dun
Gealach didn’t even give “Wendon” a first glance as he sauntered under the portculis and out into the damp cobbled streets. A heavy mist thickened the morning air of Caer Keltora and soaked into clothes, bones and soul. Fenelon hardly noticed it though. He was concentrating on an authentic rendition of Wendon’s rolling, short-stepped gait. Wouldn’t do to have him spotted walking otherwise. It was one of the problems of the transformation spell. If you were going to look like someone as nondescript as Wendon, you had to act like him as well.

Very hard for Fenelon who was used to moving like quicksilver. But he could not risk walking at his usual speed. There was still a chance someone would spot him and see through the spell no matter how well he cloaked it.

For that reason, he could not risk gating himself away. Too close to Dun Gealach, and the spell would be detected. So he was forced to amble along on foot, pretending to go to market.

At length, Fenelon felt safe enough to step into an alley and let the spell slough off. With its passing, Wendon’s chubby shape disappeared. Fenelon took a deep breath. Not an easy spell to maintain for a long time. He hoped Wendon did not waste energy in the tower. It had taken Fenelon a long time to gather enough power for Wendon to hold. It would not do for him to let it all go in a single day. Fenelon wanted enough time to get far away before Turlough discovered the ruse.

Knowing Turlough, that would not be more than a few days at least.

Scrying about with mage senses to make certain there was no one in the immediate area that possessed mageborn essence, Fenelon quickly opened a spell gate.

He knew exactly where he had sent Alaric, and almost hoped the young man would still be there with his pet demon.

But no. Marda’s cottage was empty, void of all life...though not, Fenelon noted, of all essence.

“Marda,” he said and cast around him. He felt her presence everywhere. It was possible he was feeling the essence she had spared here in life, but there was that otherworld taint as well. “Marda,” he repeated. “I know you’re here...”

A sigh filled the cottage. Bits of mist seeped in through the windows, and now it gathered itself into a familiar form. Marda fixed Fenelon with a hard glare.

“Go away and leave me in peace,” she said, her voice a mere rasp of its former self.

“I would like to, Marda,” Fenelon said. “But there are things I need to know...”

“I do not have to tell you anything,” she said and crossed her arms. He walked around her translucent shade, interested to note that he could see the room through her.

“Oh, I think you do, and for Alaric’s sake, you better be truthful.”

Marda snorted and looked away. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Marda, you know that I can bind you and force you to speak.”

The sound she uttered was a cross between a growl and a screech, like the cry of a Mallowean panther on the prowl. She shifted forms and threw herself at him, becoming a cadaverous hag...for all the good it served. Fenelon already knew that mageborn spirits were limited to changing shape. They had no power otherwise. Marda passed right through him and on into the fireplace where she coiled like a serpent.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Fenelon said. He spoke the words of binding in the mage tongue. Marda shrieked in protest and writhed in the fireplace, but she was unable to escape. She grew still as the stones that held her and glowered at him.

“Greenfyns are spawn of demon kin!” she said in the surly voice of a child.

“Now, Marda, you know that is not true. We are descended from the oldest and most powerful line of Old Ones to occupy this world.”

“Spawn of wyrms,” she muttered and crouched with her arms wrapped around her knees. The ashes of the hearth barely stirred as she moved.

“You always were fond of making jests,” Fenelon said. He stepped over to the hearth and crouched so he could face her. “Now, Marda,” he said. “Where is Alaric?”

“Gone,” she said and pursed her lips in a pout.

“Gone where?”

She shrugged and sighed. “Who can say? Gone to where he was taken, I imagine.”

“And where would that be?” Fenelon asked.

“I do not know,” she said and looked away. “I cannot tell you what I do not know, except to say that wherever Ronan is from, that is where Alaric has gone. Ronan bade it and Alaric could do nothing but obey.”

Obey?
Fenelon frowned and raised a hand in a threatening gesture. “You know, Marda, I could bind you to that stone forever.”

She glanced back and sneered. “So do it,” she said. “It will not help you.”         

“But I would much rather let you go free,” he said. “Just as I know you would want me to help Alaric before Ronan does something bad to him.”

Remorse saddened her eyes. “I never wanted Alaric to be hurt,” she said softly. “You must believe...I would never have allowed it had I known.”

“I do,” Fenelon said gently. “What did Ronan do to Alaric?”

“Made him the key,” she said. “But you knew that.”

“He did more than make Alaric the key,” Fenelon said.

Her eyes dampened and she looked away.

“Marda, please,” Fenelon said. “Turlough wants Alaric’s head. I have to find him before my father does, or Alaric’s life is as sure as forfeit.”

“He said it was the only way,” Marda said. “I told him it was wrong, but he said it was the only way.”

“Only way to what?”

“The only way the key could be preserved,” she said, and translucent tears tracked down wan, misty cheeks. “He swore Alaric would not come to harm, but then...when he began the spell, I realized that he...that he...” She started to writhe against the words.

“Marda, what?” Fenelon said.

“I cannot speak of it,” she said and grimaced. “He bade me never say. He commanded it...he marked me and he bound the promise to me in pain.”

Fenelon frowned. Damn Ronan and his ancient spells. This was going no where. “All right. What if I speculate, and you tell me if I am right or wrong. Can you do that?”

Slowly, Marda nodded.

“Ronan knew that Tane was going to kill him,” Fenelon began.

She nodded.

“And so he decided he needed a vessel...another mageborn to house the key, which is the riddle Alaric knew but did not know because Ronan put that wall in his head.”

Again, Marda nodded.

“But now that Ronan is alive again in Alaric, he does not want to leave...”

Her face whitened and shook her head slightly.

“What?” Fenelon rose and stormed across the room. “What do you mean no. Ronan does not want to be ejected from Alaric.”

“True but.” When Fenelon turned back, she put a hand over her mouth, and he saw her flinch as though something had hurt her. “Ronan...Ronan knew all along that only one essence could truly survive in Alaric without tearing him apart.”

“But mageborn spirits can only share flesh as long as the one who owns the flesh allows it.”

“Ronan made certain it would be allowed,” she said through clenched teeth.

Fenelon rushed back to the hearth and knelt.

“What do you mean, he made sure?”

Marda’s spirit convulsed as though about to vomit. She bobbed her head up and down like a puppet. “He...he...he marked Alaric as his own...”

“How?” Fenelon said.

But clearly Marda was having trouble speaking...and holding her ethereal form. It expanded and contracted and shifted around, and she started to scream. Frantic, Fenelon removed the binding, hoping it would ease her discomfort, but she shrieked and her mage spirit ballooned like a puffer fish, and with a soft pop, she vanished.

“Marda!” Fenelon shouted and surged to his feet. “Marda!”

He cast mage senses about searching for some hint of her.

But there was none.

It was a good audience in
Alaric’s opinion. They didn’t get rowdy. No fights started. In fact, they were surprisingly civil for commoners. Were it not for the occasional eruption of laughter from various quarters, Alaric would have thought the tavern empty.

He did notice that his “benefactress” vanished, but he thought little of it since others were taking their leave. At last, he decided that his tunes were no longer needed, and he started to pack the harp away when he saw the tavern keeper crossing the reeds.

Must not have made him happy,
Alaric thought. The man wore a furrowed brow as he approached.

“Young master bard, your room is ready,” the tavern keeper said. “And your table is set as you requested. I even found a large soup bone for the hound.”

“And what is all this to cost me?” Alaric ventured at Ronan’s prompting.

“Oh, no charge, Master Lark,” the tavern keeper said and smiled in a good-natured way. “You were a fine performer this evening. I did not realize I had the privilege of having a master bard under my roof. Pray, follow me, and I will take you to your chamber.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. This was a rather abrupt change of heart. Earlier, Alaric had been convinced they would lose half their purse to this man just to sleep in front of his fire. Now he was giving room and board away?

“Do not question good fortune, Lark,”
Ronan whispered.
“You are a good bard.
Accept this as your due.”

Alaric said nothing. He gathered his gear and followed the tavern keeper when the man stopped on the stairs and waited. They climbed to the third level of the inn where the private rooms occupied a warren of halls. Alaric was led to a chamber to the front of the building. The tavern keeper opened the door to reveal a large room with a dormer alcove. The window overlooked the market and the temple beyond. And the bed was a real one with a goose-down mattress, and not just ticking or a pallet. To one side sat a table and on it a fare more suited to a prince.

“I...this is too generous, sir,” Alaric said, staring at the fireplace where flames lapped logs. “Surely, you must have some noble who will be wanting this chamber.”

“Tonight, it is yours, Master Lark,” the tavern keeper said. “If you need anything. Bath...a woman...a man...let me know.”

“The bath, perhaps,” Alaric said slowly.

“I’ll have it warmed and brought up directly, sir,” the tavern keeper said. He bowed as though he were showing respect to a noble, and backed out, closing the door.

Alaric gently placed the harp on the bed and looked around. Vagner was already claiming a place by the fire. Several blankets had been laid there, and the demon settled down on them as though they were his due.