The White Spell

by Lynn Kurland

  The horse, however, looked down at the spot, hesitated, then stepped over it without touching it. Acair watched the groom and the horse continue on their way, then glanced at his companion.

  “That was interesting,” he said carefully.

  She looked at him. “You see them too.”

  “Aye.”

  “What are they, I wonder?” she asked, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “They seem . . . evil.”

  He studied the pool of nothing that lay there in front of them but found it surprisingly difficult to identify anything about it that might have pointed to its creator.

  That was odd in itself.

  “Not that you would know anything about evil,” she added.

  He made a non-committal noise. If there was one thing he knew very well, it was evil.

  “And it isn’t as if it could be something, you know, magical.” She laughed, but she didn’t sound at all amused. She sounded completely unnerved.

  Acair smiled brightly. “Why would it be?” Indeed, for all he knew, the local wizardling had more time than good taste and had decided that he would have a bit of sport at the local populace’s expense.

  It was odd, though, how when a man stepped in that little patch of nothing, he seemed unable to move, even for the briefest of moments.

  “I have to go,” Léirsinn said suddenly, walking away. “Important things to do.”

  Acair caught up and continued on with her, watching her whilst trying to look as if he weren’t staring at her to determine just how unnerved she truly was. “What sorts of things?”

  “I need to talk to someone in town.”

  “Your local wizard?” he asked politely. “A little witch keeping a shop down a side street in a tattier part of town? A less visible purveyor of charms and potions?”

  She shot him a look. “I don’t believe in any of that sort of rot. I will allow that the woman I’m off to see looks a bit more, ah, supernatural than most in the market, but I think she’s been selling fish for quite some time. I’m sure the two are connected somehow.”

  He wasn’t going to argue with her. In his vast experience with things of a nasty bent, he had learned it was better not to poke a hornet’s nest unless one was prepared to have it vomit out its contents all over the lad with the stick. Besides, if he had any sort of virtue besides honesty, it was the ability to be patient. He would do a bit of snooping about untoward things, keep his eyes and ears open, and with any luck at all he might have a mystery to keep himself awake for a fortnight or two.

  The journey to town seemed rather less tedious than it had when he’d made it by himself going the other direction and they arrived at the market just as things were beginning to look lively. One thing he could say for the inhabitants of the port of Sàraichte, they were early risers. He walked across cobblestones that were slick partly from the dew but mostly from the ubiquitous wooden boxes full of freshly caught fish that were being carried to at least two dozen fishmongers.

  “Wait here a minute,” Léirsinn said, looking at him seriously. “I have business to conduct privately, then you may come.”

  He would have told her that he never wriggled his nose into places where it didn’t belong, but that was his stock in trade. Then again, he was turning over a new leaf. That he was giving her privacy might be counted as a good deed if one looked at it in the right way.

  So he clasped his hands behind his back and remained where he was as Léirsinn approached an ample, white-haired woman with a voice like a ship’s captain, pulled coins of her purse, and handed them over.

  He considered, then shrugged. Perhaps Léirsinn trusted that woman to keep her funds safe. He generally kept his treasures far away from where he slept, so he understood the compulsion. Léirsinn then had a brief but obviously earnest conversation with the woman. Whatever was said didn’t seem to satisfy her, which was no doubt why she was frowning when she beckoned to him.

  He approached, then stopped behind Léirsinn’s choice of someone who looked a bit more supernatural than most—

  And he suddenly understood why.

  “What are you doing here?” the woman asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

  Well, that was his damned aunt and he was wishing he had somewhere at present to hide from her, that’s what he was doing there. Actually, she wasn’t his aunt, she was his great-aunt on his mother’s side and there was a very good reason Léirsinn had considered her to have a bit of a supernatural sheen to her. Whilst his mother’s sisters were off doing good, something for which they were endlessly mocked, that one there was knee-deep in the family business.

  Damn. What to do now?

  “Léirsinn, my love, take these coins and run off to fetch me a pint of ale, would you? I can tell already it’s going to be a very trying morning. I’ll put your lad there to work. It looks as if he could stand to do a bit of laboring with his hands.”

  Léirsinn nodded, then looked at him pointedly. “Don’t discuss anything important while I’m away.”

  “I’m sure I’ll spend the time shoveling fish guts,” Acair said. “A nice change, actually.”

  Léirsinn nodded then walked off, looking a time or two over her shoulder. Acair smiled encouragingly until she was gone, then he turned and looked at Léirsinn’s, for lack of a better word, banker.

  “Auntie.”

  “Don’t you Auntie me, you miserable little wretch,” Cailleach of Ceal said with a snort. “I know you and your ways. You’ve likely come to try to appropriate a bit of my magic.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Acair said, “and that isn’t simply because of my recent quite dire and terrible straits.”

  Cailleach looked behind him, then made a sound of satisfaction. “Ah, what a lovely little spell you have following you there. What’s its purpose?”

  “I believe its task is to slay me if I use any magic.”

  Cailleach looked at him for a moment or two in silence, then she threw back her head and guffawed loudly enough to send a flock of something feathered flapping off in terror.

  “Oh,” she gasped, reaching out and grasping his forearm in a grip that brought tears to his eyes, “that is rich. Let me see if I can guess who is behind it. Not Nicholas of Diarmailt—”

  “I think he might be dead,” Acair hedged.

  “You know he isn’t.” She wiped her eyes with her apron and chuckled a bit more. “He was at your half-sister Mhorghain’s wedding not a pair of years ago. I understand you didn’t get an invitation, which I suspect wasn’t an oversight.” She was momentarily distracted by tossing a fish at a woman and expertly catching a coin in return. She pocketed it smoothly, then looked at him. “Your father, I understand, is indisposed at the moment, which leaves me with a substantially reduced list of souls who would either care enough or have the power to send such a thing off to vex you.” She considered, then looked at him from shrewd bluish-green eyes that were mirrors of his own. “That little prince from Cothromaiche is responsible, isn’t he?”

  Acair was utterly unsurprised that Soilléir would be the one she would settle upon. Would that she would settle something a bit more substantial on the man, say perhaps a man-sized boulder. “Aye,” he admitted crossly, “damn him to hell.”

  She laughed again, then sat herself down on a stool. “Have a seat on the shorter, less comfortable stool, little one, and tell Auntie all your troubles. But first, why are you keeping company with that lovely piece of goodness I just sent off?”

  Acair sat down next to his great-aunt and accepted a sip of something from a flask she produced from under her table of wares. He gasped, then blinked until his eyes stopped watering.

  “You wee babe,” his great-aunt said, clucking her tongue. “Never had strong drink, eh?”

  “I’m afraid ’tis true,” he managed, wishing he’d sent Léirsinn off with enough coin for something for him that would
n’t feel as if it had just peeled a layer of flesh from off the inside of his throat. “And whilst I’m accustoming myself to this delicious brew, might I ask why you find yourself here?”

  “Because it was the most interesting place available.”

  Acair didn’t like to argue with age—very well, he relished arguing with anyone older than he so he might put his mighty wit and magic on display. At least he had until he’d acquired a damned shadow in the person of that spell that seemed to be ever watching him for the slightest misstep. It was a novel sensation, that not wanting to draw attention to himself. He could only hope that was an aberration that would eventually pass.

  “I don’t know, Auntie,” he said, dredging up what he hoped would pass for a respectful tone. “It seems a bit on the dull side to me.”

  “I despair for the future of the race,” she said, shaking her head. She reached out and cuffed him on the ear. “Everything flows through here, whelp. Tales, magic, mages. Everything. And don’t think a decent amount of all three doesn’t come through this market.”

  “But,” he said gingerly, “why do you care?”

  “I like to be in the know.” She patted her hair carefully. “Keeps me attractive, you see, to the lads. Don’t know that I won’t find one I fancy one of these days and have myself a bit of an amorous adventure.”

  The thought made him want to go have a little lie-down. The woman was twelve hundred years old if she was a day.

  “And don’t think I haven’t had several very important and handsome lads pursuing me of late,” Cailleach added.

  “Of course,” he said quickly, fearing she might cuff him again if he didn’t express his agreement with the proper amount of enthusiasm. She had reached for her walking stick and was fingering it purposefully. “I wouldn’t think anything else. I also wouldn’t presume to ask for their identities lest it ruin the surprise when one comes calling very soon and you choose to announce the name of that fortunate lad.”

  “I’m surprised at your discretion, but perhaps you’re growing up. You didn’t answer my question, though. Why are you trailing after Léirsinn like a lovesick pup?”

  He didn’t bother to take issue with her term. The woman was nothing if not a hopeless romantic. He also supposed he wouldn’t be rubbishing any terms of his sentence if he told her as much truth as he could stomach. He sighed heavily. “The tale begins with the fact that I am on a penance tour.”

  Cailleach blinked, then a corner of her mouth twitched. “Trying to make up for a bit of that magic-stealing you did last year, eh?”

  “Among other things,” he said grimly. “’Tis a ridiculously useless exercise given that I didn’t achieve my nefarious designs thanks to that damned elf-spawn I must unfortunately admit is a brother.”

  “Rùnach paid a heavy price for your sire’s evil,” Cailleach said seriously. “He deserves every happiness. You, though? I’m not sure what you deserve.”

  “A hot fire, cold ale, and a handsome wench or two,” Acair said distinctly, “and in that order.” He looked at his aunt. “That my needs are so few makes me feel old.”

  “And that spell following you will age you further very rapidly if you tangle with it. But I’ve interrupted you. You were on a penance tour, and . . .” She looked at him expectantly.

  He suppressed the urge to swear. “To finish off my miserable year of do-gooding, I was given two choices: apologize to Uachdaran of Léige for I haven’t a clue what or be without magic for a century.” He wasn’t about to tell her just what he’d been up to in that accursed country of Durial on the off chance that he managed to return and finish that glorious piece of business. Better to leave that undisturbed. “I bargained it down to a year,” he continued. “I was sent here, if you can believe it, for my own safety, and that bloody thing there watches me to make certain I don’t stray off the path.”

  “And if you do, its task is to slay you?”

  He pursed his lips. “As I said. I suppose that’s preferable to Soilléir’s alternative which was to turn me into a birdbath and set me in some garden full of elves or faeries.” He shuddered. “I don’t like to think about it, actually.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t promise to send you to live with your sire in that magic sink he occupies.”

  “I would prefer death.”

  “I imagine Soilléir knows that.” She tilted her head and studied him for a moment or two. “And so you wound up at Fuadain’s stables at Briàghde, took one look at that red-haired angel, and lost your heart.”

  “My mind, rather,” Acair said. “My heart, black as it is, remains untouched.”

  Cailleach laughed. “Ah, Acair my lad, you are a sorry thing, aren’t you? You should be so fortunate to have someone like that gel look at you twice.” She took the flask from him, had a healthy swig, then looked at him knowingly. “I can’t imagine you aren’t about some piece of mischief or other, never mind what Prince Soilléir might have intended for you.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Acair said, “I am curious about a few things. One thing, actually.”

  “Of course you are. What thing?”

  “This will sound daft.”

  “Acair, I would call you many things—and have, believe me—but daft is not amongst them.” She reached out and patted his hand with surprising gentleness. “Tell Auntie what you’ve seen.”

  He looked about him for eager ears, but saw nothing but the usual rabble that loitered about in such a locale. He turned back to his great-aunt. “I’ve seen shadows.”

  “Those are the souls of those you’ve slain, love.”

  He considered, then leaned closer to her. “I refuse to admit to actually having slain anyone,” he said, “but don’t spread that about.”

  She gave him what for her was an affectionate shove. “You’ve had more than your share of souls die of fright on your watch, which you must admit.”

  “I won’t say that I haven’t helped a few continue on the path they’d already chosen to that peaceful rest in the East,” he conceded, “and perhaps with more gusto than necessary, but that seemed the least I could do.”

  “Altruistic.”

  “I know,” he said with a sigh. “One of my greatest failings, and one that has caused me no small amount of grief over the past year.” He glanced about himself once more, unwilling to provide fodder for any eavesdroppers, then looked at his aunt seriously. “About those shadows: I don’t like the feel of them.”

  “Know who created them?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to investigate properly yet.”

  “Leaving me to do your dirty work for you,” she said with a sigh. She heaved herself to her feet. “Let’s go for a little stroll and see what’s there to be seen.”

  “You might be robbed whilst we’re gone.”

  She only smiled in a way that left him doubting that such a thing would ever happen. She nodded to a small, sharp-nosed lad who took over her spot and her walking stick. Acair had the feeling he would use both to their best advantage.

  Léirsinn was nowhere to be found, which he supposed should have alarmed him a bit, but he counted on daylight to at least be of some aid to her and continued on with his aunt. They didn’t have to go far.

  “There,” he said, nodding to a spot ten paces in front of them. “By the wall.”

  Cailleach watched as someone stepped into that shadow, paused, then stepped out of it.

  Acair looked at her closely, but her expression gave nothing away. He waited, though, because whatever she lacked in manners she more than made up for in experience and canniness.

  She finally shook her head, then looked at him. “I don’t think you should get involved in that business there,” she said very quietly. “I certainly wouldn’t.”

  “But, Auntie, your magic gives even me pause.”

  “I should hope so, Acair. What flows t
hrough your veins is half ours, you know. Gair is nothing but flash and theatrics. The real power, the power that will come to you when his is blown off like chaff? That is what you should have been chasing after all these years.”

  He didn’t believe that for a second—

  He paused, then studied his aunt for a moment, seeing her with a clarity he’d certainly never taken the time for before. The woman who stood before him, as demure as her booming fishwife voice would allow her to be . . . aye, he’d underestimated her. Badly.

  She gave him a knowing look. “Arrogance was your sire’s downfall.”

  “I’m working on humility,” he promised.

  She blinked, then threw back her head and laughed. Again. He would have been offended—indeed, he was, rather—but perhaps a string of endless days shoveling horse manure had done a goodly work on him somehow because his first instinct was to protest his innocence, not drop a spell of death on her head. She looked at him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, reached out and pulled him into a fragrant embrace, then patted him rather gently on the back.

  “You’re a horrible little piece of refuse,” she said, shoving him away and smiling, “but perhaps there is a hope of your improving at some point. Not enough to merit that one coming our way, but perhaps someone more shrewish and unpleasant.”

  Acair knew he should have protested that he wasn’t looking for a woman and wouldn’t have wanted a horse girl if he had been, but there was no point. He saw Léirsinn standing twenty paces away, staring at the patch he could almost see there to the side of the thoroughfare, tucked discreetly near a barrel of—what else?—fish.

  “You know where curiosity lands you,” Cailleach said lightly.

  “My mother is curious,” he reminded her.

  “Aye, but she would have the good sense to exercise some self-control here.” She shot him a look. “Leave this alone, Acair. You won’t like where it leads.”

  He was tempted to argue with her, but decided that perhaps there was no point in it. He had to wonder, though, just what she had seen to leave her feeling so strongly about something that looked so unremarkable.