Wandering Lark (16 page)

“Willingly?” Gareth asked.

“Of course,” Fenelon said, waving his arms. “What makes you think I would force him to risk his own reputation?”

Gareth arched an eyebrow. “Very well...why are you here?”

“I originally planned to go after Alaric, but then when his trail went cold, I decided to follow yours instead, so I could catch up with you before you caught up with Alaric,” Fenelon said. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to just hand him over to Turlough.”

“No, I was not going to,” Gareth said. “But now you have complicated matters. What do you think they will do to Wendon when they discover what you’ve done?”

Fenelon frowned. “Look, I cannot let Turlough get his hands on Alaric. In a way, I’m just as responsible for him being in this whole mess. Though not as responsible as Turlough.”

Gareth closed his eyes, then opened them again and shook his head as he sat on the edge of the bed. “So how did you find me?”

“Well, I knew where I sent Alaric,” Fenelon said. “I went there and had a little chat with Marda’s spirit and...”

“Marda was there?” Gareth drew upright. “She didn’t reveal herself to me when I was there.”

“I conjured her,” Fenelon said. “Had to bind her too, but she was under a pretty powerful binding left on her by Ronan Tey. Still, she was able to tell me that he and Alaric had gone back to where Ronan was from...so I figured, I would follow you, and together we could figure out where Ronan was from and...”

“I already know where Ronan is from,” Gareth said. He reached into a pouch on his belt and drew out a single coin. Hobbler had been tugging the trundle out from under the bed, but now he stopped, eyes greedily watching the coin like it was a beacon in the dark.

Fenelon leaned over and took the coin. He turned it over, studying the marking and the illustrations. “I don’t recognize this,” he said.

“There haven’t been many of those seen in Ard-Taebh since the Great Cataclysm, and even here in Ross-Mhor they’re scarce,” Gareth said.

“Garrowye,” Hobbler muttered.

Both Fenelon and Gareth glanced dubiously at the Dvergar. Hobbler shrugged.

“You see a lot of them in The Great Deep under the Ranges,” he added. “They’re considered good trade.”

“And that is why you are going to take us to Baldoran Pass,” Gareth said. “If Ronan has gone back to Garrowye, then we must follow him and the sooner the better.”

“Why?” Fenelon and Hobbler asked simultaneously.

“Because I don’t think he intends to find someone to help Alaric get rid of the demon,” Gareth said. “I think he intends to find someone who possesses enough of the ancient magic to rip Alaric out of his own body and let Ronan’s spirit keep it.”

“But why?” Fenelon said. “A mageborn spirit cannot inhabit the body of another mageborn without consent...and he cannot control the other body unless the host has given him the means.”

“Unless Ronan did it when he put that wall in Alaric’s head...”

Fenelon frowned and nodded. “That would make it easier,” he agreed glumly. “In fact, Marda said as much.”

“Wait, are we going after some ancient mageborn who knows old magic?” Hobbler said. “Because if we are, you can count me out right now.”

He grabbed up his personal belongings and started for the door. Gareth stretched his hand and whispered,
“Dorus glais.”
Hobbler pushed it then pulled it, and neither motion would move it to suit him.

“I need you, Hobbler,” Gareth said darkly.

Hobbler sighed. “You’ll owe me, Gareth. Really owe me.”

“And I will pay,” Gareth said, and with that, he took back the Garrowye coin and tossed it towards Hobbler. The Dvergar caught it readily and his eyes twinkled as he stared at it.

“Aye, well that will do for a start,” he said. “Hey, it’s old Garrowye.”

“Does that mean anything?”

“Aye...it was minted before the Temples took control and appointed a Synalian king.”

“How do you know all this?” Gareth said.

“Well, I listen to the gossip in the Great Deep,” Hobbler said. “There’s this great little tavern just at the mouth of Baldoran’s Pass.”

“Thought you didn’t know where the pass was?” Gareth said and grinned.

Hobbler grinned back. “Well, I don’t really. Just know the tavern near it.”

“Is it a good tavern?” Fenelon asked.

“The best,” Hobbler said. “I shall expect your father to pick up my tab there.”

Gareth nodded. He would not have expected anything less of the Dvergar.

Wendon was sweating.
Holding Fenelon’s form was proving more of a challenge than holding fire in the shape of a sphere. Granted, the real Fenelon had gathered a king’s ransom of elemental essence to assist Wendon in holding the shape-shifting spell. It had surprised him at how simple a spell it was to master. He certainly hoped it would bring him the status he desired when all this ordeal was over.

“I’ll gladly speakl to the Council of Mageborn on your behalf,” Fenelon had said. He was wearing that smile of his, the one that Wendon thought a little too sincere. But in spite of thinking Fenelon was a rogue, Wendon reminded himself that the Master Mage did have a lot of influence with them.
Probably why the High Mage has found it difficult to oust Fenelon from Dun Gealach,
Wendon assumed. Fenelon had too many friends in high places, including at court. Even Wendon knew that while the High Mage could rule Dun Gealach with an iron hand, he could not go against the will of the crown or the dukes and barons that supported it.

Perhaps once Wendon had Master Mage status, he could develop powerful friends among the royal household. That would certainly be quite a feat for the son of a poor carpenter.

Wendon sighed. He was growing uncomfortable in these chains. Why had Fenelon made him wear them? Oh, yes, something about how it would look wrong if Wendon were not in them...or had it been that Fenelon said Wendon looked natural that way? He was getting a little confused, for holding the spell was taking all of his concentration. Which was a good thing since it left him little time to fret.

Of course it occurred to Wendon that this could have been another of Fenelon’s ruses. That Fenelon was just using Wendon to escape. But Thera seemed to think it was for the good of all humankind that Wendon should allow himself to be used in this fashion. Just the thought of her lent him strength. She was a pretty little creature in her own way, pleasant to look at...and her smell. The scent of herbs had made him dizzy as they heightened his senses and his awareness of her. He wondered if she would allow him to see her again. Surely she would. She seemed to like him.

Then again, he told himself that could have been part of the ruse to get him to come here and stand in for Fenelon this way. Thera could have played Wendon for a fool. He could be standing here waiting for the High Mage to decide to bring Fenelon to trial and execute him.

“No less than he deserves,” Wendon muttered, and realized too late that the voice that issued from his lips was his own and not Fenelon’s...

And then he heard the door.

Panic seized throat. Wendon pressed back against the wall. Had the gaolers heard him? Was he about to be betrayed?
Curse Fenelon and his seductive ways!

The door opened slowly. Wendon closed his eyes. He felt his false shape quivering as anticipation gave rise to fear and reduced his ability to hold the spell. He gasped and seized at the stored essence in the small pouch around his neck—the pouch that Fenelon had given Wendon before chaining him to the wall.

“Magister Fenelon?” It was a woman’s voice. Thera’s voice. Wendon opened his eyes. Relief flooded him. She was standing just inside the chamber and the door was closing behind her.

“Thera?” he said softly, aware that the voice was still his.

“I have come to make certain you are well,” she said in a professional manner. She crossed the room to stand before him. Wendon looked into doe-like eyes and wanted to melt...well, most of him wanted to melt. Part of him was growing stiff and unwieldy. Not good because the one thing that could not be changed by the spell was his clothes, and this had meant he had to trade outfits with Fenelon whose pants were, in Wendon’s opinion, already too tight.

“I am well,” he whispered. “But I am not terribly comfortable at the moment.”

Her eyes strayed down just briefly. He saw her cheeks bloom with a hint of color as her eyes flitted back up at his face.        

“I can see that,” she said and glanced quickly towards the door. She stepped closer...much closer. Wendon wanted to moan. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to grab her, push her to the floor...good thing he was chained, he told himself, or his reputation, hers and the whole damned plan would go up in the smoke of ruthless passion.

“Are you certain you’re all right,” Thera said in a low voice as she pretended to adjust his sleeves and check his wrists. Her very touch on his skin was a firebrand.
Oh horns,
he thought,
what a waste.
“You seem to be sweating a lot,” she continued. She put a hand to his forehead. “No fever...”

Wendon swallowed hard, “Please, don’t touch me,” he said. “You’re... distracting me.”

Thera smiled. “Of course, and while I am distracting you, why not draw a little more essence from me to feed that in the spell sack?”

“Oh,” he said and blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Etienne thought it would help,” Thera said. She glanced at the door, then leaned closer still, so close, her breath ruffled his hair. “And I certainly don’t think it will hurt you.”

“No, it won’t,” he agreed. “But...”

“But what?”

“I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but...you do smell very nice and it’s making me...well...”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said and pressed so close to him he thought he would explode. “And I think I can remedy that as well.”

“What?”

“Is it not true that the act of love can heighten the essence and give the mageborn more strength?”

“Well...yes...but...” Wendon hesitate. “I’m tied up and...”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem at all,” she said before she claimed his lips.

He felt her hand at the waist of Fenelon’s trews. Felt fingers tugging the tight laces free.

A great deal of relief followed...and with the power it gave him, he would have sworn he could have lifted all of Dun Gealach to the moon.

Alaric woke up with a head
that felt just a little thick. Hangover? He hadn’t really drank so much last night. He lay on the bed, rubbing the spot between his eyes and his forehead in an attempt to relieve the mild headache. Sunlight was peeping through cracks in the shutters. Alaric gave himself a moment to get his wits in order and gingerly sat up so as not to inflame the pain.

The first thing he noticed was that his muscles felt stiff, as if he had physically exerted himself in some fashion. In fact, it reminded him of how he felt after sword practice. He took a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed and working out the kinks...and that was when he noticed that his belonging had been shoved over into a corner. Odd. Alaric would have sworn he had left them by the chair...which strangely enough was also pushed back against he wall, as was the table. He frowned. “Vagner?”

He glanced over at the canine form lolling on its back, legs splayed in a rather indignant posture. The demon’s tongue was hanging out of its mouth, and a pool of saliva formed on the floor. Alaric grimaced.

“Vagner, wake up,” he said.

“Mrrrufffow.” Vagner rolled over on his side and began to snore.

“Great,” Alaric muttered. Heaving a sigh, he got off the bed and walked over and poked the demon with a toe. Not the smartest move, he imagined. Vagner yelped like a dog and sprang up, snapping with those huge jaws, and only the fact that the yelp startled Alaric into stepping back saved him from being bitten. “Hey, easy!” Alaric said, raising his hands in his own defense.

Vagner stopped. Embarrassment hounded his doggy features. He backed up and sat down. “Sorry,” the demon said. “I thought...”