Wandering Lark (The Demon-Bound Duology)

by Laura J Underwood

  And then the Temple elders came and took Desura because she said she could hear the giant’s heart. Talena heard it too, but she never told anyone because it scared her to know that she might be what her mother was.

  Now, here on this plain where the stones were shaped like melted men and horses and other beasts, she could only shiver.

  Because she was hearing the heart of the giant as though she had her ear to the ground. She was hearing the snarl of voices in the air. The death screams of horses on a battlefield. The “qwork” of ravens as they feasted, and all of it sounded as though it were an echo from the past.

  She wondered if the bard could hear what she was hearing. Could he not feel the strange touch of the spirits? Or was he just better able to ignore it because he was a heretic himself? For all she knew, he would be able to communicate with these spirits. Maybe turn them against her. She reached up and touched her throat. Was that where those bruises came from? Had he tried to harm her in some fashion? If so, why had he not killed her?

  Maybe he had the power to make her forget? She had heard the Temple Patriarchs speaking of this once, that some heretics had the power to cloud the mind.

  Then why has he not tried to rid himself of my company before now? He had certainly had enough opportunity.

  Stop thinking like a child, she scolded herself. She had a mission. To find the White One, to kill the dragon, and as a reward, they would make her one of their trusted Bounty Hunters.

  And once she had that position, she could work to avenge herself on those who had stolen her mother’s life and her father’s as well.

  Talena took a deep breath. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him her true reason for being here. But she did not dare. Not now. Not realizing that to do so would reveal that she was descended from heretics herself and jeopardize her one chance to pay the temple back for all the ills it had wrought on her life.

  If anyone were to find out, it would mean her death for certain.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Etienne’s cousins were herbalists who lived high up in the willow’s branches. Many members of her family had taken on some form of healing arts as a profession. Their cottage was easy to spot among the branches for the front platform was like a balcony, and hanging along the railing and from the ceiling over it were bundles of drying herbs.

  She made Shona and Wendon wait in the shadows where the limbs branched as she carefully walked along the limb and up the wooden stairs to the front. All the while, she kept an eye out for Bran. So far, there was no sign of him. But Etienne was not ready to trust him to be at the inn for long. Knowing the odious innkeeper who had taken gold to reveal her presence there, he was probably telling Bran that some hell-spawn woman had threatened him with warts and weasels. She wished she had the gall to place such a curse as she had spat on him for real, but cursing mortalborn was limited to threats instead of actual incantations. Her vows to the Council of Mageborn forbade her from actually casting spells.

  She made the top stair when the door opened and a thin stick of an older woman came out shaking her head. “If I have told him once, I have told him a thousand times to leave the cat alone…” She stopped, her eyes widening. “Etienne?” she whispered. “Is that you, child?”

  “Aunt Navareen,” Etienne said and curtsied respectfully. “You honor me by remembering me after so long.”

  “Oh, my sweet niece, how can I forget the most beautiful daughter my rogue of a brother sired?”

  Etienne smiled. “I have come to ask a favor. I and two companions are in need of a place to hide at least for the night.”

  “Hide?” Navareen looked over Etienne’s shoulder. “Companions? Have you been chewing ditherweed, my dear?”

  Etienne gestured towards the shadows back where the limbs of the great tree split. Wendon and Shona hurried out, crossing the small expanse of the limb on which this cottage sat. Wendon looked down and frowned at the distance to the ground as he grabbed the railing. Shona moved gracefully ahead of him as though nothing was the matter.

  “It sways more up here,” she heard Wendon whisper to Shona’s back.

  “So I’ve noticed,” Shona said.

  They reached the platform without incident. Wendon was looking a little green.

  “May I introduce my apprentice, Shona Ni’Warden, and our traveling companion, Wendon Stanewold,” Etienne said.

  Aunt Navareen looked from one to the other, and then back to Eithne. “From who are the three of you hiding?” she asked plainly.

  “A mageborn,” Etienne said.

  “One of your own kind? Why?”

  “It’s a very long story, Aunt Navareen, and I would feel much better telling you over a cup of your blackberry sage tea.” Etienne looked hopeful that they would not stand out here much longer. It was a bit windy, and autumn’s chill was starting to nip at her. She should have put on her cloak, but it was tucked into her satchel. In her haste to get out of the inn, she had neglected to do more than stuff it there.

  “Very well,” Navareen said. “But first, assure me that whatever you have done is not going to shame your family name.”

  Etienne shook her head. “That will depend,” she said, “on whether or not I am captured and returned to Dun Gealach before I find Fenelon Greenfyn. And know this, I did what I believed was right.”

  Aunt Navareen nodded slowly. “Very well. Come into my house and be welcome, children.”

  She stepped back and opened the door for them. Etienne motioned for the others to go first. Wendon seemed particularly eager to get indoors now. As he passed Aunt Navareen, she stopped him.

  “Feeling sickly?” she asked.

  “A bit, ma’am,” he admitted.

  She nodded. “I know just the thing to settle your stomach then. Ground walkers always have this problem when they first come into high branches.”

  Navareen gestured for him to go on, and he did. She looked at Etienne and smiled. “He seems a nice sturdy young man.”

  “He is proving his worth, I can assure you,” Etienne said. She stepped in behind Wendon.

  The room inside was warm, and there was a comforting creak of great strong wood swaying gently in the high winds. Aunt Navareen herded them all to chairs. Over in one corner sat a woman Etienne did not recognize. She was bouncing a boy of three on her knee, and he looked none too happy as he leaned against her.

  “I’ll be just a moment,” Aunt Navareen said as she crossed over to the woman and offered her a small bit of herb. “Now, soak this in tepid water for about ten minutes then clean the wounds with it. And tell him that next time he should think twice before he pulls kitty’s tail.”

  The woman nodded, accepting the bit of herb, tucking it into a belt pouch and drawing out a coin. She handed Aunt Navareen a copper sgillinn, hoisted the lad on her hip and left in silence. Aunt Navareen closed the door and turned to her guests.

  “Where is Uncle Strauss?” Etienne asked.

  “Down in the roots sharing a keg of mush moss.”

  “I didn’t think mush moss grew this time of the year,” Etienne said.

  “Uh…what is mush moss?” Wendon asked.

  “A fungus,” Etienne said. “It’s very spongy and grows around the roots of willows in the spring and early summer. It’s brewed to make a very strong medicinal drink.”

  “Oh, you’re being too nice, Etienne,” Aunt Navareen said. “It’s used to brew strong ale that will intoxicate a man with one mouthful. My Strauss makes the best mush moss beer for ten tree leagues.”

  Shona and Wendon traded looks.

  “Now, let me get that tea, and then you can tell me what this is all about.”

  Whatever Aunt Navareen gave Wendon hit his stomach and nearly made him heave, but then it began to numb his nausea in a most pleasant way.

  He listened as Etienne told every detail of what had transpired and was rather surprised to learn of the Dragon’s Tongue and the adventures Etienne and the others had.

  “…So now we are fugitive
s,” Etienne said. “And I am trying to find Fenelon so I can help him find Alaric before Turlough Greenfyn does. But I was not expecting any of the mageborn of Ard-Taebh to find our trail so soon.”

  “And you think this Bran is here to take you back to Dun Gealach?” Aunt Navareen said.

  “I can think of no other reason for him to be here, especially since he came to the inn and asked about us, and paid the innkeeper gold to learn which room we were in.”

  Aunt Navareen nodded. “Well, I will agree that it sounds rather like he is seeking you for some reason. What makes you think he will not find you here?”

  Etienne sighed. “I really have no way of knowing how powerful this Bran is. The Aldens are said to be nearly as strong a bloodline as the Greenfyns.”

  “I have heard that the Aldens have served the kings of Loughan for many years now,” Wendon said.

  Etienne looked at him and smiled. “How true,” she said. “And I know that Greenfyns and Aldens have intermarried because Fenelon’s older sister is indeed wife to this Bran. What I suspect is that Turlough is so angry with our escape, he is going to every known relation of the Greenfyns he can find and threatening them so as to force them to help him find us.”

  Wendon frowned. He wondered if the High Mage was making such threats to his own family. And to Shona’s.

  My father will never forgive me, Wendon thought blandly.

  “That would make sense,” Aunt Navareen said. “Well, I can offer you shelter in the boughs tonight, if that is what you wish. But I doubt I could stop this Bran if he wanted to come here.”

  Etienne nodded. “That’s all we ask. We will be up before the sun and on our way in the morning.”

  “Where will you head?”

  “I need to go some place where I can meditate, find a ley line and see if I can scry for Fenelon.”

  “And who’s to say that Turlough is not watching the ley lines?” Wendon asked.

  Etienne shrugged. “It is a risk I will have to take. Since I do not know where Fenelon sent Alaric in the first place, I cannot go there and track him. So I must try something vast and dangerous. But I will not do it here. On to the north is the Duchy of Maplehurst, and as I recall, there is an old ruin there from before the Great Cataclysm that is built on a ley line.”

  Aunt Navareen frowned. “That is not a safe place, you know.”

  “Yes,” Etienne said. “But I have to take the risk. I know of no other way.”

  Shona was the first to turn towards the door and frown, but Wendon suddenly felt the limb on which the cottage rested swaying more than before. Faintly, he heard a man’s slurred voice.

  “Do you like winterberry wine? I make a mean winterberry wine. Add a touch of clove to the mix to give it a bit of a bite.”

  “That indeed sounds delicious, Master Strauss,”

  Etienne leapt to her feet. And even Wendon recognized the deep resonate voice, for it was the same one that had sought them at the inn. Before anyone could so much as think of hiding, much less react, the door opened and two men entered. One was staggering a bit. The other bowed his head to pass under the lintel and straightened up just inside so that he was blocking the only visible way out, except for the window. Wendon was quite sure the window would be a mistake.

  “Well,” Bran said as he thumped his staff on the wooden floor and peered at each of them with a smile. “Fancy finding you folk here.”

  No one dared to move.

  Etienne was not sure what to do now. Here she had hoped they would get a good night’s rest and be on their way. Now she was wondering if it had been foolishness on her part to believe they could escape.

  “You must be Lady Savala,” Bran said and offered a small bow. “This is a pleasure.”

  “You may think so,” Etienne said, “but I fear I cannot return the sentiment.”

  Bran sighed and bowed. “Ah…I am not sure what I have done to offend you, my lady…”

  “I know why you are here,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  “Turlough has sent you to track us down,” she said. “Of course, I am sure he was hoping I would find Fenelon for you as well…and poor Alaric…”

  Bran put up one hand in a gesture of submission. “Lady Savala, I think you need to sit down and have some of your uncle’s wonderful winterberry wine to calm your nerves.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, stiffening her spine. What game was he playing now? “Are you not here to take us back to Turlough Greenfyn?”

  “Hardly,” Bran said. “Turlough and I have not spoken to one another since I called him a long-winded, short-sighted nanny goat to his face in front of half the Council of Mageborn.”

  Etienne blinked. “Then what are you doing here looking for us?” she asked.

  “I’m here because Gareth Greenfyn sent me a message that you might want to know that it would be better for the three of you to wait in Blue Oak.”

  “What?” Etienne frowned. “How could Gareth know that we have escaped Dun Gealach?”

  “My lady, it stands to reason that if Fenelon was able to escape, that you would soon find a means to follow, so Gareth contacted me before he left Blue Oak and told me that I should watch for you to escape.”

  “But, I cloaked my gate carefully. It would have sent anyone to half a dozen false places.”

  “Aye, but Fenelon seemed convinced that if you were able to escape, you would come to Ross-Mhor since here is the only place Turlough would not be able to extract you so easily. So I asked several mageborn in this land to tell me if they felt your arrival. And one of them did.”

  Etienne sat down. “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.

  “My lady Savala. My family holds its friendship with Gareth Greenfyn most dear. Like many a mageborn, we are unsettled by what we see as Turlough’s attempts to create a world ruled by mageborn. Are you aware that he has tried for several decades now to introduce mage blood into the royal lines?”

  “Oh, yes, I have heard Fenelon speak of this often,” she said.

  “Well, I am in Loughan to keep that from happening there. But there are mageborn in other royal households who agree with Turlough that introducing mage blood into the royal lines would increase our ability to quell factions that are determined to root out and put an end to mageborn existence.”

  “Why would that be a bad thing?” Wendon asked.

  “Well, it would not from the point of view of mageborn in general,” Bran said. “But we should not rule the mortalborn. It would be just like bringing back the rule of the Shadow Lords…”

  “But the Shadow Lords were evil,” Shona said. “We are not…”

  “No, we are not,” Bran agreed. “But if all the myths and legends we hear of the ages before are true, it stands to reason that if magic rules, we risk the destruction of the world as we know it. It was, after all, the belief of many that mageborn caused the Great Cataclysm.”

  “But I thought the Old Ones were to blame,” Wendon began.

  “And just who do you think we are descended from, my lad?” Bran said and smiled.

  “I never thought of it that way,” Wendon said.

  “There is a theory that history repeats itself, my lad,” Bran said. “That the world goes in a circle that is seven times one hundred years in length, and that when this circle is complete, the world is renewed in one manner of another. And that this renewal can be to the betterment or the destruction of humankind as a whole. Before the Great Cataclysm, humans were in the minority. Now we are the minority and they are the majority. And sadly, they blame us for the ills of the world.”

  He looked at Etienne. “Just as some of our own kind think we all conspire to their destruction,” he added.

  She frowned at him.

  “Sorry, my lady, but I could not resist taunting you just a little,” Bran said. “Especially after I heard about the fine curse you laid on that hapless landlord at the inn. The poor fellow gave me back my gold and begged me to lift your curse in the bargai
n.”

  Etienne felt her mouth fall open. She quickly closed it and in her mind, doubled the trouble she wished she could inflict on the innkeeper.

  “Now, Master Strauss, about that winterberry wine,” Bran said as though nothing out of the ordinary had been said. “Do you have a tall mug for a tall man’s thirst? One drink, and then I will be on my way. A king’s advisor must never linger too long from his court, and now that my message is delivered, I must hasten back to mine.”

  Etienne wanted to sigh with relief.

  Well, at least they knew that Fenelon was well.

  And it had been a long time since she had seen the great trees of Blue Oak.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The latter part of the day brought Alaric and Talena to a copse on a hill. He was ready for a break. Traveling across this desolate landscape was starting to play havoc with his mage senses. Bad enough that some of the spirit folk would flutter around him like ragged curtains in a window, but some of them would actually waft through him, and when they did, he felt cold. He was surprised to see that many of them looked as though they were no more than children, and that disturbed him. It took a great deal of effort not to exclaim his surprise aloud when one of them hovered just in front of him, pointing a finger at him in an accusatory fashion before it whisked away.

  Worse still were the ones that did not look so human. One had a head like a stag. Another appeared reptilian in nature. They had the bodies of men and women, but their faces, and sometimes their hands looked as though someone had grafted parts of creatures to them. Most frightful were the spider-like things that had the torsos and faces of men and women attached to the bodies of arachnids. Some of these were nearly as big as horses. They carried spears and rushed in and out in a frenzied fashion. One of them dashed right through Alaric, and he smelled blood and carnage.

  That one made him gasp aloud.

  “What?” Talena asked.

  “Nothing,” Alaric replied. “I was dozing and thought I was falling off my horse.”