Wandering Lark (46 page)

“Oh, go away you ridiculous old peacock,” Marda said. “I never much liked your line. All too sure of themselves. You, that Fenelon...”

“Fenelon?” Turlough stepped closer to her spirit. “Have you seen Fenelon?”

She nodded. “Yes, I have seen him, and by the Silver Wheel of the White Lady, I wish that I had not. He cost me dearly.”

“In what respect?” Turlough asked.

Marda shook her head and backed into the fireplace itself. There she squatted, looking as dejected as ever an old soul could.

“Come on, Marda,” Turlough said. “It will do you no good to resist. I can bind you and force you to speak.”

“A lot of good it did Fenelon,” she said and laughed. “He tried to force me to speak, and I just...disappeared in spite of his binding.”

Turlough passed his glance over the cottage. “Really,” he said. “So when did you start consorting with a demon, Marda?”

Her eyes roved wildly as though she feared he had been heard. “Ask not. I cannot tell. I cannot betray him...he will not let me.”

“Him? Alaric Braidwine?”

She began to cry. “I did not betray him. I loved him like my own.”

“Then who do you fear you will betray?”

She closed her eyes and drifted back into the stones of the fireplace. “I cannot betray him,” she said. “He hears...he knows...he has punished me once already for saying more than I should. I should never have welcomed him into my house. I curse the day he walked out of that storm and begged shelter of me... Now go away.”

But Turlough would not be put off, and he began to whisper the words of a binding spell. Marda cried out, trying to fade away, but he dragged her ethereal form back out of the stone and made her stand before him. He bound her to the earth and to the air, and made his chains tight as bowstrings. She writhed then grew still, her old face damp with tears.

“Tell me, Marda,” Turlough said gently. “Tell me who is it that you fear? The demon to who you are bound?”

“I cannot tell,” she whimpered. “I have already betrayed him once. I cannot do it again or I will be sundered for all time.”

“Do you want to know peace?” Turlough asked. “I can give you that rest.”

“He will never let me rest. I should have known better, should have seen what was in him, but he deceived me with his lovely voice and his lies.”

Turlough took a deep breath. “Alaric deceived you?”

“No!” she cried. “It was the demon that is in him.”

She stopped, covering her mouth.

“Oh, no, not again!” she cried.          

Before Turlough could ask what she meant, she began to tremble and swell like a toad. He fought to keep his binding intact, but her change would not allow him. She snapped the magical fetters like rotten thread, and with a shriek, she popped and was gone.

Turlough glanced at the guard who had put a hand on his sword. He waved the man to stillness and cast about with mage senses.

The demon essence was strongest on the spot where Marda had stood.

But it is not the demon that is bound to Braidwine at all,
Turlough thought. It was older, more ancient and its essence was liquid cinnamon on his tongue.

The demon that is in him.

What had Marda meant by that? Was Braidwine a demon himself?

“We must hasten back to Dun Gealach,” Turlough said. “There is a scroll I would consult.”

The demon that is in him?
Where had Turlough heard that phrase before?

Lorymer was waiting in the High
Mage’s apartments when Turlough returned to Dun Gealach. He looked rather pleased with himself.

“Well? What have you discovered?” Turlough asked. He seated himself at his table.

“The closest mageborn to Ross-Mhor is Renton Morwaine,” Lorymer said cheerfully. “However, because he has already been threatened with bodily harm by no less than Gareth Greenfyn, he fears he will be useless.”

“I don’t need useless,” Turlough snarled. “I need useful...”

“I am aware of that,” Lorymer said. “And I told Renton that if he knew of another who might be able to assist us, we would appreciate knowing. That was when he informed me that he did know of one mageborn who recently went to Ross-Mhor. Within the last few days, as a matter of fact.”

“What?” Turlough practically leapt out of the chair. “Who?”

Lorymer smiled. “One of the Aldens,” he said. “Bran, to be precise.”

“Bran, eh? Is he certain of this?”

“Oh, yes. He says that Bran stopped by on his way. Asked for Renton’s hospitality for a few hours as, in his own words, ‘Ross-Mhor is a long leap even for a mageborn of my years.’”

Turlough leaned back. “Indeed.” Lunging forward in the chair, he grabbed parchment and quill. “I have another task for you, Lorymer. Go to the Head Librarian and tell her that I am in need of a certain scroll, and that I would appreciate her bringing it out of the deep for my perusal.”

He quickly scribbled words on the parchment then offered them to Lorymer who took the paper with a bow.

“As you will, Lord Magister,” he said and departed hastily.

As I will indeed,
Turlough thought.

They reached the edge of the
Cursed Dales about midday through the next. Alaric was glad to see the last of that place.

“Don’t worry,”
Ronan whispered in his head.
“I promise that you will not see it again.”

How can you promise me that?
Alaric had asked in response.

“You will not have to return this way,”
Ronan said.

Alaric pondered this. If there was another way, why had they not taken it instead? Ronan gave no answer, sliding back into the depths of Alaric’s mind.

Talena looked less than pleased to see the edge of the moor. She pulled her sword around so that it was readily taken into hand. Her gaze was never forward, but shifted back and forth suspiciously.

“What are you looking for?” Alaric finally asked.

“Border patrols,” she said. “Another league and we will be right on the border of Taneslaw. The last thing we want is to be surprised by a party of Tannish scouts...”

“We’re still fairly out in the open,” Alaric said. “Maybe we should look for cover?”

Talena shook her head. “We would be in more danger if we did that,” she insisted. “There are those who say that Tannish lords can speak to trees. That the trees of the border lands are alive, and that they tell the Tannish warriors where to find their enemies.”

“They talk to trees?” Alaric said.

“And to animals and to rocks,” she said.

Alaric laughed. “You’ve got to be making this up,” he said cheerfully.

Talena shot him a look that would have frozen fire. “It is you who does not understand,” she said. “The folk of Taneslaw are not like us. They are monsters and heretics and...”

“And her job is to turn them over to the temple...”
Ronan said.

“Look,” Alaric said. “I can sense what is around us, so we have nothing to fear. If there are monsters out there, I am certain to know of them before they know of me.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him that spoke of disbelief. “Then why did you not know of the raveners when we went into the ruins?” she asked.

“I thought they were squirrels,” Alaric said.

That made her laugh. She turned away, shaking her head. “All right, so they do look like squirrels. But that is no reason for us to lower our guard. This land is not like our own. You’ll see.”

“All right,” Alaric said. “But if we get there and there are no monsters, you’re going to feel rather foolish.”

Talena rolled her eyes and put heels to Kessa. The mare picked up her pace to a fast walk. Alaric sighed and willed Vagner to take a matching pace.

The gorge finally narrowed
down to the point that Fenelon thought they were about to run out of walking space. If he stretched his hands, he could touch either side. Looking up, the tops of the cliffs now rising over them was clearly out of his line of sight, though that might have been the result of the fog lowering over them.

He was not surprised when his father stopped suddenly. Ahead, Hobbler seemed to be contemplating the stones that were now blocking the way.

“Dead end?” Fenelon said. “He led us to a dead end?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Hobbler said simply and he turned his head one way, then another. “Ah, here it is.”

He stepped to one side, and at first, Fenelon thought the Dvergar was about to walk into the wall. Instead, he disappeared
into
the wall. Fenelon laughed.

“Did I see what I think I just saw?” he asked.

Gareth leaned forward a bit, angling himself around whatever invisible corner he thought might be there. “It’s what you can’t see that is more interesting, son,” he said.

With that, he followed Hobbler’s path and disappeared into the rock.

Fenelon blinked and shook his head as he hurried forward to the exact place from which both his father and the Dvergar had disappeared.

There was a path just around that corner, one that zig-zagged its way down the side of a cliff. Fenelon stared in awe. He had thought they were as deep on the surface as they could go, but now he saw a great valley laid before them. Its rolling plains were littered with boulders and megaliths and what appeared at first to be stunted trees.

“What in the name of Cernunnos...” Fenelon hurried down the path, noting that it was more like stairs underfoot.

“Stone Valley,” Hobbler called back.

“But...I didn’t think we had climbed so high,” Fenelon said.

“We didn’t,” Gareth explained. “Stone Valley sits down in a pit.”

Fenelon looked out when his footing afforded him a moment to stop and survey the world. There was something about this place that reminded him a little of the Shadow Vale with its forest of Black Fir trees under the ceiling of ice. He glanced upward, half expecting to see ice covering the world, but there was only the rich blue of a sky visible through the ring of clouds overhead.

He frowned, for it looked as though the clouds were being held back by an invisible wall.

“Just what is this place?” Fenelon asked.

“There are some Dverger who believe this was where the Great White Cow slept before the world was made,” Hobbler said. “Ymir himself would come here and milk her. The shapes of the stones are said to be from her licking them.”

Fenelon grabbed an edge of stone when he nearly slipped on one of the stairs. He paused to regain his balance, letting his gaze wander once more. Beyond the rolling stones, he could see the river Hobbler mentioned and it seemed to enter a gorge on the other side.

A day to cross this?
Fenelon thought.

“Father, wouldn’t it be simpler to gate ourselves over to the other side?” Fenelon said. “We can see it from here. No danger in that...”

Gareth stopped. “Must you do everything the easy way, Fenelon?” he asked.

Fenelon frowned, until he saw that Gareth was grinning.

“Hobbler,” Gareth called down to the Dvergar. “We’re going to take a short cut.”

“Short cut,” Hobbler said. “Is that an insult?”

“Stay where you are,” Gareth said. “Fenelon is going to open us a gate to the river side.”

Me?
Fenelon sighed. He was still feeling a little light-headed from his encounter with the rock trow, but if they were going to cut a day off their travels, he had best do it. He closed his eyes and reached out for essence, finding quite a lot more than he expected. The Stone Valley fairly thrummed with power as though hundreds of ley lines converged in this part of the world. Fenelon drew it to him, weaving it in the air like a tapestry as he called the words of his gate spell and concentrated on the riverbank visible even from here. His gate split the world just below where Hobbler stood.