Wandering Lark (3 page)

“I once asked your word that you would not cast spells or try to escape, and you broke it,” he said. “But it grieves me to see you gagged, Etienne, so I will remove that and your fetters, but only if I have your solemn vow that you will not betray me a second time.”

Rather difficult to give that with this gag in place,
Etienne thought, but she raised her hands and held them out. Turlough crossed the room and took the bracelets, one in each hand, and traced a circle on each with his thumbs. He whispered,
“Fuasgaill,”
and the bracelets fell away in his hands. Etienne took but a moment to rub her own wrist then reached behind her head to release the gag.

“Here, allow me,” Turlough said with such gentleness that she paused. With a sigh, she nodded, and felt his fingers fiddle with the buckle. The gag slid free, and Etienne licked her dry lips.

Turlough crossed the room with the gag in hand. He laid it aside and fetched water from a pitcher sitting on a small table there. This, he brought back and handed to her, and she whispered “Thank you,” before taking a drink. The water was cool and sweet, and it readily assuaged her thirst.

“You’re welcome,” he said, then fetched a chair and placed it so he could face her. She rubbed her wrist a little more as a distraction, uncertain as to what else to do at the moment.

“You look tired,” he said matter-of-factly.

Etienne looked into his eyes. “Shona... How is she?” she asked.

“The healers have her,” he said. “They were able, with my assistance, to avert the death bolt’s progress before it could reach vital organs, but she has not regained consciousness. There was blood magic involved, and demon essence...”

Etienne tried not to let her concern show.

“What exactly happened to her?” he asked.

Etienne shrugged. “We’re unclear on that,” she said, “But as I understand it, she took a death bolt that Tane intended for Alaric.”

At the mentioning of the young mageborn, she saw Turlough stiffen.

“I see,” he said, losing a bit of his sympathetic demeanor. “Where did you send him?”

Etienne tightened her mouth and shook her head. She had not sent Alaric anywhere, but was not about to let Turlough know that. She only hoped Alaric had the sense to move on before the deception was discovered.

“Etienne, this silence will not go well for you,” he said.

“I would assume you already know where I sent him by now,” she said. “Or can it be that your assistants lack the skill to unbraid my magic.”

Turlough frowned. “My assistants have yet to return,” he said. “Which means they are likely on his trail at this moment.”

Or learning to swim,
she thought. The lake where she had directed her gate spell was a large one.

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Turlough asked. “I have always had the greatest respect and admiration for you. You have skills beyond most mageborn, and your steady head has often made me consider escalating your position here. You know you would make the perfect successor to my post as High Mage of Dun Gealach.”

“You flatter me,” she said.

Turlough sighed. “Why would you throw all that you are away for the sake of that...demon lover?”

“Who? Fenelon? I hardly think of him as a lover of demons.”

“I am talking about Braidwine!” Turlough snapped, and his calm went quickly astray. “Please do not mock me as my errant nephew does!”

Etienne sighed. “Alaric is innocent of all charges that you would bring against him,” she said. “He had no choice but to bond with the demon. Elsewise, he would have died.”

“He should have died!” Turlough said, rising from his chair and pacing across the room.

“Why?”

“There is no room in this world for his kind,” Turlough said. “Mageborn who consort with demons are as much of an abomination as bloodmages, and they cannot be allowed to live and corrupt the rest of our kind with their thinking...”

Etienne looked hard at him. “Turlough, I do not understand why you will not listen. Alaric had no choice. Tane left him to die. The demon offered a way to live. And if you got to know Vagner as we have over the last few days, I think you would change your mind about demons overall. I mean, they can’t all be bad...”

Turlough shoved the chair away so that it fell over and crashed to the floor. Etienne stiffened, wondering if he was planning to take that anger out on her. She had never seen him so full of fire. He leaned over her.

“It is you who does not understand!” he snapped. “She died, torn and shredded, on the claws of a demon in the form of a wolf, and I vowed then that no mage who has anything to do with demonkind would be allowed to live!”

Etienne blinked.
She?
Realization dawned. She knew, of course, from Fenelon’s tales, that Turlough had lost the woman he loved to a demon, and he had not been able to stop her death. By the Blessed Brother and the Lady of the Silver Wheel. He was blaming all demons for that? Why not blame all wolves as well?

You are mad,
she thought. Suddenly all Fenelon’s ill words about his Uncle’s mental state were starting to make more sense than they ever had before.

Turlough suddenly turned away, glaring at the door, his back to her.

“Alaric is not Nanani Gallowgreen,” Etienne said. “He has done the world a lot more good than you can imagine. Because of him and his demon, Tane Doran is dead. Surely, you can take that into consideration.”

Turlough did not answer her for a long time. His turmoil was apparent in the set of his shoulder.

At length, though, he took a deep breath and stretched his shoulders and arms, and turned back to look at her with a contemplative stare.

“I have arranged for you to return to your quarters where you will be confined,” he said. “Your other apprentices will be reassigned, of course, since I cannot risk you corrupting them.”

Etienne felt her face grow warm at the very idea that she would “corrupt” her apprentices.

“Shona will be delivered to your quarters as well, and you will be allowed to tend to her until the time of your trial,” he continued.

“And Fenelon?”

“Will remain in the tower until that time,” Turlough said. “Because I know that I cannot trust him as I am willing to trust you.”

“May I at least talk to him?” she asked.

Turlough frowned. “No, not at this time. I want my nephew to feel the brunt of his isolation. I want him to think about his part in this sordid little affair. Had you all turned young Braidwine over to me the moment you knew he had consorted with a demon, I might have been able to forgive you. But the law is the law, and if you are found as guilty as he, I can promise that you will be sundered of your powers.”

“Only sundered?” she asked.

“If you will recant and tell me where you have sent him, I will be lenient.” Turlough looked aside. “I do not want to have to push for the death penalty, Etienne. Not even for Fenelon.”

“I see,” she said. “So, if we tell you where Alaric is, you will only sunder us and slap us on the hands like naughty children, and send us on our way, blind to the magic we once knew.”

“Why do you mock me?”

“And if we refuse, you will have us executed,” she added. “You are aware that the entire Council must agree to that before it can be so.”

“I am perfectly aware...”

There was a knock on the door.

“What?” Turlough snapped and turned toward the opening.

The mageborn assistant who had been sent after Alaric stood there, wrapped in a blanket and drenching the floor.

“The gate was a false one,” he said with a glare in her direction.

Turlough turned an exasperated look toward Etienne. “You didn’t send him anywhere, did you?” he snarled.

She ignored the look, smiling instead at the mageborn whose hair was plastered to his face. “I am pleased to see that you knew how to swim,” she said.

“Fenelon!” Turlough said. He marched towards the door. “Fenelon opened the gate. Yours was but a decoy...! Why did I not see that before? Send a messenger to summon Gareth Greenfyn at once! And if he refuses to come, tell him that his son will be executed without trial unless he does!”

The High Mage stormed from the room. The other looked uncertain now, and followed. Then the matron stepped back in and closed the door, and Etienne turned to looking back out the window.

Alaric, I hope you have moved on,
she thought.

Turlough stormed down the hallways
like a fury, not bothering to acknowledge the presence of any who bowed to him as he passed. His chest ached and he could barely breathe as he surged through the corridors of Dun Gealach, making for the privacy of his own chambers. Mageborn, apprentices and guards stepped out of his path. They knew better than to approach him when he wore the expression of rage that he could no longer hide.

He shoved open the doors of his study then passed through into his private bedchamber and slammed that door in his wake. Stumbling over to the hearth, he dropped into the chair there and covered his eyes.

How could Etienne be so blithe? How could she not understand? No demon was worthy of life. And no mageborn who consorted with one deserved to live.

“Briana,” he whispered, “why can’t they understand?”

With several deep breaths, he uncovered his eyes and sat upright to stare at the flames in his hearth. His hand slipped into his robe just over his heart where he felt the silky strands tied in a ribbon. Gingerly, he pulled it out and stared at the lock of Briana’s hair.

It was the color of flames, and her laughter the clear knell of a glass bell that he could still hear echoing through his mind. How often had they sat in front of fires in the keep in the Highland Ranges she called home? Eldest daughter of the Clan Chief of MacMorroch she was, and a rare beauty full of wit and wisdom. Turlough never tired of sharing her company.

He had loved her with every fiber of his being. She made him feel giddy. She made him laugh. Stolen kisses were shared in the shadows of the gardens that bordered her windows. Turlough could still remember what it felt like to hold her in his arms and caress her hair.

He had wanted her to be his wife and he would have sacrificed everything to make it so.

But fate had a way of taking things from Turlough.

In this case, fate had been the order of the High King of Ard-Taebh. The clan wars in Keltora continued long after the Unification, and the High King wanted them to stop, so he chose to make the MacPhearsons Keltora’s kings and insisted MacMorroch make peace.

That had been the first mistake. The MacPhearsons were not to be trusted. True, their clan was large, but they were reivers and murderers and did more harm than good when they came into power. The clan wars continued in spite of the orders of the High King, so he came into Keltora with a vast army to force peace on a land of surly, kilted men.

That was the second mistake. Keltorans were warriors born and bred. War was their breakfast and victory celebrations their supper. Still, the wiser heads prevailed, and the Keltorans agreed to come to the table and negotiate. But the MacMorrochs wanted the MacPhearsons off the throne, and the MacPhearsons were not willing to relinquish their power to plunder their own kith and kin.

Turlough had lived among the MacMorrochs in those days, and he was there as advisor to the Clan Chief Aiden MacMorroch. While he could not say that the High King’s idea for peace was not a sound one, he would to this day say that it was the third and most tragic mistake.

The High King wanted peace by any means. If he could not have it by their word, he would have it by joining their blood. MacPhearson’s one son was only fourteen and not yet promised a wife. The High King suggested that a wife of MacMorroch blood should be made his consort and eventually his queen.

But therein lie the problem. Most MacMorroch women of marriageable age were already bound in contract to other men. Those still available were even younger than the king.

No, Aiden wanted a woman of his clan with a good head and a good eye to share that throne. And who but his own daughter had the qualities he demanded?

Turlough was devastated. He wanted Briana for his own, and had merely been biding his time for the proper moment to ask for her hand. But now, before his very eyes, she was bonded to the son of the king, bound to be Keltora’s queen, and there was nothing Turlough could say or do to dissuade Aiden MacMorroch’s mind. She was nearly twice young Brion MacPhearson’s age, and that was the beauty of Aiden’s plan. She was still able to bear children, but old enough to keep her young husband firmly in hand.