by Lynn Kurland
“I would say he is a challenge,” she said, charitably.
“Which means he frightens you.”
She looked at him from clear green eyes. “Nothing frightens me.”
He could only hope that would always be so. He didn’t want to begin to think of all the ways she might be inspired to revisit that declaration.
She turned to Hearn. “Was he mistreated?” she asked.
“Perhaps less mistreated than simply ignored. He was rescued by someone who thought I might want to rehabilitate him.”
“Can he do anything?” Acair asked in a last-ditch effort to perhaps hear something that would allow him to be very grateful for the offer of a horse but unfortunately forced to politely decline that same offer. “Do anything besides look at my arse as if he might like to take a piece out of it, that is. And what’s his name again, if I’m allowed to ask.”
“Sianach,” Hearn said mildly. “Means terror in horsey speak. Or screaming, which is what everyone who rides him seems to do.” He shrugged. “I forget which it is.”
Acair imagined Hearn hadn’t forgotten anything. “Did he name himself, then?”
“Your lady might ask him that after she’s seen what he can do.”
Acair would have said that his lady, who was assuredly not interested in being the like even if he had been—but was absolutely not—interested in a red-haired horse miss who ruined his sleep, was absolutely not going to get anywhere near that beast who had obviously just stepped from someone’s worst nightmare, but he realized he wasn’t going to have a chance to offer his opinion. Léirsinn was already tucking her hair up under a cap she had apparently borrowed from someone. The cap looked rather fresh, so perhaps Hearn had a selection of them for just such an exigency. Acair supposed he might not want to ask.
He also refrained from commenting on how Léirsinn led that damned horse away without trouble, but that might have been because he was preoccupied with not making an ass of himself by wringing his hands. She was a grown woman who knew her business very well. She didn’t need his aid.
He had to remind himself of that several times.
Sianach followed her happily and seemed to be just as fascinated by a bit of her hair that had escaped her cap as any other lad with two good eyes. She stopped, turned, and gave him a look that had him backing up a pace. She tucked that snuffled lock under her cap, then clicked for the horse to follow her. He ducked his head and walked docilely behind her.
“And all is as it should be,” Hearn murmured.
Acair shot him a look full of as much irritation as he dared use, then turned back to look at exactly what he was apparently about to saddle himself with. Léirsinn put a rope around the horse’s neck and started to run him around her in the usual circles. Acair watched for a moment or two, then realized things were not going to go exactly as they usually did.
The pony reared, roared, then came back to earth as a dragon. He shot Acair a pointed look, snorted out a bit of fire in the same direction, then folded his wings up and trotted—well, waddled, actually—in that same circle around Léirsinn.
She only took a deep breath, then snapped a whip against the dirt behind his long, scaly tail.
From there, the shapes only became more outlandish and substantially more terrifying. Dragons, things that slithered, nightmares on four feet. Acair was actually fairly impressed—and a little unnerved, frankly—by what he was seeing.
“Ah, watch how she manages him,” Hearn said, sounding pleased.
Acair shot him a dark look. “Don’t suggest she’s planning the same thing with me.”
“Lad, I don’t think she’s planning anything with you, something which you would be mourning if you had the good sense the gods gave a cockroach.”
“I think I should be offended.”
“The truth can be painful.”
Acair studied him, then nodded knowingly. “I see where you’re going with this. I’ve heard you’re a terrible matchmaker.”
“Nay, I’m a very good matchmaker.”
“My father would say I should wed a princess.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
Acair shrugged. “I have an unsavory past. Your average crown-wearing papa doesn’t care for that sort of thing.”
Hearn glanced his way. “You also have the ability to conjure up staggering riches at any time. For all I know, you have an enormous pile of things you’ve pinched from various places hiding in some hillside bolthole.”
“That would be my father, and his collection collapsed in on itself,” Acair corrected.
Hearn snorted. “And you’re telling me you didn’t liberate all the originals and puts forgeries in their places?”
Acair knew his mouth had fallen open, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He retrieved his jaw with difficulty. “You horse people frighten me.”
“We should.” Hearn tapped his forehead. “We have sight the lads from Cothromaiche dream about.” He smirked. “You would think a princess of breeding would be tempted by your largesse, ill-gotten or not, and in spite of her father’s wishes.”
“You would think.”
Hearn studied the horse in the arena who was still trying on the shapes of various mythical creatures apparently in an effort to see if any of them suited him. “He might have you for supper if you’re not careful.”
Acair looked at Hearn. “And yet you’ll allow me to buy him?”
“Lad, I’m begging you to take him off my hands.”
That perhaps should have been some sort of warning that all was not as it seemed, but Acair ignored it. “I must pay you something, truly.”
Hearn studied him. “That’s an interesting notion, coming from you.”
“I’m not completely without honor, such as it is.” He looked at the lord of Aherin seriously. “What will you take for him?”
Hearn blew out his breath. “I will tell you something, but it is strictly in confidence. Spread this about and I will kill you.”
“I believe you.”
Hearn looked about himself casually, then nodded for Acair to move closer. “Find out who creates those shadows.”
Acair looked at him in surprise. “That’s all? I was intending to do that just the same, for Léirsinn’s sake.”
“Do for mine as well.” Hearn paused, then swore quite inventively for a bit before he seemingly ran out of vile things to say. “That lad I told you about?” he asked grimly. “The one who went mad?”
“Aye, I remember him,” Acair said slowly. “And?”
“He’s my son.”
Acair had to shake his head a time or two, but that didn’t aid him in ridding himself of his surprise. He settled finally for looking at Hearn in astonishment. “You’re wed? I should say, I knew you had sons, rather, but, ah, I’ve never seen—”
“We don’t live together any longer,” Hearn said shortly. “We see each other now and again and I see that she lives a life of luxury, but the truth is, I drive her to drink. My youngest son is with her and has been for the past month. She fears he will simply sit still for so long that he’ll stop breathing.” He looked at Acair. “Find who creates those, stop him, then tell me how to heal my lad. That is my price.”
Acair held out his hand. “Done.”
“Say nothing—and if you give me your word as an honorable black mage, I will flatten you.”
Acair smiled briefly. “My word as Sgath’s grandson, then.”
Hearn shook his hand, then nodded briskly. “I’ll go speak to your mount.”
“Thank you.”
“You may regret that,” Hearn said airily, as if they’d been discussing nothing of import but a moment or two before. “That one is a demon.”
Acair watched Hearn walk off and supposed if he’d been paying less attention, he might have suspected he’d imagined the whole
thing. He wasn’t sure if he were more surprised that Hearn was wed or that one of his sons was the one who had gone mad.
There were foul things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms.
He was beginning to wonder why he seemed to be encountering them so often.
• • •
Their leave-taking was accomplished with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever. Hearn shook Acair’s hand, patted Léirsinn fondly on the shoulder, then turned and walked back inside his gates as if he didn’t know either of them. Off to do other things, perhaps.
“What now?” Léirsinn asked, holding Falaire’s reins.
“Tor Neroche, if we can manage it,” Acair said. “’Tis a fair distance, even in the air, but at least we’re getting an early start.”
“Acair, it’s halfway to noon.”
“As I said,” he said. “Early.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. He had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to smile back at her. He took the reins of his . . . well, the beast was a horse at the moment, but he supposed that wouldn’t last. He fussed with reins, made a production of looking at stirrups and a saddle whilst having absolutely no idea if they were settled properly or not, then gave himself up for lost. The seventh bastard son of the worst black mage in history and his lover the witchwoman of Fàs finding himself smitten with a flame-haired stable lass?
He was in trouble.
But, hopeless romantic that he was, he couldn’t help but think about it a bit more as they flew. Sianach was apparently on his best behavior, though Acair was sure that had nothing to do with him. Léirsinn had talked to him before they’d taken flight and she was obviously the sort of horsewoman a pony wanted to make a good impression on. He had to admit he understood.
What he didn’t understand, as the morning turned into afternoon, was why the hell he’d spent so much time not paying any heed to his surroundings. He realized with a start that he should have been concentrating on what was going on behind him instead of who was riding beside him.
A clutch of black mages in flight. He recognized the type.
They were hardly past Chagailt, not that anyone there would have let him inside the doors anyway, but at least it would have been some sort of shelter. As it was, they were simply flying over the endless plains of Neroche, completely out in the open, perfectly visible to anyone who cared to look up.
Damn it anyway.
He looked at Léirsinn. “We’re in trouble,” he shouted over the wind.
“Why?” she asked, obviously startled.
He nodded back over his shoulder. He would have warned her not to look, but it was too late. He had no idea how many there were, but he would have guessed a dozen at least. That alone surprised him. It wasn’t as if he had anything anyone wanted—
Was it?
Perhaps putting his foot in that shadow had stirred up a great deal more trouble than he’d thought.
Either that, or some busybody—Ehrne of Ainneamh came immediately to mind—had sent word to as many vile mages as he could that Acair was out in the open without his usual protections to hand.
Good hell, it was just impossible to move about as a normal mage with his past that trailed after him like sparks. Unfortunately what was trailing after those mesmerizing sparks was a burgeoning cloud of blackness that was rapidly darkening the sky.
It occurred to him with a startling flash of clarity that he had seen the beginnings of that storm the night before as he’d stood in Hearn’s courtyard. More the fool was he for not having paid better heed to it.
“What are they doing?” Léirsinn exclaimed.
“Theatrics,” Acair said succinctly.
He would know. He’d done the same thing hundreds of times. Black mages were pompous gits, there was no getting around that.
Unfortunately, whoever those lads behind him were, they were very good at several things not limited to a showy display. He might not have been able to use his magic, but he had two perfectly good eyes and a nose for all kinds of untoward things. That cloud of mage was gaining on him rapidly, more rapidly than a group of neophytes would have managed. He didn’t have the patience to try to identify them, but he supposed that didn’t matter. If they caught up, they would first slay Léirsinn, then they would take him off to places he wouldn’t want to go, do things to him he wouldn’t like, then watch him as he enjoyed a lingering, painful death.
He knew. He’d watched it be done. Whether or not he’d done it himself was something he didn’t think was particularly useful to bring to mind at the moment.
He considered his mount, who was wearing a modest but rather fierce-looking pegasus shape, then wondered what else the horse might be willing to do. He wasn’t quite sure how to communicate that query, so he thought perhaps a gentle suggestion might be a good place to start.
“We’re going to have to go faster, you demon steed,” he bellowed.
Sianach paused in mid-flap, leaving Acair wondering if the damned beast was in league with those lads behind him. Then his mount tossed his head and showed Acair a mental image of an evil intention speeding across countries as quickly as a piece of palace gossip.
“I’ll be damned,” Acair said in surprise. He looked at Léirsinn and held out his hand. “Jump.”
“What?” she squeaked. “Are you mad?”
“Jump,” he said impatiently. “Sianach will go very fast. Bring your horse along.”
If there was one thing that could be said without reservation about that horse-mad gel, it was that she didn’t lack courage. She pulled her feet out of her stirrups and jumped. She almost knocked him off his own mount, truth be told, but he managed to catch her and keep his seat. Barely. Falaire had to struggle to keep up with them, then he seemed to gather himself together for a final bit of a change. Léirsinn scarce managed to catch him as he flung himself toward them in the solid shape of a lovely little pewter pony. Eulasaid’s influence, obviously. Well, if nothing else, they could throw him very hard at someone and perhaps leave a mark.
“Hold on,” Acair managed as he felt Sianach gather himself for a bit of equine magic.
And that was the last thing he said for quite some time.
He would have to give Léirsinn as much credit as possible. She didn’t scream or faint and she would have been justified with either. He had no idea what Sianach considered himself at present, but it was something only slightly more substantial than horse-shaped air. His speed was terrifying and Acair thought he might be qualified to judge that given that he was someone who had craved speed like another might crave sweet wine after supper. He shifted Léirsinn toward him and tried to wrap his cloak around her to cut some of the wind. It was hopeless, of course, but she didn’t complain.
It turned into a perfectly horrible afternoon, even by his very low standards of comfort acceptable whilst being chased by mages with his death on their minds. Sianach was nothing short of spectacular and Acair supposed he might have to do more than what he’d promised Hearn in order to properly repay him.
“They’re gaining on us!”
Acair looked over his shoulder and realized she spoke the truth. He swore, then looked down to see where they were. He could hardly believe they had come so far north so quickly, but there was no denying the lay of the land, as it were. He supposed without words was Sianach’s preferred way of communications, so he asked—
And almost fell off backward from that hint of horse.
He clung with one hand to the reins, which looked as if they were attached to nothing more than a fond wish, clutched Léirsinn to him with the other arm, and tried to distract himself.
It was impossible. The truth was, he’d been watching Léirsinn ride that grey beast and he’d seen the speed that one had achieved. He’d been rather relieved it had been her riding the wind, as it were, and not him. But what Sianach was managing at the moment was much more than that. It wa
s as if he’d become the bitterest of winter winds screaming across the plains of Ailean.
Acair laughed before he could stop himself. It shouldn’t have been possible that he had forgotten so quickly what true flying felt like, but apparently it was.
It was, in a word, glorious.
“You’re mad!” Léirsinn shouted.
Most likely was half torn from his mouth before he realized that his pleasure was going to be short-lived. The black cloud behind him that had become a terrible, terrifying storm was so close to them, he could feel the cold reaching for him. Sianach could obviously sense it as well for he suddenly fell from the sky like a bolt of lightning.
“We’re going to die!”
Acair wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t have that right, but they were within Neroche’s borders, which was something of a relief. He supposed he could point that out to Léirsinn later and tell her how it was he always kept a weather eye out for that silver-blue line that separated their soil from everyone else’s, but at the moment, he was too busy being grateful for the spell that accompanied that thin line of border. He suspected most people came and went across that line and under the canopy of that spell without having any idea either existed. He knew, though, and he was, for a change, damned grateful for it.
Even so, the land north of the border was still an endless stretch of farmland, dotted with little hamlets and farms and other pedestrian though no doubt quite useful dwellings. Sianach was hurtling toward an enormous field that looked as if it might be just the right sort of place for a horse to wander over, eating its bloody head off.
In the midst of that expanse of prairie stood a lone figure.
Acair could only hope it was who he hoped it was and not his sire escaped from his prison in Shettlestoune.
The spell guarding Neroche parted long enough for them to scamper through. Acair supposed he should have discussed with Sianach the need to slow down before he drove them straight into the ground, but thankfully that horse was as intelligent as he was deviously creative. He skidded through the air as he slowed, then he made a rather lazy, impudent circle around the figure in the field before he came to ground in front of the man standing there, simply watching.