River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  He smiled. “If you can procrastinate on difficult topics, then so can I, so I’ll choose the first. As far as a childhood and youth spent here, I fear I didn’t appreciate it as I ought to have.”

  She couldn’t imagine that. If she had grown up in her current surroundings, she would have memorized every moment of every day to be held against a time when she might not be so fortunate. Perhaps Rùnach had never imagined he would live anywhere else.

  Or perhaps he had been slightly preoccupied with how to help his mother save himself and his siblings from their father.

  “Too busy shooting arrows into targets tacked to trees?” she managed.

  He smiled. “How did you know?”

  “One of the trees on the edge of what I’m assuming were your grandfather’s lists said as much.” She looked up at him. “I’m not sure I would walk past him in the dark if I were you. The tree, that is, not your grandfather.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He smiled. “You would think they wouldn’t hold grudges, wouldn’t you?”

  She smiled in return, because for some reason he just inspired it in her. “I think these trees have very long memories. I imagine you have the same.”

  “Honestly, I spent so much of my time either in the lists honing my sword skills or in the library looking for ways to kill my father, it seems as if I did little else, though I do remember the occasional ball in the grandest of audience chambers where I fruitlessly asked ladies of quality to dance and spent most of my time hovering uncomfortably against one wall or another.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I’m quite sure they were falling all over their hideously expensive gowns to throw themselves at your excessively charming self.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, now here is a topic about which I’m most interested in hearing more from you. Say on, woman, and tell me all about my charming self.”

  “I’ve already said too much,” she muttered. “I refuse to flatter your enormous ego further. I’m sure there were lines of women vying for your attentions, something of which you couldn’t help but have been aware.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  She could only imagine how long those lines had been and just how charming Rùnach had been as a young man. She glanced at him. “How old were you . . . well, you know.”

  “Ten and eight,” he said easily. “Still young enough to foolishly believe in my own immortality.”

  She could hardly believe he’d added a score of years to that, though perhaps he could credit his elven progenitors for that blessing. She’d already told him how old she would be later that summer, assuming she wasn’t felled by any stray Bruadairian curses.

  “Curses?”

  “Was I muttering?” she asked uneasily.

  “Something about curses,” he said, “and surviving them so you can reach the advanced age of a score and eight.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s all I heard.”

  She sighed in relief. It was one thing to bluster about believing that curses were tales told to frighten children and that all the worry she’d suffered over the past several weeks was for naught. It was another thing to speak of Bruadair, even inadvertently. She wasn’t entirely sure that the curse attached to that wasn’t in full force for whatever hapless Bruadairian found himself outside the borders.

  She looked up at Rùnach. “Perhaps I will survive to my next birthday after all.”

  “I would imagine so, though the passage of time won’t, I imagine, touch you. Perhaps there is a bit of elven blood in your veins.”

  “I very much doubt it,” she said with a sigh. “I have not your beauty.”

  “Aisling—”

  She shook her head. “I have looked in a polished mirror, Rùnach. I have no illusions about the fairness of my face—or the lack thereof.”

  He stopped, turned her to him, and put his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t want to look at him, but she supposed he would wait her out until she did, so she thought it best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  “What?” she said crossly.

  He looked at her in silence for a moment or two, then shook his head. “I’m not sure beautiful is the word I would use for you, but not for the reason you think.” He studied her for another eternal moment, his head tilted slightly to one side. “You are . . . ethereal.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  He only smiled, took her hand again, and pulled her along with him. “You need a rest. You’re short-tempered.”

  “Death looming will do that to a woman.”

  “I think I can almost guarantee we’ll find answers before you need face that.”

  She didn’t dare hope for it, but then again, she was walking with an elven prince into his grandfather’s palace and listening to that king’s glamour whispering things she couldn’t quite understand. She supposed if she’d had enough time, she might have been able to. A pity time was the one thing she didn’t have.

  Ethereal. And what was that supposed to mean? Worse still, why in the world did she care what he thought, that normal-eared, battle-scarred creature from myth who had dragged her from one piece of peril to another? She didn’t care that he had put his own quest—whatever it might have been—aside to help her with hers. She didn’t care that he was rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand as if he sought to soothe her.

  She definitely didn’t care what opinion he had about the lack of fairness of her face.

  “Ethereal.”

  She scowled at him. “And just what does that mean, anyway?”

  “Tell you later. Oh, look. Elves. Perhaps you’d like to examine their ears?”

  She wanted to box his; that was for certain. She tried to hold on to that thought but realized that Rùnach hadn’t been simply trying to distract her. She was indeed looking at several creatures from myth whose beauty was almost more than she could reasonably look at without wincing. They bowed respectfully to Rùnach, inclined their heads graciously toward her, then moved off as if they’d been slipping back into the dreams from whence they’d sprung. She wished she could do the same and avoid the very hard reality of her life.

  She sighed. Perhaps it wasn’t useful, but she couldn’t help but wonder if she might have managed to fulfill her bargain—the one she didn’t quite remember having made—to acquire a mercenary to rid Bruadair of its usurper if she had either stepped forward boldly or perhaps even chosen a different path. She wasn’t quite ready to concede the latter, but she could certainly see where she could have been more successful at the former.

  Having now been there, she wasn’t sure she ever would have found a lad in Gobhann, but she surely could have asked Mansourah of Neroche to aid her, as Weger had advised, which might have left her currently and quite anonymously living in some discreet but obscure village where she might have made enough coin weaving to feed and house herself.

  “Who?”

  She looked at Rùnach as he paused alongside her. “Who—oh, I was thinking that perhaps I should have convined Mansourah of Neroche to take on my quest.”

  “It would have been an enormous mistake,” Rùnach said without hesitation.

  “Weger suggested him,” she pointed out.

  “Weger is merely impressed with Sourah’s abilities with stick and string,” Rùnach said dismissively, “which I will concede are unwholesome. But I can assure you that you wouldn’t have wanted him for your quest. He wouldn’t have lasted half an hour.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he distracts easily.”

  “Do you know Prince Mansourah so well, then?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  She smiled. “What did any of those Neroche men ever do to you?”

  “They live and breathe,” he said. “Our mothers were very close, as it happens, so perhaps ’tis nothing more than a bit of sibling rivalry.”

  “How did your mothers meet?”

  “You’re asking a terribly large number of quest
ions.”

  “I’m trying to distract myself.”

  He smiled gravely. “I imagined so. Very well, I’ll distract you as we walk along these lovely paths until we find a place where you can have a little rest before breakfast.”

  She nodded, because she was, when it came down to it, desperate for something to think about besides what she needed to be thinking about.

  “I believe our mothers’ first encounter was as they were reaching individually for the same spell they shouldn’t have been trying to filch,” he said thoughtfully. “Knowing them both as I do, that doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Miach’s mother, Desdhemar of Wrekin, came from a line of mighty mages full of insatiable curiosity. I believe she had a pair of sisters, though I can’t bring their names to mind at present. Suffice it to say that Desdhemar was the most impetuous of the lot. As I said, she and my mother were apparently coveting the same spell, but being the politely raised gels they were, they poached it together, then repaired to the nearest tea house for a cup of something refreshing and a dividing of the spoils.”

  “In truth?”

  “It is the absolute truth. Desdhemar went on to wed the king of Neroche and provide him with seven irritating sons.” He took a deep breath. “My mother was already wed to my sire and had been mother to my brother for a handful of years at that point.”

  “Why did she marry your father—” She winced. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  Rùnach shrugged. “Trust me, it isn’t anything I haven’t asked myself scores of times. My sire could be enormously charming, when it suited him. His reputation as a mage was the stuff of legends, and his collection of spells truly unmatched. But the truth is, there were few alive with power to match my mother’s.”

  “Save Gair.”

  “Save Gair,” he agreed. “I’m fairly sure he indulged her penchant for never having enough spells and wooed her long enough to acquire a legitimate posterity.” He sighed. “In truth, I think their relationship was very complicated.”

  “I’m sorry, Rùnach.”

  He smiled. “As am I, though grateful for my siblings who are left. As for Miach, he is very much like his mother, though I would hope he will be a bit more sensible about the libraries he breaks into.”

  “Perhaps he will,” she agreed. “His future son will no doubt appreciate it.”

  Rùnach stopped short. “What did you say?”

  She paused alongside him, then looked up at him. “I speak too freely to you.”

  “Which is why I continue to hope you’ll eventually spew out something truly appalling,” he said faintly. “Did Mhorghain tell you?”

  “She said nothing,” Aisling said slowly, “so perhaps she doesn’t know yet.”

  He looked around himself, then shivered. “I would like nothing more than to sit down right now, but perhaps I would never manage to get back up. How in the world do you know, then, if she didn’t say anything?”

  Aisling took a deep breath. “I could hear his dreaming.”

  He bowed his head for a moment or two, then laughed. He finally looked at her and shook his head. “Aisling, I would wonder if there might ever come a time when you don’t leave me gaping, but I have to admit even thinking that such a time might exist leaves me nervous.” He took her hand again, tucked it under his arm, then nodded to the long sweep of pathway in front of them. “Now as we were discussing your birthplace—tell me again where that was?”

  She shut her mouth before the word spilled out. She shot him a warning look. “I can’t say, which you well know.”

  “Weren’t we discussing that?”

  “Nay, we were most certainly not.”

  He nodded down the path. “Then I’ll leave this woman approaching us to pry it from you. That’s my grandmother.”

  Aisling had to look twice before she realized what seemed so unusual about the elegant, lovely elven woman walking toward them with all the energy of a youth. “She looks a great deal like Mhorghain,” she managed.

  “So she does,” Rùnach agreed. “I think you’ll like her.”

  Aisling wasn’t sure what to expect. Rùnach’s grandmother was beautiful in the way she’d come to expect all elves to be beautiful, but there was something about her that made Aisling want to curl up next to her and tell her all the secrets she hadn’t been able to tell anyone else.

  She was obviously a very dangerous woman.

  “Queen Brèagha,” Rùnach said. “This is Aisling. Aisling, this is my grandmother, Brèagha.”

  Queen Brèagha leaned up and kissed Rùnach on his scarred cheek. “I’m happy to see you, love,” she said, then she turned to Aisling. “And now you, Aisling. Given that you’ve arrived at this hour, I would say you had been traveling for at least part of the night. A chamber has been prepared for your comfort. After you’ve refreshed yourself, you may choose between a rest and breakfast. I suggest both, if you want my opinion. Then we’ll turn our attentions to your future. I can sense that you are about some important business or other.”

  Aisling found herself walking with the queen without remembering exactly when she’d begun. She looked over her shoulder to find Rùnach simply leaning against a pillar, watching her with a smile. She waved uneasily. He waved back but didn’t move.

  “We’ll catch him up later,” Brèagha said. “Not to worry.”

  “Is that possible?” Aisling asked. “I mean, not to worry.”

  Brèagha looked at her gravely. “I believe it is. Your secrets weigh heavily on you, but perhaps you can lay them aside for a few days while you’re here. You’re perfectly safe, you know. Sìle’s spells are impenetrable.”

  “And the land’s.”

  Brèagha smiled. “And so they are. I would very much like to discuss with you the things you see, but perhaps later. For now, I’m most interested in where you met my grandson. Please don’t tell me it was at that terrible keep of Weger’s.”

  “It wasn’t,” Aisling said. “It was on a boat in Istaur. He paid my passage for me.”

  “Ah, chivalry. I’m pleased to see he hasn’t lost it. So, what then?”

  Aisling had to fight the temptation to tell Rùnach’s grandmother more than she should. “I’m afraid I was off to Weger’s tower. Rùnach tried to stop me, but it was there that I had been sent. He did look after me, though. As for the time after that . . . well, I have a quest, you see.”

  “And your errand is private.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  “And you are in haste.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Aisling said. “Very great haste.”

  Brèagha looked at her seriously. “Can you not tell me why at least?”

  Aisling closed her eyes briefly. “I must find a mercenary to take on an unpleasant task. And soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “There are two days left before—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. “Two days.”

  “Or something dire will happen?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Brèagha stopped in front of a doorway, then turned to look at Aisling. “Whatever lies in wait for you outside our land, darling, will keep at least for another hour or two until you’ve rested from your journey. I’ll send someone to fetch you for breakfast in a bit, shall I?”

  Aisling supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by the queen’s kindness, but she found herself surprised by many things of late. “I’m grateful, Your Majesty.”

  Brèagha only pressed Aisling’s hand, then sent her off into the chamber they’d stopped in front of. Aisling went, partly because she didn’t want to be impolite and partly because she was in truth very weary.

  She stopped short at the sight of a servant. Aisling had no idea how old the girl was and didn’t dare ask. At some point, she supposed she might grow accustomed to the startling beauty of the elves around her, but she couldn’t dare hope she would be in Seanagarra that long.

  “My lady?”

  Aisling looked at the girl standing
there. “Aye?”

  “There is a bath awaiting your pleasure,” the girl said. “Then you could rest, if you like, or I will help you dress. The queen is sending a lad to see you to the hall when you’re ready.”

  Aisling attempted a smile, but she feared it hadn’t been a very good one. Time was still running out, and she had no more answers than she’d had before she and Rùnach had made for Diarmailt. She put her hand over her heart, but it seemed to be beating as it should. As for anything else, she wasn’t sure how to begin to assess the state of her poor self. Perhaps after she’d had something to eat.

  She had a bath, then found herself offered a choice of several lovely gowns. She had no idea which was appropriate, so she’d left the selection up to the maid who had been assigned to attend her. The girl chose a pale blue gown that seemed to fit itself to her as if it had a mind of its own. The material spoke of who had first spun the silk, then woven the cloth. Over that were the musing of the dyer, then the happy song of the woman who had sewn the gown together.

  She looked into the mirror in front of her. She couldn’t look at herself, so she looked at the maid who was looking at what was left of Aisling’s hair as if she genuinely mourned its loss.

  “Someone cut it,” Aisling said. “It had to be done, but it was admittedly done without care.”

  “Do you mind if I cut the uneven ends?” the girl asked. “I have not the art to make it grow again, unfortunately.”

  Aisling waved her on. “Do what you want to with it.”

  She felt the girl working on the ends, then supposed she was doing something to pin it up.

  “Now you may look, my lady.”

  Well, she was certainly no lady, but she supposed there was no point in saying as much—

  She looked at the woman in the mirror and wondered if she were suddenly looking out a window instead of at someone who definitely wasn’t her. The woman staring back at her was almost . . . pretty.

  Elven magic at work, apparently.

  The maid left Aisling alone, perhaps to give her time to adjust to seeing something unusual in the mirror. Beautiful she would never be, but perhaps interesting-looking might be possible. She might have admired herself a bit longer but she found she simply couldn’t keep her eyes open. She wondered if anyone would notice if she took a moment or two to sit in the chair in front of the delicate fire in the hearth and close her eyes. Perhaps not, if she didn’t fall asleep.