Wandering Lark (47 page)

“Well, I’ll be,” Hobbler said. “I knew that son of yours would be useful for something, Gareth.”

“He has his moments,” Gareth agreed, going down the stone stairs and stepping through Fenelon’s gate.

About time you realized it,
Fenelon thought. Carefully, he stepped down the stone path, walking through his own gate. Magic brushed his senses as he stepped out on the other side. With a word, he banished the gate, and looked around.

The river was broad and rushed out of the gorge at a rapid pace. Gareth took a deep breath and smiled at the view. Fenelon sat down, his head spinning from the pull of power and the sight of water moving at such speed. One would never be able to safely ferry a boat down those whitecaps, let alone fight that current to ride upstream.

Fortunately, there was a road that followed the river into the gorge.

Gareth came over and sat beside Fenelon. “Are you all right?” he asked with a hint of parental concern.

“A little weak,” Fenelon said.

“We can rest a short while,” Gareth said. “You’ve saved us a whole day. We can afford to rest.”

His face was set in a thoughtful look as he studied the bank of the river. Hobbler, seeing that the pair of them showed no inclination to move, settled down on the bank, looking into the water with great curiosity.

“I think this is the river I fell into that time I found the underground pass,” Gareth said.

“Really?” Fenelon asked.

Gareth nodded. “There isn’t another river in this area that moves as swift,” Gareth said. “But I know that I was far north of the Stone Valley when I fell in.”

“But if you have been there, why can’t we just gate there?”

“Not wise,” Hobbler said. He dug into his pack and pulled out a long bit of cord which he quickly bound a hook to. And on the hook he strung a bit of old cheese. This he tossed into the slower water of an eddy and let it drift. “There’s no telling where you’ll actually end up,” he added.

“What is he blethering about?” Fenelon asked.

“It’s too close,” Gareth said. “As I said, I was well upriver of this place when I fell in and discovered some underground passage into the edges of Garrowye. When I gate myself back to this place, I was trying to find a trail back through the Ranges into Garrowye. But magic would not let me pass much beyond this place where we stand now. Even my memory of where the place I ended up was has gone—as though I had never been there, so I could not gate through the barrier and get back to that ruined village. Believe me, I tried over and over. Got someone else to go into my head and see if they could find the memory of the way...nothing.”

Fenelon closed his eyes and let mage senses drift north and east, in spite of the fact that his head was spinning. Almost immediately, it was as if he ran into a wall. Power to be sure, but it was strong enough to stop his probing. He let go, gasping for breath, putting his head between his knees.

“Magic will be useless once we enter the caverns,” Gareth said and patted Fenelon’s shoulder. “At least, not until we pass through the barrier.”

“Assuming we can pass through the barrier, for I have heard it said that there are places even under the mountains where a Dvergar cannot find his way,” Hobbler said, and then he leapt to his feet when something grabbed his string. “Oh, I got one!” he called, hauling back as though he had a monster on the end of his line.

Fenelon looked up at the Dvergar’s wild cry. Hobbler was struggling to land his catch. A large salmon was weighing his line and threatening to pull him into the river. He whooped in triumph as he finally dragged it ashore.

“Fish for lunch, anyone?” Hobbler asked.

“As you can see, Hobbler has his uses too,” Gareth said and smiled.

Fenelon nodded.

Desura awoke to a rough shaking.
She had no idea how long she had slept, but one of the attendants was leaning over her.

“You must come to the scrying bowl,” the matriarch said. “The High Patriarch wills it...”

Desura struggled to rise. The woman offered a hand, getting her on her feet. What could be so urgent now? Desura thought.

Rothanan was standing by the stone. Next to him, slumped on the floor, was the other Watcher. A young man who had gone bald and skeletal by the time he was twenty summers.

“Watcher Kaldon is no longer able to manage,” Rothanan said. “Are you rested enough to resume your duty?”

Desura took a deep breath. “I am,” she said.

“And this time, there will be no more mishaps?” he insisted. “Because if there are, you will be joining Watcher Kaldon in whatever oblivion the Triad reserves for heretics. Do I make myself clear?”

Desura nodded once more. The matron guided her over to the bowl. She placed her hands on either side and frowned.

There was blood in the water. She looked down at the other watcher. There was blood on his face. She paled at the sight of it.

“I asked him what you might have done,” Rothanan said coldly. “He would not answer me... The gods punished him.”

She tried not to frown.
The gods, or you?
she thought.

His hand reached out and snagged her arm. “He had not your skill, Watcher Desura,” he said. “I would hate to see you in his place. Be mindful that you do not disturb the water again.”

Desura nodded, fighting the urge to weep. She firmly put her hands on the stone, determined to sink her consciousness into the water and escape the pain.

Too many of us have died because of you and your Triad,
she thought darkly.
Will I be next?

But she dared not say that aloud. And so she concentrated on the water and pretended not to notice as others came in and dragged out the body of Watcher Keldon.

Turlough knew that it was rare
for him to ever visit the court of a King unless there was a Council of Kings meeting. Though each of the Kings of Ard-Taebh—including the High King—had a mageborn in court to advice them on matter of magic, Turlough was not the advisor to the Keltoran King. He gave that position to others, preferring to rule from the background. Granted, Keltora had not had a king for very long. They resisted following the edicts of the first Council of Kings as laid down by Aldwyn of Gwyrn when he created the Unification and brought the kings together under one High King’s crown.

Historically, though Aldwyn of Gwyrn had taken mageborn advice when it came to forming this Council of Kings, he had not allowed mageborn any power. So Turlough had kept out of the courts in those days. Kings, he had discovered, were not always to be trusted where magic was concerned. Had the young MacPhearson who claimed Keltora’s throne those many years ago heeded Turlough’s advice, the young knave would have lived through the days of the rebellion when MacMorroch took his crown and his life.

Then again, Turlough had no love of the MacPhearsons, for they had been a part of taking the life of the woman he loved more than life in those days. He was pleased to see them ousted from power. Too bad, the MacMorrochs were just as stubborn about magic at times.

We must get mageborn blood into the royal lines.

But at the moment, Turlough had other matters to attend.

He reached the court of Caer Loughan by a gate spell that dropped him right into the central hall. His arrival was met with some dismay. Indeed, there were guards aplenty, all turning bows and spears and swords in his direction as he stepped out of his gate. But seeing that their visitor was someone as important as the High Mage of Dun Gealach, they wisely withheld their attacks. Besides, their King was not in his Hall, but off with his family.

His advisor, however, was holding court in the hall. Bran Alden stood like a giant among the men, clutching his carved staff of oak, his face unreadable, as he looked straight at the High Mage.

“Hail, Bran Alden of Loughan,” Turlough said.

Bran took a deep breath and bowed slightly. “Lord Magister. This is a surprise. Had I known you were planning to visit, I would not have greeted you so...fiercely.” He gestured to all the guards as he spoke.

“My business could not await the various protocols you court mages like to hide behind,” Turlough said. “I would have a word with you, Magister Alden. Several, as a matter of fact.”

Bran nodded. “In private, I assume?”

“Of course,” Turlough said and stepped closer so he could speak in a low voice. “Unless you would like me to declare you a traitor in front of all these important people.”

Bran stiffened. “This way, then, Lord Magister,” he said with another bow. He turned and started off into one of the arches at the side of the hall. Turlough gathered the length of his robes and followed. Bran had a long stride that would take some fast pacing to match. The last thing Turlough needed was to trip over his own robes and give this court something to snigger about when he was gone.

Their path took them into an antechamber with a balcony overlooking broad gardens. Bran stopped and turned, thumping his staff against the floor. Turlough felt the brush of air magic invoked by the whisper of a spell. The door behind him firmly shut of its on accord.

“Now, Lord Magister, what brings you to Caer Loughan,” Bran said. He stood stiff as an old oak, and narrowed his eyes, unable to hide his anger.

“I understand that you made a recent trip to Ross-Mhor,” Turlough said.

Bran frowned. “Really? And just how in the name of Cernunnos did you come by this information?”

“You made a stop at the home of Renton Morwaine, did you not?” Turlough asked.

“What if I did?” Bran said. “There is no harm in my visiting Ross-Mhor. I was in need of a bit of Green Yew for a gift I was making. His Majesty has a keen interest in archery, and long have I heard that the bows made of Green Yew withstand the usual rigors of moisture and remain strong...”

“Indeed,” Turlough said. “So your trip had nothing to do with your relation to my family?”

Bran frowned deeply. He reminded Turlough of a bear at the moment, one that was surly after being awakened from a winter sleep. “My relation to your family is quite distant,” he said.

“Yet, as all well know, you are married to Gareth Greenfyn’s eldest daughter. She bore you a son just last winter.”

“So?”

Turlough leaned closer. “Let us not mince words, Bran. You are a good man. Your king respects you. I would hate to have to accuse you of traitorous activities.”

“And what would those traitorous activities be?” Bran insisted.

“Who did you see in Ross-Mhor? Fenelon himself?”

Bran shook his head and smiled slightly. “You’re just guessing,” he said. “Fenelon is not in Ross-Mhor. But he was here just a short few days ago. He wanted to know if I had seen his father.”

“Fenelon was here and you said nothing to me?” Turlough said. “Are you not aware that I have been hunting him the length and breadth of Ard-Taebh? He escaped from the prison tower of Dun Gealach, and now Etienne Savala and her apprentice and another had joined him in his escapades.”

“Escapades?” Bran shook his head again. “Really, Turlough, you see conspiracy in everything since your beloved queen died.”

“Hear me now, Bran. Fenelon Greenfyn and the others are involved in helping a mageborn named Alaric Braidwine to escape. Braidwine has a demon as a companion. He had broken all laws of the Council by binding himself to this beast, and I will have him sundered and executed for his crimes. But Fenelon and the others interfered with my justice, and now they are fugitives as well. So you can either have your name added to the list of those involved in the conspiracy to aid Braidwine, or you can tell me where they are.”

A large sigh trembled Bran’s giant frame. “I do not know where this Alaric Braidwine is,” he said carefully. “Nor do I know where Fenelon is now, but I do know that he went looking for his father...”

“And the others?”

Bran shrugged. “They are in Ross-Mhor, and that is all I can tell you,” he said.

“Where in Ross-Mhor?” Turlough asked.

“I said that was all I could tell you,” Bran insisted and frowned darkly. “Would you call me a liar for telling you what I know?”

“I know you Aldens,” Turlough said. “You have deep ties to that branch of the Greenfyns that continues to produce ill-mannered rogues who refuse to bend their knee to the laws of mageborn...”