Wandering Lark (4 page)

And so they were wed, and Turlough was now resigned to never having her for his own, even though it tore his heart in two. So he buried the pain and threw himself into the foundations on which the Council of Mageborn was built.

But even with his work to keep him occupied, Turlough did not trust MacPhearson. He never did. When the old king died, Brion was still but a lad, and that lad had his father’s roving eye where women were concerned. Briana might be queen in name, but she rarely shared the boy’s bed for it seemed to always house a bevy of maids and strumpets once his father died.

That roving eye settled one day on a woman of foreign blood and pale coloring who came into his court and offered her services as lady to the queen. Nanani Gallowgreen was her name, and she hailed from the damp lands of Mallow. She captured Brion’s eye with her svelte figure and her sultry ways. Brion instated her as his wife’s maid almost the very day.

The king’s own mageborn advisor died within hours from a strange accident, but not before he told Turlough that he thought something was amiss. Turlough sought out his spies at court, and to his dismay, nearly every one of them had either been dismissed or disappeared. He began to dream, and in those dreams, he saw Briana being shredded by some unnatural beast. And when the dream came several nights in succession, he knew he could not ignore the warning in it.

In desperation, he slipped into the keep that was the heart and center of the current palace, and in disguise, he sought out Briana. She was thinner than he last recalled, and her eyes had a hollow darkness. His presence disturbed her as well, and she insisted that he must leave before he was seen. To visit a Queen unannounced in the absence of attendants was a beheading offense. Turlough did not care. He told her that her life was in danger, and she refused to listen.

“He cannot do me harm without bringing down my father’s wrath,” she said. “Now go before someone catches you and declares you a traitor to the crown. I will be fine.”

Turlough did not believe that for one minute. But she refused to let him stay. He slipped out of her chambers, but not before he marked the way with glyphs that would allow him to sense danger in this place.

Alas, danger did not come in the chamber. It came on a hunt. Brion insisted his wife come, and because he so rarely invited her on any of his outings, she attended him, thinking that perhaps all was well. Their hunting party entered the highlands south of Caer Keltora, and went into a forest to hunt boar. Nanani was there as well.

Turlough was with Aiden when he sensed that something was amiss. But by the time he found them, he was too late. Briana had been savaged by a wolf according to all who accompanied her. The giant beast had appeared almost out of the shadows like a phantom. It had taken her and her horse down, and though the Queen’s own guard rushed to save her, they were too late. The monsters took blows from swords and arrows, and still it tore Briana apart then vanished with her heart in its jaws.       

Turlough knew the essence of demons, the bile-like bitterness on his tongue. Briana’s remains were rife with demon essence, and her wounds had the black look of demon poison.

In anger, Turlough tracked the monster down, and was not surprised to find it sulking in the cellars of Caer Keltora. Nor was he surprised to learn it had ties to Nanani Gallowgreen. And though Turlough managed to kill the demon, he was unable to capture Nanani. She eluded him by turning herself into a giant raven.

Determined to have some satisfaction, Turlough convinced Aiden that his daughter’s death was demon-bound and that Nanani and Brion were to blame. His accusations brought about the uprising that threw MacPhearson from the throne. A new order was born that day, and MacMorroch took the torc of power to rule in Keltora to this day.

But Nanani got away, and Turlough vowed on Briana’s tomb that no mage who consorted with demons would be allowed to live.

And Alaric Braidwine will not escape my justice either,
Turlough thought as he tightened his hand around the lock of Briana’s hair.
As long as I rule these lands, no demon lover will ever be allowed to live.

He slipped the beribboned lock back into the depths of his robes and lurched out of his chair, new fire raging in his heart.

He would have the secret of where Fenelon sent Alaric Braidwine if it meant tearing his nephew’s mind to shreds.

Alaric did not get more than
a few hours of sleep before he was abruptly awakened by Ronan’s internal call.

“We need to leave,”
Ronan said.

“Why?” Alaric protested in a grumpy voice.

“They will come soon enough,”
Ronan said.
“Better we leave this place and go elsewhere to gate. Vagner?”

The demon had been lying at the door, and now Vagner rose with a frown.

“You will need a disguise,”
Ronan said.
“Be as a deerhound.”

“What?” Vagner said, starting to protest, but even Alaric sensed that as Ronan gave the order, he laced the demon’s True Name into the command. Vagner could do nothing to stop his own transformation. Within moments, he stood before Alaric in the guise of a large Keltoran deerhound. “Hmmmmph,” the demon snarled. “Thank you for giving me a choice.”

“I could have made you a lapdog,”
Ronan said.
“But I think a bard traveling the road alone is more likely to have a deerhound for a companion...”

“A bard?” Alaric said.

“Oh, you don’t think you will simply appear in the house of an Elder and be set free immediately, do you?”
Ronan insisted.
“Until we find an Elder who can assist us, you need some means of supporting yourself and your hound. So why not the trade to which you were first trained?”

“But I thought you knew where we could find an Elder,” Alaric protested, gathering a few of the remaining items from the hut that he might find useful. He marveled that he knew where everything, including a set of clothes that looked a little different from anything he had seen in Ard-Taebh, could be found.

“I know how to get to Garrowye,”
Ronan said.
“But the place I was born may no longer have an Elder among the folk. Many of them were forced into hiding when the ban on magic was issued by the High King of Synalia.”

“What do you mean, ban on magic?” Alaric said.

“Magic is forbidden in Garrowye. Or didn’t I tell you that, Lark,”
Ronan said.

“No, you didn’t,” Alaric said.

“Put the clothes on, Lark,”
Ronan ordered.
“What you’re wearing now will just make you stand out like a sore thumb...”

The outfit Alaric put on in exchange for his own warm things was a pair of loose trews of tartan cloth, a long blue shirt, thick and soft, and a short leather jerkin. Even the boots were different from anything he had seen made in Ard-Taebh. There was a belt to hold the volume of the shirt in, and a sword.

“Yes, you better put that on,”
Ronan said.
“Not wearing a weapon in Garrowye means you are a scholar of the Triad.”

“The Triad?” Alaric said. “What’s that?” He finished stuffing his own clothes into a satchel, along with flint and steel, and a blanket from Marda’s shelves. Ronan urged him to move her bed aside. Under the pallet, Alaric found a loose patch that turned out to be a slab of wood over a hole, and within the hole, he found a sack of coins that did not look at all like the sgillinns of Ard-Taebh, and in another sack there was a beautifully ornate small harp.

“You do still remember how to play one, I assume,”
Ronan said.
“And if not, I will assist you.”

“I remember,” Alaric said, and he ran a finger over the strings. It only had thirteen brass ones, and they rang softly under his touch. The harp itself was made of willow, carved from one piece of wood. A marvel in Alaric’s opinion. “Was this yours?”

“It was made by an Elder in Garrowye,”
Ronan said.
“A gift for favors.”

“What sort of favors?” Alaric asked as he carefully slipped it into the sack.

“Do you really want to know?”
Ronan asked in a teasing manner.

Alaric decided he didn’t and rose. He stepped outside the hut. The air had a chilling bite that made him wish for a cloak.

“Sorry, but I was buried in mine,”
Ronan said.

“And I left mine stuck to a tree in that hole in the ice,” Alaric said.

“We’ll barter for one. Better if you have one of Garrowyen manufacture. Anything foreign will be suspect. The Aelfyn are a very suspicious people, and rather loathe foreigners.”

“Wonderful,” Alaric said. “Then maybe you should tell me what this Triad is so I don’t accidentally commit some sort of infraction against their rules...”

“Merely the religious and political leaders of nearly all of Garrowye,”
Ronan said as Alaric started down the path at a brisk pace that he hoped would warm his limbs.
“You see, long ago, when the Great Cataclysm shook all the known worlds and turned Haxony into the Ice Plains, Aelfyn blamed the Elders and the White Ones for what had happened, as if the Dark Mother and her evil minions had nothing to do with destroying the Balance of All Things. So those who practiced the old ways of magic, and who worshiped the White Ones, were declared heretics. Any who wore the White One’s mark was put to death. That was why I left. I could not be revealed for what I was, the grandson of the greatest Avatar of them all, Je’Rhel of Garrowye. Anyway, distrustful of magic, folk turned to the royal family for solace, and began to worship a new order. The Triad which is represented by the presence of the Holy Father, Holy Mother and Holy Child.”

“What do they do to heretics?” Alaric asked.

“Burn them,”
Ronan said.
“Which is why it is imperative that you practice no magic other than your skill of voice and harp while we are there, at least not where others can see.”

“And how can I find one of the Elders to help me?” Alaric said.

“Many of them went into Taneslaw,”
Ronan said.
“The rulers of Taneslaw owe much to the White Ones and continue to worship them, in spite of High King’s law. Taneslaw’s earliest king was Tane vo Fylor.”

“Tane?” Alaric repeated. “Any relation to...?”

“It’s a common name among Aelfyn. All the kings of Taneslaw are named Tane. And no, they are not related to Tane Doran, though it has often been hinted that some of Aelfyn blood went into the Dragon’s Maw where Tane was born.”

“That’s a relief,” Alaric said. It was going to be a long time before he got over that part of his recent history.

“As I was saying, the earliest king of Taneslaw was himself an Avatar of the White Ones, known as The Champion of Light, and the Tannish Aelfyn were there with the White Ones the first time the Balance was threatened. So naturally, they continued to worship the White Ones and held respect for the Elders, and did everything they could to keep the Balance intact. Even when the Great Cataclysm took place, they did not lose faith in them.”

“Does that mean there was another Great Cataclysm?” Alaric suddenly found his bard self fascinated by this new history.

“Almost. The first time Darkness and Light fought such a battle happened so long ago, there are no chronicles to tell of it, except in Taneslaw where all such chronicles are written in stone and in song. It’s referred to in those histories as the Darkening. What is called the Great Cataclysm here, is known there as the Sixth Darkening. At any rate, there are many border wars as the result of this schism between the countries. We will start in Garrowye, but we will head for Taneslaw, and hopefully avoid any skirmishes along the way.”

Alaric frowned, watching his footing on the uneven path.

Somehow, this was all starting to sound a little more dangerous than he liked. But at least, the sun was starting to show its face over the eastern horizon.

Etienne was soon taken back
to her own chambers. She had difficulty meeting the puzzled and sad looks on the faces of Tobin and Kathleen as they were forced to pack their things and leave. “All will be well,” she assured them with a little smile as she hugged each of them in turn. She just wished she could believe that for herself. It was very hard.