The White Spell

by Lynn Kurland

  Dire were his straits indeed.

  He walked over to toast his arse against the fire and looked at the woman sitting in a chair next to that fire. She had regained her senses true, but she looked easily as devastated as he felt, though obviously for different reasons.

  He had caught her as she’d fallen, after he’d pulled her free of that accursed spot of darkness. He knew Miach had covered that patch with a spell so it wouldn’t cause anyone else trouble, been grateful for the king’s aid, then accepted the sanctuary of that same monarch’s private solar. Léirsinn had come back to herself after only a few moments and she hadn’t looked terribly upset, but it wasn’t as if she would have blurted out her fears right there in front of the company that had gathered to watch the spectacle of Rigaud of Neroche attempting to slay him.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and studied his companion. She was simply sitting there, staring into the fire as if she saw things she didn’t like.

  “Léirsinn?”

  She looked up at him. “Aye?”

  He wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject of what she’d experienced, so he simply stared at her, mute. Foolish, aye, but there it was. She was completely out of his experience and he was definitely not at his best.

  “Are you unwell?” she asked.

  He looked at that remarkable woman sitting there in that glorious emerald gown and found himself without a single useful thing to say.

  “Speechless,” she noted. “An interesting development.”

  “Just trying not to distract you from your admiring of the very fine figure I cut in evening garb,” he managed.

  She only smiled at him as if she found him somewhat tolerable. He didn’t dare hope for anything else, never mind that he shouldn’t have been hoping for anything else—

  Ah, hell. There was no hope for it. He was, he had to admit, rather lost. He shook his head. A horse gel. Who would have thought it? He was tempted to linger with that very pleasant thought for a bit longer, but he knew he couldn’t. He struggled to drag his thoughts back to where they should have been—namely focused on the business of those damned pieces of shadow—but he was interrupted by the king of Neroche returning with glasses and a bottle or two. He sighed, then walked over to shut the door behind his sister’s husband.

  From there, things proceeded on the usual course that polite after-entertainment parleys generally took. He stood—well, he leaned, actually—against the hearth and listened to Léirsinn and Miach converse on subjects that he expected Miach assumed would interest her.

  “I am ignorant of the world outside Sàraichte,” Léirsinn said. “I would prefer to remedy that, but I have no idea where to start.”

  Acair realized Miach was pointing at him and wondered what in blazes he’d muttered before he thought better of it.

  “Acair is a treasure trove of anything you would ever want to know, though I’m not sure you would want to wade through all his opinions to get to the facts.”

  “But I imagine he knows most of the players, wouldn’t you say?” Léirsinn asked.

  “Knows what the insides of their private solars look like, rather,” Miach said wryly, “but aye, I imagine he’s at least had a glass of wine with them before ransacking their treasures.”

  “I am being maligned,” Acair managed. “I don’t rob everyone I meet. Your solar here has remained unmolested.”

  Miach smiled. “There is that. Léirsinn, when you’ve the time for it, come stay with us for a bit. You’re welcome to take your choice of my private library.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Miach only laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, as Acair could likely attest to. Now, I understand you were most recently in Angesand. What is Hearn breeding these days besides envy for his very fine steeds?”

  Acair listened to them discuss horses and lines and prospects as he tried to sip Uachdaran of Léige’s most bitter brew. It was absolutely vile and he wasn’t sure it wasn’t going to dissolve his innards before he finished the glass, but he feared Miach might have a point. There might come a time when tossing back a cup of the vile bilge whilst coming up smacking his lips might be what saved his sorry arse.

  He tried to distract himself by listening to the conversation going on in front of him, but it was difficult. If Miach were curious about the night’s events, he didn’t show it. If Léirsinn were suffering any lingering damage from her encounter with darkness, she didn’t mention it.

  There were times social niceties were damned frustrating.

  But he watched Léirsinn by the light of the fire just the same until his glass was empty, she was asleep, and his heart was utterly lost. He looked at the king of Neroche to find Miach watching him.

  “What?” he asked crossly.

  “Just enjoying your journey.”

  “To where, might I ask?”

  “If you don’t know, Acair, I have absolutely no hope to offer you.”

  Acair shook his head. “A gentleman doesn’t discuss matters of the heart in front of the woman in question.”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “She could be pretending.” He set his glass on the mantel and looked at his brother-in-law—something he never thought to have, truth be told—purposefully. “I am, for lack of a better word, doomed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that spell that hounds me wasn’t, I learned this morning, fashioned by Soilléir.”

  Miach frowned thoughtfully. “Rùnach, then?”

  “Nay, or so Soilléir claims.” He gestured inelegantly toward the woman—ah, hell. He gestured toward his lady, ignored the way even thinking such a thing rendered him off-balance, then looked at the king. “Did you see what—well, of course you saw. I have no idea what that patch of shadow did to her and I daren’t ask. All I know is I can’t do a damned thing about them and they’re starting to affect people I lo—er, I mean, people I am responsible for.”

  Miach started to rise, then looked at him. “Do you mind if I have a look at your shadowy companion over there?”

  “I would be most grateful, actually. It doesn’t seem to care for my peering into its innards, but you go right ahead.”

  Miach smiled faintly. “A mystery. You should be enjoying this.”

  “Ask me how I feel after the mystery is solved,” Acair said grimly, “something that would be far more easily accomplished with magic than without.”

  “I agree,” Miach said, setting aside his cup. “Let’s see what we can.”

  Acair approached the spell with the king of Neroche and tried not to spend more time than necessary thinking about how odd the whole situation was. He had never thought to stand on the same side of a battlefield with Mochriadhemiach of Neroche, never mind standing with the man in his own solar, accepting his aid.

  His life had become very strange indeed.

  The spell was standing in the corner—well, slouching there, actually, as seemed to be its habit. It straightened at Miach’s approach. Acair would have warned the king not to get too close to it, but decided the lad was wise enough to determine for himself where to draw the line, as it were. For himself, he decided that keeping a decent distance was the best course of action, lest his irritation prove to be more than he could reasonably control.

  “What do you think?” Acair asked, after Miach had done nothing but stare at the bloody thing for far longer than Acair thought necessary.

  Miach looked at him. “Have you looked at it closely?”

  “I haven’t,” Acair said. “I was under the impression it had been created by Soilléir and I could see immediately what its purpose was. What was the point of poking it in the ribs, as it were, to see what it was made of?”

  Miach leaned against the edge of his worktable and studied the spell that stood there, looking back at him with the belligerence of a cheeky ten-year-old lad
. Acair wondered just who in the hell had possibly created such an obnoxious thing.

  “Not Soilléir’s,” Miach said. He looked at Acair. “Nor Rùnach’s, aye?”

  “So Soilléir claims, though I’m tempted to believe he’s lying.”

  “’Tis an elegant thing,” Miach offered. “For a spell of such power. But it doesn’t look like something Soilléir would do. In truth, Acair, I have no idea who fashioned it.”

  “But its purpose is to slay me if I use magic.”

  “That seems to be the case.”

  Acair dragged his hands through his hair, then sighed. “I’m not sure how to describe how much I despise the place in which I find myself.”

  “No magic, mages with your death on their minds, and a lovely, defenseless woman to protect?”

  “That sums it up nicely.” He looked at the spell in the corner. “And that thing there . . . if I could destroy it, I would, but in destroying it, I destroy myself.” He looked at Miach. “A bit of a tangle there, wouldn’t you say?”

  Miach shook his head slowly. “I’ve a strong stomach, but I’m not above admitting it makes me a little uneasy.” He paused, then looked at Acair. “Since we’re speaking of things that make us uneasy, I have something for you.”

  “An invitation from Rigaud to another duel? I believe I’ll pass.” He looked at his host. “But don’t think I don’t appreciate the rescue tonight.”

  Miach smiled briefly. “My pleasure, of course.” He reached behind him, then handed Acair a folded sheaf of paper. “This was handed to a lad at the gates before dawn this morning.”

  Acair took it, though he was the first to admit he suddenly didn’t think he wanted to read it. It was a single line.

  I’m watching you.

  He looked at Miach. “A poor jest,” he said dismissively.

  “Which is why I pressed Cathar into watching my son so I could watch over you and Morgan earlier as you traveled to find Soilléir,” Miach said seriously, “then again tonight as you and Léirsinn walked in the garden. I don’t think it is a jest, Acair. Read it again.”

  Acair didn’t want to tell his brother-in-law that he was mad, so he humored him.

  I’m watching her.

  He looked at Miach, more startled than he should have been. “What’s this rubbish?”

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t think I want to.”

  “I think you should.”

  Acair looked again.

  I’m watching you both. Always.

  “Droch,” Acair croaked, “at his least imaginative.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then one of the lads at Buidseachd,” Acair said, grasping for the first thing that came to mind. “Some lad with more time than sense.”

  “Do you think so?” Miach asked seriously.

  “’Tis a simple trick,” Acair said dismissively. “Overly theatrical, but there you have it. If I didn’t know better, I would say my spellish companion over there in the corner had written it just to vex me. Besides, ’tis in a woman’s hand.”

  “Or a scholar’s hand,” Miach said.

  “Or the hand of someone forced to write it whilst the creator—a student, I’m sure—slipped quite happily into his cups at the end of a long term at the schools of wizardry.”

  “There is magic infused into the parchment,” Miach said slowly, “don’t you think?”

  “Impossible,” Acair said immediately, then he paused. “A change of essence, perhaps?”

  “I would agree, but ’tis impossible to animate something that has no soul.” Miach looked at him. “You can turn a living being into a rock, but not a rock into a living being, if you appreciate the difference which I’m sure you do.”

  “Then this is not a spell of Soilléir’s.”

  Miach shook his head slowly. “Not one I know.”

  Acair sat. He supposed he was fortunate that there was a chair beneath his arse and supposed it had been Miach to shove it there. He looked at the paper in his hands—his trembling hands, it had to be said—and thought things he didn’t care for.

  Soilléir’s spell of un-noticing had been odd, hadn’t it? And Soilléir had denied having fashioned the spell now looking over his shoulder at the sheaf barely in his hands, hadn’t he?

  Had the man gone mad?

  Or had someone else nipped into Seannair of Cothromaiche’s library and had a look in spell books that obviously needed better locks on them?

  He folded the sheaf of parchment back into quarters and tucked it inside a pocket. He rose, brushed off his jacket, and looked at Miach.

  “My most heartfelt thanks for the safe haven and that vile ale. Both have been very enjoyable.”

  Miach only looked at him with eyes that saw far too much. “Off hunting, are we?”

  “Hunting what?” Acair scoffed. “The scribbler of that note and the maker of that spell? I wouldn’t stir myself to even entertain the thought. Nay, I think I’ll pop around to some of my old haunts and see what’s on the fire. One must keep up social calls, you know.”

  Miach didn’t move. “If you need aid,” he said very quietly, “send word.”

  “You’re a capital fellow,” Acair said. He smiled pleasantly. “I’ll rouse our horse miss over there, then I believe I should perhaps be on my way. If you wouldn’t mind giving her an escort to wherever she wants to go? I believe she would be safer very far away from me.”

  “As you will, of course,” Miach said, nodding.

  Acair nodded in return, woke a woman who he supposed was accustomed to not having the chance to rub the sleep from her eyes before she needed to be about her business, then left the king’s solar. That was preferable to plopping himself down on Miach’s lap and begging the king to spot him a spell or two to keep him from being slain until he could solve his own tangle.

  “I didn’t mean to sleep,” Léirsinn said.

  “It was likely better that way,” Acair said. “Long night and all that.”

  She said nothing else, which he considered a mercy. If he’d looked at him with those knowing green eyes of hers, he likely would have broken down and spewed out everything he knew before he could stop himself.

  He walked her to her door, made her a low bow, then pulled the door shut once she’d gone inside. If he’d bid her goodnight, he honestly didn’t remember it. He did come back to himself in time to realize he was facing Mansourah of Neroche and the man wasn’t smiling. At least it wasn’t Prince Rigaud.

  Mansourah looked down his nose at him. “I believe I could have escorted her to her chamber.”

  Acair smiled pleasantly. “And I believe that if you don’t leave her be, I will kill you.”

  “You forget I have magic as well.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  Mansourah looked primed to say something nasty, then suddenly sighed instead. “I find my heart is lost.”

  “I believe they breed excellent hounds in Darbyford,” Acair said. “Hire a couple of those pups and put them on the scent. And stay away from Léirsinn.”

  “You flatter yourself if you think she wants you.”

  “What I can tell you is that she wouldn’t want you.”

  “Don’t you think she should have that choice?”

  Acair spluttered. “You’ve known her less than a day. ’Tisn’t possible to fall in love in that short a time.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  Acair started to speak, then decided that didn’t merit an answer. He glared at Miach’s older brother. “I’m finished with this conversation.”

  “And with that spectacular woman as well, one could hope.”

  Acair glared at the man, then turned away. Aye, Mansourah had it aright. He needed to be finished because he couldn’t ask her to go where he suspected he was going to need to go. He had no
means of keeping her safe. He didn’t even have a bloody sword to hoist in her defense.

  All he had was his wits, various caches of gold scattered all over the Nine Kingdoms, and a nose for sniffing out unpleasant spells. He had the feeling the sooner he got to using all three, the better.

  He shut himself inside his own chamber, ignoring the fact that nothing but a wall separated him from the woman he lo—er, the woman he was somewhat fond of. If he went and pressed his hand against that wall to be closer to her, well, there wasn’t a damned person who was watching him, which meant he could make as great an ass of himself as he liked.

  He was going to have to somehow lock her into her chamber by rather normal means, then be on his way before she woke in the morning. If he didn’t, she would follow him, and then where would he be?

  He stood there with his hand pressed against that damask-covered wall for a very long time indeed.

  • • •

  He walked out the front gates of the palace at dawn only to find his sister standing there, waiting for him. He shot her a warning look.

  “You’re not coming with me.”

  She shook her head. “I hadn’t planned on it. Just thought I should send you off with your horse and a little rucksack of food.” She shrugged. “I might have raided Rigaud’s closet for clothes and his desk drawer for a few coins. I forget now exactly what it was.”

  He imagined she hadn’t forgotten anything. “Thank you, Morgan.”

  “My pleasure. Any messages for your lady?”

  “You could tell her that I think her hair is glorious,” he said, “and that I left to keep her safe. She’ll understand.”

  “She won’t like it.”

  “But she’ll understand.”

  Mhorghain nodded and handed him Sianach’s reins. “Off you go, then.”

  He took the reins, then paused. “There’s something you should know.”

  She looked at him sharply. “If you tell me you are my father instead of Gair, I will stab you.”

  He attempted a smile, but he feared it hadn’t come out very well. “Nothing so dire.” He blew out his breath because he had never told a soul what he was about to vomit all over his sister. He shook his head. Bloody hell, if anything else untoward happened to him that day, he would simply . . . well, he would stomp about a great deal and rage, because that was what he did. He took a deep breath and looked at his sister. “About the well.”