by Lynn Kurland
She felt her mouth fall open. “We’re going back upstairs? Why?”
“Because we’re going to save our sweet necks,” he said. “And steal a book.”
She supposed she might have wanted to sit down sooner rather than later, but Rùnach didn’t give her a chance. She saw Miach’s spell of un-noticing fall over them, then hardly had the chance to take note of the fact that she was able to see something she wouldn’t have believed could exist three months ago before Rùnach had taken her hand and was pulling her up the stairs after him.
He stopped suddenly and flattened them both back against the wall in the stairwell. Aisling held her breath as a pair of scholars climbed the stairs past them. She waited until they were out of sight before she attempted even a whisper.
“They didn’t see us.”
“Miach’s spell of un-noticing is a very good one,” Rùnach murmured. “Thankfully.”
She let out a shaky breath, then looked up at him. “Gàrlach is here?”
“Apparently so,” Rùnach said. “I’m surprised he’s already recovered from his recent encounter with his own spells, but he’s a resilient lad. Not to worry, though. He’s no one of consequence.”
“Which is why we dove behind that bush.”
“I believe it was actually a horse-shaped topiary.”
“I think it was Iteach.”
He smiled. “I think so too.” He looked up and down the stairs, then nodded. “Let’s hurry.”
She was more than happy to oblige him, though she soon realized that keeping up with him was leaving her in a flat-out sprint. When he finally stopped, she leaned over and gasped for breath.
“Short of smashing the glass, I’m not sure I can get at what I want here.”
She heaved herself upright and saw that he was looking far too interested in the contents of the case in front of them. She started to tell him that when one encountered that sort of resistance, it likely meant one shouldn’t be getting into what lay before him, but before she could blurt the words out, he had shrugged out of his pack and was rummaging about inside it.
“What are you doing?” she wheezed.
“Looking for lock-picking tools.”
She felt something sweep through her that she was fairly confident was terror. “You can’t be serious.”
“Can you see if there’s a spell laid over this case?”
“A better question is, ‘Do I want to look?’ And the answer is, ‘Nay, I do not.’”
He paused with a small leather case in his hand, then looked at her with a small smile. “I’ll answer three questions for you without demanding anything in return.”
“Ten.”
“Six.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t like this bargain.”
“Ah, but think of the things you will learn. I know many secrets.”
She imagined he did, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know any of them. But she looked at the case just the same.
It was covered by several spells; that she could see easily. She patted herself for something to use in moving them aside, then found herself holding on to Rùnach’s knife.
“Will that suit?” he said. “’Tis a gift from my grandfather. I imagine it’s enspelled.”
“It is,” she agreed. The echo of the runes engraved on the hilt ran up her arm, not revealing themselves in their entirety but giving her a very good idea of what they were capable of. She imagined Rùnach could cut through solid rock with that knife.
She faced the glass case, then lifted up the bulk of the spells to reveal a lock on the case.
“Well done—”
She stopped him before he reached out with his tools. “There’s another spell there.”
“An alarm?”
“I think so. Let me see if I can get the knife under that as well.”
She could hardly believe she’d said as much, but it had been that sort of spring so far. As she lifted the spell up, she supposed it wasn’t a good thing that she managed it. Unfortunately, Rùnach opened the lock before she could come up with anything stern to say about his abilities. Obviously he’d done this sort of thing before, though she had absolutely no desire to ask him where or for what purpose.
He reached in and pulled out the book she’d noticed before, the one with the beautifully tooled leather cover. She would have asked him why he wanted that one, but she didn’t have the breath for it. All she could do was stand there and panic over the reality of their situation.
They were, it had to be said, trapped in a library, un-noticed for the moment, with one of his bastard brothers wandering around outside wanting to kill them and what would no doubt be very angry librarians inside soon wanting to hunt them down and punish them for assaulting their domain.
“I’m hurrying,” he said.
And indeed he was. That was quite possibly why the edge of the book he was filching caught the knife she was still using to hold the spells away from the case. Before she could compensate, the knife had gone through the spell of alarm, and bells started ringing wildly.
Rùnach shoved the book and his tools into his pack, took his knife back and slid it down into his boot, then took her hand.
“Let’s go.”
“Let’s go,” she repeated incredulously. “Go where? We’re finished!”
“Not quite yet, I don’t think.”
“But—”
“Let’s go up, shall we? That seems like a useful direction.”
“You’re daft!”
“Probably,” he agreed with a smile as he pulled her along toward the nearest window, “but let’s give this a go just the same.”
“Are we jumping?” Aisling asked in disbelief. “From this height?”
“Hopefully not. Ah, look you there at our pony, ready and conveniently wearing dragonshape in order to help us make our escape.”
She took a deep breath. “It looks very locked.”
“I think Iteach intends to melt the glass. Stand back and let’s see what he can do.”
Aisling stood back and waited, but the window didn’t melt. Rùnach frowned at it, but that didn’t accomplish anything either.
“Is there a latch?” Aisling ventured.
“I believe there is,” he said, reaching for it. He touched it only briefly before he cursed, then sucked on his finger. He used his knife to unlatch the window, then used it again to push the window outward. “That will have to do, I suppose. Mind the gap between library and dragon.”
She hesitated, partly because she could feel the window’s heat from where she stood, but mostly because she didn’t like heights. “I think he likes this shape—”
“I think he loves this shape,” Rùnach said dryly, “and you’re stalling. Off you go.”
Aisling leapt because Runach had boosted her up onto the windowsill and given her a wee nudge. He followed her immediately, which almost sent her spilling out of the saddle off the far side. He steadied her, then gave Iteach a friendly pat before suggesting a hasty exit upward.
It was not a pleasant ascent, but she supposed she couldn’t have asked for anything else. It occurred to her that she was neither fainting nor shrieking, which likely said more than she cared for about her methods of travel over the past fortnight. She was fairly sure Iteach had spent far more time ferrying them about in the air than he had trotting with them on the ground.
She waited until he had stopped clawing at the air to carry them skywards and was merely flapping off into the distance in a measured sort of way before she looked over her shoulder at Rùnach.
“What now?” she managed.
“How do you feel about a journey into the mists of legend and myth?”
It took her a moment or two before she realized where he was talking about. “Tòrr Dòrainn?” she asked, feeling a little breathless at the thought.
He smiled. “I can think of worse ideas. Are you interested?”
“Slightly.”
He laughed. “I imagine that’s exact
ly true.” He nodded back behind them. “I apologize for leading us into a hornet’s nest. It didn’t occur to me that things would be so changed. I don’t believe Diarmailt has always been as unfriendly as it seems to be now.”
“How were you to know?” she asked.
“Well, the first indication might have been that the king was stupid enough to lose his uncle’s crown.” He glanced over his shoulder, then swore. “I was afraid we wouldn’t leave without attracting some sort of notice.”
Aisling looked behind them to see another dragon there, flapping fiercely. She clutched the pommel of the saddle. “Who is that? Gàrlach?”
“I imagine so.” He had another look, then shook his head. “He won’t see us, of course, but it’s possible that he might sense a shadow of our passing.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Her voice was more a squeak that was carried away almost immediately on the rushing wind, which she supposed was just as well. “Rùnach, he’s spewing something out at us. Well, not exactly at us, but more in all directions, I daresay. I think it’s a spell—”
“Hold on.”
She whipped her head around to look at him so quickly, it pained her. “What are you talking about?”
“Whatever you do, don’t let go. Iteach is going to change shape.”
“Well, a larger dragon would be faster—”
“Not a larger dragon.”
She felt something curl in her stomach, and it wasn’t the breakfast she hadn’t had a chance to eat that morning. “What?”
“Ah—”
Iteach disappeared.
And that was the last thing she remembered as she slid happily into a faint.
Two
Rùnach clung to nothing he could see and reminded himself of all the years he had shapechanged. He had enjoyed it in the past. He was not enjoying it at present. To keep himself from making any sort of unmanly noises of distress, he distracted himself with a few pertinent memories.
He could safely say that he had at first changed his shape as an act of rebellion. If he’d had a piece of gold for every time his grandfather Sìle had bellowed, Elves do not shapechange! he would be a rich man indeed. His paternal grandfather had been less fastidious about it, admittedly, though Sgath generally preferred to overwhelm and astonish with unmistakable elven heritage alone when such a thing was called for.
His father had never been a shapechanger. It wasn’t that he couldn’t; he simply wouldn’t. Perhaps he had feared that if he wore a shape not his own, someone might fail to recognize him for who he was and thereby miss out on an opportunity to offer the requisite, effusive praise.
Rùnach’s mother Sarait had refrained simply out of respect for her father—at least in his presence. Of course she hadn’t been above suggesting a shape or two to her lads whilst sending them out to work off a bit of restless energy. If she had also whispered the appropriate spells to them on their way out the door, so much the better.
He had loved his mother terribly and missed her just as much.
He supposed that thinking on either would render him unfit for anything useful, so perhaps it was a good thing he was clinging to Aisling, grateful that his daypack was at least still on his back, and trying to convince himself that the breath of wind that was keeping them aloft was actually his damned horse.
Aisling had fainted when Iteach had changed his shape and Rùnach hadn’t blamed her a bit. If he hadn’t been so familiar with various shapes, visible or not, he might have joined her in oblivion. As it was, he’d managed to gasp out a fairly breathless Head south before he’d simply had to concentrate on taking his mind off their mode of travel.
It was an absolutely shattering journey.
The only thing he supposed he could say for it was that at some point in the past hour, he had stopped seeing even a hint of whoever had been following them. He hoped it had been Gàrlach.
He didn’t want to believe it had been the most powerful of his bastard brothers.
He allowed himself a brief moment of regret over lost anonymity. He had gone with Aisling to Diarmailt, hoping to blend in with the locals there. It was something he was accustomed to, having spent twenty years of his life hiding in plain sight as the servant of the most dangerous master at the schools of wizardry at Buidseachd. A false move, the pulling back of the hood at an inopportune moment, a slip of the tongue at any time during that score of years would have spelled death for him, yet somehow he had managed to move about in at least a healthy semblance of security and peace.
He had left that place of safety to attend the nuptials of two of his siblings, not unhappy for the opportunity to perhaps choose a different direction for his life. He’d been considering the like for quite a while, for a man of action and purpose could only remain stationary for so long.
Of course it had helped that a pair of his relatives had given him the miracle of two hands that worked where gnarled claws had existed before. He’d been able to hold a sword, which had been a great improvement over merely being able to drop glasses of wine. That had perhaps been what had finally given him the impetus necessary to take a step into the darkness, a step he had intended to be the first toward a new life as a serviceable but unimportant guardsman in the garrison of an equally unimportant lord.
Only somewhere along that road to obscurity he had met a woman with eyes whose color still escaped him, a woman who came from a land she refused to name, a woman saddled with a quest she refused to fully divulge.
Add to that the annoyance of having the most powerful of his bastard brothers hunting him whilst he himself had not a shred of magic in his hands, and he supposed his finely laid plans were perilously close to coming completely unraveled.
He and Aisling had gone to Eòlas because she had needed truth and he had been happy to help her search for it whilst he tried to determine why his entrance back into the world had been noticed by those he’d never had any intention of encountering again. His plan had been to simply slip into the library as an unremarkable scholar accompanied by his faithful aide, find what they both needed, then perhaps spend a se’nnight holed up in one of the more eclectic districts of Eòlas enjoying decent food and music whilst the world rolled on without them, hopefully to the point where certain hunters lost interest and moved on to seek other quarry.
He had assumed that he would, at some point, tell Aisling that he knew where she was from whilst assuring her that saying the word aloud wouldn’t bring instant death, but he supposed that if twenty years in the company of Soilléir of Cothromaiche had taught him anything, it was to keep his mouth shut and allow others to walk their own path as they needed to. Aisling needed to find out for herself that her country was nothing out of the ordinary, or she would never believe that the cheek to cross the border hadn’t earned her a death sentence.
For himself, he had been content with the idea of nosing about in a spectacular library and keeping himself busy with this and that.
Or at least he had been until he’d had the questionable pleasure of wandering through Perilous Collections where he’d seen a book housed there that had rendered him almost speechless with surprise. He thought he could say with a bit of authority that it hadn’t belonged there, but that might have been because he had been the one to hand tool the cover and fill the pages with his own spells.
He had, before he had gone with his mother and brothers to the well, given it to the witchwoman of Fàs for safekeeping. An odd choice, perhaps, but he’d been convinced that she wouldn’t have simply tossed it in the pile of donations for the local orphans’ home.
Who had then liberated it from her gnarled fingers and why had they chosen Diarmailt as a safe place to hide it?
The wind stopped suddenly. Rùnach was frankly amazed that as Iteach resumed his proper shape as a pegasus, that blessed pony managed to make it so Rùnach was in the saddle and could haul Aisling in front of him. His pack was still on his back, her satchel was still over her head, but their bows and quivers of arrows were gone.
Sssssssìle has betterrrrrr.
Rùnach didn’t want to know how his horse had come to be on a first name basis with the king of Tòrr Dòrainn or how he knew anything about the quality of weapons to be found in that king’s realm, so he merely agreed silently. His grandfather’s guardsmen were excellent swordsmen, true, but there was nothing like a bow made from elvish wood that had agreed to the cutting and honing that produced such a weapon. Elegant and deadly were not only the weapons but also the archers who wielded them. If he and Aisling managed to get to Seanagarra, she would find much there to delight her. At least his sword was still attached to the saddle, but he had to admit he had done a much better job of securing that than he had their bows. Perhaps Iteach’s ability to reshape things out of thin air extended only to things that were well-fixed.
Aisling regained her senses suddenly and with a squeak. She patted herself, patted Iteach, then sagged back against his chest.
“Not dead.”
“Not yet,” Rùnach said with feeling.
“Where are we?” she asked uneasily.
“South.”
“Regular south or mythical south?”
He managed a smile in spite of the fact that he was fairly sure his face was frozen in a grimace. “The latter, or so I dare hope. We’re obviously close to safety, else Iteach wouldn’t have resumed a more equine shape.”
“Oh, please don’t remind me of that.”
He squeezed her hands, which he was covering with his own, then turned his mind to more pedestrian matters. He glanced up at the canopy of stars above, then considered the horizon to the east. Dawn was close, thankfully. He studied the landscape beneath him until he realized with a great sense of relief that they were much farther south than he’d suspected earlier.
“We’re near the western border of Tòrr Dòrainn, actually,” he said, having to shout a bit over the wind. “We’ll be safe once we land inside my grandfather’s spells.”
Aisling nodded but said nothing. Rùnach gave Iteach a mental picture of where he wanted to come to earth, then closed his eyes against the wind. He wasn’t entirely sure that Iteach wasn’t conjuring up a bit more loft and speed than might normally have been available, but he wasn’t going to question it. His only thought at the moment was to get Aisling to safety. He supposed he would indulge in a fair amount of berating himself for not being able to protect her after the fact.