Wandering Lark (5 page)

Shona was in her chamber, lying on a bed. Next to her sat one of the Head Healer’s assistants, a matronly woman skilled in herb craft. She looked up from quiet eyes as Etienne entered the room.

“How is she?” Etienne asked.

“She has not changed,” the healer said. “You look as though you could use a rest yourself... I have been told to stay. Why don’t you bathe and get some sleep.”

Etienne nodded. She stepped over to the side of the bed long enough to take Shona’s hand in her own and pat it. The appendage remained limp and lifeless in her grasp.

“Please, little one,” Etienne said. “Be strong for his sake as much as your own.”

On the other hand, if they were all to be tried and executed at Turlough’s command, would it not be better for Shona to die this way?

Etienne frowned. Such gloomy thoughts were not like her. She wished they would have let her see Fenelon, but her house arrest forbade contact with him. Which was why she considered it a blessing that they would at least let her have Shona’s silent company.

Then again, perhaps Turlough thought this would keep Etienne complacent. With Shona to look after, Etienne would not consider trying to escape or helping Fenelon do so.

We have escaped much already,
she thought.

“Go,” the healer said softly and smiled. “Rest. You need to rest.”

“Yes,” Etienne agreed. “However, I fear I am under orders to use no magic in any place. I gave my word.”

“No trouble,” the healer said. “I will ask one of the others to heat your water.”

“Thank you,” Etienne said and left the room for her own.

Gareth Greenfyn had gone back
to Elenthorn and the keep of his cousin. He had a bone to pick with Renton.

You betrayed me
.
You betrayed my son
!

Gareth had learned this the hard way. He had been scrying after Fenelon and his party. It was not that he did not believe that Fenelon could manage affairs for himself.
I did not raise my son to be a fool, for all his rogue ways
. But Gareth had feared all along, that in spite of his assistance, something would go amiss. He knew Turlough all too well. Better than he had known Renton Morwaine, he reflected as he stormed the keep in search of his wily relative. For to Gareth’s dismay, he had scried that Turlough and a number of mageborn were on their way to the Valley of Shadows in the Great Ranges. And that the one who told them where the party was headed was none other than Renton.

I should never have trusted you
.

Renton was not the least bit humble about it either. “Your son,” he retorted in his effete manner as he waved his pudgy fingers, “has gone totally mad. Everyone knows that. I mean, consorting with a demon master...”

“That boy,” Gareth spat, “is not a demon master, but the spirit within him is.”

Renton made a face. “Spirit within?” he said. “Whatever are you blethering about...”

Gareth chose not to waste any more breath. He left the keep still standing, though the temptation to the contrary was pretty strong. Still, his parting words were not kind. He warned Renton that he should never ask to see Gareth Greenfyn’s face again, for it would certainly be the last thing his piggy eyes perceived.

As Gareth stalked out of the keep, he felt the shift in the ley lines that circled the world. A message from Caer Keltora and Dun Gealach was hard not to notice when it had your name attached. Gareth closed his eyes and stretched mage senses, attuning them to the line.

“
Gareth Greenfyn, if you value the life of your son Fenelon, you will come to Dun Gealach at once as the High Mage commands
.”

Horns,
Gareth thought.
What now? Were they not successful? Did Tane have the Dragon’s Tongue?

Opening a gate to Dun Gealach, Gareth arrived to find much turmoil. He was greeted by Turlough’s assistant Lorymer and another, and to his surprise, they did not bother to check his intentions, but whisked him past all manner of guards and wards, straight to the heart of the keep of Dun Gealach and Turlough’s quarters.

The High Mage was at his worktable, and the magical map of Ard-Taebh and most of the known territories it housed was glowing under the glass. Turlough stared at the map as though lost in thought, and Gareth noticed too that the rest of the chamber was empty. Even his escorts and the guards at the door departed.

At last, Turlough looked up, and there was a hint of the old madness in his eyes. A madness Gareth had hoped time had healed. Obviously, he was wrong.

“Your son is a traitor,” Turlough said.

“And you think it’s my fault?” Gareth asked, letting one eyebrow rise.

Turlough frowned. “Is there something in your branch of the family that breeds men with contempt for authority?”

“And women,” Gareth said. “Now, you’re wasting my time, Turlough, and I’ve work to finish. What is all this about my son’s life being at stake?”

“I plan to convene a council of trial,” Turlough said. “I plan to try your son as a traitor to the crown and to the Mage Council. I plan to push for the sundering of his powers...and for his death, unless I am assured that you will do something for me.”

“May I see my son?” Gareth asked.

“Why should I let you. He’s a prisoner in the towers, chained up like the mad dog he is.”

“Because I have asked,” Gareth said, “and because it is my right. Or shall I go to the king and get his permission.”

“You would not dare!” Turlough blurted. “The king of Keltora would not listen to you...”

“Perhaps not, but I was thinking of going to the High King. He owes me a favor, you know. In fact, he would likely work a pardon for my son, if I asked.”

“Your son has assisted that demon lover to escape!” Turlough shouted, slamming fists on the map table. The image rippled then flowed back into place. “And he will not tell me where he sent him!”

“Well, if this is how you asked him,” Gareth said as he fought the urge to smile.

Turlough closed his eyes and sought some semblance of calm. Slowly, he raised his head and glared at Gareth.

“I want Alaric Braidwine,” Turlough said, “and his filthy demon. And I am willing to trade your son’s life and freedom for that. Now, as a father, how can you refuse?”

“I said I could go to the High King.”

“I will let you speak to him,” Turlough said. “I will let you ask him what he will not tell me. And if he will cooperate, all will be well. If not, then I will give you one of two choices.”

“And what might those be?”

“Find Alaric Braidwine and his demon, and bring them back to me.”

“And the second choice?”

“Stay in the tower with your son tonight, under the charges of being a traitor to the Keltoran crown, and watch him executed in the morning.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Gareth said.

“Oh, but I would, Gareth,” Turlough said. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to watch his death, except, perhaps, to see Alaric Braidwine and his demon die.”

“You have gone mad, haven’t you?” Gareth said.

“There are those who swear all Greenfyns are mad,” Turlough said. “Now, choose, Gareth.”

“Let me see my son, alone, and then I will choose,” Gareth said.

Turlough nodded. Gareth felt a tickle of magic invoked, and the doors behind him opened. Two battlemages and one of the Turlough’s assistants entered the chamber. “Take him to see his son. Let them have a moment alone.”

“Thank you,” Gareth said and nodded respectfully, though he could not keep a hint of defiance from narrowing his eyes.

They took him to the tower straight away. The place had a stark feeling, made more obvious by the intricate wards of magic etched into every inch of stone and wood. A mageborn who had been placed in these towers could not pass them in either direction without permission of his jaoler.

At the head of the stairs was a narrow hall running down the center of the tower to a landing at the far end, and lining that corridor were four doors, two on each side. If Gareth remembered correctly, there were more stairs leading up to the top of the tower from there. That was where prisoners were executed instead of down on the ground. It made sundering and scattering their power simpler, casting it to the winds, before they had their heads cut off. He’d attended a couple of executions himself. In fact, he had been one of those who did the sundering on more occasions than he cared to think about.

Horns, are we so far from civilized that we murder our own kind for sport and pleasure?
It was one of the reasons he stayed far away from Dun Gealach. He was sickened to remember that he had once participated in the execution of other mageborn.

Gareth’s escorts led him to the center of the corridor, one guard ahead and one behind. The assistant mageborn touched the lock of the second door to the left and worked the intricate spells that would open the door. He did so, then stepped aside and gestured that Gareth was free to enter. Gareth stepped through the opening, fully aware that the assistant was tightening the wards on the threshold.
I will not be leaving this place unless I consent to Turlough’s madness,
he thought.

The chamber into which he stepped was almost a quarter of the tower in size with two straight walls, and one curved one. There was a stone window-seat in the curved portion, and over the windows were bars of brass that had been inscribed with spells to keep them from being removed by magic or other means.

Fenelon was not just fettered. He was chained to the right-hand wall, arms and legs spread. His eyes were closed, and Gareth sensed that his son was not feigning illness, but actually meditating, apparently seeking some source of power outside the tower. At least, they had removed the gag. But then, in here, there was no need for it. A mageborn might as well be inside a void.

“It won’t work,” Gareth said. “At least, it’s not supposed to.”

Fenelon looked up, startled at the sound of his father’s voice.

“You?” Fenelon said. “Why are you here?”

“Turlough thinks I can reason with you,” Gareth said, crossing the room and studying the fetters with interest. “Horns, if I had known such restraints worked, I would have used them on you long ago.”

“Very funny, father,” Fenelon said. “I suppose you’ve come to laugh at the son you betrayed.”

“I didn’t betray you,” Gareth said.

Fenelon smiled. “I rather thought that was another one of Turlough’s lies. It was Renton, wasn’t it?”

“You guessed well.”

“Why guess?” Fenelon retorted. “I rather suspected it was he when Turlough kept trying to convince me it was you.” He sighed. “Any chance you could get me out of here?”

Gareth shook his head. “They’ve locked me in as well,” he said.

“Since when did that ever stop you,” Fenelon asked.

“Turlough is offering me a bargain,” Gareth said.

“Well, I do hope you told him what he could do with it,” Fenelon said.

“He wouldn’t have listened. He’s obsessed with this damned demon and with Alaric. Sometimes, I wish he had caught Nanani with the MacPhearsons instead of her getting away. He was once a sane and just man, you know.”

“And he thought you would convince me to reveal where I sent Alaric?” Fenelon said.

“Will you?”

“No,” Fenelon said.

Gareth nodded. “I thought as much. You are aware that he is threatening me with your life.”

“Oh, yes,” Fenelon said. “Why should I expect any less of him?”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“What would bother me would be if you actually gave in to the threat.”

Gareth looked aside.

“You didn’t,” Fenelon said in disbelief. “Father, please tell me you didn’t.”

“Not yet,” Gareth said. “He gave me a choice. To find Alaric Braidwine and the demon, or watch you die.”

Fenelon went quiet for a moment. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would,” Gareth said. “He’s mad, remember. We can try to pretend otherwise, but it’s true. Why do you think they warded the door after I came through? I am to convince you to tell me what you know, and if I cannot, I am charged with finding Alaric myself, or watching you die.”