Wandering Lark (41 page)

He blinked, startled by her concern. “Yes, thank you,” he said.

Talena hopped up and hurried over to where her packs were. Alaric glanced at Vagner. The demon must not have spoken aloud after all. His equine face wore an expression of deep thought and concentration, and Alaric could feel power thrumming along the thread of the bond they shared.

Ronan attacked me and Vagner saved me.

He wanted to know why, but Ronan had already retreated so deep into some part of Alaric’s being, that he could not find the bard’s essence without serious searching. He would have to ask later, he supposed.

For now, at least, the pain was but a memory.

He said Ronan,
Talena thought
as she dug the syrup out of her pack and brought it back.
Stop it, Ronan.
And that puzzled her because for some reason, she knew that name.

A rude ditty her father once sang, perhaps?

     
There once was a bard named Ronan,

     
Who kept all the lasses a-moaning.

     
He would do as he pleased

     
With a lad on his knees

     
But for lasses, his coming was roaming...

There were more verses, but she couldn’t remember the rest. Or didn’t want to, more likely.

Lark’s face had a pinched look, and he was a little grey around the mouth. She handed him the stoppered bottle. “Just a sip,” she said. “Too much will make you sleepy.”

He nodded and slugged a small dose of the syrup. A startled look filled his eye. He barely managed to swallow before he started coughing. Talena rescued the bottle before he could drop it.

“Horns, what’s in there besides willow bark?” he asked when he was finally able to speak again.

Talena looked into the bottle and shrugged. “There may be a bit of barley brew. And honey and strand berries to make it palatable.”

“Right,” he said and snagged his water skin from beside where he had slept. He took a drink of water then grimaced. “It’s awfully bitter even with the honey.”

She stoppered the bottle again.

“It works,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

Lark nodded, and the tension in his face lessened. “Well, you’re right on that account,” he said, looking surprised. “My head feels much better. Time we were off, I imagine.”

He stood up quickly and made for his horse. The yellow monster still wore all its tack. Kessa now rubbed her head against Ordha as though he was the best friend she had ever had. The golden horse seemed more interested in watching Lark, and as soon as he reached the animal’s side, Ordha pushed his head against Lark and stayed there a moment. The bard’s face knitted into a frown. He reached out and rubbed the horse’s neck as though reassuring him.

Frowning, Talena reached into her jerkin and felt for the medallion. It was vibrating as always.

“Listen, I’m going to fill the water skins,” Talena said.

“All right,” Alaric said. “And I’ll finish packing up the camp.”

Talena grabbed the skins—his and her own—and sprinted for the door.

In daylight, the raveners were scarce. Indeed, as Talena stepped out of the ruins, she saw one scuttling back into the deep shadows. Another vanished into the bole of a tree.

She walked carefully across the fern covered courtyard. Off to one side was the trickle of an old fountain, clearly fed by a natural spring since it was still working after all this time. Kneeling beside the shallow flow water, she set her waterskin aside and dipped the silvered glass into the trickle that was not much deeper than ditch after rain.

“Desura?” she said.

For a moment, there was nothing, and Talena started to wonder, considering the hour, if her cousin had retired and left another to watch. But then the glass went smoky as before, and a familiar face appeared.

“What have you found?” Desura said, though Talena did not see her cousin’s lips move.

“We have not quite reached Taneslaw yet,” Talena said. “But there was something I thought you would be interested in hearing.”

“And that is?”

“He
is
a heretic,” Talena said. “And he comes from a foreign land. He walked through the stones.”

“Has he led you to the White One yet?”

“No,” Talena said, “but he told me something about how heretics in his land keep young and strong. They find something he called essence in other living things. Rocks, trees, grass, animals—even people. And they draw this essence to feed their spells. That way, they don’t tire themselves.”

“And your point is?” Desura asked, looking as though she did not care.

“The point is you can actually kill someone by pulling their essence out of them. But you can use their essence so you don’t have to use up your own. Think about it. Watchers have always died young because they use themselves up. But what if you could draw essence from other things, you would live so much longer. I just know it.”

“Yes, I see,” Desura said and frowned.

“There is this word he used to make fire too,” Talena said.
“Loisg.
You should see if you can make fire like he does and...”

“I must go now. I hear the High Patriarch coming.”

“Desura, you should try it.”

“Later,” Desura said and her image faded. The mirror had been warm in Talena’s hand, but now the glass went cold as the water in which it was held.

Frowning, Talena drew it out and dried it off. She filled her water skin as well, just so she could say she had actually done so. And carefully, she picked her way back into the keep.

Nothing had changed there. Alaric was rolling the pallets up. The horses still stood side by side.

But she noticed there was an odd feeling that sent trickles of sweat down her back.

Like she was still being watched.

Desura frowned at the image that
faded as she broke contact with Talena. There was no High Patriarch. There was only her desire to break off this insane conversation before...

With a shake of her head, Desura glanced at her attendants. They dozed, as they were wont to do at this late hour. She could have reported them to the High Patriarch, and they would have been punished or even reassigned, but she had no desire to lose them now. Their tendency to slumber at this hour was actually a blessing.

For one thing, it gave her freedom.

She pulled her hands away from the stone and carefully seated herself in the chair that stood behind her. Rarely did she try to use it, but now, if she was going to try this thing Talena mentioned.

She had learned early in her years of training at the temple that there were times when she could see the essence of others. So she closed her eyes and concentrated on the attendants. An aura glowed about each of them, revealed to her inner vision. She smiled and like a child sneaking sweets, she reached out with invisible fingers and pinched a bit of it.

To her surprise, it came to her quite easily, almost begging her to steal more. And she might have tried to do so, but she sensed that her pinching even that small bit of essence had disturbed the attendant from which it came. The woman made a choking noise.

Desura opened her eyes, ceasing the draw. The attendant stumbled out of her chair, clutching a hand to her throat. Her sudden actions awoke the other. For moments, she watched them. One gasping for breath, the other fluttering around like a frightened hen.

They both looked at Desura, sitting calmly in her chair. A pair of frowns briefly greeted her.

“I was tired,” Desura said. “I needed to rest a moment and you were both asleep, and I just hated to disturb you... Are you ill? You seemed to be choking.”

The attendants—she had never known their names, for the Temple High Patriarchs thought she did not need to know such thing—traded uneasy glances, then came over to offer their assistance. She let them help her up and get her back to the bowl.

But what she was pleased to note inside herself was that she felt like she could have walked without them.

The long road to Eldon Keep
started at the old road that ran from the township of Wendon to the gates of the Barony of Bengore. As Turlough recalled, somewhere west of his nephew’s haven was a road leading north to a village called Claggen where there had been whispers of religious unrest. To the immediate north was the village of Eldon itself, though in Turlough’s opinion, it was little more than a gathering of pig farms with a dozen or so families.

He could have waited there. Small as it was, there was probably a local tavern, since even pig farmers liked their ale. But Turlough felt a growing air of impatience eating at his nerves. He doubted he would have the patience to put up with the smell. So he sat in the carriage at the foot of the trail and watched the trees sway gently back and forth while littering the ground with their autumn colors, and waited for Lorymer to return. His faithful—though sometimes more open-mouthed than was good for him—apprentice and assistant had taken the trail by horse. And this only because Turlough sensed that Fenelon’s ward had been tightened by some magic specifically designed to repel the High Mage.

And we assume he will reach the top without incident.

Where Fenelon was involved, one could never be certain.

Damn the arrogant rogue,
Turlough fumed and tightened his robes about him.

Questioning the little healer had proven useless. Her mentor from the Temple of Diancecht never once allowed Turlough a moment alone with the chit. Oh he could smell the essence of sex on her. She and that toad Wendon had been dallying, and more than once. The air of their passion still clung to her clothes. Horns, had it not grown to a proportion that could be felt so far out of Mistress Savala’s quarters, she might have escaped with the others...

Turlough frowned and looked at the mageborn guards who surrounded him. He wondered how many of their tongues would wag and warble the story of the great escape? Could he really trust any who served him?

It still galled him, knowing he had been betrayed by Etienne, not once, but twice now. Granted, he had always thought she had the makings of a High Mage—still did, as far as he was concerned—but this little episode would make him think twice about listing her as a possible heir to his throne in the event that something happened to him.

Nothing will happen to me,
he thought.

There had been two attempts to assassinate him in the last twenty years. One he felt certain, had been connected to no less an enemy than Nanani Gallowgreen. If he ever caught that woman, he would strangle her with his own bare hands.

The other had been puzzling for the assassin was mortalborn instead of mageborn and had entered Dun Gealach like a thief and waited for a Council Meeting to begin. An arrow meant to pierce Turlough’s heart had crossed the chamber from one of the corners of the room.

And he was not pleased to know that it had been young Fenelon Greenfyn, there as a mere youth apprenticed to his own father and being introduced to the ways of the Council, who had saved Turlough’s life in front of everyone. The quick-witted lad had snapped the arrow in two in midair with a single magebolt, and sent the halves harmlessly skittering to the floor while his father and others had tackled and restrained the assassin.

Alas, the assassin had known that he would not escape with his life, and even as he was snagged, he managed to swallow a small philter of poisonous extract. About all they were able to determine was that he was hardly more than a man in years, and that his bow had been manufactured in Loughan.

A single magebolt and young Fenelon earned himself many a friend that day,
Turlough fumed.
The members of the Council surged forward in droves to congratulate the lad.
Not one of them came and asked me if I was all right.
On, no, they were all far more eager to congratulate the descendant of my own brother Phelon.