Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (15 page)

“I have no secrets,” Alaric said, righting his chair and looking annoyed.

“They are also useful in deflecting various forms of mental attack,” Fenelon said. “Magic isn’t all fun and games, Alaric. There are mageborn and bloodmages aplenty who would use their mind skills to battle yours. For instance, I could make you believe you were being devoured by flames, or that your hands were splitting open and crumbling, and you would actually feel that pain.”

Alaric frowned. “So how do I make these walls?”

“Sit down,” Fenelon said, and Alaric obeyed. Fenelon moved around the edge of the elaborate circle marked on his floor, calling on elemental energy to form an invisible barrier of
stricturing.
Alaric could feel the tingle of the spell wall as it closed around them and severed them from outside influences he had noticed here and there in the keep. Once the circle was complete, Fenelon stepped around behind Alaric, resting hands on his shoulders.

“First step,” Fenelon said. “Relax and let your mind fold into darkness. Clear it of all thoughts.”

Alaric took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he sought to clear his mind as Marda had taught him. His awareness of his center of power grew as he did, revealing the golden heat that was the core of his mageborn essence.

“Oh, no, don’t even think of that,” Fenelon’s voice whispered inside of Alaric’s head. “Put everything aside. Be nothing in your own mind.”

Alaric took another deep breath and tried again. This time, he succeeded in making his mind a void…except now he could sense Fenelon’s invasion. The master mageborn’s essence poked and pried through memories like a thief… “Gee, an awful lot of stuff floating around in here…wonder why it’s so dark over there…”

“Hey!” Alaric blurted. “Get out of my head!”

Fenelon chuckled most wickedly. “This is a part of it,” he said, and his voice rang around in a mocking song. “Go ahead, close me out…hide your precious secrets from me if you can…”

“How?” Alaric wailed, and realized he was looking around in his own mind at the quicksilver aura that was Fenelon.

“Build walls.”

“With what?”

“With yourself…with me…” Fenelon whispered. “With whatever you can find. After all, you already know the spell for making walls of air or fire or earth…”

Alaric took another deep breath.
“Tog balla de…”
he whispered in his mind and reached for elemental power. There was little to be found outside him, for the circle of protection kept them locked away. Alaric was forced to reach inside, but as soon as he started to draw from his own power and put up the mental barriers between himself and Fenelon’s essence, the master mage would tear them down.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Fenelon teased.

Frustrated, Alaric tried harder, seeing a wall laid brick by brick in his mind. But every time he set them in place, Fenelon knocked them aside, invading Alaric’s mind with alarming clarity and sifting through Alaric’s memories. Anger rose in Alaric, and he was exhausting himself drawing the power from his own essence.

And then it occurred to him. He was wasting his own energy with this effort, while Fenelon’s essence glowed strong. So on impulse, Alaric began to jerk and tug at what was there. He seized bits of Fenelon’s own power and used them to mortar the mental bricks. Instead of going down, the wall grew, and while Fenelon continued to batter small pieces of it away, his own essence waned. At last, Fenelon stopped, and Alaric wedged the last brick of power firmly into place.

He suddenly gasped and felt Fenelon’s touch draw away. Opening eyes, Alaric turned. Fenelon leaned on the table, breathing hard and grinning.

“Very good, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “Mind you, I was merely invading. A bloodmage might throw in pain spells to keep you from drawing their essence, but that’s another step. We’ll try again tomorrow. For now, I think it’s high time we paid a visit to the Inner Library and took a look at that map.” He drew away from the table as he spoke and almost casually gestured to break down the circle of protection.

Alaric nodded. He felt more satisfied than he had moments ago. He quickly made notes of the battle’s outcome on the pages of his journal then followed Fenelon out of the conjuring room.

SIXTEEN

The library at Dun Gealach was as quiet as a tomb as Fenelon led Alaric through the corridors and the stacks. They passed a number of chambers where scholars worked diligently copying scrolls and books, and apprentices and masters surveyed pages upon pages of text. Faint whiffs of magic welled through the air sometimes. Some of it felt wonderful to Alaric, but then he would encounter rare bits of magic or essence that made him itch or feel uneasy.

At last, they came to a heavy set of arched doors, thick oak banded in iron. Over the arch, the stone had been carved with “Inner Library.” In one of the big doors was a smaller one which sat open. Fenelon ducked his head and stepped through. Alaric followed when the dazzle of magic danced sharply across his skin. The sensation so startled him, he whipped around to seek the source. On this side, the heavy door was carved with faces and arms he swore were shifting as though alive. As he watched, one set of carved eyes actually closed, opened and changed focus so they stared straight at him. Alaric gasped and backed away, only to bump into Fenelon.

“Horns!” Alaric hissed, and immediately earned black looks from several mageborn who occupied the chamber. He ducked his head and concentrated on his surroundings, hoping they would go back to their work and ignore him.

The room was long, and the ceiling was high and arched the whole length. Globes of mage light dangled from overhead. Rows of tables and lecterns followed the wall to either side, and it was here that the scholarly sorts now turned back to their books and scrolls to work. The air reeked of magic woven tight. More faces and figures were carved into the wall, and here and there, statuary of wooden creatures stood guard over tables and niches and the occasional alcove that broke the length. Alaric was unnerved to note that even the statues seemed to be watching him now.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

Fenelon pressed a finger to his own lips as a warning that silence was strictly adhered to in this place. He offered Alaric his hand, and Alaric took it with a puzzled frown. At once, he felt Fenelon’s essence slipping into his mind as it had in that morning’s lesson, but this time, there was no probing.

“This is Scholar’s Hole…the Inner Library,” Fenelon’s voice flashed through Alaric’s head. “This is where mageborn come to study books and scrolls and the various items of power that have been gathered over the years. And you’re not allowed to speak aloud in this place. Silence is the rule.”

“But the walls…the doors…the statues…Are they really alive?” Alaric thought back.

“Guardians,” Fenelon replied. “Elementals in most cases. They’re harmless so long as you obey the rules…”

“Rules?” Alaric responded.

Fenelon merely pointed to a wooden plaque, one of several that ranged about the walls. Words had been carved into them. Alaric was gently propelled closer so he could read them.

WARNING

No Speaking

No Reading Aloud

No Spell Casting

No Fire of Any Sort

No Eating or Drinking

No Feeding or Harassing the Guardians

Under No Circumstances May Materials from This Collection Be Removed From This Chamber

Be Advised That Any Infraction of These Rules Will Result In Expulsion From The Library, Termination of Library Privileges, or Being Devoured.

Alaric glanced warily at one of the closest statues. It grinned, revealing rows of fangs, and licked wooden lips with a wooden tongue.

“Come on,” Fenelon whispered in Alaric’s mind before releasing his hand and starting away.

Alaric obeyed, more than eager to put some distance between himself and the carving. He followed Fenelon the length of the room. At the far end, they stopped before a counter where a heavy-set mageborn peered through spectacles as he marked a sheaf of parchment. This librarian only looked up when Fenelon placed his hands on the counter and cocked his head. The librarian sighed and touched his hands to the counter as well, and Alaric became aware of a faint buzz. Out of curiosity, he leaned against the counter himself, placing one hand on the surface and concentrating. The conversation flooded his mind, and he bit his tongue to keep from gasping with wonder.

“…the original map of the Shadow Vale is in the Deep,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “It may take several days to retrieve it.”

“Several days!” Fenelon protested, and in spite of the fact the words were mere thoughts, Alaric winced at the anger in them. Fenelon’s brows tightened into a single line. “I need to see that map now…the sooner, the better.”

“I’m sorry,” the librarian said, “But I’m short staffed just now as it is, and already have a mountain of requests to fill before I can consider yours. As I said, the original is in the Deep, and that requires several days to find. There is a copy in the map room…”

“I’ve already seen that copy,” Fenelon argued, “and it’s incomplete.”

“Oh, must have been one of the maps we copied during the Shortshank Short Sheep Curse,” the librarian said.

“The what?” Alaric found himself throwing into the conversation, and the librarian turned a jaundiced eye his direction.

“Do you always listen to other’s conversations?” the librarian said ruefully.

“He’s my apprentice,” Fenelon interjected. “Now I must see the original. The copy lacks some important information, and since I am investigating a matter at the orders of Turlough Greenfyn himself, I must see the map in order to solve a puzzle.”

“Very well,” the librarian said. “We will put a rush on the map and fetch it out of the Deep, but it will require at least two days.” He pulled one hand off the counter and pushed a scroll towards Fenelon. “Fill this out, please.”

Fenelon looked like he wanted to spit fire, but he snatched up a quill and rammed it into the inkpot, then scribbled something across the page, finishing with a flourish before stabbing the inkpot back in its holder. Then he turned, motioning for Alaric to follow and strode firmly down the length of the chamber. His shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched, and he marched at a pace that did not halt until he was out of the Inner Library and several corridors away.

“Two bloody days!” he snarled. “If Turlough had asked for the bloody map, it would have been brought out of the Deep with a snap.”

“Why not ask Turlough to request it?” Alaric suggested.

The black look that rounded on Alaric made him step back. Fenelon took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Never mind,” he said. “We’ll just have to wait two days.
 
Meanwhile, I want out of this wretched place. Care to join me?”

“Do I have a choice?” Alaric asked.

Fenelon chuckled. “Aye…the brothel or lessons.”

Alaric felt his face flush bright red. “I…uh…”

“The brothel,” Fenelon said. “You need to get rid of that bad case of flushing with embarrassment, and I could use a bit of release. On the way, I can tell you all about the Shortshank Short Sheep Curse…”

Before Alaric could protest, he was seized and whisked along.

“You see, there was this mageborn dwarf named Hiram Shortshanks who was having a trouble getting a wife, and one night while he was lamenting his lack of fortune in a mug of ale, some fool lout had the audacity to quip that Hiram was too ugly for a woman, and too short to shag a sheep, so in a drunken rage…”

Horns
, Alaric thought as Fenelon rambled on about the curse. He hoped his father never heard about this.

Somehow, he would have bet lessons would be easier.

~

Tane’s carriage rumbled into the township of Dun Cranncorbie and eventually through the gates of the Woolweavers Inn. Vagner practically tore out of the box. The demon was hungry. Last night’s coney was but a morsel. Vagner needed larger prey to sate this ache in his belly.

But Tane must have sensed this. He came around the carriage and took Vagner by the arm as the demon sniffed the air in search of possible prey. “Come, child,” he said as though he really was an indulgent grandfather. “Mind the mud, my dear. We don’t want to get your pretty boots wet, do we?”

Vagner sneered down at the boots, tempted to pull free and head for the nearest puddle, but Tane’s grasp was firm enough to prevent escape. They headed for the inn together, and Vagner sniffed the air again. The odor of lives was tantalizing, whetting the demon’s appetite to greater heights. By the blackest pits, if he did not feed soon…

The innkeeper was a stout man who bowed and fluttered foolishly at the sight of this rich looking old man and pretty child entering his establishment. “My Lord, Malcolm MacGregor at your service. How can I assist you?”

“I require private chambers for my granddaughter and myself this night,” Tane said. “We will also require hot baths and meals in our rooms. Have you a good woman to attend my grandchild? Her nurse took ill a few days ago and had to be discharged.”

“Oh, most certainly, my lord,” MacGregor humbled himself in another bow. Likely, he was seeing a large return of sgillinns for his services. Would he be so humble, the demon wondered, if he knew he was going to be paid in imaginary silver? “My own good wife has a way with the young and will gladly assist. Lorna, my love…?”

A woman nearly as wide as the door ambled out into the main room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Aye, Malcolm, what is it, husband?”

“His lordship requires a good woman to attend his granddaughter.”

Mistress Lorna smiled and approached. “Aye, little dove, what’s your name?”

Vagner smelled the odors of spices and fresh bread clinging to the woman, but under it all, he caught the whiff of warm blood. He tried very hard not to drool. Now here was dinner to contemplate, a venerable feast of mortal flesh. More than enough to sate a demon’s hunger. But then, he felt Tane’s hands take the tiny shoulder and squeeze hard. “Go on, child, don’t be shy. Tell our good hostess your name.”

“Vagnera, mum,” the demon said and smiled sweetly. Vagner even managed a proper curtsey.

“Vagnera,” Mistress Lorna said, straightening up. “A pretty name for a pretty lass,” though the narrowing of her eyes said otherwise.

“An old family name, passed down to the first daughter in every generation…” Tane said.

“Ah,” Mistress Lorna said and smiled again. She a lovely lass, my lord, and I dare say, she’ll be turning heads in a summer or two. You mark my words.”

Turning heads, Vagner reflected, was a good way to break necks if done swiftly. He wondered if this form had the strength to break Mistress Lorna’s neck.

“Come, child,” Mistress Lorna said and offered her hand. “Let’s get you upstairs and pick you a proper room.”

Tane took a moment to crouch so he met Vagner’s eyes. The bloodmage gently brushed back the curls and said, “You behave now, my precious.” His lips touched Vagner’s forehead in a brief kiss, but the touch shot coldly into the demon’s thoughts.
“Don’t you dare eat her,”
Tane warned.

Vagner almost pouted in response.
By the barbed tail of the black one, you never let me have any fun,
he thought darkly.

Tane rose, patting Vagner’s cheek. Mistress Lorna took Vanger’s hand and began to prattle warmly as she led the starving demon-child towards the stairs.

~

Lessons most certainly would have been easier, Alaric reflected as he sat on the edge of a large bed, pulling on his boots, but admittedly not half as much fun. First, there had been the shock of watching the women in this establishment flock to Fenelon like crows to carrion. Then there had been much noise and laughter around the choosing of companions. Fenelon selected four, but one, it turned out, had been selected specifically for the task of introducing Alaric to the pleasure of flesh. Her name was Juliana, and she looked to be somewhere between the ages of Alaric’s mother and his eldest sister, which made him all the more uneasy at first. Still, she knew her business, far better than he did, and she remained as patient as stone. She was gentle and kind and talked as much as she thought necessary to put him at ease before she showed him the ropes of pleasure.