Wandering Lark (6 page)

Fenelon sighed. “So what will you do?”

“Find Alaric, I suppose. I didn’t raise you just so I could watch you sundered and beheaded.”

“Good luck, then,” Fenelon said.

Gareth nodded.

“Just don’t let Turlough hurt him,” Fenelon said. “Alaric is guilty of nothing more than making the decision to save his own life and stop Tane Doran from resurrecting Na’Sgailean.”

Gareth smiled. “Now why would I want to hurt Alaric,” he said. “I rather like him. He’s a nice steady lad. Teaching him magic will be good for you.”

Fenelon burst into a startling peal of laughter. “Do you really think so?” Fenelon said.

“I know so,” Gareth said. “Fathers have that way about them.”

Gareth turned for the door.

“Tell Renton that when I get out of here, I’m going to kick his fat bugger hole from here to the Ice Plains for being a snitch.”

“You’ll have to stand in line behind me,” Gareth said over his shoulder.

He rapped on the door. A small opening appeared.

“Tell Turlough I will hunt down Alaric Braidwine,” Gareth said.

The mage at the opening nodded then made gestures to open the threshold wards. The door opened as well, and Gareth shot one last look back at his son.

Fenelon had one hand free of the fetters and was waving goodbye while smiling cheerfully. Gareth rolled his eyes and grinned.

He wasn’t even going to ask how Fenelon had managed to do that.

Alaric obeyed Ronan’s instructions
and closed his eyes, relaxing so that Ronan could take over his body. Such a strange sensation it was for Alaric felt like he was floating in his own head, much the way he had felt when Ronan took over to command Vagner to kill Tane. Alaric was a mere sleepwalker in his own mind, watching the world slip past in a mist.

From his place, he watched as Ronan selected a site from which to gate. Alaric had walked for at least a league, and the sun was well on its way up when they reached what looked like the ruins of an old broch. Little remained of the structure, save an outer stone wall that was broken. Inside, the earth held patches of grass and a few crumbled stones overgrown with moss and vines. Ronan took over then, moving them into the middle where a menhir stood and marking a circle around it in the dirt.

“A circle must be marked for a gate?” Alaric asked.

“For this sort of gate, yes,”
Ronan replied as Alaric made marks in the dirt with the dagger he had been instructed to put in his boot.
“We’re not just stepping from one end of Ard-Taebh to the other. We are going much farther than even the most experienced mageborn could ever open a gate.”

“I could do it,” Vagner said, sitting to one side and panting.

“We would die before you reached the other side,”
Ronan said, and Alaric’s eyes turned towards the regal looking canine.
“Where we go is nearly twice as far as it was from the hut to here, and had we not been using Fenelon’s gate instead of yours, demon, we would not have lived.”

“True,” Vagner said and walked over to mark one of the stones in canine fashion before joining Ronan and Alaric in the circle.

Ronan made Alaric’s body stand upright in the center once the circle was complete. He began to draw power from the four elements, weaving them into a wall around him. Alaric listened. Even the words of the spell were different from those Fenelon and Etienne had invoked to open their gates. Piece by piece, Ronan’s spell built a tower around them, and soon, there was nothing but a swirl of colors. Then, as if he was in a real tower, Ronan used Alaric’s hands to open a door that appeared on the face of the menhir. Alaric gasped as he felt them quite literally step inside the stone. There was darkness, and the weight of stone surrounded them like a thick shroud. His fear of small spaces sent a surge of panic through him, but there was nothing he could do. Ronan was in control, and Alaric had no power to resist in this state. He would have closed his own eyes, had he been able, but he could not, and just when he thought he would suffocate and panic, Ronan moved forward and emerged from the far side of the menhir.

Only, they were no longer in the ruins of a broch. Instead, they were standing on a tor where a single menhir with a broken face stood like a sentry. Far below, there was a roadway, and farmlands, and in the distance a village surrounded by wooden palisades. Beyond the village was a river, and rolling hills.

“Where are we?”
Alaric whispered inside his own head.

“Ravenhold,” Ronan replied with Alaric’s mouth and directed their mutual gaze back at the stone where the relief carving of a raven sitting atop a tower was visible. “This is where I was born. Now, a few things, Alaric. I will let you control the body because I do not want you panicking inside me if I should do something contrary to your own beliefs, as you just did.”

“Sorry,”
Alaric said.

“And I must be allowed to control the words when speak since you do not know the Aelfyn tongue and I do,” Ronan said.

“All right,”
Alaric agreed.
“So I am to say nothing?”

“Oh, no. You may speak as you like. But when we interact with others, it will be I who controls your answers. And I must be the one who sings as well, because they will be a little uneasy if you should start warbling in your
foreign
tongue, Lark. Agreed?”

“All right,”
Alaric said and felt himself suddenly sliding back into command of his own body. He rested a hand on the sword hilt. “But... how will I understand what you are telling them?” he asked, relieved to have his voice back.

“Have no fear,”
Ronan said inside him once more.
“Because we are bonded, you will know what I am saying, even if you do not speak the language. Oh, and Vagner... in this land, a talking dog would be very suspect, so please hold your tongue.”

“That will be rather hard since I no longer possess hands,” the demon responded with a wolfish grin. Alaric felt his own expression stiffen. “But I shall endeavor to do so,” Vagner added.

“We will follow this road into the village,”
Ronan said.
“There’s an inn on the main thoroughfare called the White Raven. Go there to seek a room for the night and to see about establishing yourself as Lark the Wanderer.”

“All right,” Alaric said. So many details. “Are you certain you couldn’t just run the show and let me rest?”

“Your body will not bear that strain for long,”
Ronan said.

“But what if someone starts to speak to me and I don’t understand them?”

“You will, Lark. I will see to it.”

Alaric nodded. “Fine,” he said. There was a path leading down from the tor. As he felt Ronan slide back in his mind, he staggered a step or two then began to descend to the road.

All manner of strange sensations
assailed demon senses when Vagner stepped out of the gate stone at Alaric’s side. The odd presence of the bard’s soul inside the little master seemed brighter here, as though he was tied to this land.

The demon sniffed around as he listened to the little master arguing with himself...and paused when demon senses detected something else. Vagner glanced towards the patch of trees that backed the stone. The copse was a snarl of hawthorn and brambles. Demon eyes penetrated the stygian dark and picked out a filmy shape, like a drape of sheer cloth shaped like a cloaked being.

Like a hound, Vagner lowered his head and growled. The shape seemed to flicker in and out, as though having trouble holding shape. A Darkling? No, for though the demon sensed magic, it was not of a kindred ilk. He started at the copse, determined to learn what he could.

“Vagner?” Alaric called.

The demon turned and spied Alaric on the slope leading down to the road.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

Vagner snorted and turned back towards the copse. The wispy being was gone. No matter where the demon looked, he could not see it. Even the faint essence it had scented the air with had vanished on the breeze. Mageborn, he was more inclined to think. Mage spirit? Hard to say now that it was gone.

“Vagner, come on!” Alaric called again. And this time, the cry was accompanied by a faint hint of the demon’s True Name. That was a command Vagner could not readily ignore.

Vagner turned away from the copse and the stone and headed down the hill. He jogged along through the tall grass to the sides, spooking hares and other small rodents like a true hound.

At least he would eat well.

Watcher Desura was not quite
twelve winters old when her “talent” was discovered. As a rule, when the Temple of the Triad found such children among the folk of Garrowye, they were taken from their homes. What became of them was a mystery to the families who knew better than to protest their loss. Better to keep ones farm and the rest of ones family from the flames than to challenge the Temple Patriarchs and High Lords.

But Desura was not taken away and burned. Instead, she was taken before a tribunal of Temple Patriarchs who “tested” her. She was found to be a “sensitive.” For the next five years of her life, she was mentally tortured and trained until she no longer cared for her past or her family or her friends. She pretended to believe the Temple when they told her all heretics were destined for the flames. And to this end, she assisted the Temple of the Triad in finding those heretics wherever they hid.

Twelve winters of her life had passed since the day they took her. To see her now, one would have thought her an old woman, for she was pale and withered and her hair—once locks of fire—now lay like a limp white cowl over her head.

The talent, according to the Patriarchs and High Lords, demanded a terrible price. Watchers were said to rarely live past their thirtieth year...

Desura took a deep breath and released her hold on the rim of the scrying stone. Cut from black marble and inlaid with silver runes, the middle held water that was said to seep up from a stream under the Temple. Day in and day out, she stared at the surface, stretching her senses, attaching her awareness to each of the gate stones that lie within ten leagues of the township of Ravenhold.

Today, for the first time in all the years of watching, one of the stones had stirred. The vibrations so startled her, she almost lost her concentration, and briefly, pain shot through her where the continual drain on her own essence was nearly broken.

To either side of her sat Matriarchs of the Temple. Her attendants shifted and leaned forward, ready to catch Desura should she fall, for it was so rare for her to break concentration unless she was too tired to hold it. She shook her head and clung to the sides of the scrying stone, re-establishing the link to the stone that had come to life. With a deep breath, she sent her senses racing through the ground to that place, gathered enough of herself to stand in the shadows and see the stone.

There was a young man...at least, he looked young, but Desura could not see him well enough to know. Her power was draining rapidly. And there was a dog...or it seemed a dog until it turned and looked her way.

Fire filled its eyes. Desura wrenched back.

That was no dog. That beast was one of the Youngerkin.

She stumbled, releasing her hold on the stone, and the power within her stung, then subsided. With a moan, Desura sank to her knees. This time, she did not stop the Matriarchs as they took her arms and gently lifted her from the floor.

“You must take sleep now, Watcher,” one of them said softly. “Shall we summon another to watch while you rest?”

Desura shook her head, and weak as she was, the motion made her unsteady.

“Take me to my pallet,” Desura said. “And summon Talena.”

The elder of the two Matriarchs looked disapproving. “She is not...”

“Summon Talena,” Desura said and glared at the Matriarch who touched her own chest in a warding gesture.
Yes, they remember what I can do when I am provoked
, Desura thought. “Summon Talena at once, and send her to me as soon as she arrives.”

“As you will, Watcher,” the Matriarch said.