The White Spell

by Lynn Kurland

  It could have been worse, he had to concede. He could have been fleeing all over Durial at present in an effort to dodge the spells of that cranky bastard who knew far more dark magic than he ever let on in polite company. Then again, Uachdaran of Léige spent his time digging deep into the mountains. Who knew what he found there?

  Well, Acair had a fairly good idea, having done his own bit of digging in an effort to use Durial as a means of siphoning off magic from other places, but he would be the first to admit that dwarvish magic was very odd. He supposed he could spend a century trying to unravel it and still not have all its secrets. Not that he intended to spend any time at it anytime soon.

  That Cothromaichian twinkling was something else entirely. Now that he was being shadowed by something created by that damned Soilléir of Cothromaiche, he thought it might be not unthinkable to give as good as he got. The moment he had his power back to hand—not that it wasn’t at present, of course; he was just not stupid enough to use it—he would turn his sights back to that very enticing prize.

  “You’re free to take the afternoon off, if you like.”

  Acair could scarce believe he was allowing someone else, a stable hand of all people, to enter his chamber without permission, much less tell him when he could move about freely.

  Well, again, chamber was too lofty a term for his bit of passageway strewn with what he hardly dared hope was decently clean straw, but he supposed he couldn’t ask for anything more. Perhaps not complaining loudly and at length about the conditions to anyone who would listen could be counted as his good deed for the day.

  Doghail tossed him a handful of copper coins. “Your pay. Thought you might want it early.”

  Acair looked at the coins he’d caught. “For an entire se’nnight,” he managed.

  “You agreed.”

  “I must have been mad.”

  Doghail only grinned at him and walked away. Acair considered what he was holding in his hand and shook his head in disbelief. He was well-versed in all the different coinages of the world at large and he preferred Nerochian strike simply because those lads were congenitally incapable of deceit and could be counted on to always mix the full complement of whatever metal the coins boasted. He used other coins when discretion called for it, but he had to admit he had never imagined that the mint at Tosan could produce coins that had so little value. Hardly worth the trouble of pounding some random lord’s visage into them.

  Well, if there were a decent pub in town, it would be the beneficiary of his largesse. Anything to get away from the swill he’d been imbibing for the previous several days.

  His father would have been absolutely appalled by what he’d been reduced to, which was reason enough not to enlighten the old whoreson. He also would never divulge the same to any of his brothers. They would never recover from their laughter at his expense.

  He heaved himself to his feet, groaned because he couldn’t stop himself from it, then stretched his abused back until he thought he might manage to walk with any success. He pulled his cloak from off the nail it had been using as a resting place, half surprised someone hadn’t filched that as well, and left his piece of passageway.

  He supposed it was less thought than habit that had him pulling himself back into the shadows before he walked out in full view of those standing by the edge of the enormous arena, as Doghail had called it. He had called it many things as he’d finally been pressed into the service of walking over every foot of it, looking for horse droppings to scoop up.

  “She doesn’t ruin the horses, but perhaps that is just dumb luck.”

  Acair recognized Fuadain, that unimportant lord of whatever they called his derelict manor that found itself on the less-desirable side of Sàraichte. He didn’t recognize the guest, but the man obviously believed himself to be exceptionally important. Whether it was due to money or title, Acair couldn’t have said and he didn’t care to investigate. His interest only extended to wondering when they would shut up and move on.

  “Fetch one of the mares,” Fuadain commanded. “One commensurate with Lord Cuirteil’s stature. But your stature in the world, not at table, eh, Cuirteil?”

  Acair watched Fuadain elbow his guest in his ample belly, listened to the two of them guffaw as if they actually found themselves amusing, then considered the unusual position he found himself in. Normally, he would have been keeping his ears open for insults and preparing a proper retribution. It was, he had to admit, somewhat freeing to just not give a damn.

  Was that how normal men lived?

  It was an astonishing thought, actually. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable even entertaining it, so he let it continue on past him where it could trouble someone else.

  Doghail brought out a fine-looking though feisty mare that Acair had already become acquainted with thanks to it almost taking a decent bit of flesh off his upper arm. Would that that one would take a bite out of Cuirteil’s ample backside.

  The mare was handed off to that gel who had been so rude to him about his stall mucking however many days ago it had been. He wasn’t sure he had even heard her name, which saved him the trouble of remembering it. What he could plainly see, though, was that she knew what she was doing. There was no nipping, balking, or sneering coming from that mare, something Acair felt now qualified to judge. And once she directed the mare to run about her in a circle, albeit attached to a long length of rope, the mare did so without question.

  “Corr,” a voice said breathlessly from beside him, “she’s powerful good at it, ain’t she?”

  Acair looked to his left and found one of the new stable lads standing there, his mouth agape, his eyes bright with admiration.

  “Corr,” Acair agreed, trying not to shudder at the absolutely revolting nature of the local vernacular, “she is, ain’t she?”

  Good lord, his father would have cuffed him into the adjacent county if he’d heard such a thing come out of his mouth.

  “I forget her name,” Acair said casually. “Too much drinking and wenching drove it right out of my head.”

  The lad looked at him with wonder. “Truthful?”

  “I never lie.” And that was, he could say truthfully, the absolute truth. His father had mocked him for it, but one lived with one’s failings as best one could. And he had spent a goodly amount of time thinking about drinking and wenching whilst he’d been about his most recent labors, which perhaps made it truthful enough for the present circumstances.

  “Léirsinn,” the lad said. “Don’t suppose she’s a lady, even if she is Lord Fuadain’s niece.”

  Acair could scarce believe his ears. “Errr,” he said, scrambling for the right words, “you ain’t in earnest—ah, tellin’ the truth. Rather.” He gave up. There was no hope for it, but perhaps his companion wouldn’t notice.

  “She is,” the lad said, “and I hears he done treats her awful.”

  Indeed he did. “Why does she endure it, do you suppose?”

  “Her grandfather lives up at the big house,” the lad whispered. “’Tis said he can’t move or speak. She works for his keep, so they say.”

  Ah, altruism. Acair would have pointed out to anyone who would listen that this was where that sort of thing led, but he supposed the present moment wasn’t the proper one for that sort of instruction.

  Interesting, though, the twistings and turnings of Mistress Léirsinn’s family tree. If she was Fuadain’s niece, why was she in the barn? If her grandfather was up at the house, why wasn’t Fuadain seeing to his care? Unless the man was not a father but a father-in-law and Fuadain was absolutely without any sort of conscience.

  “Oh, you are useless,” Fuadain snapped suddenly. “Slaidear, take this horse away from her!”

  Acair watched as who he had come to learn was the stable master walked out onto the field and took the rope away from Léirsinn.

  “’E gives me cold chills and no
mistake.”

  Acair had to agree with his rustic companion that that was indeed the case, but he did so silently. There was something about Slaidear that was . . . unusual. It was obvious he wasn’t in his position because of any affinity with horses—something Acair could understand rather well at present—which begged the question of just why he was there.

  It didn’t take a Cothromaichian lad’s powers of observation to see that there were foul things afoot—and that wasn’t just the pile of manure Acair realized he was standing in. He rolled his eyes. Would the indignities never end?

  Slaidear continued to make a great hash of working that mare and Fuadain continued to berate Léirsinn for things she wasn’t doing. A first-rate bastard, that one, far beyond the behavior a petty lord in an insignificant port town might allow himself. Léirsinn was good at swallowing all manner of insults, perhaps either because she was too stupid to know she’d been insulted or perhaps she was simply too accustomed to being treated like a slave.

  In time, Fuadain seemed to grow bored with his sport, Lord Cuirteil announced the need for sustenance, and Slaidear apparently realized he was about to be trampled if he didn’t find someone else to see to that horse. Léirsinn led the mare out of sight until the men had left the arena, then she brought the horse back into the arena to work it herself.

  Acair remained in the shadows for quite some time, listening with half an ear to the whispered babbling of his new friend and mulling over what he’d seen.

  Intrigue and the possibility of mayhem. He had a nose for that kind of thing and what he was smelling at present was rank indeed.

  “We’re headed to the pub up the way,” the lad said suddenly. “Comin’ along, are ye?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Acair said. “You go ahead and I’ll catch up.”

  That seemed to be answer enough. The lad departed for more promising locales, leaving Acair to his thoughts. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, settling in for a proper rumination.

  Doghail took the mare away and soon brought Léirsinn that damned stallion she seemed to think was so marvelous. Acair thought the beast was a demon, and he’d had experience enough with the latter that he thought he might not be overestimating his ability to recognize the same.

  There was a bit of a battle of wills, it seemed, before Léirsinn reasserted her authority and the stallion did as he was told. He was, Acair had to admit, a handsome beast as far as horses went. He trotted, he pranced, he raced about as if he would have preferred to be flying. And all the while, Léirsinn stood in the center of his world, turning with an almost imperceptible motion, demanding the horse change gaits with a whistle or a click.

  Corr, indeed.

  He continued to watch until he grew tired and thought he might like to sit down somewhere. Unfortunately, the only ones who seemed to get any rest in the place were the horses. He wasn’t sure if he envied them for it or loathed them for the same. He didn’t particularly like horses, which he imagined Soilléir and Rùnach were still giggling over, but he had to admit the past se’nnight had given him a different view of them.

  Fortunately for them all, Doghail came to lead the horse away. Léirsinn waved him off, but Acair supposed he should have expected that. She seemed like the sort of lass who liked to do things herself. He followed her at a safe distance—safe meaning, of course, too far away to be called on to do any labor—then found himself a bale of hay to sit on. Congratulating whatever enterprising soul had determined hay was best used as a seat by gathering it together in a cube, he then sat, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep.

  He woke only because he had spent decades honing the ability to know when his quarry had escaped. He pushed himself to his feet, suppressing the urge to groan, then looked for his missing horse gel.

  “She went that way.”

  He shot Doghail a look. “Never know what sorts of lads might mimic their master’s ways, would you agree?”

  “Protective.”

  “Looking for better ale than you serve, actually.”

  Doghail smiled briefly. “She won’t appreciate it, but I’ve done it as well. Off you go. And as repayment, I’ll see to your stalls for you.”

  Acair blinked, not exactly sure what he should say. “Well,” he managed finally.

  Doghail shook his head and walked off.

  Now he was certain Soilléir and Rùnach were sipping sour wine from Penrhyn and laughing their arses off at him, no doubt having scryed the entire scene in whatever bloody glass ball Soilléir was using these days for the conjuring up of his visions.

  He shrugged off the vague feeling that he should have said something polite, then set about his normal work of poking his nose where it absolutely shouldn’t go.

  It took him far more time to catch Léirsinn up than it would have normally, leading him to believe he hadn’t had nearly as much rest as he should have. He followed her without thinking until he realized she was headed toward the manor house. She kept to lesser paths that skirted substantial gardens, obviously something she did regularly because she seemed to know where she was going. He did spare the energy to wonder if she hadn’t had perhaps a cup too many of Doghail’s brew given the way she would walk in a perfectly straight line, then suddenly stop, step around something, then continue on. It only happened a pair of times, but he wondered what in the hell she was doing. Practicing dance steps?

  Had she been enspelled?

  He considered, then decided against that latter idea. He couldn’t use his magic, of course, but he damned well had all of it to hand and along with that power came the ability to recognize magic in all its forms so he didn’t walk straight into a web of spells without realizing it. Nay, she wasn’t enspelled.

  But she was turning to look behind her, giving him hardly the time to leap off the path and duck behind a shrubbery before he should be discovered. Something poked him—as usual—in the arse so painfully he almost yelped. He was made of sterner stuff than that, however, so he bit back a very vile curse and peeked over the greenery.

  ’Twas a pity, to be sure, that a woman that beautiful should be wasted in a barn. Worse still that she should have lost her wits at such a young age. To look at her, one would have thought she was a fair-faced, mild-mannered wench with money and pedigree enough to secure a fairly well-heeled husband to take care of her properly for the rest of her days.

  He considered. Mild-mannered was likely not the right thing to call her. He’d watched her manage that stallion and he’d listened to her call him a fool for not knowing how to tend a horse. Acid-tongued and daft as a duck was likely closer to the mark. But she was indeed lovely in a way that was mesmerizing enough to leave him crouching stupidly behind a bush that he realized with a start contained a hive full of angry bees, one of whom had obviously decided the horses were right in their choice of locations on his poor person to abuse.

  He jumped back out onto the path and trotted off after his quarry, hoping he was moving quickly enough to allow his former winged companions to find something else to torment. His handful of coppers were clinking in his purse along with what remained of the meager funds he’d extorted from Soilléir and Rùnach, damn them both to hell. If things continued on the way they seemed to be going, he was going to arrive back home in a year much thinner than he was at present because he would never manage to afford a decent pub meal.

  The only positive thing he could see was that he was so far out of any sort of decent civilization that no one would recognize him. Considering that he had absolutely no way to protect himself save his fists, that wasn’t something to be taken lightly. He wondered how Léirsinn kept herself safe and what it would be like to know that the only thing you had standing between you and death was some sort of barn implement.

  He had the feeling he was going to become much more familiar with that than he cared to.

  He was tempted to stop, tu
rn himself back toward the barn, and go find a horse trough in which to soak his head. He couldn’t protect himself in his usual fashion, he had a very light purse, and there were some very unusual things going on in Sàraichte. If he’d had the modicum of good sense the gods had given a slug, as his father would have said, he would have abandoned his current path and trotted back to his closet.

  But that lass there in front of him was walking into the gloom without anyone to guard her back, her uncle seemed perfectly content to treat her very poorly, and Acair was beginning to wonder if she might have red hair. He didn’t know any flame-haired wenches, but he’d heard tales of their tempers. If there was anything he found hard to resist, it was a feisty woman in a temper.

  Perhaps he would buy her supper and count that as yet another good deed for the day.

  He shoved aside memories of a certain dwarvish princess of uncommon feistiness who hadn’t been all that receptive to his offer of a fine meal, reminded himself that there were quite a few women who had accepted his invitations to supper, and strode off into the twilight. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Even with a stable lass who controlled horses he hardly dared come close to.

  Five

  Léirsinn walked quickly toward town, knowing she would likely arrive too late for what business she wanted to accomplish but unable to do anything else. She needed advice and the one reliable place to get that was from Cailleach the fishwife.

  There were numerous sellers of fish in town, that was true, but there was something about Mistress Cailleach that hinted of her knowing things that others might not. Unusual things. Just the sorts of things Léirsinn thought she might need to know, such as how the hell she was going to take two decades of the meanest of wages and turn that into enough money to spirit her grandfather away from a man she feared she could no longer call benign.