by Lynn Kurland
He had never presented himself at her table, of course, because he was who he was and she was who she was and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt any of her dinner parties. He could hardly believe she would even acknowledge him, much less rescue him.
Truly, his life had become very strange.
“You came to rescue us,” he said, because he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“Aye, both of you, Acair,” Eulasaid said with a small smile. “We heard tell that you were unwilling guests here, so your grandfather and I thought you might be pleased to see a friendly face or two.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’m not as spry as I used to be, of course, but I think we’ll manage well enough.”
“I don’t want to be rude,” Acair said gingerly, “but we are on the wrong side of Ainneamh’s borders and the king is not without power—”
“Ehrne is an ass,” Eulasaid said. “I have no fear of him. I happily amuse myself by unraveling his border spell when it creeps into my garden, so I’m familiar enough with what he creates. This thing guarding his dungeon was, I daresay, created by one of his lesser grandchildren several centuries ago. It hasn’t been tended very well, but even so I suggest we don’t linger. We still have a bit of a walk in front of us.”
Acair nodded. “Too far for a dead run,” he agreed, “even for me. You should go ahead with Léirsinn. I’ll distract the guards and follow as I can.”
“Not to worry, love,” Eulasaid said cheerfully. “The guards are sleeping soundly and Sgath is making a nuisance of himself upstairs to give us a chance to be away. You know Ehrne. He’ll be arguing with Sgath for hours over past imagined slights. We’ll have time enough for a leisurely stroll, though I think we’d best be about it. I believe I might have left the kettle on.”
Acair wasn’t about to argue. He boosted his grandmother, then his, er, whatever that red-headed gel was, then hauled himself through the window without delay. He looked over his shoulder in time to watch that damned spell of death reach out with long, spindly fingers and pull itself up and out of the window as well.
“You have a friend,” Eulasaid remarked, brushing off her hands and settling her cloak.
“My constant companion,” Acair said sourly. “Don’t suppose you could destroy it for me, could you?”
“Oh, I don’t like to interfere,” she demurred.
“Ha,” he said with a snort, then he clamped his lips shut. “Forgive me, my lady.”
She laughed, a delightful sound full of good humor. “Absolutely nothing to forgive, love, of course.” She glanced at the spell again. “An interesting little thing there. Perhaps I’ll have a wee conversation with it later, just to see if it has anything interesting to say. But I think it has a purpose in your life that I don’t dare disturb.” She smiled at him. “Let’s go home, shall we?”
Acair didn’t want to acknowledge the small . . . something . . . those words gave him in his chest. A feeling of fondness toward a woman who could have flattened him with the smallest lifting of her pinky finger, perhaps. He shook his head in resignation. ’Twas that damned spell of healing Rùnach had used on him the year before, rearing its ugly head yet again. He was never going to be free of its vile effects.
“Why don’t you children go on ahead,” Eulasaid suggested. “I find that I suddenly have business behind us. I’ll be along shortly, I promise.”
Acair considered protesting, but Eulasaid was who she was, after all. Whilst she might enjoy a proffered arm on the way into supper, she didn’t need a lad with spells to aid her if she had a bit of business to see to. Given that he was unable to use any of his magic, he supposed there was no use in tagging along after her. That and he suspected nothing he could say would dissuade her, so he made her a brief bow, then took Léirsinn’s hand and continued on with her as quickly as he thought they dared.
“That was interesting,” she remarked.
He shot her a look, then shivered. “Wasn’t it, though? And there I’d been, racking my wee head for ways to get us out of that damned place with as little fuss as possible. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it helps to have powerful friends.”
“I’ll say. Did I also hear her say my horse was in her pocket?”
“I believe you did.”
She was quiet for a goodly while as they walked swiftly through the forest, draped as it was in pre-dawn light. He didn’t dare speculate on what she was thinking; he was too busy trying to keep pace with her. He wasn’t unaccustomed to making hasty exits, but he had to admit he was hard-pressed to keep up with Léirsinn when she was in a hurry.
He found himself unaccountably relieved, a fair bit of time later, to see the thin blue line marking Ehrne’s western border. He made certain Léirsinn was beside him, then crossed it without delay. He hunched over with his hands on his thighs and simply breathed in air that he didn’t have to share with monarchs who wanted him dead.
He supposed that was going to be something of a rarity.
He heaved himself upright eventually and found his companion simply standing there, watching him. He was tempted to reach for a spell of protection, then caught himself halfway to doing the like. It gave him pause, honestly more than anything that he’d faced over the past year.
Perhaps he needed a change.
“Who was that again?” she asked.
He latched onto the distraction without delay. “That,” he said, “was Eulasaid of Camanaë.”
“Is that a place or a magic?”
He reached for her hand and tucked it under his elbow. He started down the path with her, happy to discuss anything that didn’t have to do with his own sorry self.
“It is both, as it happens,” he said. “Not far from here, as fate would have it, is that lovely little country, full of all sorts of magical things and beings. Unfortunately, I doubt we’ll have a chance to make a visit.”
“And she’s your grandmother,” Léirsinn said slowly. “This Eulasaid of Camanaë.”
“To her continued surprise, no doubt,” he said. “She’s my father’s mother and the granddaughter of the Wizardess Nimheil.”
“One of those women who only dabble in lesser magics?” she asked politely.
Where to begin with that? He decided ’twas best not to begin at all. “Nimheil is definitely an exception to that rule,” he said. “Her granddaughter is as well. A very powerful gaggle of hens, that lot from Camanaë.”
“Do you honestly think they would appreciate being called a gaggle?” she asked, sounding amused.
“I think any of them would attempt to slay me on the spot just for the sport of it, leaving me to scamper behind my father’s mother’s skirts,” he said with a snort, “so what I call them is likely the least of what they’d be interested in.”
She looked up at him seriously. “I would ask you if you dine with your grandparents often, but I’m guessing not.”
He shook his head, but couldn’t bring himself to make light of it. He had spent more than his share of time in exclusive and very luxurious places, which he had always told himself made up for the rest of his life. Now, though, he was starting to wonder if there might have been things he’d missed out on, things he should have made more of an effort to be a part of.
He rubbed his chest in annoyance. That damned spell. If he ever managed to get Rùnach of Tòrr Dòrainn properly cornered and cowed, he would be insisting on a few changes.
“Where are we going?”
He was grateful for not only the change of subject but the necessity of thinking about his next move.
“My list of safe harbors is very small,” he said slowly, “and the ones where I’m welcome is even smaller, I fear. I believe we should accept the lady Eulasaid’s kind offer and make for Lake Cladach. You’ll be safe there whilst I turn for Neroche.”
“Where a warm welcome also awaits?”
He l
ooked at her narrowly. “Throwing a man’s past in his face is hardly the way to give him room to carve out a new, less murderous, future.”
She smiled faintly. “I don’t think you’re nearly as evil as you would like everyone to believe.”
“I’m worse, trust me,” he muttered. “You would be wise to keep as far from me as possible.”
“Too late now, I imagine. Besides, you hold the key to my grandfather’s salvation.”
He shook his head. “Heaven help you if I’m what you’re relying on, which you are, poor girl.”
“I’m a score and ten, Acair. I can think for myself.”
“I’m two years shy of a century, and I’m not sure I do much thinking at all.”
She laughed at him. He didn’t bother to assure her that her laughter was misplaced.
“I still think you’re inventing most of this as you go,” she said, “but I will admit that I’ve seen things that give me pause. Your grandmother, for instance, is rather spry for what I’m assuming is a rather substantial tally of years.”
“A tally I won’t reveal, because I am discreet like that,” he said archly.
She smiled. “And so you are, to your credit. Now, tell me again how you’re related to her? She’s your father’s mother?”
“Aye,” he said, looking briefly over his shoulder to make sure Soilléir’s spell wasn’t going to object to that small bit of truth. After all, it wasn’t as if Léirsinn didn’t now know who he was. Given that he hadn’t been the one to tell her, perhaps adding a few more details past what he’d given her in Ehrne’s dungeon wouldn’t upset the damned thing overmuch.
“And she’s a safe harbor for us?”
“I can’t imagine she would rescue us only to toss us in her dungeon,” he said, “not that I imagine they have one.”
“Generous.”
“Aye, they are, so it seems.” He paused. “I think perhaps we shouldn’t roam about their little kingdom, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because my half-brother Ruithneadh and his lady wife live across the lake from them, or so I understand.”
“And they wouldn’t be happy to see you?”
“No,” Acair said without hesitation. “We share a father, Ruithneadh and I, but that is exactly all we share.” He looked at her, then sighed. “The situation is a bit complicated. I’m not sure if I was entirely clear about this before, but my father was a bit of a rogue. He carried on with my mother for quite some time yet never found the opportunity to wed her.”
“How long is quite some time?”
“Several centuries, at least. What he was combining before that, I couldn’t say.” He looked at their surroundings for a moment or two to make sure they were still safe, then continued on. “After my father and my mother had parted ways, I understand he managed an invitation to Toirmisgeach of Dùinte’s salon and there he saw Sarait, the youngest of the five daughters of the king of the elves.”
“Isn’t his dungeon where we just were?” she asked.
“Nay, Sarait is the daughter of Sìle, king of the elves of Tòrr Dòrainn. Much more exclusive, that lot. Their land is to the east of Ehrne’s. The elves of Tòrr Dòrainn do not wed with any who aren’t their sort of people, if you know what I mean. But my father fell madly in love with Sarait and would not be gainsaid, or so I understand. How he managed to win her, I don’t know.”
“Wait,” she said slowly. “If King Ehrne is your cousin, that would make you an elf. Part, at least.”
“To my continued surprise, aye, it does.”
“And part witch.”
“Wizard,” he said, “through my mother and the lady Eulasaid, whom you’ve met. Aye to that as well.”
She stopped and looked at him. “But if your cousin is the king of Ainneamh, does that make you a prince?”
He had to admit he rarely thought of it that way, but there was truth to it, he supposed. “If it earns me entrance to a dining hall that sets a decent table, absolutely.”
She smiled. “Your needs are fairly simple, aren’t they?”
If she only knew. He supposed he would have been far better off in the past if he’d limited himself to what he’d intended to eat each night and left other things alone. “You’re a wise lass for noticing that,” he said. “Supper, cards, the odd, irreplaceable knick-knack. I’m honestly not at all sure why I have so many enemies.”
“I can’t imagine either,” she said solemnly, “but King Ehrne certainly seems to fall in with that lot.”
“The feeling is quite mutual, I assure you,” he said. He paused, then looked at her. “He may have more reason for that than I’m allowing. ’Tis possible that I may have vexed him overmuch in the past.”
“Pinch something or just insult him?”
“I removed his crown from where it had fallen half off his head whilst he was napping in his great chair, hefted it, then tossed it back at him as not worth the effort.” He shrugged. “I may have also insulted his wife.”
She laughed a little. “I should be appalled.”
“Likely so, for you have to know I’m leaving out the more unsavory bits in deference to your finer sensibilities,” he admitted. “He is an ass, as anyone will tell you, and deserves everything I’ve taken the time to do to him over the years. Sarait’s father, Sìle, though is a different sort. I’m honestly not sure why he gave my father permission to wed his daughter, but Gair is nothing if not charming.”
“It must have been difficult to have him start over with someone else,” she said quietly.
“Especially given what brats he sired on her,” Acair said with a shudder. “Awful souls, every last one of them.”
She nodded and walked on with him. She was silent for so long, he finally looked at her. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“You don’t have to tell me more,” she said.
“I’m honestly not sure I can,” he said. “And stop looking at me with those eyes of yours that see too much. ’Tis no wonder no stallion in your barn manages to be about a decent bit of mischief with you watching.”
“I am a good judge of hearts.”
“Don’t judge mine.”
She only smiled briefly, then turned back to watching the path in front of them. He wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t murmured too late under her breath, but he wasn’t about to ask her to repeat it so he could be certain.
He said nothing more, for there was nothing more to say. She could peer inside his black heart all she liked, but she wouldn’t find anything good. He had burned it all out decades earlier. No matter what horrors that Fadairian spell of healing had done to him, in the end, there was nothing left of his heart but the ashes from too many evil deeds.
More the fool was he for indulging in even the slightest wish that things could be different.
He gathered up a few thoughts of mayhem and wrapped them about him like a cloak. They were comforting and left him feeling much more at ease. He nodded briskly to himself and marched on with purpose. He would stash Léirsinn comfortably at Sgath and Eulasaid’s lovely palace, then be off on the hunt for that lazy meddler from Cothromaiche so he could have that damned spell of death properly disposed of. Once that was done, he would solve Léirsinn’s mystery of those annoying spots of shadow, rescue her grandsire, and see her settled somewhere safe. He would then be back to his normal way of doing things.
He hadn’t the heart for anything else.
• • •
A pair of hours later, he supposed it might take him a bit longer to be on his way than he’d feared. He was sitting in the very cozy nook of a welcoming kitchen, enjoying a glass of excellent wine and watching the three other souls there discuss—what else?—horses.
Sgath was a keen horseman, Acair knew from rumor alone. Angesand foals occasionally found their way into Sgath’s stables, something A
cair knew was so rare as to be relegated to the stuff of legends. Eulasaid was just as enthusiastic and Acair imagined she was the one who managed, on those rare occasions when managing was accomplished, to talk Hearn of Angesand out of his beasts.
He watched his father’s parents chat with Léirsinn, interrupting each other with affection, finishing each other’s sentences with smiles of good humor. He had to use a great deal of energy to ignore a pang of something that might have been called envy. He had no memories of his father ever having had anything to do with his mother and, if he were to be completely honest, he thought it might have been better that way. If ever two were not meant to live together in bliss, it had been those two.
He couldn’t help but wish that he’d attempted a visit to his current location much sooner.
He set his glass down, smiled, then pushed his chair back. Too much sentiment was obviously detrimental to his health. “I’d best go see to . . . er, the out of doors. Rather.”
“Wouldn’t want it scampering off,” Eulasaid said with a smile. “Go ahead, darling. Walk all you like.”
He was ninety-bloody-eight years old, yet he left his pride behind at that damned table and bolted. It took him a dozen turns about the garden before he thought he might have gotten control over his traitorous heart. Damned thing. He should have told Rùnach to rip it from his chest, not heal it—
He ran bodily into his father’s sire before he realized what he’d done. “My apologies,” he said, reaching out to steady Sgath.
His grandfather only laughed. “I’m not so far into my dotage as all that, lad, but I thank you for your pains just the same.” He nodded toward the path. “A decent moon tonight, as well as your grandmother’s spells of lamplight tucked artistically into the trees, which I’m sure you’ve already noticed. Another few turns about the old place, aye?”
“Ah, I’m sure I have something to do elsewhere—”
“And I’m fairly certain that whatever that thing might be, it will wait. Don’t you think?”
Acair looked at Sgath evenly. “Are you taking me out to the proverbial woodshed, Your Highness?”