Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound

by Laura J Underwood

  The elemental colors wove themselves into a tapestry of variegated lights around the outermost edge.

  “Excellent,” Fenelon said. Etienne detached just enough of her concentration to watch the rest without losing control. “Now, Shona, you will be my sky, so please stand there.” He directed her to a point on the Secondary Circle that put her back to Katriona before he turned towards Wendon. “And as for you, I know of no other whose whole embodiment is as strong as stone.”

  “Is that a compliment?” Wendon said, sounding unsure.

  “Why Wendon, I have often compared you to stone…stand there please.”

  Etienne bit her tongue. The reference usually included a comparison to having not achieved the mental capacity of a pail full of pebbles. Wendon must not have realized this. His expression was one of gratitude as he obliged Fenelon and took a place on the same circle as Shona, putting his broad back to Etienne and blocking her view.

  “Now, please close the second circle,” Fenelon said.

  Wendon and Shona spread their arms and repeated the incantation. The glow that welled from the circle on which they stood grew soft amber and swirled.

  “Very good,” Fenelon said, and Etienne wished she could see Wendon’s face. The rearing back of his shoulders might have been a gesture of deep pride. Just don’t let Fenelon spoil the moment for him, she pleaded within herself.

  Fenelon placed his parchment on the ground and walked the innermost circle, whispering a closing spell. Gold light sprang up around him. He stepped into the very center, practically on top of the psaltery, so all Etienne could see of him was his upraised arms and his head sprouting like a candlewick of copper over Wendon’s dark, squat frame.

  Fenelon’s voice flowed with the words of the spell.

  “Fingers that beget songs upon these strings,

  Strings that beget music which the golden voice sings

  Show me thy face.

  Show me thy place.

  Where thou be,

  Let me see.

  I mote it be…”

  In the mage tongue, those words sounded so beautiful, Etienne felt her eyes fill with tears. The power she wielded and gathered now drew inward to feed Fenelon’s call. With it, she felt him gently tugging essence from each mageborn who stood within the chamber so their awareness became as one. Power raced through Etienne, singing its sweet song and filling every corner of her physical being with gentle light that purged every shadow from her soul.

  The hognose psaltery rose, spinning gently like a lodestone on a string over their heads. Back and forth its narrow end swayed, stopping at last so it was aimed north and slightly west.

  Swiftly, images of land and lakes and forest and mountains unfolded. Etienne would have sworn her spirit flew, were it not for the sensation of two feet firmly settled on ensorcelled ground. The flash of scenery made her a little queasy, and she hoped it would soon reveal a place—a structure—something familiar.

  But it did not. Instead, the vision faded into a frightening darkness that seemed void of all life.

  “No!” she heard Fenelon shout in anger.

  His sudden outburst shattered everyone’s concentration. The psaltery trembled and fell. Etienne opened her mouth to shout when Shona broke her place and lunged forward in time to catch the precious instrument before it could crash to the floor and shatter. As she crossed Fenelon’s glowing heart circle, it trembled and winked out. At once, the inner power Fenelon had raised, flickered, then scattered as though a bubble had popped. Only Prime Circle held, for which Etienne was grateful, for inside its boundaries, wind blasted the three mageborn, and the stones rumbled beneath their feet. Etienne tightened her concentration and held on, determined to keep the Prime Circle intact.

  Fenelon cursed and banished the raging remnants with a wild gesture that subdued its residue into a single lump. Snarling, he crushed the tight glowing ball with his hands as though it were some insignificant and annoying insect. He sat down where he had stood, and glowered at nothing in particular. Shona timidly watched him, still cradling the psaltery like a newborn child.

  Etienne cautiously banished the outer circle of power, gathering it to her to sift it apart and let it fade harmlessly.

  Everyone looked exhausted now. The drain of power left Etienne’s own limbs trembling. Wendon sat down where he was, as did Katriona and Tobin. Only Mistress Wallace made it to one of the benches lining the outer walls to sit and rest.

  “What happened?” Wendon asked. “Is he dead?”

  “No, he’s not dead,” Fenelon growled and lowered his head.

  “But…what was that black thing?”

  Fenelon said nothing, rubbing his face. Etienne eased down at his side, slipping an arm across his hunched shoulders and looked at Wendon.

  “That,” she said wearily, “was a void, Wendon, a place where no essence can be found. And so long as Alaric is in there, we cannot find him.”

  ~

  Demons were not supposed to possess even a tiny hint of sympathy, but Vagner felt sorry for the young bard. Tane’s ruthless application of hot pain left Alaric shrieking for mercy, but failed to produce any of the information the bloodmage desired. The sincerity of Alaric’s denial had Vagner wondering if he was mistaken. No, I clearly heard him say he knew the Dragon’s Tongue Key that night. The youth could not have held out against such pain if he were lying, but Alaric continued to sob he did not know the song. Tane gained nothing for his wicked efforts, especially after the young bard fainted.

  Though angry at this failure, Tane had the sense to recognize it would be futile to continue. Other methods of extracting the information were in order. The bandits unchained Alaric and carried him back to the cell. Tane restored his spell wall, announced his intentions to retire, and left.

  Vagner sighed. After Tane disappeared, the demon fetched water and bandages. The spell wall at the head of the stairs did not turn demon essence. He walked into the void unhindered, curious to note that he did not feel it at all.

  The bandits had done little more than lay Alaric out on the blankets. Vagner knelt and set about cleaning and bandaging the cauterized cuts and burns that ranged Alaric’s arms and chest and throat. The youth never stirred, and this worried the demon. What if he does not live? He’s young, but he looks so frail just now.

  The demon sighed and finished the chore of bandaging Alaric’s wounds. Vagner made certain Alaric was well covered with the blankets before returning to the dais to watch and wait.

  THIRTY TWO

  Having sent her pupils back to her own quarters in Mistress Wallace’s care with a promise they would be properly fed, Etienne returned to Eldon Keep with Fenelon. His brows remained in a line the whole time, hinting dark and somber thoughts. He so hated failure. Etienne knew this well, and she feared he would allow it to dampen his efforts.

  Once home, Fenelon showed no interest in eating. Etienne, however, was famished, but rather than bother his servants at this late hour, she fixed tea and gathered bread and cheese and some of the lovely pears from Fenelon’s own garden. Together, they sat in the Great Hall on the rug before the hearth, and bit by bit, she coaxed him into taking a few bites of food while she fed herself.

  Silence remained. Talking to him at this moment would be useless. She knew by his stare that he was lost in his own thoughts, and she felt content just to sit by his side for the time being.

  At last, the dark hour drew on them. Etienne wanted to sleep. She sighed and broke the silence. “Fenelon, don’t you think we should go to bed.”

  “I’m too tired for that,” he said.

  Etienne hissed and slapped his shoulder. “Is your mind ever anywhere else?” she said.

  “Hey!” he said and glowered, but his eyes held mischief in their narrowing. The slight smile gave it away.

  “I meant to sleep,” she said. “You’re exhausted and so am I, and we gain nothing for Alaric by ruining our own health.

  His gaze dropped. “You’re right,” he said. “We
’re safe and warm, and only the gods know where he is just now…”

  “We will find him,” she said gently, her fingers pushing strands of Fenelon’s hair back behind his ear.

  “But will he be alive when we do?” Fenelon whispered and looked away.

  Etienne captured his chin and drew his face back around. His blue eyes were soft with unshed tears.

  “We will find him,” she repeated.

  He grasped the hand that cupped his face and kissed it. Etienne shivered and smiled.

  “I thought you were too tired,” she said.

  “I am,” he assured her as he drew her close and lay back on the bear skin rug. She smiled and snuggled against him, listening to his heart in his chest. “Too tired to even make it to the bed…”

  His breathing relaxed, and within moments, she raised her head to find he had indeed fallen asleep.

  Etienne smiled and shifted into a more comfortable position. She was not good at sleeping on floors, so she let her mind play over the scenes she had seen in the conjuring circle that night. Flying over moors and forest. The mountains rising sharp behind them. Heather and sedge were brown, and at one point some shaggy cattle shared grazing with sheep before the darkness came…

  “He’s still in Keltora,” she whispered. Oh, she might not be familiar enough with the landmarks to know precisely where, but she had seen heather only in this vast kingdom and no other. And those cattle. They were certainly a native Keltoran breed with long graceful horns and unkempt red coats. No other kingdom in Ard-Taebh bred such beasts.

  She sat up, and the motion stirred Fenelon who opened puzzled, sleepy eyes. “Etienne?” he said.

  “He’s still in Keltora,” she said. “Alaric is still in Keltora.”

  Fenelon yawned. “Keltora’s a big place.”

  “But how many voids are there in Keltora?” Etienne asked.

  Now Fenelon blinked. “I’m not sure, but someone at Dun Gealach would know…”

  “Turlough would know,” she said.

  Fenelon’s eyes widened with astonishment. “You’re right,” he said and sat up groggily. “Turlough became obsessed with knowing the location of every void after MacMorroch took the throne of Keltora. Turlough mapped everyone in Keltora himself. Had my grandfather and other mageborn mapping them elsewhere in Ard-Taebh.”

  “But we only need to know which ones lie to the north of Keltora,” she said.

  “That’s right.” Fenelon smiled. “Let’s go wake up Turlough and ask him.”

  He stumbled to his feet.

  “Wake up Turlough?” she said. “I think we had better wait until tomorrow. Neither of us has slept, and he’ll be too furious to give us a straight answer…”

  “No worse than he deserves,” Fenelon said.

  “But you said you were too tired to even make it up to your bed.”

  “True, but you’ve awakened me and renewed my hopes with this news…and the longer we wait the worst it will be for Alaric. Come on.”

  Me and my ideas! Etienne groaned inwardly as she took his offer of a hand and crawled to her feet. She would much rather be in bed herself.

  But for Alaric’s sake, she would muster her strength. If only to keep Fenelon from doing anything rash.

  ~

  How does he do that? Etienne thought as she stifled a yawn. Few mageborn would have managed to get past the first few ranks of guards before being stopped either by force or by magic. Fenelon made it all the way to the private bedchamber’s outer door before he met more resistance than he could walk past and ignore. Two guards proved a worthy obstacle to his misdirection spells, for neither of them stepped aside. Etienne knew why too. Both guards were mageborn and had a natural resistance to spells of distraction.

  Fenelon stopped as they blocked the door.

  “Renton,” Fenelon said to the younger of the pair, a tall youth with black hair and blue eyes. “So you’ve pulled this watch, have you?”

  Renton Morwaine frowned. His senior companion took a step forward. Hasher Wolfstane was his name, and Etienne had heard him called Hasher the Smasher for obvious reasons. This blond giant who topped Fenelon’s height by half a head had a reputation for crushing walnuts with his teeth.

  “The Lord Magister is asleep,” Hasher said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware of that,” Fenelon said, “but this is an emergency. A mageborn’s life is at stake, and my Uncle Turlough may be able to help save the poor wretch…”

  “Lord Magister is not to be disturbed,” Hasher said. One of his meaty hands locked onto Fenelon’s arm to propel him back the way he had come. “Not by you or any other…”

  “You don’t understand,” Fenelon said, attempting to dig heels in and impede his own progress as he threw a look at Etienne that said, “Why aren’t you helping me with this?”

  “I understand my orders,” Hasher said and grinned. “Lord Magister is not to be disturbed…especially by you.”

  How about by me? Etienne thought. Drastic moments required drastic measures, and while she thought it totally beneath her, Etienne took a deep breath and let out a scream. As sharp and high pitched as she could manage. She so startled Renton, he dropped his pole arm with a loud clatter, and stumbled against the door in his effort to retrieve it. Hasher stopped hauling Fenelon away and jerked around with a startled look. No fool where opportunities abound, Fenelon readily took advantage of the distraction. He pulled free, ducked around behind Hasher and raced back to Turlough’s door just as it opened.

  Turlough filled the opening, rage smoldering behind the bleariness of disturbed sleep.

  “What in the name of Cernunnos is going on out here?” he snapped. He froze when he saw her. “Etienne?” His gaze swept the other way and went from surprise to indignation. “Fenelon. I might have known.”

  “Uncle, so sorry to have disturbed you, but this is a matter of life and death,” Fenelon said.

  “That is a matter of opinion,” Turlough groused.

  Hasher had recovered and reached out to snag Fenelon once more.

  “Oh, never mind,” Turlough snapped, and the giant guard flinched like an admonished child. “The sooner I give this fool nephew of mine an audience, the sooner I can get back to bed.”

  Fenelon grinned and slipped through the open door. Etienne took her time and ignored the dark glances afforded her by the guards.

  Turlough motioned and muttered “Solus” so the antechamber globe light swelled with the soft glow of magical illumination. His valet stood by one of the secondary doors, fumbling to close his robes. Turlough ignored his sleepy-eyed servant and strode over to the fire where with another flick of his hand and a whisper of “Loisg,” he renewed its warming blaze. Then he seated himself in one of the chairs there and gestured towards the other to indicate Etienne had his permission to claim the other, before turning his sour glare upon Fenelon once more.

  “State your business and be brief,” Turlough said. “And be warned if this is some mad delusion, I shall have you banned from my quarters by more permanent means.”

  “Oh, it’s very important,” Fenelon said. “Alaric’s life depends on your good graces and your knowledge…”

  Turlough narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I heard he had been taken, possibly by the very demon he brought into this keep, I am told.”

  “And that doesn’t concern you?” Fenelon said.

  “Well, of course, it concerns me,” Turlough said darkly. “We can’t have young mageborn being kidnapped without being concerned. It does not serve our reputation well. From whence was he kidnapped?”

  “Oh, surely you already know that,” Fenelon said. “And he was not taken by a demon, but by the very man who bribed you into sending him to Chatham Manor under false pretenses.”

  Turlough cleared his throat harshly and shot a look at the valet that sent the servant scurrying for his quarters. Then Turlough rose to his feet.

  “Of what are you accusing me?” he snarled.

&
nbsp; “Had you truly taken time to check this Baron Talos’ claim instead of letting his bride distract you, uncle, you might have noticed he was really the bloodmage Tane Doran.”

  “What?” Turlough stepped back, his gaze flashing over to Etienne who did her best to remain a silent observer. “Are you certain of this?”

  “He revealed himself to me before he and his rogues fled with Alaric,” Fenelon said.

  “And you let him escape?” Turlough said. “Knowing our edicts against blood magic and those who practice it?”

  “I was outnumbered,” Fenelon said with a frown. “And may I remind you that poor Alaric would not be in this predicament were it not for you. I was the one who objected to his going to Chatham Manor, but you had to play master of all and practically ordered it.”

  Turlough reclaimed his chair and glared at the hearth. Etienne held her breath. He is taking this accusation better than I would have imagined.

  “So what do you want from me?” Turlough said.

  “We have reason to believe that Alaric was taken to some place in the north of Keltora where there is a void.” Fenelon said.

  “There are several such voids in that general direction,” Turlough said.

  “And I would be grateful if you could tell me where I might find them.”

  Turlough took a deep breath then rose and started for the outer door, forcing Etienne and Fenelon to scurry along in his wake. The High Mage thundered past the guards who drew themselves upright with stiff postures and followed him only with their eyes. Turlough continued his fast and furious pace to his main study, and there he called light and walked straight over to a square table with a surface that shimmered.

  Passing one hand across the surface caused the swirl of colors to shift and form a map of Keltora and its borders. Etienne leaned over the table, intrigued by the spell that wrought the map, for it shifted to reveal contours of lakes, rivers, mountains and forests and many of the larger villages and townships in miniature.