Wandering Lark (30 page)

She had hardly drawn it when it was struck from her hand and buried its point in the wall of a stall. Lark lunged at her faster than she though was possible for any man—even one with his obvious fighting skill. One hand closed over her throat and slammed her into the nearest wall, holding her there.

“I don’t like spies,” he hissed. “And I don’t like you. I told him not to let you come. I told him to stay away from you, but he would not listen, and now you have seen, and now you know.”

Know what?
she thought and tried to kick at him. The blow landed, but he barely flinched, and he pressed close to her to keep her from repeating the attack. She tried to rake at his face with her free hand, but he caught the wrist and pressed it to the wall. He had her helpless, pinned like a child, and she could not break his grasp. The strength in it was inhuman.

But then, she saw his face change from the frightful demonic glare to one of strain. He gritted his teeth.

“No, Lark, sleep,” he hissed. His eyes closed and he shook so violently, he nearly let go. “No...do not...hurt her...”

It was as though he was struggling with himself. The hand clamped over her throat alternately tightened and loosened. She let her fighting instincts take over. As soon as she felt it loosen, she shoved herself away from the wall, and it worked, knocking him back. Talena fell to her knees, gasping for air. Her hand groped along the ground, and she found one half of the rake. She seized it up, planning to use it.

“Very well!” Lark cried. “She lives...for now!”

Talena hesitated. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said and started to swing.

Lark spun around, and his eyes were glowing in the dark like twin embers of gold. He lashed out and knocked the broken rake from her grasp as he had the knife. She wanted to run, but that gaze froze her where she stood, and she felt like a rabbit about to be devoured.

“What are you?” she asked weakly.

“It does not matter, for you will not remember,” Lark said. His words glided through her like honey smothering every sensation of her nerves, sinking her into oblivion. She tasted the bitter sweetness of cinnamon on her tongue. “Return to your bed,” he commanded under it all. “Forget all you have seen. Go back to sleep, and remember not.”

What is not to remember?
Talena thought before the world went dark.

“Horns,” Alaric moaned when
he opened his eyes. A beam of sunlight was working through the curtain that covered his sleeping niche and assailing his gaze. Around him, he could hear the sounds of morning life stirring, but he felt tired and worn, and had no desire to join them.

He rolled over on his stomach...

“Ahhhh!” he moaned as pain awoke him. He felt as though he had been kicked by a horse, and even as he lay on his side and looked at his belly, there was a dark bruise just under the ribs.

“What the...?”
Where are my clothes?
He’d had them on when he went to sleep last night, but now all he wore was his trews and stockings.

Just what in the name of Cernunnos did I do last night?
The whole evening was a blank. Well, not
all
of it. He remembered singing and playing harp. He remembered wine, good wine, in fact. A reward from their host who declared it the best of his cellar and insisted it was only good enough for good company.

“Clearly, Lark, you have no head for Synalian wine,”
Ronan whispered.

Alaric frowned.
I’m not hung over,
he thought ruefully.
I’m just in pain.

“Synalian wine is famous for not causing a hangover.”

Then why am I so sore?
Alaric retorted.
And where did I get this bruise?

Ronan chuckled.
“Oh, Lark, you fell flat on your face, you got so drunk.
Our host had to have his sons carry you to your bed and strip you down.”

“I was still dressed when I went to bed,” Alaric muttered aloud.

“Well, yes, when they carried you to bed,”
Ronan said.
“But they undressed you because they feared you might purge on yourself in the night—really, you were very drunk.”

“Okay, okay,” Alaric groaned and crawled off the pallet. His shirt was lying over the small bench at the foot of the bed. He reached for it and for the short jerkin...and watched as bits of chaff floated to the floor.

Were we dancing in the barn?
he asked.

“Of course,”
Ronan said and laughed again.
“These country folk are quite fond of their barn dances.”

Alaric sighed and shook out his clothes before he pulled them on. He then dug around until he located his boots and jerked them on over his stockings. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he stumbled out of the niche.

Everyone else must have been up, for all the other niches were open and empty...well all but one, and the curtain of that one flapped open just as he reached it. Talena staggered out, squinting in the bright light of morning. There was a bit of straw tangled into the braid of her hair, which was now skewed and stringy. She rubbed her throat as though it troubled her. He met her bleary gaze when it turned in his direction.

“You too?” he asked.

Talena blinked and touched her throat again. Alaric saw bruises under her fingers, matching the pattern of a hand. The corner of one of her eyes was developing a bruise as well.

“What happened to you?” he asked. “You look as though you were in a fight.”

“I do?” she muttered hazily. “The last thing I remember is you harping for our host and singing some song about Dvergar women’s soft downy beards and what happens when they get shaved off. Didn’t he give us wine?”

Alaric nodded. “I think so, Synalian wine.”

“Must have been the good stuff,” she muttered and started on. “I don’t remember a damned thing.”

Ronan chuckled again and whispered,
“Nor will you,”
in a way that made Alaric frown.

Ronan, you’re not putting walls up in my head again, are you?

“Me?”
Ronan cried.
“You know perfectly well after all that has happened, I would never do that to you, Lark.
I gave you my word. I swore that I would never do anything like that to you again.”

All right!
Alaric thought grumpily and followed the path Talena had taken. The farm folk were already at their chores, but there were still plenty of them in the kitchen. Talena wandered through their numbers and headed out the back door. Alaric reached the door in time to see her at the watering trough. She doused her head and came up flinging water everywhere. Pushing her damp locks out of her face, she looked at him.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Do you have any idea what happened to your throat?” he asked.

“My throat?” Talena repeated and frowned. She reached into her jerkin and pulled out the silvered bit of glass, using it to look at herself.

Alaric shivered.
That’s one of the things that reeked of magic,
he thought. He resisted the urge to scry her, remembering how she reacted before. She might not be mageborn, but she clearly possessed enough sensitivity to some forms of magic.

“What the...” She studied her bruises and shook her head. “I don’t understand. It looks like someone tried to throttle me.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Alaric said.

A tiny speck of an image flashed from the depths of his mind. Talena pressed against the wall, a hand wearing a ring of silver clutching her throat. So close, as though he was looking at her through his own eyes...and then it disappeared as quickly as it came. Alaric glanced down at his own hands. At the ring he had worn since Marda gifted it to him, a ring that once belonged to Ronan.

Ronan, did I...?

“Oh, no, it was not you,”
Ronan said.
“I can swear to that.”

Then who?

“She’s a mercenary, Lark.
No doubt, she has many enemies.
In fact, I am quite certain that she has had those marks for a while.
They look old.”

Alaric frowned.
Then why do I feel so guilty?

“You are wasting time worrying about nothing, Alaric,”
Ronan said fiercely.
“You are not to blame!
The demon is hungry and needs feeding.”

Alaric glanced towards the barn. He could hear some activity there. A voice raised in anger. He wandered over to the doorway and stopped. Master Gloster was waving a rake and pointing to the wall. “There were three last night,” he snarled at his youngest son. “What happened to the third?”

“I don’t know!” the lad grumbled back. “I put it there.”

Master Gloster started to raise his hand to strike the lad when he spied Alaric in the doorway. He stayed the blow and even backed away. “Master Bard,” he said carefully. “I was about to send Philton to fetch you.”

“Why?” Alaric asked.

Master Gloster pointed towards the stall where Vagner was. Alaric walked over to peer over the stall door. The demon was still in horse form, but he was lying on his back, all four legs up in the air. A ludicrous sight, except in Alaric’s experience, horses did not sleep that way.

“Is he dead?” the lad asked.

Master Gloster glanced warily at Alaric. “Mayhaps the hay was bad and he took a fit of colic and died?” he suggested.

“He didn’t eat the hay,” Philton said and pointed to the pile of in the corner.

“He’s probably just asleep,” Alaric said.

“I’ve never seen a horse sleep
that
way,” Master Gloster said.

“Breed trait,” Alaric said. “He’s a rare breed from foreign parts...and he’s...different.”

Alaric bit his own tongue to stave the desire to laugh. It didn’t help that Ronan roared with merriment inside his head.

“What shall we do?” Master Gloster asked

“Wake him up,”
Ronan said, still chortling.
“Use his True Name.”

Alaric kicked the stall door and shouted, “Whup!” But in his mind, he concentrated on the link he shared with the demon, calling Vagner’s True Name. Ronan added a forceful sting before Alaric could stop him.

Vagner made a noise that was a cross between a squawk and a whinny, and charged to his feet. The demon twisted his head back and forth, scanning the stall for danger. Then he spied Alaric and Master Gloster, and the wary look of Philton and gave an equine whuffle. Alaric could see the look in those eyes. Vagner was not amused.

“See, he’s fine,” Alaric said. He turned away and marched out of the stables, passing Talena who looked puzzled over all the commotion.

The sooner we leave this place, the better.

It was a much more congenial
Wendon who had emerged from Tobin’s chamber with Thera later that afternoon. Etienne could not help but notice how the two acted like a pair of newlyweds. By nightfall, she was convinced that they were engaged. They would sit together, holding hands or look through the books on Etienne’s shelves with only mild interest in the tomes.

She said nothing for a time. But as the sleeping hour rolled around, she knew she could not be silent for much longer. She drew them to the fire, hoping the crackle and pop of the logs would keep more sensitive ears from hearing what she had to say...

“This is going to sound a little strange,” she whispered, “but I could not help but notice the passion you two have for one another...”

Wendon’s face flushed red even faster than Thera’s. He stammered, “And what of it...I mean...I...”

Etienne waved her hands back and forth and shook her head. “There is nothing wrong with it at all,” she said and smiled. “I am very happy for you. I hope you will do the right thing, Wendon.”