by Lynn Kurland
“Good of you,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Definitely not in my current condition, but hold the thought for later.”
She thought she just might.
“Still don’t want to talk about magic?”
She shook her head. “Tell me instead what you did to make the king so angry.”
“Besides being blamed for his daughter ruthlessly using me to escape his watchful eye and run off with one of my half-brother’s cousins, a rather handsome but vapid elf from Tòrr Dòrainn?”
“Aye, that,” she said, feeling entirely unsympathetic. “I have the feeling you didn’t stop there.”
“I’m flattered you have such confidence in my abilities,” he said. He stretched his legs out and rubbed his knees as if they pained him. “To be honest, I might have slipped over the walls and helped myself to the odd, unattended spell whilst His Majesty was napping.” He paused. “I may have done that more than once.”
“Typical.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked. “I believe I’ve become predictable.”
“I believe you’re fortunate to be alive,” she said seriously. “What else?”
He clasped his hands together and looked at them for a moment or two before he looked at her.
“I fear I may have indeed inconvenienced His Majesty with more than just the simple pilfering of a spell or two.” He glanced at the physick still snoring happily on the sofa before he looked back at her. “’Tis possible that I may have used one or two of the rivers running deeply beneath the palace for my own nefarious purposes. Power and magic tend to travel more easily along water than land.”
“Of course they do,” she said, wondering if she were the one who should have been alarmed that such a thing was beginning to sound perfectly reasonable. “That was part of your plan to, ah—”
“Steal a goodly portion of the world’s magic and trade it for spells and whatnot?”
She nodded.
“It was a complete miss, as I believe I’ve reluctantly admitted before. You would think that my failure in the same would have mollified our irascible dwarf-king, but apparently not. Perhaps he takes his rest more seriously than I suspected.”
Apparently so if the king’s anger had burned that brightly for so long. She wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t reconsider any bribes sent his way, so perhaps they would be wise to be on their way while the winds were still favorable.
“We could bolt, you know.” She paused, then looked at him seriously. “I could, you know…” She wiggled her fingers only to have him catch both her hands in his quickly.
“I think you shouldn’t,” he said. He released her and sat back. “I can’t stop what you set loose, you know. Not at the moment.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” she said quickly.
“And so you didn’t,” he agreed, “though you shouldn’t be embarrassed by the same. Even the most pampered of Nerochian princes didn’t work his first spell without some sort of mentor hovering helpfully at his elbow. But lest that prove to be an uncomfortable direction for our conversation, perhaps we should let that topic lie. We’ll be safe enough for a day or two.” He nodded at her. “You should rest.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
He smiled. “My visage is just that distracting, isn’t it?”
It was, though she wasn’t going to add to his arrogance by admitting as much. “I’m just worried we’ll never escape,” she said. “I’m not sure why I think that would be an improvement on our situation. Things aren’t much safer outside the gates than inside them, are they?”
“Not much,” he agreed, “but we must face that eventually. If I can keep myself alive here for a day or two whilst you’re about your restorative sleeping, we’ll make a dash out the front gates and see what’s left of the world. You might distract what hunts us with the same sort of fiery business you used on our reluctant host.”
“I was angry,” she said. “The king was going to have you executed.”
“Still would if it didn’t mean forfeiting that very fine pony in his stables,” he said. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate your defending me, for I do. I would wax rhapsodic about it, but then I would weep and that is a sight you definitely do not want to witness.”
“Do you ever weep?” she asked.
“Over poorly cooked beef,” he said. “Occasionally.”
She had surprisingly vivid memories of waking to his tears on her face several days earlier. She looked at him and suspected he was revisiting that same moment.
“I thought you were dead,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t sure what else to do.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. “His Majesty needs to retain better staff,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. “I vow my eyes haven’t stopped burning since I entered the hall.”
“You might have to write that missive after all.”
“I might,” he agreed. “But let’s go back to your attempting to burn the king’s stables to the ground. You were angry because he was no doubt going on about the horrible lengths he was willing to go to to inflict bodily harm on your humble servant.”
She attempted a smile and failed. “I’m afraid I forgot most of what you taught me below.”
“Well, what you remembered was a first-rate piece of work, my gel. That added to your insisting that I come pour your wine and King Uachdaran didn’t dare refuse you.”
She considered, then looked at him. “I’m not making a very good impression, am I?”
“I might not be the one to judge. There are impressions, of course, then there are impressions. I prefer the latter, but I have a reputation to maintain. Before you attempt the same again, perhaps you should rest. A bit more tea?”
She nodded, though she wasn’t at all sure that would do anything for her parched throat. It was as if that spell had scorched her insides right along with the king’s beard and his stables.
She watched Acair push himself to his feet, sway, then walk over to the table. If his hands were unsteady as he poured from the pot he’d brought back with him, she wasn’t about to comment. She rescued the cup he held out to her before he dropped it on the bed. The tea was cold, but not even that did anything to soothe either her mouth or her nerves.
Magic was a dodgy business, indeed.
But she had it and there was nothing to be done about it. She would have to learn how to master it just as she’d learned to master what had come through her uncle’s stable doors. For all she knew, it was just that simple.
Perhaps if she continued to tell herself that while ignoring the fact that she felt as if she were on the back of a horse made directly from the fires of Hell, she might at least manage a few hours of sleep before she woke and had to face what her life had become.
“It will become easier.”
She looked at him. “Do I want it to?”
“I would imagine,” he said quietly, “that you don’t. If I might offer an apology that I actually mean for a change, I’m sorry for it. It was generously done.”
“Again, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Ah, now that I don’t believe,” he said, smiling wearily. “I believe your purpose was to break what’s left of my black heart, something you managed quite perfectly. I vow if I ever work a proper piece of mischief in the future, it will be nothing short of a miracle.”
“Do-gooding does seem to be becoming a habit with you.”
He snorted. “A habit I will cast aside like a cumbersome cloak the very instant I can. Then I’m back to the old business of wreaking havoc and terrifying everyone I meet. Now, before I find myself a patch of floor and have a nap, what can I do to make you more comfortable?”
“I’m the one with the soft bed,” she pointed out, “and I’ll
bury my unease in sleep soon enough.”
“Throw something at me to wake me if that changes,” he said with a yawn, “or if you feel unsafe. I’ll trot out my harshest language to defend you.”
She watched him simply roll off the chair and stretch out on the floor next to her bed. She imagined it was an improvement over where he’d been sleeping for the past few days.
She stretched out and looked up at the canopy over her head. The wood was intricately carved, no doubt representing heroic scenes she knew nothing about. If that wasn’t a perfect reflection of her own life presently, she didn’t know what was.
What she should have done when her life had become something unrecognizable was scamper back inside whatever barn she’d been nearest to, saddle the first horse she’d come across, then escape through the nearest set of barn doors before anyone had been the wiser. With any luck it would have been a very unmagical pony who would have carried her off into an equally unmagical sunset where she might have found a different barn thoroughly free of mages where she could have settled in for a lifetime of very ordinary, pedestrian horse work.
Instead, not only had she asked for the ability to work spells, she had sat on the other side of an invisible doorway from a vile black mage and learned spells from him so she might sally forth and do damage with them. ’Twas only after that sallying that she realized that using those spells was a bit like riding a spooked horse that was bolting with her on its back, only this was a bolting horse that would never be outlasted.
She half wondered if she would spend the rest of her life simply trying to hold on and not be tossed aside to die a lingering, painful death from having dashed her head against a rock.
“Things will look better after a rest, Léirsinn.”
She would have answered him, but a quick look over the edge of her bed proved that Acair of Ceangail was either exhausted or had been talking in his sleep. She left him to it, then settled in for a bit of rest herself. To her surprise, she felt almost at ease. And all because a chivalrous black mage was within shouting distance.
Truly the world was full of things she had never expected.
Three
There were few things more inconvenient than a portly dispenser of strengthening draughts snoring comfortably atop a divan that hid under its austere cushions a book that would put a substantial rent in the very fabric of the world if it, as the rustics were wont to say, got ’round.
Acair leaned heavily against the footpost of Léirsinn’s bed. As tempting as it was to give a little leap of joy over being free of the king’s dungeon, he had to forebear. What strength remained him would likely be spent in overcoming the substantial obstacle that currently lay between him and the book he needed. Whatever Master Ollamh’s virtues as a healer might have been, they were certainly outweighed, as it were, by the man’s ability to nap through almost anything.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t already made several attempts to interrupt his chaperon’s slumber. He had cleared his throat with vigor, bumped a leg of the sofa—well, he’d kicked it deliberately, but who was to know?—and dropped a pewter mug on the hearthstone near the man’s head. Léirsinn had woken at the latter, cursed him, then rolled over and gone back to sleep. Ollamh hadn’t indulged in even the faintest grumble of annoyance. Short of physically rolling him onto the floor and liberating the goods from beneath yon sofa cushions, Acair supposed he would simply have to wait for the man to sleep himself out.
He forced down the brief flash of panic that rose up to choke him, an unaccustomed and certainly unpleasant sensation if ever there were one. The truth was, he was in a bit of rush to get things done. There were mages to identify and slay, shadows to disperse, and doilies to stuff into pockets—all things that needed to be seen to before some fool with more power than sense reduced the world to ashes.
He deliberately took a figurative step backward. Whilst escape out the front gates topped his list of things to do, Léirsinn needed a chance to rest from her attempts to reduce the king and his hall to cinders and he needed time to recover from his state of utter exhaustion. No harm would come to the world if he were to set aside his catalog of impossible tasks for an hour or two and soldier on toward things that were more easily done.
First things first and that was to pen a heartfelt note of thanks to Hearn of Angesand for having saved his own sweet neck. Admittedly the man had saddled him, fairly literally, with a horse that wanted to kill him, but that was surely just a bit of good-natured sport at his expense. If Hearn wanted his son to be healed from an encounter with a nasty patch of shadow, Acair was happy to attempt it. It was, he knew, the only reason he was still breathing.
He supposed he might understand the lengths to which one would go to save a loved one. Léirsinn had put herself in peril for her own reasons that might have had nothing to do with him.
But if she had done it for him because he meant that much to her—
He staggered mentally away from that thought with all the grace of a Slighian lad who’d spent the evening becoming overly acquainted with the local tap. Léirsinn had already watched him weep. He had no desire to reduce himself again to a blubbering mass of gratitude and embarrassment. Perhaps she was fond of him, or perhaps not. Best to concentrate on his list of Important Things To Do and leave more maudlin sentiments to Nerochian lads who used those sorts of displays to get themselves out of sticky situations.
He found ink and parchment and used it to heap praise on the good lord of Angesand’s head for the gift of his life. He was halfway to using that ridiculous spell for hastening the drying of ink he’d pinched from Simeon of Diarmailt before he realized that using spells of any sort would make Hearn’s efforts useless. He settled for blowing on the ink to dry it and paid the price in stars swirling around his head.
He reached for another sheaf, then hesitated. As tempting as it was to have all his correspondence taken care of, he decided that perhaps he would send a message to the king of Neroche later when he thought he could find the words to tell Miach that he’d lost his brother and hadn’t taken the time to stop and look for him. That, he supposed, might tax even his own enviable powers of deflection.
He folded his note to Hearn and plopped a pot of ink atop it to keep it closed. He would seal it properly and find a messenger willing to go to Angesand later, when he felt more himself.
He walked back over to Léirsinn’s bed and indulged again in a fond embrace of that sturdy footpost whilst he considered what needed to happen next. Perhaps he might do a bit of nosing about, then toddle off to the palace library for a friendly thumb through a book or two of spells. He might even manage a decent nap on a floor that was covered with something besides vermin.
But first a wee stroll to test his strength and give Ollamh a chance to finish what were no doubt delightful dreams about herbal concoctions. He straightened, swayed more enthusiastically than he was comfortable with, then shuffled over to the door. He put his ear to the wood, but heard nothing suspicious. He very carefully turned the heavy brass doorknob and peeked out into the passageway.
Three undeniably well-fed, obviously well-exercised guardsmen were leaning against the opposite wall, their eyes fixed on him. He smiled politely, then eased back inside the chamber and closed the door.
Damnation but Uachdaran of Léige was a suspicious bastard.
He put his hand on the wood to steady himself, then considered what else he could do that day with his strength at such a low ebb. He’d already addressed the easy item of a flourishy thank-you. More difficult would be fetching something he’d left stuck to the underside of Uachdaran of Léige’s kingly seat. Retrieving his grandmother’s prized doily—something he remained convinced was made from his grandfather’s wails of terror spun into thread—from its place of honor on the king’s side table was going to be the most difficult feat of all.
He needed the damned thing, though, so fetch it he would. It
was one thing to have a mysterious mage with terrible power chasing after him, intending to slay him. It was another thing entirely to have his Gran setting off with the same idea.
A loud thump startled him, but he realized it was only Master Ollamh rolling off the sofa. He hurried over to offer the man assistance. If he happened to make a quick investigation of the underside of one of the sofa cushions, retrieve a small notebook, then drop it to the floor and kick it under Léirsinn’s bed whilst he was offering said assistance, surely the king’s healer wouldn’t be the wiser.
“I believe, my good man, that you need a bit of fresh air,” Acair said. “And look, there is a door conveniently placed in the wall for the setting off on just such a restorative adventure.”
Master Ollamh looked equal parts confused and alarmed. “But I’m not to leave you here alone.”
Acair helped the man over to the door—leaning rather heavily on him, true, but that wasn’t to be helped—opened it, then gestured at the aforenoted trio of very burly guardsmen established against the far wall.
“Those lads there have me well in hand, wouldn’t you agree?”
“But your magic,” Ollamh said uneasily. “I know what you said before, but I’ve heard reports—”
“Which I would be delighted to either confirm or deny for you after you’ve taken a lengthy walk in the king’s garden,” Acair said. “I promise to keep all my spells unused and my tales untold until you return. Upon my honor.”
“And the young miss?” Ollamh drew himself up and put on what he obviously thought was a stern look.
Acair refused to be offended, mostly because ordinarily the healer would have been thoroughly justified in his concern.
“I am on my best behavior,” he said seriously. “Mistress Léirsinn is safe in my company.”
Ollamh didn’t look terribly convinced, but he did look as if he might soon lose whatever luncheon he’d ingested earlier. Acair shooed him out into the passageway, offered a friendly wave to his keepers holding up the far wall, then shut the door before they could offer any greeting in return.
