by Lynn Kurland
He speculated until Léirsinn had joined them, then continued on with that same activity whilst he escorted those two demure flowers back to Cailleach’s stand where her lad seemed to be doing an extremely brisk bit of business. He then loitered about uselessly, mulling over what he’d heard until Léirsinn and his aunt had apparently discussed their business to their satisfaction.
He bid his aunt a good day, collected his horse miss, and left before Cailleach could say anything else untoward.
“Chummy, weren’t you?” Léirsinn asked. “One would think you knew her.”
“One shouldn’t ask questions I can’t answer.”
Léirsinn stopped and looked at him in surprise. “You do know her.”
“I can’t say.”
“You know I’m going to ask her about it the next time we meet.”
“You do that.” He could only imagine what his auntie would decide to reveal about him, so perhaps he would be offering to run errands in town for the foreseeable future to spare Léirsinn any details she didn’t need to know.
He supposed he could think of worse things than to be doing something—anything—besides the backbreaking labor of endlessly moving horse droppings from small piles to much larger piles. If one more horsefly landed on his arse . . . well, he couldn’t bring to mind exactly what he would do because the choices were so dire—
“Watch out!”
She hadn’t shouted, but she’d come close. He waited until an appropriate number of locals had looked at him as if they pitied him for his companion’s obviously damaged sanity, then he looked at the shadow in front of him. It was smaller than the others, but even he could see its edges.
He didn’t pause to think; he simply ignored the warning bells going off inside his head and stepped into the middle of it.
He lost his breath. Nay, he hadn’t lost his breath, it had been ripped from him by claws. The spell continued to tear at him in a way he honestly couldn’t describe. His mind, his memories, his very essence was being pulled from him with a ruthlessness that astonished him. It took an effort that was impossible to even begin to calculate to wrench himself out of its terrible embrace—
He stepped back and leaned over, struggling to simply draw in breath, until he could put his finger on what had happened to him.
He had lost a piece of his soul.
It was excruciating.
He was vaguely aware of Léirsinn pulling his arm over her shoulders and taking a good deal of his weight onto herself, but he couldn’t find the strength to protest. It was all he could do to breathe in and out.
“What happened—”
“Find a quiet place,” he begged hoarsely. “I’ll be fine in a moment.”
“I don’t think—”
“Please.”
She looked at him in surprise. He imagined he was wearing the same expression. He had never in his life uttered that word—
Well, that was a lie, but he would be damned if he would revisit when he’d last begged for anything.
The next thing he knew he was sitting in a darkened corner of a gathering room, there was a fire within reach, and Léirsinn was fumbling with the purse at his belt.
“I should be enjoying this,” he wheezed.
“First a gambler and now a lecher,” she said sternly. “What else have I yet to discover about you that’s worse?”
“Don’t ask.” He closed his eyes because the chamber was spinning so wildly, he thought he might lose what breakfast he’d forced himself to ingest that morning.
He suspected he might have slept, for the next thing he knew, Léirsinn was shaking him awake. He pried his eyes open, then accepted something that someone might have termed ale if they’d never tasted the same before. He drank, though, because feeling nauseated from bad ale was better than feeling half dead from what he’d just had done to him. He looked at Léirsinn but could scarce see her. She leaned closer to him.
Her eyes were green. Not greenish-blue like the sea, but green like spring leaves in the most beautiful parts of the elven gardens of Seanagarra where he had only dared venture once during a year when Sìle had been abed with exhaustion from some piece of elvish rot . . .
He could honestly hardly bear to look at her, she was so haunting lovely.
“What do you think?” she whispered.
He let out a very ragged breath. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nay, about . . . well, about those things. There’s something untoward about them, isn’t there?”
He closed his eyes. “Considering I couldn’t possibly know anything of magic and that sort of rubbish,” he managed, “perhaps I’m not the best one to judge.”
“You know, you look like you’re going to puke.”
“Aye, well, I can judge that,” he agreed. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’ll think I’ll forgo the pleasure for the moment.”
“I ordered food.”
“Or something resembling it,” he said with a groan.
She smiled, but it was a very strained smile indeed. “I think I might be afraid.”
“I think you might be a very wise gel,” he said. He looked around the pub blearily for anyone who might want him dead, saw no one, then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Wake me if someone wants to kill us.”
“If you like.”
He wasn’t sure he dared express what he would have liked. The list began with wishing that damned spell following him had at least warned him before he lost part of his soul to some spot a crotchety old village warlock had likely laid on the cobblestones for his own amusement. His list ended with renewed determination to give his constant companion the slip the first chance he had, even if that meant he had to clout it over the head with a pitchfork. Given his newfound abilities with the same, he thought the bloody thing might never see that coming.
All he knew was that the last place he wanted to be was in the middle of mayhem without any way to protect himself—er, protect Léirsinn, rather. His good deed for the day, surely. It had better count for something, because he suspected he was the only one attempting the like.
He didn’t want to think about what the mage who had created those shadows was attempting.
He wanted even less to be forced to wonder just what in the blazes he was going to do about it without a single spell to hand.
Damn it anyway.
Seven
Léirsinn stood at the door to the kitchens and took several deep, even breaths before she lifted her hand to rap smartly on the door. That knocking was, of course, absolutely pointless. She knew she’d been marked long before she’d managed to force herself up the trio of steps to the kitchen’s meanest entrance. Those inside made her knock because it made them feel important and relegated her to something less than a servant.
She could have told anyone who would listen that she already knew her place very well, but that last thing she wanted was to find herself barred from the house. She had to see how her grandfather fared, then get through her interview with her uncle without killing him. Truly, she had a full night of delights yet in front of her.
Those were delights, though, that she was anxious to be seeing to without delay. It had been a se’nnight since she’d heard the tidings of her grandfather’s condition from that housemaid. She had no idea if he lived still or not, though she supposed Fuadain would have trotted out his best black suit of clothing if there had been a death in the family. Anything to focus attention to himself.
She put her hand on the door to try to draw some sense of calm from the wood. Mistress Cailleach had sent her word that morning about the state of her funds. She had more than she’d thought thanks to the fishwife’s shrewd investing in various things, but it was far less than she knew she would need to have to escape. If she’d had the strength, she would have taken on employment
as a barmaid. It was the only thing she could think of to do after evening stables that seemed reasonable.
But not even the addition of a barmaid’s wages would give her what she needed.
What she needed was a miracle.
Trust.
That was the last thing Cailleach’s note had said. It had been underlined and circled a pair of times, as if the woman had been afraid Léirsinn either wouldn’t see it or wouldn’t understand it.
Trust. Trust what? Trust that she would wake up and find a pile of gold at her feet? Trust that someone would come to help her when she was the only one who cared what happened to her or her grandfather?
Trust she could do the impossible when every single thing pointed to her not being able to accomplish the same?
What she needed wasn’t trust, it was something far beyond the usual business she engaged in, say . . . magic. She could hardly believe she was entertaining a thought so ridiculous, but after her last journey into town, she was prepared to think quite a few things. Most of them, she had to admit, had to do with those spots she was starting to see with alarming regularity in more places than she was comfortable with. It made her wonder if perhaps they had been there for far longer than she had realized. For all she knew, she’d been stepping in them for months without knowing it—
Nay, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that. Not after what had happened to Acair. She could still see the agony on his face as he’d pulled himself away from that shadow and almost collapsed at her feet. If she hadn’t spent so many years hauling bales of hay and endless buckets of grain, she likely wouldn’t have been able to get him across the road, never mind to a pub where she thought they might hide.
She shook her head at that thought. Hiding. When in her life had she ever considered that to be necessary?
Acair had recovered, seemingly, and been busily shoveling manure ever since, but she’d found him more often than not shadowing her, especially after dark. She would have—and likely should have—told him that it wasn’t necessary, but she’d never been able to get the words out. Whether or not those spots were evil, she couldn’t say. She just knew she wanted to be very far away from them as soon as possible.
She glanced around herself, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Acair wasn’t leaning negligently against some topiary in the garden, watching over her. Then again, she’d left him listening to a very long list of things Doghail wanted him to do, so perhaps she would have her interview with her uncle and be back to the barn before he finished. Not that she cared what he did, of course.
She closed her eyes briefly and got hold of herself. Truly, she needed a change of scenery. The sooner she was able to manage it, the better.
All of which would start by finding out exactly how dire her grandfather’s straits were and managing to endure her uncle’s company without losing more than just her entire month’s pay because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. The man didn’t like to be argued with, to be sure.
She put her shoulders back, took a deep breath, then reached out and rapped smartly on the door. It wasn’t opened right away, which gave her ample time to look at the façade of the damned place and wonder why she spent so much time looking at the outside of it instead of sitting comfortably on the inside of it.
The manor in which her uncle lived was so grand she never dared enter it without spending at least an hour cleaning up her boots. She had no clothes except what she wore for barn chores, but she at least attempted to make certain those were clean. In truth, it wouldn’t have mattered what she did, her uncle would have still found her lacking. If there were one thing that could be counted on to remain steady, it was that Fuadain of Sàraichte would never be satisfied with anything that went on around him. ’Twas little wonder he had buried three wives and was well on his way to sending a fourth off into the ether.
The door opened slowly and doubtfully, if such a thing were possible, and she was left facing Fuadain’s chief butler. He looked through her for a moment or two, then deigned to acknowledge her. He was little better than any of the rest of them, but at least he was more inclined to ignore her than sneer at her.
“Clean your boots,” he commanded.
She suppressed the urge to take one of her boots and plant it firmly against his backside. The whole situation was ridiculous. They had been doing the same thing for so many years, she wondered why he even bothered to speak. She cleaned her boots of any remaining, imaginary dirt as instructed, then followed the butler into the house. Not by the usual way, of course, because that would have elevated her to a status she certainly wasn’t entitled to. They went through the servants’ quarters and up the back stairs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been up the regular stairs. It might have been once during the first fortnight she’d been in Sàraichte. Certainly not since then.
There was a chamber just off the turn of the stairs where she paused. The butler paused as well, though he didn’t look at her. She put a coin into his gloved hand, then waited as he moved on down the passageway. He stopped in an alcove where she was quite certain he’d hidden a bottle of His Lordship’s finest port—for emergency’s sake, of course—and proceeded to ignore her, as usual.
She made certain the passageway was empty, then opened the door and slipped inside the room.
It was a rather shabby chamber, all things considered. There was nothing to be done about that, though, so she didn’t let it bother her. She walked over to the fire where her grandfather reclined, propped up in a chaise that was at least comfortable and solid. She pulled up a stool next to him and sat down.
“Good e’en, Grandfather,” she said pleasantly. “How are you?”
He didn’t look at her, his breathing didn’t change, his limbs didn’t move, but she didn’t expect anything else. Why he lived still, she didn’t know, but perhaps there was a purpose in it.
She took his hand and looked at him critically. He didn’t look any different than he usually did, which left her wondering just what that serving maid had been thinking. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if she could linger by his side and see if she noticed anything too subtle for a quick, cursory glance.
She thought, not for the first time, that it was a damned shame that there was only magic in faery tales. Well, in those and perhaps a few less civilized parts of the Nine Kingdoms where she would never wish to go. What she needed, if she could have had anything, was a mage. The sort of man who, if he existed, could be prevailed upon to visit her grandfather and simply heal him with a mighty spell. She had no idea what that sort of business might cost, but perhaps an attempt could be made, for the right price.
It was, after all, why she saved her coins, ate the pot scrapings after the stable lads had taken their share, and wore the same clothes she’d been wearing for at least a decade. Everything she had, as meager as it might have been, she put toward her only goal, which was escape. They would escape and her grandfather would be whole. She would accept nothing else.
She took a minute or two to tell him of her most recent adventures, not because the conversation was anything but one-sided, but because she thought that somehow, he might be hearing what she was saying.
It hadn’t always been that way. She had very vivid memories of her first encounter with Tosdach of Sàraichte. She had been brought inside the manor house, out of the rain, bedraggled, hungry, and exhausted. She honestly had little memory of the journey there save an endless, terrifying flight in the care of people she couldn’t have identified at present if her life had depended on it. Her parents had been slain, her siblings gone, and she alone had been spirited off for reasons no one would tell her. She’d been a child, so she had learned to think of it as a rescue.
Her grandfather had met her in the garden, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her off to a spot in front of a hearth in a far nicer chamber than he enjoyed at present. He had sung her to sleep with a lullaby her own fa
ther had sung her countless times. She remembered nothing more of that day save that he’d promised he would take care of her.
The next morning, she’d woken to find him in his current state and her uncle looming over her with a frown of disapproval on his face. She had been told to dress herself, then she’d been taken to her accommodations in the stables and given a pitchfork.
She didn’t like to think about that next pair of years.
She heard a footstep outside the door and realized she had stayed too long. She squeezed her grandfather’s hand, then rose and hurried to the door. She cast one last look behind her but nothing had changed. Her grandfather still sat there, reclining, unmoving. He didn’t look worse, though, which she supposed was the best she could hope for.
She wondered what that housemaid had seen.
She slipped out into the passageway, then followed the butler through increasingly opulent surroundings until he stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. He knocked and waited until he received a reply in the affirmative. He opened the door and stood back. Léirsinn took a deep breath, put on an appropriately submissive expression, then walked inside her uncle’s study.
She ignored the richness of the surroundings. She’d been ignoring it for years because the thought of how much money he spent on his own comfort while ignoring the needs of those around him made her so angry she could scarce control herself. Better to simply keep her head down and be about the evening’s business, silently.
Slaidear was there as well, looking grave. She nodded respectfully to him, because she had to, but it was almost all she could do not to point out to him what an idiot he was. Again, why he was in charge of her uncle’s stables was something she had never understood. He spent most of his time trailing after her uncle, licking his boots. It earned him a very fine little house near the stables and definitely better food than the rest of them enjoyed, but she wasn’t sure it could possibly be worth the price he had to be paying in pride.
She looked at her uncle and made him a low bow. “I have come at your pleasure, Uncle.”