Wandering Lark

by Laura J Underwood

  She—yes, it is a she, he thought—crossed the chamber and claimed a table, pulling off gauntlets and cloak. The landlord rushed over to her rather than wait for her to go to the bar as most of those who came into his establishment did. Alaric watched the man bob like a puppet before he rushed away. The woman sat down and fixed Alaric with brazen appreciation. She smiled when he looked right at her then sprawled back in her chair with an almost masculine and casual air. Her clothes were more suited to a warrior than a maiden.

  “Forget that one right away,” Ronan said. “She’s not your type.”

  “How would you know what my type is?” Alaric retorted in his head.

  “Your type is a sweet young lass who nearly gave her life for you down in the caverns of the Dragon’s Tongue,” Ronan insisted. “That one will be nothing but trouble.”

  “What makes you say that?” Alaric said. “She’s not wearing Temple colors...”

  “No, but she acts like a mercenary, and they can be worse than Temple Bounty Hunters,” Ronan said.

  “How can you know that?”

  “Trust me. I know a freelance mercenary when I see one.”

  Alaric frowned this time, unwittingly allowing the look to take over his face before he could stop it. The lass saw this change of expression and cocked one eyebrow in thought.

  Then Ronan forced Alaric to look down at the harp and ignore her.

  TEN

  Talena leaned back in her chair and watched the pale haired bard who leaned over his harp and plucked a merry old tune. Her free hand reached up to cup the moonstone medallion. It vibrated harder than ever, a sure sign that she was on the right track.

  Somewhere in this inn was a heretic.

  Talena was willing to bet good brass that it might actually be the bard. Too bad, because he was kind of cute.

  Yeah and thoughts like that would earn me a cell in the lowest depths of Desura’s Temple. Lower than the one they kept poor Desura in.

  Talena fiddled with the medallion around her neck. She had followed the trail from the ancient gate stone straight to the town, through the market and eventually on to this place. Problem was, the medallion had yet to let her know exactly who the heretic was. She was only betting on the young bard because he was a stranger. But this time, it was as though the medallion had no clue. Every time she tried to make it focus on the bard, the medallion would transfer her attention to his dog.

  She frowned. The trek through the weeds had rather resembled the tracking hound. Surely not, she thought. Heretics didn’t usually come in the shape of hounds.

  And this was a big hound, she wryly noted. Talena had not seen such a breed anywhere in Garrowye. There was a large breed that the nobles were fond of using to hunt stag. Could this huge beast be an overgrown version of those hounds? She just wished the medallion would settle on the heretic so she could do her job. Desura will think I’ve gone potty in the head if I tell her the medallion led me to a dog.

  Desura was potty in the head as far as Talena was concerned. Though the Watcher had once been like a sister, all that changed when the Temple discovered her “talent” for reading portends and detecting magic. Time was when the Temple would have considered that heresy as well, but the Temple discovered a way to use that skill to its own benefit. The sensitives were turned into Watchers and their task was to sit in the Temples and track any use of magic discovered within the borders of Garrowye.

  Talena sighed and looked at the bard again. He had finished one song, and was heading for the bar. Maybe this would be a good time to make his acquaintance and get closer.

  She dumped the contents of her flagon into the boards under the table, and headed for the bar.

  Alaric ordered water, the one thing the tavern master would give him for free, when he felt a presence at his elbow. And there was something about that presence that set his nerves on edge, some component of magic that made him itch. Frowning, he turned to see who was there and found those green eyes fixed on him. She looked at what he was drinking and a lopsided grin formed on her face.

  “Well, I was going to ask you if you could buy a girl a drink,” she said, “but from the looks of that water, maybe I should buy you one instead.”

  “Tell her to go away!” Ronan said in Alaric’s head, and his voice exuded anxiety.

  “Well, I’m not in the habit of accepting drinks from strange women,” Alaric said instead.

  She quirked both eyebrows as though stunned by his response, but the smile broadened to claim both corners of her mouth. “Talena,” she said and stuck out her hand,

  Alaric sensed Ronan bristling. The very sensation increased Alaric’s determination to do as he wished. “Lark,” he said and took the hand and shook it firmly.

  Her face briefly displayed a puzzled expression. The look disappeared as quickly as it came. “Lark...I bet that’s because you sing like one.”

  “You could say that.” Alaric nodded.

  “Well, we’re not strangers now, Lark,” Talena said. “So, can I buy you that drink?”

  “Yes, I think you can,” Alaric said.

  “This is nonsense,” Ronan said. “It’s dangerous, Alaric. I shall have to desert you and leave you without a tongue.”

  What, and get me killed when I suddenly lose the skill to speak like a local? Alaric thought back.

  Ronan hesitated then muttered, “Just be careful.”

  I will, Alaric thought.

  “From where do you hail, Lark,” Talena asked. She raised two fingers, and the tavern master didn’t even hesitate to fill two tankards and set them before her.

  “From the west, actually,” Alaric said, relieved that Ronan was still giving Alaric the language. Talena shoved one of the tankards in his direction. He toasted her with it and tool a slug.

  “West,” she said. “Near Tynandale or Harwold?”

  “Tynandale,” Alaric answered as Ronan instructed. “Harwold’s too far north to be west.”

  Talena nodded as though this satisfied her in some way. She took a slug of her own ale. “What brings you so far east, then?”

  “Here it comes,” Ronan hissed. “Tell her nothing of our purpose. Tell her...”

  “Just looking for some adventure...enough to create new songs about,” Alaric replied carefully.

  “If you want adventure, you have to keep going east then,” she said. “Though all you’ll find is a border war, I imagine.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Alaric said.

  Talena leaned against the bar and looked at Vagner with a critical eye. “Your hound?” she asked.

  “I suppose you could say that,” Alaric said.

  “What breed?” she said.

  “A...mountain staghound,” Alaric replied, hoping that was a breed.

  “Really? I thought they were smaller.” She leaned down. “Nice pup,” she said and started to reach out and pet Vagner on the head.

  The demon had gone stiff as stone, but when she was within inches, he suddenly came to life and growled, bearing teeth.

  “Oh, come on, I won’t hurt you,” she said.

  Vagner snapped, and were it not for swift reflexes, Alaric felt sure Talena would have lost fingers. Briefly, he felt a surge of anxiety. Was the demon hungry?

  “Not a very friendly fellow,” she said and straightened up, watching Vagner suspiciously.

  “He’s not so fond of strangers,” Alaric said, and reaching around, he patted Vagner’s head. The demon cocked one hound eyebrow and looked at Alaric as if to say, “Don’t you dare start cooing over me...”

  With a snort, Vagner backed around behind Alaric and watched Talena. She frowned at him. Alaric couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in the demon’s head...in Talena’s too for that matter.

  “Well,” he said. “Thank you for the ale, but I must get back to work if I intend to earn a room for the night.”

  Talena nodded. Alaric moved back to the corner to pick up his harp. Vagner followed like an obedient dog, but the demon cast a look b
ack towards the young woman who remained at the bar and watched them go. Alaric saw all as he sat on his stool and started to play once more.

  He couldn’t wait to get alone with Vagner and find out what had made the demon so snappy.

  There was something soothing in the very act of boiling water in a kettle and swirling in the delicately perfumed tealeaves. Etienne watched the water shift from light to dark, then drained it off into her cup and seated herself beside Shona’s bed.

  Shona had such a serene look on her face it was hard to believe she was anything more than asleep. Mageborn sometimes fell into deep sleeps when they came near death.

  I do wish you would awaken, Etienne thought. It would be nice to have someone to talk to just now.

  Evening was fast approaching when Etienne finally heard Thera’s voice at the main door. She held her breath and said a small prayer to all the gods before she rose from her place, laid her book aside and started for the front chamber.

  “Really, he has some knowledge of the little one’s condition, and I wish to consult him.”

  “Magister Turlough said no visitors without his permission,” she heard the guard reply.

  “But I DO have his permission,” a familiar voice insisted.

  Wendon? she thought.

  “Until I hear from Magister Turlough himself...” the guard said.

  “Oh, here!” Wendon snarled. “I have a letter of permission written in the High Mage’s hand and bearing his personal seal. Will you deny that you recognize his signature?”

  Etienne had reached the doorway. From where she stood, she could see Thera out in the corridor rolling her eyes, and a stout figure in brown robes. She could also see the guards who blocked his way. They were staring at sheaves of paper.

  “It is as he says,” one said to the other. “Very well. You may enter.”

  “Of course, I may enter,” Wendon said with a disdainful sneer. “When I am a Master Mage, I shall remember this.”

  He practically pushed past them as he stepped through the door. Thera wore a wry smile as she followed. She even closed the door before the guard could protest.

  “Wendon?” Etienne said. “Do you really have a letter of permission from Turlough?”

  Wendon merely put a finger to his lips and gestured that they should move deeper into the chambers. He took Etienne’s arm in a masterful fashion that belied his normal behavior.

  “Wendon?” she repeated and pulled free. “How dare you?”

  “I just don’t think it would be wise for me to be near the door for long,” Wendon replied, and he smiled in a manner that was both alien to his face and familiar to Etienne. “They might scry me, and then they would know.”

  “Know what?”

  There was a faint shimmering around his face, and for a moment, she found herself staring at Fenelon’s smile and his countenance before the illusion returned. Etienne’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Then she dropped her hands and mouthed, “Fenelon?”

  “In the flesh, though not a flesh to my liking,” he said in Wendon’s voice.

  Etienne now seized him, glancing briefly at Thera before drawing him deeper into the back chambers. The healer merely went into Shona’s room.

  “Wendon came to see you, then?” she said. “He got my letter? They let him in?”

  “Aye, and it was a wonderfully written one, my love,” Fenelon said. “You were right to mention that I would teach him a complicated illusion spell in exchange for his part. It was the perfect bait.”

  “He came willingly?” she insisted.

  “Oh, yes,” Fenelon said. “With bells on, love.”

  “And you explained the dangers to him?”

  “He realizes that if he lets the illusion fall, it will be more than his master class at stake.”

  “And he agreed to stand in for you?”

  “Wendon thinks it will be a lot of fun. Granted, he doesn’t know how to get out of the shackles like I do.” Fenelon looked quite unnaturally cheerful as he said that.

  “What now?” Etienne asked.

  “Wendon is going to take a little trip to visit his family,” Fenelon said. “And I am going to go after Alaric and see if I can find him before Father does.”

  “He’ll never approve, you know.”

  “Who, Father?” Fenelon grinned behind Wendon’s face.

  Horns, the illusion was downright eerie. Etienne wanted to press his face with her fingers and see if it would reshape like clay. “Yes... I mean, I thought you said your father would not give Alaric over to Turlough.”

  “I want to make sure of that,” Fenelon said. “Turlough has a vengeful streak as long as the Wall River. Want to come?”

  Etienne shook her head. “For Shona’s sake, I need to stay here,” she said. “At least, if Turlough does discover the ruse, I might be able to keep him from seriously punishing poor Wendon.”

  “Poor Wendon would merely be sent home in shame, love,” Fenelon said with a shake of his head. “Come on. It would be fun.”

  Etienne shook her head. “I had enough fun, Fenelon,” she said. “Mind you, I would love to help, but I cannot in a clear conscious leave poor Shona alone here, even with Thera to look after her. Besides, I can run interference from here much better.”

  Fenelon nodded. “All right, love. I better go before they start questioning my extended stay.”

  “Where did you get that letter?”

  “What letter?” he asked, his face serious in its innocence.

  “The one from Turlough...” she insisted.

  “What letter?” he repeated, and mischief drew the lips into a smile.

  “Very well, keep your secrets,” Etienne said. “Just be careful...”

  “Kiss me for luck?” he said.

  Etienne hesitated. Fenelon laughed, and briefly, his form shimmered and lengthened into the man she knew. He took her in his arms and pressed lips to her as his hands slid around her waist. Then, he pulled away, and once more Wendon’s smiling mask replaced his.

  “My lady,” he said with a bow. She followed as he made for the main door. She opened it for him, smiling as he passed over the threshold and out into the corridor.

  He ambled down the hall at Wendon’s rolling gait. Etienne closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh.

  “Blessed Lady and Lord Protector, keep him safe,” she said then headed for the entrance to Shona’s room.

  ELEVEN

  The guards at the gates of Dun Gealach didn’t even give “Wendon” a first glance as he sauntered under the portculis and out into the damp cobbled streets. A heavy mist thickened the morning air of Caer Keltora and soaked into clothes, bones and soul. Fenelon hardly noticed it though. He was concentrating on an authentic rendition of Wendon’s rolling, short-stepped gait. Wouldn’t do to have him spotted walking otherwise. It was one of the problems of the transformation spell. If you were going to look like someone as nondescript as Wendon, you had to act like him as well.

  Very hard for Fenelon who was used to moving like quicksilver. But he could not risk walking at his usual speed. There was still a chance someone would spot him and see through the spell no matter how well he cloaked it.

  For that reason, he could not risk gating himself away. Too close to Dun Gealach, and the spell would be detected. So he was forced to amble along on foot, pretending to go to market.

  At length, Fenelon felt safe enough to step into an alley and let the spell slough off. With its passing, Wendon’s chubby shape disappeared. Fenelon took a deep breath. Not an easy spell to maintain for a long time. He hoped Wendon did not waste energy in the tower. It had taken Fenelon a long time to gather enough power for Wendon to hold. It would not do for him to let it all go in a single day. Fenelon wanted enough time to get far away before Turlough discovered the ruse.

  Knowing Turlough, that would not be more than a few days at least.

  Scrying about with mage senses to make certain there was no one in the immediate area that possessed
mageborn essence, Fenelon quickly opened a spell gate.

  He knew exactly where he had sent Alaric, and almost hoped the young man would still be there with his pet demon.

  But no. Marda’s cottage was empty, void of all life...though not, Fenelon noted, of all essence.

  “Marda,” he said and cast around him. He felt her presence everywhere. It was possible he was feeling the essence she had spared here in life, but there was that otherworld taint as well. “Marda,” he repeated. “I know you’re here...”

  A sigh filled the cottage. Bits of mist seeped in through the windows, and now it gathered itself into a familiar form. Marda fixed Fenelon with a hard glare.

  “Go away and leave me in peace,” she said, her voice a mere rasp of its former self.

  “I would like to, Marda,” Fenelon said. “But there are things I need to know...”

  “I do not have to tell you anything,” she said and crossed her arms. He walked around her translucent shade, interested to note that he could see the room through her.

  “Oh, I think you do, and for Alaric’s sake, you better be truthful.”

  Marda snorted and looked away. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Marda, you know that I can bind you and force you to speak.”

  The sound she uttered was a cross between a growl and a screech, like the cry of a Mallowean panther on the prowl. She shifted forms and threw herself at him, becoming a cadaverous hag...for all the good it served. Fenelon already knew that mageborn spirits were limited to changing shape. They had no power otherwise. Marda passed right through him and on into the fireplace where she coiled like a serpent.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Fenelon said. He spoke the words of binding in the mage tongue. Marda shrieked in protest and writhed in the fireplace, but she was unable to escape. She grew still as the stones that held her and glowered at him.

  “Greenfyns are spawn of demon kin!” she said in the surly voice of a child.