Wandering Lark (10 page)

A dilemma to be sure.

If only she had someone she could trust. Someone who was free to come and go who would not reveal anything to Turlough.

“Mistress Savala?” a soft voice spoke her name from the door.

Etienne turned on her bench. The young healer’s assistant stood in the opening. She had her hands folded inside the voluminous sleeves of her simple robe.

“I’m sorry, I just realized that I have never asked you your name,” Etienne said.

The healer smiled. “Thera,” she said.

“Thera. Very lovely,” Etienne said.

Thera blushed slightly. “I just came to tell you that Mistress Shona is still asleep, and I am going back to my own quarters for a rest...and I was wondering if there was anything I could bring you upon my return?”

Etienne held her breath. Was this the answer to her prayers? Then she patted the bench at her side. Thera’s brows rose slightly, but she stepped out and took the proffered seat, giving Etienne a good look at the bird-like features, the dark eyes and the auburn hair coiled over one shoulder in a long braid.

“May I confide in you?” Etienne asked.

“Why, certainly,” Thera said. “My vows do not allow me to be free with whatever I am told. Only to answer the needs of others. Does something trouble you, Mistress Savala?”

Etienne took a deep breath. “Well, as you are certainly aware, I am a prisoner here until Turlough Greenfyn decrees otherwise.” She noticed that the mentioning of the High Mage’s name brought just a hint of a furrow to Thera’s brow. “And there are certain persons with whom I must correspond without his knowledge.”

“You would like me to deliver a message that the guards do not know about?” Thera said, and there was a hint of worry in her tone. “May I ask why?”

“Because Fenelon is in the tower, and I am here, and so long as we are prisoners, there will be no one to assist poor Alaric Braidwine. In spite of Lord Magister Greenfyn’s declarations, Alaric is not evil or possessed by a lust for wicked power. He’s a good young man, and he has saved the world at great risk to himself. Granted, his attachment to a greater demon makes him suspect, but he had no choice.”

Thera nodded. “True, as the Brother teaches us, there are times when one must take a darker path for the good of all concerned.”

“Both Fenelon and I fear that Turlough will not listen to the young man before he destroys him. So I need someone outside to assist me in finding Alaric Braidwine first.”

“To whom would I need to deliver this missive?” Thera asked.

“Wendon Stanewold,” Etienne said. “He’s one of the mageborn students here.”

“Say no more. Write your missive, Mistress Savala, and it shall be as good as in his hands.”

“You are certain?” Etienne said. “After all, if Turlough catches wind of any of this, I fear it would not go well for you.”

Thera sighed. “Shall I tell you what my Mistress has said about him?”

“Is it terrible?” Etienne asked.

“Muchly so, and I am inclined to agree,” Thera said. “For Lord Magister Greenfyn always strikes me as a man who walks a precarious balance between good and evil... She says that he is mad, and that he was made so by love.”

“This does not frighten you?” Etienne asked.

Thera shook her head. “I do as the Blessed Brother of all Healers wills, Mistress Savala. I do not believe what you are proposing is for any ill. And I am certainly not convinced that what Lord Magister Greenfyn does is always right... I will take your missive, for that part is as simple as can be, and will not fault me in the least.”

“Thank you, Thera,” Etienne said. “It may take me a little while to compose this missive...”

“I shall wait,” Thera said and smiled. “And if you have no objection, I can sleep in one of the other rooms while you do...”

“I have no objection at all, my dear,” Etienne said. “We’ve plenty of spare room.”

“Thank you,” Thera said. She rose from the bench, bowed slightly and headed back inside.

Etienne took a deep breath and looked at the sky. “Blessed Brother, you do still look after me, don’t you,” she said aloud.

A white dove flitted overhead and landed on the rail. Etienne swore that it winked at her before it flew away. And where it had landed, she saw several sprigs of green. She rose from the bench and crossed over to the rail and lifted it for closer inspection.

It was a sprig of mistletoe and a leaf of oak.

Smiling, Eithne closed her hand over them, and whispered a silent thank you to the god of healers.

The interior of the inn was loud
and boisterous, but at the same time, rather nice. Alaric stepped through the door to a room full of good odors. Most predominant was the scent of roast venison. He could have stood there just enjoying that smell for hours had he not felt Vagner push up close beside him. In his head, the demon muttered, “
Pah... cooked meat
.”

Alaric smiled and automatically patted the demon’s hound head.
I suppose you’d rather go out hunting fresh game
? he thought back.

“Excuse me, good sir,” a voice said in the Aelfyn tongue, and Alaric stepped aside, startled to find several men and one woman in the black clothes of Temple Bounty Hunters attempting to get in around him.

“My pardon, good sirs, my lady,” Alaric replied as he felt Ronan grow tense with dread. “I meant not to block the way, but the odor of the roast so entranced me.”

“A bard,” one of the men said with a good-natured smile. “Better to be eating it than sniffing it, sir.”

“Oh, most certainly,” Alaric said, and Ronan hissed,
“Bow, Lark.”
Alaric managed to execute a sweeping gesture without looking too startled or clumsy.

His heart certainly thundered for a few moments.
How am I to avoid them when they walk right up behind me
? he thought.

“
Never mind
,” Ronan responded. “
Head for the bar
.
We must inquire about a room for the night
.
And this time, I’ll handle the coin
.”

Alaric fought the urge to frown over being chided like a small child. Still, he threaded his way through the throng of bodies, Vagner staying pressed at his side as though the demon feared being separated from him.

The bar was full occupied, and Alaric took a moment to find a way to squeeze in through the mass of men and women there. He found the barkeeper was moving up and down with swift and precise motions, taking care of several customers at a time. Upon spying a new face, the barkeeper moved over to face Alaric and smiled.

“Good evening, sir,” he said in that melodious tongue. “How may I serve you?”

“A room for the night,” Alaric replied. “And a meal.”

“Would you prefer to dine down here or in private.”

“Private, I think,” Alaric said. “I’m road weary and not in the mood for company of any save the dog.”

The barkeeper’s lips twitched just slightly, and Alaric couldn’t help but wonder what he found so amusing about Ronan’s request. “As you will, good sir,” the barkeeper said. “Private rooms are but two silver shillings, and the meal is another six brass farthings.”

“Two and six,” Alaric said, and he detected a hint of surprise in his own voice. “A bit steep for my purse, I fear. Why so high?”

The barkeeper shrugged. “The common room is but twelve farthings, but you’ll get no privacy there. We’ve not raised the rates in five winters now...”

“Outrageous,” Alaric said. He was willing to bet it had been longer than that since Ronan had been here. “I had no idea prices were so high.”

“They’re high everywhere,” the barkeeper said with a frown.

“Indeed,” Alaric said. “In that case, since I see that you have no entertainment for your other guests, mayhaps we can work out an agreement?”

“What skills do you have?” the barkeeper asked.

“
Get the harp, Lark
,” Ronan said in Alaric’s head, and Alaric opened his travel satchel to obey. He drew forth the little willow harp. “Songs and music from many lands are in my repertoire, good sir,” Ronan said to the barkeeper. With that, he directed Alaric to stroke the strings with an arpeggio. The music rang, and a number of heads rose in response.

“Do you know dance tunes?” the barkeeper asked. “Men and women get thirsty when they dance.”

“I’ll have them dancing up to the bar, good sir,” Alaric said.

“We’ll see,” the barkeeper said. “Make merry, and then come to me afterwards, and I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“As you will,” Alaric said, and Ronan indicated that Alaric should offer another pretty bow.

What happened to food in a private room
? Alaric thought.

“
It would appear that we will need more coin than I had in that sack if we are to survive in this land
.
Six brass farthings for a meal?
Absurd
.
In my day, I could get the room and the meal for six
.”

Your day here was long ago
, Alaric thought softly.

“
Apparently
,” Ronan replied with an internal sigh. “
Ah, well, to work, Alaric
.
Do you remember the Fairy King’s Jig that I taught you
?”

Quite well
, Alaric said.

“
We’ll start with that
,” Ronan decided as Alaric made for the only clear corner in the tavern to set up and play. Vagner followed and lay down at Alaric’s feet when he seated himself on a small stool there and began to pluck songs from the small harp.

It felt good, at least, for the moment, to forget why he was here and let the music take his troubles away.

The student halls of Dun Gealach
were much too quiet in Wendon’s opinion. It was not that he missed the constant stirrings Fenelon Greenfyn was apt to manage with his rogue spell casting. Quite frankly, he was glad to see the insane upstart was in shackles in the tower.

He would have been there long ago, were I in charge.

Still, without Fenelon’s vibrant presence, there was an air of gloom that hovered like the mist on the mountains. No one was interested in discussing new spells at all, and that left Wendon with naught but his own old spells. How one was expected to become a Master Mage when one was not given any of the greater spells to work with was as beyond him as the title to which he aspired.

For the fifth time, he concentrated on bending fire into a sphere. It was supposed to be a simple enough spell, but Wendon lacked skill with fire in general. Not to worry, he was told. It was not unusual for a mage to feel greater kinship to some elements more than others. Not unusual at all for them to find one or the other element would not bend to their will no matter how hard they tried. Maybe Fenelon was right when he compared Wendon to stone. He had always been better with stone.

But what Wendon wanted was to control fire.

Specifically, he wanted to control the flames in the brazier before him. He wanted to shape them into a sphere. So far, all he had managed was to make them rise in some oblong manner that would never hold shape for more than a heartbeat or two before it would scatter back into its natural multitude of lashing tongues.

Not fair,
he thought. He once stood in one of the chambers among other hopefuls seeking the status of master mageborn and watched Fenelon take a single flame and make a perfect sphere, then divide that sphere into smaller ones until he had a goodly number of tiny spheres of fire freefloating around him in a ring. Very impressive, Wendon had heard the older mageborn who watched say.

Show off, had been Wendon’s thoughts.

He bit back the urge to curse and tried again, willing the fire to shape itself into a sphere. Again, it turned into an oblong shape, almost obscene in the manner in which it wagged back and forth before it shattered.

“Horns!” Wendon snapped and slapped the edge of the stone brazier, only to feel the sting of its hard surface. “Horns!” he cried again. This time he lurched back and danced around and blew on his throbbing fingers. His swirling gyrations sent him reeling toward the open door where a young woman in healer’s robes stood. Wendon stopped so that he was but a few feet from her, meeting her quizzical stare.