River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  “I might need a lie-down before supper. I’m feeling faint.”

  “What you’re feeling is the heavy weight of my disapproving glance at your hedging, but we’ll discuss it after supper, when you’re not feeling so faint.” He took her hand. “Let’s see what the lord of the hall has on the fire.”

  She walked with him, but her thoughts were less on food than they were on the things she had learned that day, more particularly what his grandmother had told her. She didn’t think Sglaimir was a mage, but what did she know? And if he were capable of enslaving Bruadair, what else might he do if not stopped, though why he would have simply sat on his stolen throne for a score of years without looking further afield, she couldn’t have said. Perhaps with too much power came madness.

  At least she had survived the afternoon and kept Rùnach from fleeing his grandfather’s hall to go off and do heroic deeds that would surely spell his end.

  What the morrow would bring, she didn’t dare begin to speculate.

  Eight

  Rùnach left his grandfather’s hall and walked out into the lists as the sun was coming up. It was something he’d done for so many years during his youth that doing so as a man—with the ability to hold a sword, thankfully—was almost a bit startling. He could only hope to find a swordsman out there who might be able to put aside any hesitance he might have felt at treating an heir to the throne—however far the distance might have been—as just another lad. Rùnach supposed that might be the only thing that saved his sanity that morning.

  He’d already gone to check on Aisling only to hear a report from her maid that she was sleeping peacefully. At least she hadn’t been sitting, sound asleep, against a pillar in the garden outside his room again. He had found a cot for her that first night they’d been in Seanagarra, moved her to it, and covered her with a blanket before he’d returned to his own rest. He didn’t suppose she would simply up and run off into the distance to be about her quest, but then again, he supposed he honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by anything she did. He had woken from a nap he hadn’t been able to put off the day before fully expecting to find she had bolted. He surely wouldn’t have been in any condition to have trotted off after her.

  Because he had, and he could hardly believe he hadn’t imagined the whole thing, dreamed.

  He had managed to escort Aisling back to her chamber for her maid to repair her hair, run to his chamber to change for supper himself, then get back to her chamber in time to be rendered speechless by the sight of her.

  Beautiful? Nay, not beautiful.

  He had found himself unequal to latching onto any adjective that described her. The elves of Ainneamh were famous for noising about the tale that they looked as if they had just stepped from a dream. Rùnach could safely say that he had seen a creature who fit that description, and it wasn’t any of the lads or lassies to the west.

  He had escorted her to supper, unable to muster up even the most banal of conversations. It had given him ample time to simply look at her and admire, but it had also left an opening—again—for a steady and quite annoying stream of cousins to present themselves at her elbow and request her company for a dance.

  Of course that dancing had required instruction in new steps, which had required more time with the aforementioned cousins he sincerely hoped he would soon see in the lists where he might help them understand that good manners set limits on the number of times one might monopolize a woman who had been escorted to supper by someone else.

  He had managed a dance or two with her himself, then finally escorted her to her room when she looked as if she had had almost as much as she could bear. They hadn’t spoken any more of Bruadair, his missing spells, or the fact that he knew that this was her last day to find a mercenary willing to travel north and save her country from its villainous ruler.

  He had been happy to let those topics lie, and he hadn’t dared even speculate on what she was thinking about them. If she’d been a dab hand at courtly intrigues or one to tap him smartly on the shoulder with a rolled up list of men she had rejected simply for the sport of it, he might have known how to take her. As it was, all he could do was stare at her and wonder what in the world was going on in her head.

  He couldn’t help but believe she had been affected adversely by her time in that damned Guild, forced into servitude by her parents. If she had visions of her sire and dam slaving away in a mine, he had far worse.

  He shook his head. Bruadair. She had been tasked with finding someone to save the whole bloody country. He could scarce believe it.

  He walked out into his grandfather’s lists and through someone. The sensation was so breath stealing, he almost fainted. He gasped, then whirled around to find himself looking, well, at himself.

  Or, rather, his youngest brother, who was, he supposed anyone would admit, much more handsome than he himself was at the moment.

  “Ruith,” he said, wishing he had the breath to laugh a little as he so desperately wanted to, “what are you doing here?”

  Ruith hadn’t changed in a score of years. He had been driven and hopelessly serious as a young lad. He was terrifyingly so as a man full grown.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “But I just saw you—”

  “Two months ago.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Rùnach allowed. He looked around himself, then smiled politely. “I don’t see any means of travel, nor do I see your wife. Forget them both, did you?”

  Ruith dragged his hands through his hair, looking as scattered as the wind he’d just blown in as. “Nay, actually, I didn’t. I was in haste, and Sarah agreed to stay behind and prepare to entertain guests who stand to arrive in a fortnight or so.”

  “And who are you entertaining these days?” Rùnach asked politely.

  “King Frèam and Queen Leaghra of Bruadair.”

  Rùnach choked. Or at least he thought he had choked. He wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that he suddenly found himself hunched over with his hands on his knees, sucking in very unsuccessful breaths.

  “They’re bringing us a wedding present,” Ruith said. “Some tapestry, no doubt adorned with half-dressed figures and swords and flowers. I can scarce wait to see it. Why do you ask?”

  Rùnach straightened in time to find Aisling standing five paces away, looking at him as if she thought he might soon perish from lack of air. He lost his breath yet again and wondered if it might be better if he simply went back to bed.

  Aisling moved closer to him. Well, closer and a bit in front of him, if he were to describe her location exactly.

  He paused. Very well, so she put herself directly in front of him, between him and his brother. He was winded; there was no point in attempting to save his pride. Between his shapechanging brother and his, ah, his overprotective questing companion, he was simply not at his best.

  “You look like Rùnach,” she announced.

  “We’re brothers.”

  “Which one are you?”

  “Ruithneadh,” Ruith said. “The youngest of all save Mhorghain. Has Rùnach talked of me?”

  Rùnach rolled his eyes and heaved himself upright. “Aye, to give her a detailed recounting of all your faults. Aisling, this is Ruith. Ruith, this is Aisling.”

  “I see,” Ruith said.

  Rùnach had the feeling he did, far too clearly. He ignored his brother and shuffled a step forward until he was standing next to Aisling.

  “You’re up early,” he said to her.

  “Your cousin Còir told me last night that he was a marvelous swordsman. He promised to show me this morning what he could do.”

  “I imagine he did,” Ruith said mildly.

  Rùnach shot his brother a dark look, then smiled at Aisling. “Keep in mind he’s not very bright.”

  “He seemed fairly bright last evening.”

  “It was an aberration, believe me.”

  Aisling started to speak, then caught sight of the very eligible, highly intelligent, and hopel
essly skilled Còir of Tòrr Dòrainn striding out into the lists as if he owned them.

  Rùnach suppressed the urge to grind his teeth.

  “I’d better go,” she said.

  “I’ll be here, polishing up my meager sword skill with my brother,” Rùnach said, but he supposed she hadn’t heard him. She had wandered away to go bask in the glow of an elven princeling whose perfection was only matched by his ego. Rùnach watched her go, then turned to his brother. “I hate him.”

  “I believe you always have.”

  “He makes me feel old.”

  “Rùnach, he’s three centuries older than you are,” Ruith said with a snort. “And he’s a shameless flirt. Even I remember him as such.”

  “Which she won’t understand, which means he’ll hurt her and I’ll have to kill him. I think that will result in my being banished.”

  Ruith smiled. “Who is she?”

  “Someone I met in Gobhann.”

  “What was she doing in Gobhann?”

  “Looking for an assassin.”

  Ruith looked at him in surprise. “A what?”

  “Someone to sneak inside her village and rid it of the lad who has taken it upon himself to make everyone miserable,” Rùnach said evenly. “Only it’s not just a village.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Nay, it isn’t.”

  Ruith waited, then rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to guess?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Where would be the sport in that?” He studied Aisling for a moment or two. “She has magic—”

  “Why does everyone insist on saying that?” Rùnach asked, feeling slightly irritated. “Hell, Ruith, until a fortnight ago, she thought elves, dwarves, dragons, and their ilk were creatures from myth. Why would she have magic?”

  Ruith looked at him. “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Because she can’t cast a spell or shapechange or do anything a normal mage can do. And even if she did have magic, which she doesn’t, she wouldn’t believe it.”

  It was odd, though, wasn’t it, how everyone seemed determined to credit her with what she couldn’t possibly have? He knew he’d considered it before and taken into consideration the fact that she could admittedly spin unusual things—

  He shook his head. It was impossible. Perhaps the ability to spin was something all Bruadairian lassies had. Ruith’s wife Sarah could spin and she could See. Admittedly, he’d never seen her spin air or water or fire, but he hadn’t spent all that much time with her nor had he asked her if she could.

  “There is something different about her,” Ruith mused. “Something . . .” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “She’s haunting. Like something from a dream.”

  Dreams. Rùnach suppressed the urge to swear. If he had to hear anything more about dreams . . .

  “Not an elf, definitely, but not exactly mortal either, is she?”

  Rùnach froze. “What do you mean?”

  Ruith considered for several long moments in silence, then finally shrugged. “I don’t know what I mean. She’s just different. She reminds me a bit of Soilléir, though I couldn’t say why.” He looked back at Rùnach. “Who is she, in truth?”

  Rùnach hardly knew where to begin, but he supposed the wrong place would be with telling secrets that weren’t his. He was the first to admit he hadn’t seen his brother in two decades, but he could remember very well how even as a child Ruith had had an uncanny sense of discernment. Perhaps he would have to reveal less than he feared.

  “She’s a weaver,” he said finally, “who was sent on a quest to find an assassin to rid her village of a usurper.”

  “So you said before.” Ruith turned to look at Aisling. “Is she auditioning helpers over there, do you suppose?”

  Rùnach turned to follow his brother’s gaze only to wish he hadn’t. Damn that Còir if he hadn’t ordered up a dozen longbows of various rare and valuable woods with which to tempt a Bruadairian lass who Rùnach had to admit was somewhat terrifying with a bow in her hand.

  “You can’t kill him,” Ruith said mildly.

  “A man can dream. And aye, I believe she’s testing the mercenary waters.”

  Ruith studied Aisling a bit longer. “There is something about her that seems familiar—” He froze, then shook his head as if something had occurred to him that he simply couldn’t believe. He attempted speech for a moment or two, then he simply looked at Rùnach in shock. “Is she from Bruadair?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You don’t have to. Bloody hell, Rùnach, why in the world would she be off on a quest to rescue that place?”

  “Is it so terrible?” Rùnach asked. “That place?”

  “I’ve never been and neither has Sarah, so I’m not the one to ask, though I’ve heard rumors.” He paused, then shook his head. “Their king and queen are quite lovely people, but . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sure terrible is the right word for it. Odd things happen there. And nay, I can tell you no more than that. You would have to ask Soilléir, perhaps, for more details. I just know that no one crosses the border.”

  “But Aisling did.”

  “Then she had help. If she’s not royalty, then she was aided either by a trader or someone else with enough gold to bribe the guards to let her pass.” He frowned. “Haven’t you asked her for the details?”

  Rùnach shook his head. “’Tis only since yesterday that she knows I know where she’s from. She was told that if she divulged any of the details of her quest, she would die.”

  “What absolute rot.”

  “I agree. I think whoever has taken over her country has done his work well. At least Aisling seems to believe—or, rather, she used to believe—that she is absolutely powerless in the face of whatever curses are attached to the land. I don’t suppose you would have any details about the current political situation, would you?”

  “I doubt any more than you do,” Ruith said. “I could ask Frèam and Leaghra for you, if you like, but that might reveal more than you care for to souls you might want to keep in the dark until you’ve given them a vacant throne to return to. I assume you’re going to be in the thick of things.”

  “Who, me?” Rùnach asked. “Me, with hands that barely work and not a drop of magic to my name?”

  “Battles have been won with less.”

  “By whom?” Rùnach grumbled.

  “Perhaps by you,” Ruith said seriously, “and perhaps in a way that songs will be sung about it for centuries to come. If your lady will allow you to hoist your sword in her country’s defense, which still seems to be in some doubt.”

  Rùnach didn’t bother telling his brother what his plans were because he had the feeling that Ruith could see them written rather plainly on his face. He rubbed his hands over that face and wondered how long he would have to watch Aisling kept captive in the clutches of the embodiment of elven perfection before he could march over to liberate her—

  “You know we all wanted to be you.”

  Rùnach wondered if he would ever again manage to pass any time at all without being winded from directions he hadn’t been looking. He looked at his brother.

  “I honestly can’t imagine why.”

  “Because you were fearless,” Ruith said. “And possessing sword skill and spell skill we all despaired of ever having for ourselves. If you want to know the truth, I think Father disliked you the most.”

  Rùnach smiled in spite of himself. “Now, that is something to be proud of, I suppose.”

  “It would gall him to know you were alive.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “I honestly had never intended to return to his little hovel in the woods, but the pleasure of giving him those tidings might change my mind on that. And speaking of Father, I brought you something.”

  Rùnach felt time slow to a crawl. He supposed he should have realized that Ruith wouldn’t have made a journey to find him without having had a good reason to do so, but he honestly couldn’t
imagine what his brother had for him. He frowned.

  “I already have Father’s ring. What else can I possibly need?”

  Ruith shrugged out of a small pack, opened it, then pulled out a book. He held it out without comment.

  Rùnach knew without opening it what it contained. He drew back as if his brother were trying to hand him a Natharian viper. He’d seen more of those slither out from beneath Droch of Saothair’s door in Buidseachd than was polite, so he knew of what he spoke.

  “I don’t want them,” he said without hesitation.

  “I don’t want to give them to you,” Ruith said. “Which I imagine you know.”

  Rùnach had to admit that was true. Miach had been willing to give those spells to Rùnach, to replace the memories Rùnach had lost, but Ruith had not only never offered, he had been adamantly opposed to the idea. Why he had changed his mind was something Rùnach thought he might not particularly want to know. He looked at the book in his brother’s hand with distaste.

  “Tell me the old bastard didn’t write them down himself. Again.”

  “Nay, I wrote them all down,” Ruith said calmly. “And because you and Keir taught us to memorize things instantly, I know they’re a perfect copy of what Father had written down himself in that damned book of his.”

  “Ruith, I do not want these.”

  “I know, brother, but what you want and what you need are often two separate things.”

  Rùnach pursed his lips. “Why does that sound as if you’re quoting someone?”

  “I believe I’m quoting you.”

  “I don’t remember saying such a . . .” He searched for the right word, but all that came to mind were curses he didn’t have the energy to utter. “What a stupid thing to have ever said. Stupid and rather unoriginal.” He blew out his breath in frustration. “I’m not off to fight Father, so what good will his spells do me? In fact, all that having them will do is make me worth the effort being spent trying to find me.”

  Ruith looked at him in surprise. “Is someone looking for you?”

  Rùnach nodded at a bench set against a low wall to his right. “I’ll leave my gear there, then let’s walk. I’m not equal to facing this conversation whilst standing still.”