Wandering Lark (45 page)

Turlough had never gotten along well with Drayton, who refused to attend Council meetings, preferring his solitude. It infuriated Turlough the way these “country” mageborn would defy the Council, refusing to cooperate. Too many of them believed there was no need for a Council of Mageborn.

These thoughts were flitting through Turlough’s head as he guided his horse up the road towards Gordlea Hold. It was late morning by the angle of the sun, and the air was cold. Turlough kept warm with a spell set permanently upon the robes he wore.

As he approached the hold, he could see farm workers busily harvesting their crops for the winter ahead. Good. Common folk at work were common folk who generally had no time to wonder about things that were none of their business.

Still, he noticed that a few heads turned in awe of his passing, and it gave him a certain sense of pride to see their expressions of wonder as he rode through the gates of the village that fronted old Drayton’s keep.

As he rode through the gates of the village, Turlough reined in his palfrey and looked around. A common place as such villages went. The locals went about their business, scarcely aware of the fact that there was a mageborn in their midst. Oh, there were a few stares that turned his way. He frowned at the lot of them, and they would turn their eyes elsewhere.

Now to find the Braidwine residence. While Turlough knew they would have inherited the keep from Drayton when he passed on, he was not certain they would actually live there.

One of the local was wandering by, leading a pig on a leash. He was a thick set man whose salt and pepper locks had been cropped poorly so that they stood out at odd angles and made him look like a crazed milkweed.

“You there,” Turlough called.

The man stopped and looked up. His blotchy face and dull eyes harbored a certain hint of animosity.

“Whotcha want?” the man retorted with a frown.

“I am looking for the house of Braidwine,” Turlough said. “Where is it?”

The man’s bushy brows formed a line. “Who’s askin?”

“Who is asking?” Turlough repeated and sputtered. “I am asking, you illiterate sod-tiller.”

The man’s frown actually deepened. “And who be you?” he asked.

Turlough was tempted to put a magebolt through the man’s heart. “I am Magister Greenfyn, High Mage of the Council of Mageborn, you parvicient imbecile. And just who are you who dare to ask?”

“Auld Tappin,” the man said. “And I am not parvicient, nor am I an imbecile as I don’t go riding around all dressed like a peacock asking for folk without saying who I am or why I wants them. For your information, Master High Mage, the Braidwines is well thought of in these parts, which is more than can be said for most folks here about. So iffen you wants to find the Braidwines, you’d best learn to say please and thank you. We don’t take kindly to airs in these parts. I’ve fed more important men than you to me pigs!”

With that, the rude fellow jerked the leash and blundered past Turlough, passing close enough that the odiferous beast brushed his palfrey’s foreleg, and while the palfrey was selected for its normally congenial behavior, it took great offense to either the odor or the proximity of the pig. With a squeal, the horse reared and bolted off to one side.

Fortunately for Turlough, he was enough of a skilled horseman to keep from being unseated, but it took him several moments to get his horse under control again, and by then, the offensive Auld Tappin was gone.

“Of all the...”  Turlough turned and glared at his escorts. They were trying very hard not to laugh. Glowering, Turlough pointed to one and snarled, “You! Go into that tavern there and ask where the Braidwines live. Now!”

The guard quickly dismounted and hurried for the small tavern. Turlough surveyed the locals with an impatient eye. At length, the guard returned, wiping his chin. He walked over to Turlough and gestured up hill towards a tower.

“The tavern keeper said that Master Haldane Braidwine had taken over the keep of Gordslea Hold,” the guard said.

“Hmmmm...” Turlough glanced up at the visible tower of the keep. “So perhaps Drayton is indeed gone...”

He spurred his horse and started up the street. The guard scrambled to get mounted and follow.

Ahead of them rose the old square tower and walls of Gordslea Hold. Turlough galloped his horse through the main gate there, and only then did he slow his pace.

Heads turned at his approach. Several earthy types were gathered over by a pen, and to his relief it was a large bull rather than a pig that was being admired. In their midst was a man whose features hinted a bit of the young man Turlough wanted to find.

“You there, are you Master Haldane Braidwine?” Turlough called in an authoritative voice.

“I might be,” the man said and furrowed his brow. “And who might you be?”

“I am Lord High Magister Turlough Greenfyn,” Turlough said. “High Mage of the Council of Mageborn in Caer Keltora, and I have come to speak to you about your son, Alaric Braidwine.”

The man’s furrow deepened. “What’s happened to my Lark?” he asked suspiciously.

“That is something I was hoping you could tell me,” Turlough said. “May I come in?”

Haldane Braidwine looked at the others. “All right. Come this way.” He started off towards the keep without so much as a “shall I assist you?”

Turlough dismounted. He motioned for one of the guards to accompany him while the other was to remain with their horses.

The yard was well kept, Turlough noticed, but the entrance through which he was taken was clearly a kitchen. Several women were there, including one who was lording over the others. She looked up as Turlough entered her domain.

“Haldane, where are your wits, bringing quality through my kitchen when I’ve a meal to get on.”

Haldane winced. “This man is the High Mage, mother, and he has come to talk about Alaric...and this is still the shortest way to the rest of the keep.”

“Then he’ll talk to me as well,” she said fiercely and turned to one of the lasses assisting her. “You take over Sion. Get Fiona to fetch the wine.”

“Why thank you, madam,” Turlough said. “I am a bit parched.”

“It’s not for you,” she said. “It’s for the dinner. If you’re parched, you can have water from the pitcher over there.”

Turlough knotted a fist. The woman glowered at him as defiantly as any warrior. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Water then,” he said.

“Fiona go fetch a pitcher of water from the well instead. And make it a clean pitcher, child.” The youngest girl bolted out of the kitchen. Mistress Braidwine gestured toward the door. “This way Master High Mage.”

She threw off her apron as she spoke and pushed past Haldane who smiled after her. “She’s a good woman,” he said with a smile. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Turlough had several suggestions, none of which might be considered genteel, but he kept them to himself. He followed them both into the main hall of the keep. A fire was glowing warmly from the hearth. It looked strangely empty for a hall that once held feasts. The old table was there, and it looked as though it had seen a good scrubbing. The boards were scoured until they were nearly white.

Haldane stopped before the fire, stretching his hands. He gestured to a chair. “You can have my chair, m’lord,” he said.

Turlough accepted the offer, though he glanced at the seat to be certain it was clean. Mistress Braidwine noticed his glance too...

“You’ll not find a speck of dust in my house,” she said.

“I would not expect to,” Turlough said. “I just wanted to be certain there was not a cat or a dog sleeping in the chair...”

“I don’t allow animals in the hall,” she said.

He nodded and took the chair.

“Now, m’lord,” Haldane said cheerfully. “Exactly what brings you here?”

“I’m looking for your son,” Turlough said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Oh...when was it, Mother?” Haldane said. “Two...maybe three sen’nights ago?”

“Why was he here?” Turlough asked.

“Oh, well, he and that other mage fellow, they came looking for Marda Alfrey.”

“Marda Alfrey...” Turlough said thoughtfully. “I know her. Why were they seeking her?”

Haldane shrugged. “They never said, to be honest.”

“And what connection does Marda Alfrey have to your son?” Turlough asked.

“She trained him,” Haldane said. “In fact, she is the one who recommended I send him to your Dun Gealach. Now you must tell me what had happened to my son?”

“As I said, he has disappeared,” Turlough said. “You say that Marda trained young Alaric. Where is she now?”

“She left right after I sent him to Caer Keltora,” Haldane said. “I imagine she went home...”

Turlough nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

He rose and started for the door. “If you see your son, would you have the kindness to send a message to me most hastily?” Turlough asked.

“Certainly,” Haldane said. “If you’ll tell me why you’re so eager to find him?”

“I fear at this point I am not at liberty to say what,” Turlough said. “But rest assured I will find him.”

He hurried out before they could ask more.

Marda Alfrey, eh? He had not heard her name in a long time, not since she broke her alliance with the Council to go be friends with that bard Ronan Tey.

Never much liked that one.
Turlough shook his head.

He mounted his palfrey and left Gordslea Hold by the back gate this time. And just a short ways down the road, he gated himself and his escort to the last place he recalled Marda living out on the moors of Mallow.

Turlough would rather have taken
an army to Mallow, but he kept his small escort instead. That, he figured, would mean there were two targets besides himself should Marda live up to her reputation. Yet another of the mageborn who would have nothing to do with the Council, Turlough had tasted her temper before.

Granted, he could have gone back to Dun Gealach and passed the task on to Lorymer, but good, loyal if not always tactful assistants were difficult to find these days.

The gate he opened into Mallow landed Turlough and his guard on a narrow trail. He cast about with mage senses to see if Marda had set up any mage traps, but none were to be felt... In fact, it seemed rather devoid of her magic at all.

He dismounted and climbed the narrow little trail, leaving one guard with the horses and taking the other as a distraction. But they reached the height of the trail under the hawthorns unchallenged. The cottage showed no sign of a resident. No smoke curled from the chimney. No livestock wandered the yard. Turlough frowned.

“Marda Alfrey, come forth!” he shouted.

He felt a faint stir of essence in the air. Not living essence at all, but spirit energy wafted to him. As he watched, a faint wisp of a fog hovered just inside the cottage door then took on a weary translucent form.

“Marda?” Turlough said.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice echoed with spite.

“Why merely to ask you about your pupil Alaric Braidwine,” he said.

Marda’s eyes narrowed.

“May I come in?” Turlough asked.

“As if I could stop you,” Marda said and backed away.

Turlough sent the guard in first. While he did not expect Marda could harm him in her present state, he did not want to risk finding out otherwise. But the guard entered the small hut without incident, so Turlough stepped inside.

And stopped. There was a faint reek of demon to the place, but it was unlike any demon Turlough had sensed before. In fact, it felt nothing like the demon attached to young Braidwine. He glanced around. Marda had backed over to the hearth and was sitting in the ashes of her fireplace. She looked terribly sad.

“Well,” Turlough said. “This place stinks like a demon pit. What have you been doing, Marda?”

“None of your affair,” she said and crossed her nearly invisible arms over her slightly more solid chest. The stones of the fireplace still showed through her.

“None of my affair?” Turlough repeated. “The affairs of all mageborn in Ard-Taebh are my affair, Marda.”