Wandering Lark Read Online Free PDF Page B

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