Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (16 page)

Alaric felt absurd. He knew the mechanics of the act. With older sisters to torment him, it was hard not to know. And there had been his father’s occasional speeches about a man’s duty.

Alaric finished dressing. It was growing dark outside now, and he wandered downstairs of the brothel house where merry sounds filled the air. As soon as he stepped into the common room, a round of applause greeted him, started by Fenelon who now claimed space on a side bench, surrounded by a bevy of lasses not otherwise occupied.

“Horns,” Alaric growled and started to flee the chamber. That his face was burning as bright as the sun could not be denied.

“Oh, come on back, Alaric,” Fenelon called. “The ladies are preparing a table for us…”

Alaric hunched his shoulders and caught his thumbs in his belt and reluctantly obeyed. He was not familiar enough with the sprawl of Caer Keltora to find his way back to Dun Gealach alone anyway, and he certainly could not gate himself to Eldon Keep. So he crossed the room, watching the floor planks pass under his feet, and claimed a chair that put his back to the room full of grinning faces.

“Alaric,” Fenelon said. “You should be smiling, my young friend.”

“At what?” Alaric asked, and thought,
At the fact you’re as lascivious as a satyr and I’m the joke of the house?

“My, my,” Fenelon said and leaned forward. “It wasn’t all that bad, was it?”

Alaric took a deep breath, stilling the bit of ire trying to crest like a wave. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t bad.”

“Then what?” Fenelon said and spread his hands.

Alaric lowered his voice so only mage hearing could perceive his words. “What would Etienne think if she saw you just now?”

Fenelon leaned back. “Precious little, I would imagine.”

“I thought you loved her,” Alaric said.

“I do,” Fenelon said and frowned. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Is it fair to her for you…us to be here?” Alaric asked.

Fenelon smiled and sighed. “Ah,” he said. “You think she and I…”

“Well, aren’t you?” Alaric blurted. “I mean, after what I saw pass between you last night…”

Fenelon motioned for his companions to leave, and they did, giggling among themselves. Slowly, Fenelon leaned forward again, looking boldly into Alaric’s eyes.

“Etienne and I have an understanding, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “She knows that I love her, and in truth, she loves me, and though it is really none of yours or anyone else’s business…” Alaric blinked, feeling stung by the hint of rebuke. “…we have been intimate over the years. But Etienne is a smart woman. She knows what a rogue and a rake I am when it comes to the fairer sex. I’m not the sort of man who settles down with a woman. Knowing that does not make any difference to her, for which I am always grateful. We long ago agreed we could freely love one another and still go on with our lives. Besides, Etienne is far more devoted to her students than she will ever be to me or any other man…”

Alaric pulled his lower lip into his teeth and looked aside. Horns, he felt like a fool.

“Come on,” Fenelon said and rose. “I think our meal is ready.” He stopped just behind the chair. “Oh, and I think it would do you a world of good to learn to loosen up a bit, lad…” A hand suddenly whacked Alaric gently across the top of his head.

“Hey!” Alaric protested.

“I’ve no patience with thick skulls or small minds,” Fenelon said. “The world’s not as black and white as you would paint it in your precious ballads, Alaric. Now come on, or I’ll have to thump you again for being a surly and disobedient apprentice.”

Fenelon started on. Alaric snarled an oath and bound from his chair to follow.

“You thump me again, and I’ll tell Etienne,” Alaric said.

Fenelon grinned. “You do that,” he said, “and I’ll just have to tell everyone at Dun Gealach your still…” He lowered his voice and wagged his eyebrows. “…an innocent.”

“I am not, no thanks to you,” Alaric said as Fenelon started on, forcing him to follow.

“And just who do you think they would believe?” Fenelon quipped.

“Me,” Alaric replied. “They all know you too well…”

“Oh, another good one, young bard,” Fenelon said and slapped a hand to his heart in mock affront. Then he swung around and lightly whack Alaric on the back of the head again. “Mind your manners.”

“I will when you learn to mind yours,” Alaric said, rubbing the back of his head. “That hurt…”

Fenelon laughed.

SEVENTEEN

With the practiced ease of a thief, Vagner opened the shutters and peered out the window. Night’s moon hid behind a cloud, leaving the streets blanketed in pitch. A true dark hour, the demon reflected as he hitched a leg over the windowsill. Demon eyes had no trouble seeing in such a dark, and Vagner judged the distance to the ground, tempted to jump. Then again, this form he wore would probably be damaged by such a long drop. He sighed and lowered himself by less convenient means, digging fingers and toes into beams and loose plaster of the daub and wattle surface. Slow progress eventually took him to the ground. There, the demon sat down just long enough to pull on a pair of soft-soled boots—a necessity since these feminine feet lacked the horny pads of his true form—then scuttled into the nearest shadows.

By the Black One’s barb, Vagner was so hungry his small stomach cramped. It had been murder to put up with the landlady’s company, for her plump flesh had been so tempting. She had helped the demon to bathe and dress before bringing up a tray. Once more, Vagner was forced to pretend to eat the lamb stew in thick broth. Fortunately, there’d been an ample napkin of linen for him to slip the food into whenever the woman turned her back, and later he dumped all that into the chamber pot. But then, the landlady had dressed him for bed and offered to sit with him until he fell asleep, forcing the demon to pretend to doze off just to rid himself of her company. Once she had left, Vagner quickly barred the door then waited until hunger frayed at his patience for the dark hour to arrive.

Once in the shadows, Vagner followed the wall to a postern gate behind the stables. He lifted the bar and set it aside, then pulled the gate open and stepped out into an alley that stank of piss and stale water and dog excrement. The demon wrinkled his nose and tested the air for more attractive odors. Mortalborn. Plenty were still on the streets in spite of the late hour. Vagner moved quietly along, pacing like a predator, avoiding the puddles between broken cobbles. Most windows were dark as he reached the main street.

Demon hearing picked up the strains of musicians squawking bawdy songs—several of which Vagner recognized—and the rich odors of hops and ale and men rode the winds. Vagner eagerly followed the smells and the sounds.

He located the tavern just off the main road where a warren of alleys met. Such a noisy little place it was. A number of its patrons staggered out into the streets to relieve their bladders against the walls of the adjoining structures. The demon waited in the shadows and watched. Not too big a one, he thought as he surveyed his possible prey. But not too thin or old or drunk. Ale spoiled the taste of man’s flesh, and aged blood was never as sweet.

A man was suddenly assisted through the door by no gentle means. The surly barkeep dumped this customer on the cobbles and left him there, shouting back over one shoulder, “Next time, you bring more than a few coppers if you want to drink in my house!”

The barkeep disappeared through the open door, and the expelled patron turned and muttered, “Oh, I will good sir.”

His slovenly demeanor changed abruptly. He appeared quite sober as he extracted a small purse from his trews and hefted it. The audible clink of coin filled the air. “A good night’s work, if I must say so myself.” He pulled himself upright with a more confident air and headed up the streets.

That one,
the demon thought, and felt for the small dagger he’d borrowed from his good hostess—though she was unaware of the loan. This man was neither too large nor too small. Perfect for the demon’s needs. As the man turned up an alley, Vagner sprinted along what he hoped was a parallel route, keeping ears tuned to the distinctive clop-plot of the man’s unevenly soled boots. Vagner got far enough ahead to find a narrow cutover between buildings. There, the demon took time to splash bits of muddy water on his linen shift so it clung temptingly to his form. He splashed more on his face, and crouching against the wall, he pretended to weep.

The echoing sound of the boots halted, and through gapped fingers, Vagner saw a shadow stretch into the length of the alley.

“Here, now, what’s this?” the man said.

Vagner looked up, feigning fright and started to rise with the wall for support.

“Easy now, lass,” the man said. “I mean ye no harm.” Still his big hand snapped out to catch Vagner’s small wrist in a powerful grasp, and his eyes roamed up and down the trembling form. “Now don’t you be frightened. You just tell old Sully what’s the matter, aye?”

Vagner put on the appropriate front of being frightened of this man. “I’m lost,” he whimpered. “I ran away, and I’m lost.”

“Ran away?” Sully said. “Why ever for?”

“That man wanted to buy me, and papa was going to sell me, but I didn’t want to go,” Vagner said between snubs. “But papa said I had to ‘cos I wasn’t good for nothing except a bedwarmer…”

“Did he now?” Sully said. His surprise was so fake the demon fought a howl of laughter.

“So I ran away, but now I’m lost and I’m cold and I’m hungry, and I don’t have any place to sleep…”

Sully grinned, and his big hand lightly brushed the demon’s budding breast. “‘Tis a sad father that would sell such a pretty daughter to such a cruel fate. I tell ye what, child. Why don’t ye come with me? I’ll take ye back to me place and let ye sleep there for the night. Tomorrow, we can wait to decide what’s to be done with ye…”

“I dunno…” Vagner said and pulled back.

Sully’s big arm went around the tiny waist, drawing the demon close, and his free hand closed over the demon’s mouth to prevent any cries. He hefted the struggling child under his arm and carried the demon several streets away to a dilapidated old house. Here the air was tainted with the stink of a river and mud, and the odors of fish. Once they were inside, Vagner fought just enough to be convincing as Sully held his new-found prize down. But before the man could get under the layers of linen, Vagner drew the small dagger and plunged it deep into Sully’s throat, lunging for the fountain of blood with an open mouth.

It was a good feast, even if the flesh could have used a bath…

~

Alaric dreamed of a wall that night. One of old stone, much like those that filled the tower of Gordslea Hold. But this wall rose so it disappeared into shadowy mist above. Below his feet were rushes covering a familiar floor. Alaric crouched and brushed green reeds aside, and found flagstones marked with old runes, the edge of a magic circle engraved and painted by a hand so much older than his own. They had been there since he was a child.

I’m in the old tower.
The one Marda had claimed as her own apartments when she came to live at Gordslea Hold and teach Alaric the ways of magic. He stood upright and looked around, seeking other objects of familiarity. But all he saw were shadows around the edges of the walls, and unclear images of the old furnishings were visible. Marda’s favorite chair and his stool where he sat when she taught him stood out. So did the trunk that had eaten him as a lad, and the old robe wrapped menacingly around the mannequin.

“Marda?” Alaric called softly. She always heard him, even when he whispered. In fact, she had taught him a silly game when his power first manifested. She would blindfold herself, and Alaric would try to creep up and snatch the kerchief from her hand. It took him years to learn that no matter how quietly he moved, she could still hear him. Marda may not have been a powerful mageborn where magic was concerned, but she had sharp ears.

“Marda, are you there?” Alaric said. He felt as though someone was, but twisting and turning, he saw no one at all. Just the shadows moving like smoke around him.

With a sigh, he turned his attention to the wall. There had not been one in that particular location in the tower to his knowledge. This wall was literally cutting away one quarter of the large room. He put his hand to it, intending to brush it with mage senses. But the moment he touched it with the mere tips of curious fingers, the surface burned like ice, and his concentration ended abruptly. It felt like he had grabbed hold of a bee, for something in the stone buzzed with life. Alaric stuck his fingers in his mouth to ease the sting and took several steps back from the sense of menace the wall inspired. His touch had left an indentation, and the wall rocked slightly, as though its surface were composed of some gelatinous matter. Then the spot filled in and the wall returned to its solid appearance.

What in the name of Cernunnos?
Alaric paced the wall, looking for an opening and found none. He took a deep breath, determined to touch the wall again. Once more, it stung, burning his hand with the icy pain, but Alaric only pushed harder, gritting his teeth. His hand suddenly went through the solid mass as thick and soupy as mud. With a gasp, he jerked his hand free. There was an opening now, and he had to hunch down to peer through the slowly shrinking gap.

He saw a well-illuminated section of the tower, backlit by the window, revealing the rest of the conjuring circle carefully uncovered and primed with power. Little whiskers of lightning seemed to dance through the air, and cover a pair of hands. Ronan’s hands. He was restringing the psaltery and humming some strange and ancient song. Alaric knew the words. Knew the tune. But before he could remind himself of what it was, the hole oozed shut.

“Ronan!” Alaric called. “Ronan, what are you doing?”

He had some faint recollection of asking that before, but the only answer he got now was the silence that followed the whisper of his own echo.

Not fair!
he thought. Some secret matter was taking place behind that wall. Something he should have known. In anger, Alaric scouted for something with weight and strength. He seized up the stool on which he had sat while Marda taught him the rudiments of elemental power. Hard oak warmed in his grasp, and the weight felt all wrong.

This is the way of dreams
, he thought as he stalked back over to the wall. With a shout, he battered the stool against the false stone. It dented and gave, only to reclaim its previous form. Alaric struck harder, again and again, rapidly slamming hard wood against the soft surface until it was pushed in and unable to return to its natural shape under the battering of his rage. He hit it one more time and felt the wall give. A tear opened, a much bigger one than before, gaping like a mouth turned on its side. He used the stool to push the stinging edges back, and started to push his way through…

A hand thrust through the hole, clasped itself to his forehead and pushed him back. The hand was followed by an arm, a shoulder, a face.

“Ronan?” Alaric croaked.

Ronan Tey’s eyes shone with an unnatural power. He pressed forward until he and Alaric were well away from the wall, yet still in the circle’s realm, and there Ronan pulled Alaric close, practically drawing the youth into a strong embrace that would not yield to Alaric’s struggles. The one hand never left his forehead, and it was the same hand Alaric saw severed in his dream.
Right hand, hand of power, hand of giving.
It stayed there, filled with warmth. Alaric felt as though the soft wall was closing in, cutting away his will. The bitter taste of cinnamon and cloves burned his tongue as the power grew around him.

“Forgive me, Alaric,” Ronan whispered. “Maybe one day you will understand that this is the only way… Remember not…”

The world went dark. Ronan disappeared, but the wall remained. Alaric cried out in rage and struck it with his fist, it was as solid as real stone and as smooth as marble.

“No!” he cried. “No!” He battered it again, then pressed his head against it and began to weep. “Ronan…what is happening to me…what did you do to me?” he whimpered through his own ragged sobs.

“It was the only way,”
that familiar voice echoed out of time.

Alaric blinked and opened his eyes. The wall was still there. Very real and very warm under his tear dampened face. It was smooth and polished, like the ones in…

Alaric pulled back. He was standing alone in his bedchamber at Eldon Keep. The wall he now faced was the one beside the hearth, part of the huge stone fireplace.

“What?” he muttered. What was he doing here, standing barefoot and alone. He had dreamed, had he not? Something about Ronan? He could not remember…