“What makes you think it’s a sword?”
“Because how else could you cut a goddess like the Na’Sgailean into small pieces? It would have to be a sword.”
“But…Etienne said the Dark Mother was smashed to pieces with a magic hammer.”
“Oh, that’s a silly Haxon myth,” Fenelon said. “They think everything is done with a hammer.”
Alaric shook his head. “Just what would a bloodmage want with a sword like that?”
“For the power, of course,” Fenelon said. “Ancient magic, like that of the gods. Such power could make a mageborn seem like a god if he knew how to use it.”
“Then maybe it would be better for this sword to stay hidden,” Alaric said. “Power like that would only corrupt a man.”
“Are you crazy?” Fenelon said, stalking over to the chair and leaning over Alaric. “Something with that kind of power must never be left to mere chance. It needs to be found, but by us and not Tane Doran. It needs to be brought to Dun Gealach where it can be studied and put in the Deep to keep it from falling into the wrong hands.
Alaric froze. The fire in Fenelon’s eyes was rekindling fear in Alaric’s soul. Could Marda be right?
Marda betrayed me, he thought. She may not have lied, but she kept the truth from me…
And Ronan? He was a part of this grim secret as well. As much as Alaric had loved Ronan as an older brother, a mentor and a friend, he could not shake the pain of knowing all that had happened to him of late was Ronan’s fault.
Fenelon glowered like a madman as he stood over Alaric.
“Fenelon,” Alaric whispered and shook his head. “I don’t want to think about all this now. I just want to go home.”
Fenelon straightened up, opening his mouth as though about to deliver a lecture. He was interrupted when a fist struck the door.
“You in there still, Lark?” It was Father’s voice.
“Yes, Father,” Alaric called.
“Good, because your mother’s got dinner on the table, and she won’t like to make it wait long.”
Alaric slipped out of the chair. “We’re coming, Father,” he said.
He listened to his father clumping back down the stairs. With a sigh, he headed for the door.
“We’ll discuss this later, Alaric,” Fenelon said, still frowning.
Alaric trembled. Horns, he didn’t want to be alone with Fenelon just now. He hurried from the tower, eager to escape the memories and the dread.
TWENTY-FOUR
As much of a pain as Alaric’s sisters had been to him during his growing years, he was glad for their company this evening. He dreaded going back to Eldon Keep to be alone with Fenelon. The master mage was behaving like a merry guest, but now and again he would glance thoughtfully at Alaric as though trying to decipher his deepest thoughts. Those glances had an unnerving quality that deepened the dread in the pit of Alaric’s stomach.
At last, there came the moment Alaric feared. Fenelon said they needed to leave, and Alaric’s father fretted the suggestion they get on the road in the dark. “We’re not immune to bandits in these parts,” Father said with a frown. “Why just a fortnight back, auld Tappan was accosted by a young rogue demanding a purse. Of course, that was foolish of the thief. Tappan just gave the begger a nasty clout…”
“Is this the same Tappan who fed his wife to his pigs?” Fenelon asked, and Alaric almost choked in response.
“Aye, one and the same,” Father said with a dark look at his only son.
“Then likely the bandit joined her,” Fenelon quipped. “Really, we’ll be perfectly safe, sir. After all, we are mageborn, Alaric and I. Besides, it won’t take more than a heart beat and a bit of magic to see us safely home before we catch the attention of any of your local rogues.”
But will home be safe for me? Alaric wondered.
When the gate spell coughed them out in Fenelon’s conjuring room, Alaric practically bolted for the door to make good his escape. He was half way up the stairs when he heard Fenelon call his name. Alaric pretended not to hear, increasing his speed and barreling up to the next level. He ran half the length of the upper corridor when a ripple in the air tore open. Fenelon stepped out into Alaric’s path, forcing Alaric to slide to a halt.
“Horns!” Alaric hissed and clutched his chest in fright.
“And just where are you heading off to in such a hurry?” Fenelon asked, one eyebrow cocked at its usual angle.
“I…” Alaric frowned, knowing he was a poor liar. “I need to get to the garderobe.”
“Are you ill?” Fenelon asked, and the concern sounded genuine.
Still, Alaric felt the growing distrust he did not truly understand. “I will be,” he muttered and pushed past Fenelon to continue down the corridor. He passed his on room and sprinted around the turn to the garderobe entrance to keep from compounding his lie. There, he slammed the outer door, throwing the bolt for good measure, then leaned against the wood, shaking hard and gasping for air. His lungs were about to burst on him, and he could not say it was exertion that caused it but fear for the walls of the garderobe were close enough to make him frantic. Alaric bit down the panic, closing his eyes, fighting to breathe.
“Alaric,” Fenelon called through the door. “If you’re not feeling well, perhaps I should send for Etienne…”
Oh, right, Alaric thought. Bring her here and make me look like a fool.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, turning to face the door and pressing an ear to the wood. “Please, I’m just tired…and my stomach hurts, and I’d just rather be left alone.”
“In a small room without windows?” Fenelon said, but his voice came from behind Alaric now. “Not at all you’re style.”
Alaric turned with a gasp. Fenelon stood but a few feet away, whispering “Solus feith” and setting a glow of mage light to the wall. He looked more than a little amused.
“Damn you!” Alaric snapped and swung a fist without thinking.
Fenelon outstepped Alaric’s reach with practiced ease. In anger, Alaric turned and seized the bolt. He threw it and pulled the door open. Two steps were all he took when he heard Fenelon say, “Adhar clach.” Alaric hit an invisible wall. The force bounced him back into Fenelon’s arms.
“Horns!” Alaric shouted and flailed.
“Hey!” Fenelon’s greater height and strength were apparent. Alaric fell to his knees, then on to the floor with Fenelon pinning him there. “You know,” he said. “This is going to look pretty strange to the servants should any of them come up to see what all the commotion is.”
“Let go of me!” Alaric practically shrieked those words.
“All right, all right,” Fenelon said. “But only if you stop running and promise to be reasonable.”
“Me, be reasonable? You use people! You want to use me! Marda warned me!”
The pressure deserted Alaric in a flash. He was practically lifted from the floor and pushed against the wall. “And just what sort of blether is that?” Fenelon said. “What in the name of Cernunnos did that old hag say to you?”
“She said not to trust you!” Alaric said, and pushed against Fenelon’s chest, hoping to break free of his grasp.
The hands released him. Fenelon stepped back, looking affronted and wounded at first. But he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the wide corridor, giving Alaric ample freedom and space.
“May I ask why Marda told you not to trust me?” Fenelon said.
“She said you would just use me as a means to your own ends,” Alaric said and looked at the floor. “That you were using me now.”
“To do what?” Fenelon said. His voice grew soft with puzzlement.
Alaric shrugged. Suddenly, it all sounded very absurd and weak. Still he muttered the fears riding foremost in his thoughts. “You want me to help you find whatever that stupid demon map leads to just so you can add to your own glory…”
Silence disappeared with the shift of cloth. Fenelon crossed the distance and
crouched so he was in Alaric’s line of sight. “Is that what this is all about?” he ventured. “Do you honestly believe that I made friends with you just because you might be able to decipher the secret hidden by that stupid demon map as you so quaintly put it?”
Alaric shrugged again, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Why else?” he asked in a faint voice, not sure he wanted to know the answer.
Fenelon merely pulled back, waving his hand and whispering. The magic wall shimmered and vanished. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Alaric now. “Horns, Alaric, I thought you needed a friend,” Fenelon said. “I thought you were a likeable, open-minded sort of fellow. But if you’re not willing to trust me because of the babblings of some crazy old woman on her death bed, then I don’t see any reason to force you to stay here with me. A master cannot train an apprentice who is not willing to trust him. I’ll take you back to Dun Gealach tomorrow, and we’ll ask Turlough to find you a new master. Someone you will trust.”
Fenelon walked away then. Alaric stayed where he was, watching the master mageborn head for his own chambers. The closing of Fenelon’s door was like a blow to the gut. Alaric sank to the ground, clutching himself. He stuffed a hand in his mouth and fought the need to moan.
Horns, he didn’t know who to believe now.
~
It was not a night for sleeping. Alaric all but crawled to his chamber, moody and unable to focus or clear his mind. His thoughts tore back and forth on the day’s events, and what little sleep he did manage would plunge him into frantic dreams where Marda alternated from graceful grandmother to treacherous hag, while Fenelon shifted back and forth, from demon to demi-god and friend to foe. And in the middle of it all would be Ronan Tey, watching with such bright eyes as Alaric’s emotions were split between grief and rage.
The only peaceful sleep came with the grey film of dawn on the horizon, but that was the dead sleep of total exhaustion. Alaric wadded himself into the depths of the pillow and awoke in the exact same position, limbs stiff as new leather.
And then Fenelon pounded on the door and shouted like a costermonger. “Alaric, come on. It’s time to go.”
Alaric winced, unwilling to answer.
“Come on, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “You should know by now that there isn’t a locked door in this keep I can’t get past.”
“It’s not locked,” Alaric muttered more for his own benefit and was not surprised to hear the door open with a faint whoosh of air. He didn’t move as boots thumped across the floor. The bed shifted from the sudden presence of weight, and a deep sigh shattered the silence.
“Come on, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “It’s time to go.”
“Go? Where?” Alaric asked.
“Dun Gealach,” Fenelon said.
“What if I don’t want to go to Dun Gealach. What if I don’t want to go anywhere?”
Fenelon sighed again. “Look, Alaric, I don’t know what bee has gotten into your breech clout. If I was pushy yesterday, I apologize, but you’ve made it quite clear you don’t trust me, and I can’t teach you magic if you aren’t willing to give me that trust…”
“Maybe I don’t trust anyone any more,” Alaric said. “Maybe that’s my whole problem. I don’t know who to trust any more. I trusted Marda, but now I know she hid the truth from me. I trusted Ronan, but he used me to house some secret I can’t remember, and I’m not sure I want to remember. Then you start hounding me to dig out that secret just to find some stupid sword, and suddenly what Marda said about you sounds like it’s the truth, so how am I to know if I can trust you?”
“Trust has to be earned,” Fenelon said. “Proven and earned… My father said that to me a lot. He taught me everything I know about being a mage.”
“Did you trust him?” Alaric ventured.
“Still do, but then, he is my father,” Fenelon said. “Granted there are times I think he is totally cracksie—like when I start hearing yet another tale of what he’s up to over in the Ranges. He is bull-headed, and highly opinionated, and speaks his mind no matter what the consequences.”
“So that’s where you get it from,” Alaric said.
“Like as not,” Fenelon said with a short chuckle. “I will admit there are times when I do not agree with him. Even times I fight tooth and nail with him. But I always trusted him, because in the end, I knew he knew more than I did about the world and its ways, and he cared about me enough that no matter what madness he might get into, he would never bring me to any harm.
Alaric sighed. This was the first time he’d heard Fenelon say anything that came close to what he was feeling. Maybe I’m not meant for this world, Alaric thought and blinked. Suddenly, he missed his family very much.
“Maybe I should forget ever going back to Dun Gealach again,” he said. “I don’t belong there. I think I’d be much happier as a bard than a mage.” Alaric pushed back the blanket and sat up, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. He turned so he could look at Fenelon who wore a mournful frown. “I’ll go back to Gordslea Hold. I’ll tell my father I don’t really want to be a master mage. That it is not worth the time. I’ll study the stuff his great uncle left in the tower, and maybe I can glean a few spells here and there on my own, not that I’ll need them. But I’d rather be a bard like Ronan Tey…knowing magic but caring only for music.” Alaric dropped to the floor. “Take me back to Gordslea Hold, Fenelon. I want to go home.”
Fenelon started to shake his head.
“Take me back, or if you won’t, then tell me which road leads to Tamnagh so I can be on my way.”
“I can’t do that, Alaric,” Fenelon said.
“Can’t tell me how to get to Tamnagh?” Alaric said, moving around the room to gather his clothes.
“No, but I can’t let you go back to Gordslea Hold just yet,” Fenelon said.
“And why not?” Alaric asked, tossing down the shirt in his hand and rounding angrily towards Fenelon who was standing by the bed.
“Because Turlough sent a summons,” Fenelon said. “He wants to see you.”
“Turlough? Whatever for?” Alaric said as old fears and distress crawled around in him like prickly grubs.
Fenelon shrugged and cocked his head. “I have no idea, and neither will you unless we go now. But the message said it was an urgent matter…”
“Oh, horns,” Alaric muttered. “Why me?”
Fenelon shook his head. “We won’t know until we get there, so you’d better get dressed now.” He started towards the door. “As for the rest of this chaos, well, we can talk about it later, and if you still want to go home after that, I’ll release you from your apprenticeship and gate you there myself. Maybe after you’ve had some time to yourself to get over all this tragedy, you might change your mind…”
The open-ended-ness of that statement caught Alaric by surprise. He turned, but Fenelon had already deserted the bedchamber.
Horns, Alaric thought and started to search for his cleanest trews. There was no time to think about any of this just now.
An urgent summons from the High Mage who thought Alaric was consorting with demons was the last thing Alaric needed.
~
“I summoned you three days ago,” Turlough Greenfyn said and settled a hard stare on Alaric who fought the urge to fidget.
“Three days ago, he was suffering from mage fever and in no position to answer any summons,” Fenelon said from his place at the door.
“You could have told me that when I first sent you the summons,” Turlough said. At least his anger focused away from Alaric for a moment. It was bad enough, being forced to stand in the center of this large, darkly appointed chamber where magic wards were thick as honeysuckle. Even the floor under Alaric’s feet carried a dreadful tingle that worked through his boot soles.
“Aye, and you would have ordered him out of bed,” Fenelon said. “Apart from which, you sent the summons to Eldon Keep, and we happened to be staying here at the time…”
“Where you were is of no interest to me,” Turlou
gh said. His sharp glare came back to Alaric, raking up and down him like a scythe. “You, young sir. How are you proceeding with your lessons.”
Alaric blinked. “I assume I am learning as best I can, Lord Magister,” he said.
“Have you learned a proper gate spell yet?”
“Well, no,” Alaric confessed with an uneasy glance at Fenelon. “There hasn’t been much time for major spell work.”
“Too bad,” Turlough said. “That means you’ll have to take a horse or a carriage to this address.” Turlough leaned forward and pushed a bit of parchment across the polished oak table behind which he sat. To his right stood Magister Lorymer whose dour expression was almost as unnerving to Alaric as Turlough’s gaze.
“For what purpose, may I ask,” Alaric said as he glanced at the address.
“For the purpose of teaching the granddaughter of Baron Talos the fine art of playing the psaltery.”
“Who?” Alaric said.
“Baron Talos,” Turlough said. “A prominent gentleman from Yewer. He asked for you specifically.”
“But I don’t know any Baron Talos,” Alaric said with a frown. The name meant nothing to him at all.
“He apparently knows you…or knows of you,” Turlough said and motioned to Lorymer who fetched a wad of crumpled parchment with a broken wax seal and a great length of silk ribbon from the credenza to one side. This was placed in Turlough’s hand as though it were a rare artifact. The High Mage opened it and glanced at the page. “Baron Talos states in his letter, “I have had the opportunity of spending a short but pleasant evening in the company of Master Braidwine’s family a little more than a fortnight ago, and having learned from them of Master Braidwine’s musical skill, and always interested in furthering my lovely granddaughter Vagnera’s talents while we travel, I thought that if it would be of no inconvenience, we could procure Master Braidwine as her temporary music tutor while we reside at our winter home in Caer Keltora.”
Turlough folded the letter and looked up at Alaric who frowned more deeply. Why would his father have not mentioned such a visitor last night?
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 20