Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (24 page)

“Oh, horns,” Alaric muttered. “Why me?”

Fenelon shook his head. “We won’t know until we get there, so you’d better get dressed now.” He started towards the door. “As for the rest of this chaos, well, we can talk about it later, and if you still want to go home after that, I’ll release you from your apprenticeship and gate you there myself. Maybe after you’ve had some time to yourself to get over all this tragedy, you might change your mind…”

The open-ended-ness of that statement caught Alaric by surprise. He turned, but Fenelon had already deserted the bedchamber.

Horns,
Alaric thought and started to search for his cleanest trews. There was no time to think about any of this just now.

An urgent summons from the High Mage who thought Alaric was consorting with demons was the last thing Alaric needed.

~

“I summoned you three days ago,” Turlough Greenfyn said and settled a hard stare on Alaric who fought the urge to fidget.

“Three days ago, he was suffering from mage fever and in no position to answer any summons,” Fenelon said from his place at the door.

“You could have told me that when I first sent you the summons,” Turlough said. At least his anger focused away from Alaric for a moment. It was bad enough, being forced to stand in the center of this large, darkly appointed chamber where magic wards were thick as honeysuckle. Even the floor under Alaric’s feet carried a dreadful tingle that worked through his boot soles.

“Aye, and you would have ordered him out of bed,” Fenelon said. “Apart from which, you sent the summons to Eldon Keep, and we happened to be staying here at the time…”

“Where you were is of no interest to me,” Turlough said. His sharp glare came back to Alaric, raking up and down him like a scythe. “You, young sir. How are you proceeding with your lessons.”

Alaric blinked. “I assume I am learning as best I can, Lord Magister,” he said.

“Have you learned a proper gate spell yet?”

“Well, no,” Alaric confessed with an uneasy glance at Fenelon. “There hasn’t been much time for major spell work.”

“Too bad,” Turlough said. “That means you’ll have to take a horse or a carriage to this address.” Turlough leaned forward and pushed a bit of parchment across the polished oak table behind which he sat. To his right stood Magister Lorymer whose dour expression was almost as unnerving to Alaric as Turlough’s gaze.

“For what purpose, may I ask,” Alaric said as he glanced at the address.

“For the purpose of teaching the granddaughter of Baron Talos the fine art of playing the psaltery.”

“Who?” Alaric said.

“Baron Talos,” Turlough said. “A prominent gentleman from Yewer. He asked for you specifically.”

“But I don’t know any Baron Talos,” Alaric said with a frown. The name meant nothing to him at all.

“He apparently knows you…or knows of you,” Turlough said and motioned to Lorymer who fetched a wad of crumpled parchment with a broken wax seal and a great length of silk ribbon from the credenza to one side. This was placed in Turlough’s hand as though it were a rare artifact. The High Mage opened it and glanced at the page. “Baron Talos states in his letter, “I have had the opportunity of spending a short but pleasant evening in the company of Master Braidwine’s family a little more than a fortnight ago, and having learned from them of Master Braidwine’s musical skill, and always interested in furthering my lovely granddaughter Vagnera’s talents while we travel, I thought that if it would be of no inconvenience, we could procure Master Braidwine as her temporary music tutor while we reside at our winter home in Caer Keltora.”

Turlough folded the letter and looked up at Alaric who frowned more deeply. Why would his father have not mentioned such a visitor last night?

“I took the liberty of answering on your behalf,” Turlough said, “and told Baron Talos that we would be most willing to oblige him.”

“What?” Fenelon suddenly blurted. “Without knowing any more than that?”

Turlough drew upright and glowered at Fenelon. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Just who in the name of Cernunnos is this Baron Talos?” Fenelon said.

“A very respectable scholar from Yewer, I am given to understand,” Turlough said. “A rare man from those parts, since he does not consider magic as evil as his countrymen are wont to do.”

“Let me see that letter,” Fenelon said and marched forward.

Turlough crushed the fold of parchment to his chest as a child would hug a favorite toy and glowered in reproach. “I have already examined it quite thoroughly,” he said. “It is naught but paper and ink. Not a whiff of magic. Nor was it addressed to you, but to me. Baron Talos obviously knew he would require my permission to use the talents of a student of Dun Gealach…”

“Your permission?” Fenelon said. “That’s absurd. Alaric is my apprentice, and if anyone is to be approached about what he can and cannot do, it is me. As his master, I am the one who makes the decision as to what he will or won’t do…”

“Your decision?” Alaric blurted before he could stop himself. “I am not some slave, Fenelon. Since when is what happens to my life your decision…?”

Fenelon turned a sharp glare on Alaric, and he returned it.
I will not be bullied by you,
Alaric thought.

“I’ve already told you I want to go back to studying to be a full bard,” Alaric added. “And a bard teaches music when the opportunity arises. That is my decision, and mine alone. Bloody master indeed…”

“It would seem your pupil is able to speak with a good deal of assuredness,” Turlough said and smiled like a wolf. “Obviously, the time spent in your company has taught him what a tiresome and difficult individual you can be, Fenelon. Alaric Braidwine will go to Chatworth Hall to teach Baron Talos’ granddaughter, and that is that.” He glanced at Alaric, still smiling. “You are expected this day.”

“I don’t have my psaltery with me,” Alaric said.

“Baron Talos assures me his granddaughter will have all the necessary instruments. You may borrow a horse and a guide from the stables…”

“I’ll take him there,” Fenelon interrupted and glared at Alaric as though daring him to refuse and Alaric seriously thought about taking up the offer. “I know where Chatworth Hall is, and I can get us there much more quickly than any horse or guide.”

“Very well. Do so,” Turlough said with a wave of his hand. “You are both dismissed.”

Alaric took a deep breath and headed quickly for the door with Fenelon closely following. And for once, Alaric realized, he was actually in the lead.

TWENTY FIVE

Fenelon kept his word to a point, Alaric was angry to note. While the gate spell opened close to the estate, it did not open right at the door. Instead, it set them down in an alley behind a wall. Nor would Fenelon tell Alaric which way to go at first. Fenelon stood in the center of the pathway to which he had brought them, eyes closed in concentration, while Alaric paced back and forth to one side. He could feel Fenelon was scrying. In this agitated state, the magic felt like sandpaper on Alaric’s nerves.

“Well”?” Alaric finally asked. He’d had about as much of this as he could stand. Horns. The sooner he got inside…the sooner he shed himself of Fenelon’s company…

“Patience, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “I want to be certain this is not a trap.”

Alaric rolled his eyes. “And just why would Turlough Greenfyn sent me into a trap?” he groused.

“Because there are times when Turlough lets his decisions be swayed by mere baubles,” Fenelon said. “I suspect he received some sort of gift to convince him all was well. Presented with such a bribe, Turlough’s focus becomes too self-serving for him to notice the real danger.”

“A Greenfyn family trait, I imagine,” Alaric said and felt satisfied to see Fenelon wince as though stuck with a dull needle.

“I suppose I deserved that in some small way,” Fenelon said and opened his eyes to fix a cold stare on Alaric. “In spite of it, I still worry about you, Alaric. I do wish I had known Marda was going to poison you with her lies. I would have waited for her to die before taking you to see her.”

Alaric narrowed his eyes, unwilling to back down from the stare or his own convictions. “And you don’t consider that to be a gesture of self-servitude?”

Fenelon sighed and turned away. “Come on,” he said. “This is just going to be a waste of both our times.”

“I’m so glad you finally realize that,” Alaric said, unable to hide his bitterness.
 
Horns, he should have insisted on coming alone.

Fenelon started walking away at a hard march, and Alaric was forced to sprint to catch up. Neither the cold silence nor the pace slowed until they had gone several streets. The warren of alleyways suddenly opened out into a large plaza where a number of Keltorans in fine dress rode horses or just stood for a chat, while servants flitted to and fro on errands. More than one opulent estate lined the plaza. Alaric lost some of his stubborn anger to pure awe.

Fenelon continued to lead the way across the plaza and past fountains and riders and carriages to approach a set of open gates. Two men stood guard, and in spite of their livery, they possessed seediness to their manner. They looked quite out of place in their uniforms.

“Magister Greenfyn and Master Braidwine here to see Baron Talos and his granddaughter,” Fenelon said.

The guards traded looks. “Uh, you’re expected,” one said and gestured towards the main doors visible at the end of the lengthy hill rising to the stone manse. Fenelon looked a touch perturbed, but he took off in that direction.

The bustle of the streets was in absence here.
Where were the servants?
Alaric thought. There should have been gardeners and guards and maids rushing about. The baron must have traveled lighter than most nobles. Alaric remembered a few who stopped into Gordleas Hold from time to time on their way to one place or another, and they often had households of servants enough to match the villagers man for man.

Fenelon rapped on the door, and a small window opened, allowing a rugged face to peer through at them.

“Magister Greenfyn and Master Braidwine to see…”

The little door shut, and the clatter of a bolt rattled the large door before it drew in to reveal a semi-dark corridor. The smattering of cobwebs visible high up along the ceilings gave Alaric a moment of pause. Like no one had lived here for some time.

“This way,” the doorman said. He shut the door behind them once they were inside and threw the bolt. Fortunately, mage sight let Alaric continue to see in the darkness that thickened around them, for the few candles set at sparse intervals offered very little illumination.

The doorman led them up the corridor, and on up a set of stairs to the next level. From there, he merely pointed to a set of doors and deserted them.

Strange,
Alaric thought. While he’d grown up in a household where there were few real servants, it puzzled him to see such a lack of them now.

“I don’t like this,” Fenelon muttered.

A sobering and disquieting thought with which Alaric was now inclined to agree. Maybe coming here
wasn’t
such a good idea. But he was not about to let Fenelon know this, not after all that had happened. Steeling himself, Alaric rapped knuckles on one of the doors. He heard movement, and then the door opened but a crack. An uneasy thin face peered out, bearing a strong resemblance to a ferret. Eyes widened in fear.

“Who are you?” the thin man asked.

“I’m Master Braidwine and this is Magister Greenfyn,” Alaric replied before Fenelon could take the lead.

The ferrety man’s eyes widened even more. He threw a cautious glance back over one shoulder before widening the gap to admit them.

There were two people in the hall. One was a tall man, white-haired, bearded and quite distinguished in bearing. Dressed in a robe of gold and royal blue velvet, he stood before the fire.
A man of many years,
Alaric thought, and yet…

The other occupant of the chamber was a lass of perhaps twelve, slender as a reed and beautiful in an exotic way. She sat upon a chair, her legs too short to reach the ground, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes fixed on Alaric in what he hardly considered a shy stare. It was a bold look, a predator’s gaze, and he felt just a little nervous under it, and wondered if Fenelon noticed.

The man at the fireplace came forward almost immediately to seize Alaric’s hand in a strong grasp that belied his years. “Master Braidwine,” the older man said. “So good of you to come. I am Baron Talos, and you are most welcome in my home.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Alaric said as he thought,
Home?
The place had such a deserted air. “I must confess I am a bit puzzled as to how you came to know of me.”

“As was I,” Fenelon hastily added.

Both Alaric and Talos turned to look at Fenelon. “And you are?” the Baron asked.

“Magister Fenelon Greenfyn at your service,” Fenelon said.

“Ah,” Talos said, releasing Alaric to offer a short but respectful bow. “I have heard of you, sir. You come from a most illustrious line of mageborn. Why the legends of the Greenfyns are told throughout many corners of Ard-Taebh. I am most flattered to have you visit my humble household.”

Fenelon looked a bit taken back by the rush of flattery being thrown in his direction. He bobbed his head in a bow. “You are too kind, Baron Talos,” he said, still wearing his puzzled frown.

“Forgive me,” the Baron said. “Before I forget, come, Master Braidwine, and meet my granddaughter. Vagnera, my child. Come say hello to your new music tutor.”

The child’s eyes glowed with delight as she slipped out of her chair and crossed the room. She extended her slender hand as a proper lady would and her strong quiet gaze never wavered. Alaric smiled and took the tiny hand, offering a respectful bow. “My lady,” he said.

Her curtsey was a bit quick. Alaric threw it away as mere nerves. She was, after all, just a child. He faintly brushed her with mage senses, and his eyes widened slightly when he realized she had no aura.
What…?

“Well now,” Baron Talos said before Alaric had time to think. “Vagnera, my precious, why don’t you show Master Braidwine the music library upstairs, and perhaps he will be convinced to give you your first lesson. You should find the necessary instruments awaiting you there, Master Braidwine…”

Vagnera curtsied and took firm hold of Alaric’s arm. “Come then,” she said and practically pulled him towards the door.

“Alaric, I…” Fenelon began.

“Oh, they will be fine, Magister Greenfyn,” the Baron insisted, practically putting himself in Fenelon’s path. “Kellach will attend them.” He nodded to the ferrety little man who had admitted them to the chamber. That one nodded and opened the door. The pair herded Alaric through the opening like an unwilling sheep. He heard Baron Talos say, “Come, Magister Greenfyn, I would hear all the latest news concerning your father, for I met him once years ago. Tell me, does he still haunt the Ranges in search of…”

The rest disappeared behind the door as it was closed.

~

Vagner could not believe his good fortune. Alone at last with the young bard. A chance to glean the young man for songs before Tane could destroy whatever memories young Alaric possessed. The demon all but carried Alaric up two flights of stairs and through a twist of distant corridors to reach the “music room.” Though actually, it was merely a circular room in the tower where Tane had carefully hidden spells of entrapment.

The “servant” known as Kellach moved ahead to open the doors. Vagner rushed his quarry inside and felt the young bard flinch.

“What was…?” Alaric began.

“I’m sorry,” Vagner said in his prettiest child murmur. “It doesn’t look like much, I fear.” Indeed, there was little more than an ornate trunk, a chair, a lute and a psaltery occupying the center of the vast circular space. The young bard frowned at the sight of these and their placement.

“Have you and your grandfather been here long?” Alaric asked, and Vagner noticed how he circled the room with a thoughtful air. A faint sweetness touched Vagner’s tongue.
He’s testing the space with his senses.
That might not be good.

“Oh, not long at all,” Vagner said. “As you can see, we’ve had little time to settle in.”

“And how long do you plan to stay?” Alaric said, pausing on the far side.

“Only as long as Grandfather’s curiosity and wanderlust will allow,” the demon said with a coy smile. “He’s been known to pack and leave on a whim.” Vagner turned towards Kellach. “You may stand outside and see we are not disturbed.”

The ferrety little man blanched and fled without an argument. Like all his cohorts, he’d been warned by Tane the lass was not what she seemed, and Vagner had given a convincing demonstration of that fact on the road when once more taken by hunger, the demon had killed and devoured a deer. The fool probably thought Vagner was about to eat the bard. The demon smiled. Not yet.

Alaric started pacing the far end of the room again when the demon glanced back.

“So,” Vagner said cheerfully, “What songs will you teach me first, Master Braidwine?”

“Songs?” Alaric said. “I was given to understand I was to teach you to play the psaltery.”

“Yes, of course,” Vagner said and hurried across the room to fetch the instrument up from the top of the trunk. “But you will be teaching me songs to play on the psaltery, will you not?”

“I suppose,” Alaric said. “It will all depend on how quickly you master the basics of fingering.”

Vagner did his best not to pout. Alaric sighed.

“Very well,” Alaric said. “Do you know anything about the order of the strings?”

Vagner shook his head. Actually, he did, but if he was to win the bard’s trust. The demon sat down with the psaltery in his lap.

“All right, then,” Alaric said and started forward, only to hesitate and look down in a puzzled manner.

Horns,
the demon thought.
He can sense the circle!

Alaric pulled back a few steps and started slowly pacing the edge of the room. “Music consists of a scale of eight notes known as an octave of which the note of C is generally the base. That psaltery looks to have two octaves. Pluck each note, one at a time, please, and start with the longest…”