They slipped through a number of book-lined corridors before Fenelon stopped at a door where the words “Old Maps” had been carved into the wood in neat letters. He opened this door and peered inside before going on in.
“This is where the demon gated out from,” Fenelon said quietly. Alaric assumed it was because he sensed other mageborn in the area working with various tomes, but no one else was in this library. “According to Master Whitlow, as near as they can tell, the demon took a copy of a map that showed an unknown section of Ranges known as the Shadow Vale.”
“Unknown in what respect?” Alaric asked.
“Well, it was copied from an original, and that map came from a cache of things found in the possession of a bloodmage who died rather nastily back a few hundred years ago.”
“How nastily?” Alaric couldn’t resist asking.
“He lost a mage battle with one of my ancestors,” Fenelon said and grinned. “At any rate, the map showed the area known as Shadow Vale. Alas, no one knows where Shadow Vale is exactly, but there was something about the map that convinced the librarians to copy it and place the original in hiding. Now there should be another copy since our librarians know full well that having only one copy is foolish…”
Fenelon fumbled around a bit. Alaric fingered some parchments on the table as a distraction.
“Ah, here it is,” Fenelon said. He pulled forth a sheepskin that had been etched in inks and unrolled it on the nearest table. Alaric came over and glanced at the map. It was neatly drawn and lettered, showing a lengthy valley with a waterfall, a deep forest and several other unique features. And at the top of the map someone had drawn a stylized sword and written, “Shadow Vale, said to be the resting place of The Dragon’s Tongue.”
“The Dragon’s Tongue?” Alaric said. “What’s that?”
“No one is knows,” Fenelon said. “However…”
Fenelon’s brows drew together, and he touched the sword embellished on the skin.
“You know, this map is not complete,” he said suddenly.
“What do you mean?” Alaric asked.
“Well, they were trying to draw it to scale, and this skin was not large enough for the whole map. See the way these lines down here stop abruptly?”
Alaric looked where Fenelon’s finger brushed the map, and it did indeed look as though the lines on one corner were incomplete. Furthermore, there was what appeared to several marks of an odd sort that Alaric did not recognize. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the marks
“They look like runes,” Fenelon said. “Haxon, maybe.”
“Do you think Etienne could tell us?”
“Quite so,” Fenelon agreed, and he quickly scrounged for a bit of blank palimpsest resting in a corner and one of the ink pots. Quite carefully, he recorded the runes, and blew on the parchment until they were dry.”
“Now, two things,” Fenelon said. “I sense the Council gathering, so we’d best get to the Grand Hall for the meeting before we get chided for being late. After meeting, we can show these to Etienne and see if she recognizes them.”
“And if she does?”
“Well, they may well give us the clue we need as to why this demon risked life and limb and your reputation to get into Dun Gealach to steal a copy of this map,” Fenelon said.
“My reputation?” Alaric repeated. “You’re the one who…”
“This is not the place to discuss that, Alaric, for the walls may have ears now.” Fenelon said softly, and he gestured. A rune began to glow over the door.
“A listening glyph, no doubt being monitored by a mageborn librarian’s assistant with nothing else to do…” Fenelon said. “Having a demon come into their precious stacks has no doubt caused them to increase the security in this place. Come on.”
Alaric sighed as Fenelon hurried from the chamber.
If anything, he was going to get quite a bit of exercise just trying to keep up with Fenelon’s faster pace.
NINE
Alaric was glad Etienne had brought some of his better things. His forest green tunic with the gold braid was well set off by the white linen shirt and tan leather trews. Even the boots she had brought along were his better pair. These clothes had been reserved for those times when he entertained guest at Gordslea Hold, usually when his father insisted Alaric should show off his bard skills.
He felt comfortable but neat without being overly flashy. A good thing too, for he discovered that those who came to council were well dressed in such a broad array of color. Fenelon was sporting brilliant blues that matched his eyes, and whites as dazzling as his smile. In fact, all the master mageborn who dwelled in Dun Gealach wore similar shades, leaving Alaric to believe it was the means by which they distinguished their ranks and posts. Still others who came from he knew not where, except that they had to have gated in for the meeting, wore clothing as opulent as any courtier. Indeed, Alaric recalled hearing that a number of mageborn were councilors to Kings and Dukes so there was a means of communication between the distant castles of each ruler.
The youngest mageborn in training wore tans with very little ornamentation. Older mageborn in training were apparently given the freedom to wear what they wanted, but their clothing was equally simple, and not one of them wore the blues, whites and silvers of their masters and mentors.
To one side of the chamber, Alaric spied Wendon looking dour as an old maid. Only the master mageborn had chairs at the tables, and the rest were required to stand. Wendon was shifting back and forth as though the act of standing bored him. Other mageborn not included in the circle were filling the spaces around the walls, or stood behind the chairs of the masters to whom they were apprenticed.
Alaric was practically dragged around to where Fenelon sat. “Stand here,” Fenelon said. “When your name is called, you must go into the center where all may see you.”
“Why?”
“Some silly tradition,” Fenelon said. “It lets the others know who you are, so they will recognize you should they encounter you elsewhere.”
Alaric nodded. He would have asked more, but he caught sight of Etienne filing into her place. She was followed respectfully by one young lad and two lasses, all whom smiled and traded knowing glances, much like friends sharing a bit of humor. Etienne glance over, meeting Alaric’s gaze, and she smiled for him. Even that fleeting bit of her attention made him feel warm. He returned the gesture, along with a short bow, then lowered his head in embarrassment. Horns, what would Fenelon think of him…
But if Fenelon noticed the glance, he said nothing. He merely took his place at the semicircular table. All around, the air cracked with the static of so many magical auras full of power crowded into that space. It felt like standing out in an open field while a thunderstorm raged all around him. Delightfully frightening, in a way. It took a great deal of effort on Alaric’s part not to squirm with excitement.
The mageborn present all spoke in muted tones, and Alaric knew why. Mageborn hearing was highly acute. Their eyes adapted to the dark much like those of a cat. Very little escaped a properly trained mageborn’s attention, but Alaric was too overwhelmed by the moment to care what any of them said. His earlier unease at being forced to accept this life vanished in a single deep breath. There was a thrum resonating to the very depth of his soul that told him this was where he belonged.
The voices barely raised in soft discourse suddenly fell mute as one, and all attention shifted towards the dais up front. From his post, Alaric had to lean just a bit to look around Fenelon’s high-back chair. What had not been visible to Alaric last night when he had thought his world would come to an end was now stunningly displayed. The tapestries behind the chairs carried the marks of Arianrhod, the crescent moon and the silver wheel that were the symbols of the goddess of all magic and mageborn, all wondrously wrought in shades of silver, gold and white on a field of blue. Those tapestries parted to reveal a set of stairs. They also revealed the figure wrapped in white trimmed with blue and gold. Turlough Gr
eenfyn descended those stairs with all the dignity of a High King, and Alaric remembered Fenelon’s words on the matter.
Behind Turlough came four master mageborn wearing such severe expressions of formal seriousness, Alaric would have found it easy to believe they came here to announce the death of a royal. But they merely followed Turlough at a respectful distance as he stopped in front of his opulent chair. They staggered themselves to either side of him and waited. Turlough turned so he could look at the occupants of the chamber. As his cold gaze passed over their circle, every seated mageborn rose and bowed, and then waited in silence as Turlough claimed his chair. Only then did one of his four followers—Lorymer, Alaric thought—stamp the heel of an ornate staff against the flagstones.
“In the name of Arianrhod,” Lorymer said with all the dignity of a herald, “You are all charged to put aside your differences and keep the peace until given your say. Do you so swear?”
Aye,” came from every mouth, and Alaric intoned it just because he though it must be the right thing to do.
“Be seated,” Lorymer said. He tapped the floor with the staff, and those who had chairs quickly claimed them.
From that point on, matters were rather dull and routine. There were reports of various magical problems around the whole of Ard-Taebh. A bloodmage had been executed in Gwyrn, having made threats against the king, but the evil mageborn’s pyrotechnical curse was lingering in more than one hearth, making them dangerous to approach. Even the mageborn councilor of that court was having a demon of a time suppressing it, and would welcome the assistance of one more skilled in dealing with fire spells to assist him. Turlough assigned a mageborn to do just that.
Another complaint was that a magic had been vexing the fishing off the northern coast of Mallow, and that yet another attempt to capture the Demon of Mallow had gone awry. Again, Turlough assigned mageborn to study the matter after quipping that perhaps if Mallowens drained the swamps, the Demon would leave. Some villagers from Elenthorn were complaining of the Haxon raids, and having received no satisfaction from the High King, Fergus of Mallow, were now looking to the Mage Council to perform spells to keep the barbarians off of their farms. Turlough obviously took little interest in their distress, but he promised the matter would be investigated in short order.
The demon’s invasion of the library was brought up then, and Turlough allowed the worried babbling to run its course before assuring everyone there was no cause for alarm. The demon’s presence was under investigation, and those in charge would likely have an answer to the problem soon enough. His eyes slid briefly over in Fenelon’s direction, and the look they carried was enough to make Alaric shiver.
Finally, the complaints were set aside, and the list of names was called. There were two mageborn who had achieved the master class and they were told they could now claim the status with pride. Several new apprentices were introduced and assigned masters to take over their training. That was when Alaric heard his own name called. He joined the others in the space within the circle of tables, still feeling edgy under Turlough’s gaze. But he answered all questions put to him in a clear voice, and took the vow of noninterference in mortalborn doings unless asked. His master was named, and Fenelon rose as other mageborn had to say he accepted the charge to train Alaric to the ways of greater magic. And Alaric was relieved nothing more was involved. No bloodletting or foolish gestures of obedience. He did, however, catch the look in Wendon’s eyes, a dark sort of disappointment. Either Wendon was jealous or he simply did not approve.
It seemed more the latter, for once the naming and assigning was done, Lorymer announced all were free to leave and to remember their vow to the cause. Suddenly, Wendon was there, pushing his way through the crowd to reach Alaric’s side and to seize him by the arm in a meaty grasp.
“I pity you Alaric Braidwine,” Wendon whispered into Alaric’s ear. “You should have heeded my warning and kept clear of Fenelon. Now, he will lead you to your doom. Beware!”
Wendon let go then, and started to walk away, only to pause. A new light entered his eyes as he came rushing back to seize Alaric again.
“However, because I like you,” Wendon said more gently, “I feel impelled to tell you that should you need someone to talk to or should Fenelon use you ill, don’t hesitate to come to me. I will gladly be an open ear…”
“But not an open mind,” Fenelon said suddenly from behind Wendon who gasped, releasing Alaric to spin about and look up. “Hoping to find a new avenue for gossip, Warthog?” Fenelon said.
“You!” Wendon sputtered three or four unintelligible syllables before finding his tongue again. “Gossip was not my intention!”
Fenelon merely smiled, blue eyes bright with mischief. With a rough snort of indignation, Wendon stalked away.
“Gossip is always Wendon’s intention, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “Remember that. Now let’s go find Etienne so we can show her these runes, and afterwards, I think we should see about some physical exercise. Sitting in that chair with so much warm wind blowing around me cramps my muscles…”
Alaric nodded, trying to figure out “what wind” as he followed Fenelon through the still milling crowd. A few folk sputtered sincere congratulations to Alaric on his good fortune. Others watched him pass with looks of disdain. Were they just jealous, he wondered, or could there be a tiny bit of truth in Wendon’s warnings? Perhaps they merely thought Alaric was a vagabond for consorting with Fenelon.
“Etienne, my love,” Fenelon suddenly called.
Alaric’s attention was brought forward, and he could see her just ahead of them, conversing with the three youths. She turned when her name was called, eyes sparkling with warmth, and she smiled in such a way that Alaric started to wonder about this pair.
“Ah, Fenelon,” she said. “You will be a kind master to our young friend, I hope. Congratulations, Alaric.”
“Thank you,” Alaric said and smiled.
“Oh, of course I’ll be kind,” Fenelon said. “Why I’ll wager I can turn Alaric into a master mage in under a year.”
Etienne raised eyebrows and wagged a finger at Fenelon as she said,” Don’t let him push you, Alaric.” She reached over and touched Alaric’s arm. “If he ever becomes a bully, you come tell me, and I shall put him in his place right and proper.”
“I say, that sounds deliciously promising,” Fenelon said with a leer. “Fun and games another time, my love. Have a look at these for us, will you?”
Where Fenelon had stored the palimpsest, Alaric could not be sure, for it appeared in his hand almost out of nowhere. He unfolded it and offered it into her hands as though it were a rare flower. Etienne looked at the marks and frowned.
“Old Haxon, to be sure…” she said slowly in thought.
“Old?” Fenelon encouraged.
“Well, the language of the Haxons has but one root, but the tree growing from that root has many branches. In Ross-mhor, we used one kind of mark which was influenced by the Woodfolk with whom our Haxon ancestors interbred. The Haxons who ended up in Carn Dubh evolved another. But all runes we use descended from this set. Where did you find this?”
“Copied it from the remaining copy of the map Alaric’s demon stole…”
“It was not my demon,” Alaric interjected with a frown.
“He’s just teasing you, Alaric,” Etienne said reassuringly. “Ignore him.”
Fenelon smiled. “Anyway, we thought it might help us to figure just why the demon stole this particular map.”
“Interesting,” Etienne said and studied the marks again.
“Can you read it?” Alaric asked.
“Well, it looks vaguely familiar,” she said. “But I would need to study it a while and compare it to some of my books. May I keep this?”
“By all mean,” Fenelon said. “And you can tell me what you’ve learned about it over dinner tonight.”
“Only if you promise to bring Alaric,” she said with a coy arch of her brows.
“Well, of course,”
Fenelon said. “I would not dream of leaving him behind.”
Still, Alaric saw just a hint of disappointment flicker across Fenelon’s expression, and its presence brought a powerful truth home. He’s in love with her too, Alaric thought. A heavy truth indeed and it went to his stomach like a stone.
“Good,” Etienne said. “Tonight then. My apartments at evening bells…”
“Oh, we’ll be there with bells on,” Fenelon said.
“I always knew you were a jester at heart, Fenelon,” Etienne said and smiled.
Then she slipped away, herding her students as a mother goose would herd her goslings. Fenelon’s gaze lingered after her for a moment. Alaric glanced at the floor and cursed inside. No use in tying your trews up higher than your own waist, as his father would say. Etienne was apparently too lofty for someone like Alaric.
“Ah, well,” Fenelon said, interrupting the moment of gloom. “What say we get out of this dreary place and get a little exercise, Alaric? Work up an appetite, eh?”
“What sort of exercise?” Alaric ventured.
“How good are you with a sword?” Fenelon asked.
“Well, I do know which end is which,” Alaric said and grinned. “My father insisted I take fencing lessons. I may not be up to a master’s skill, but I can hold my own.”
“Excellent, Fenelon said. “Let’s go out into the yard.”
“Shouldn’t we change clothes?” Alaric asked. “You’re not exactly dressed for rough play.”
“I always dress this way,” Fenelon said and started through the thinning crowd.
Alaric sighed and followed.
Why am I not surprised?
TEN
Vagner was getting tired of being a raven. For one thing, other ravens had started to notice him. He was in the middle of their territory, and they didn’t like it at all. More than once, he’d been forced to desert his perch on the merlon because three or four of them would dive down at him, smacking him from behind with their talons and ruffling his feathers in the act. Circling the tower did no good at all. They would just follow him, calling challenges and tormenting him. And when he tried to settle on a different perch, they would come after him there.
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 7