River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  She knew too much about too many things.

  She very much feared that she had seen too much to turn her back on things that needed to be done.

  She had been a coward before, but that was before. She could be a coward no longer. And if that meant she would have to walk back into the very place that she had barely escaped from with her life and face those who would most certainly want her dead, that was what she would do. Worse, she suspected that facing down the Guildmistress might be the least of the things she would have to do if she had any intention of setting things aright that were wrong.

  She, who had no beauty of her own, thinking she could give beauty back to a country of dreams. A no-name weaver with no sword skill, no magic, and a deplorable lack of courage thinking to overthrow a mage who had stripped Bruadair of all its magic.

  It was entirely possible she was mad.

  And if she had to tie Rùnach of Tòrr Dòrainn to a chair and flee in the middle of the night so that she was the only one partaking in her madness, that was what she would do.

  Ten

  Rùnach sat at the table in his grandfather’s private solar and wondered how a luncheon that had been so pleasant at the start could run afoul of such trouble after dessert.

  The first clue, he supposed, should have been the guest list. His grandmother had been there along with Sosar, Ruith, and Aisling, but no others. The second should have been the way Sìle had waved off all but clear soup for lunch and a small plate of fruit for dessert. Nothing heavy to get in the way of a bit of friendly shouting.

  The third had been the way his grandfather had continued to smile at Aisling and occasionally reach out to pat her hand, reassuring her several times that he loved a robust discussion during the afternoon and would it offend her if he engaged in the same that particular afternoon?

  It had started off as just a mild rumble delivered after yet another apology to Aisling about his tone. Rùnach had been the recipient of his grandfather’s opinions more than once over the course of his life, so he had been fully prepared for what he knew was to come. What he hadn’t been prepared for—which in hindsight should have been the first thing he’d thought of—was the look on Aisling’s face when Sìle truly began to roar.

  “Grandfather,” he said loudly, interrupting the king during the very brief respite provided by Sìle taking a breath, “you’re frightening your guest.”

  Sìle blinked, then looked at Aisling. “Oh, forgive me, missy. Just voicing my opinion, of course.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve yet said anything that merits an opinion,” Rùnach said mildly.

  “You didn’t have to,” Sìle said shortly. “Your grandmother told me what you’re about.”

  Rùnach shot his grandmother a look, but she only smiled at him serenely. His mother had had the ability to push just the right amount in precisely the right direction. Obviously that ability hadn’t come from her father. He looked back at his grandfather and dredged up all the patience he could.

  “Grandfather, whilst I am grateful for your opinion on the matter, the simple fact is Aisling has been charged with a quest to locate and secure a soldier to see to a little trouble in her village. Today is the deadline she was given for accomplishing her task—”

  “I know all about what needs to be done,” Sìle said shortly, “and I’m telling you this is madness.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “You cannot go into a country, Rùnach, all on your own and overthrow a king!”

  Rùnach suppressed the urge to say something he was certain he would regret. He’d known what his grandfather would say, and he’d already prepared an entire list of reasons why he could indeed slip inside Bruadair, toss Sglaimir out on his arse, then get back out without anyone noticing—

  “He won’t be going alone.”

  He heard the words, but it took him a moment to realize it was Aisling who had said them. He looked at her in surprise, but before he could say anything, she launched the next bolt.

  “In fact, he won’t be going at all.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rùnach said. He realized his grandfather had said the same thing in rather the same tone of surprise.

  “There is no need,” she said, hardly any sound to her voice. “It is my quest, after all, and I think I should be the one to see to it.”

  Sìle blinked. “Without my grandson?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  To his credit, Sìle looked rather appalled. Rùnach started to speak but found whatever he’d planned to say stopped in mid-flight by the hand his grandfather put out practically against his face.

  “But Aisling, my dearest girl, he has taken your quest as his own. You cannot deny him this chance to exercise his chivalry in this manner.”

  Rùnach exchanged a look with his grandmother because his mother wasn’t there. He saw in Brèagha’s eyes that she understood exactly what he was thinking, both about her daughter and her husband. She smiled gravely, then sent Rùnach back a look that disavowed all responsibility for her husband’s mercurial behavior. Rùnach turned back and would have spoken, but again, his grandfather’s hand was annoyingly near his face.

  Aisling blinked. “But you’re so upset, Your Majesty.”

  Sìle frowned, looking thoroughly perplexed. “I’m not upset at you, Aisling, though perhaps I didn’t make that as clear as I should have. I’m upset with Rùnach.”

  “Because he offered to join my quest?”

  “Nay, my gel, because he thinks to go by himself. Very foolish.”

  “Thank you,” Rùnach said dryly.

  Sìle shot him a look that in spite of himself had him biting his tongue. He rubbed his hand over his face before he could stop himself and suppressed the urge to laugh. He was a man full grown, yet when he was sitting at his grandfather’s elbow, there were times he felt like a lad of ten-and-eight. He could bring to mind several episodes of looking at his grandfather’s hand as he had just recently done.

  “Of course, you will stay here and pass your days in safety whilst he sees to what must be done,” Sìle said, in a tone that he no doubt thought would brook no argument. “I don’t care for the idea of women going off on quests.”

  And that perhaps was the most egregious understatement ever spoken in the entire history of the Nine Kingdoms. Rùnach glanced at his grandmother who only lifted her eyebrows briefly and turned back to her wine.

  “But, Your Majesty, I can’t allow him to go,” Aisling protested.

  “Oh, he’ll go,” Sìle said without hesitation. “We’re just negotiating the details, which will include the number and identities of his retinue.” He reached out and patted her hand again. “You’ll stay here, Aisling, and reside under my protection until he’s finished with this unpleasantness.”

  Rùnach watched Aisling’s face, partly because he had a hard time not watching her whenever she was within view and partly because there were things going on in her head that left him wondering just what she had seen in the library that morning—and what decision she had made because of it. He’d known, of course, that she wasn’t particularly keen on his taking up the sword, as it were, but unless he’d heard her awrong, she had just recently said that she hadn’t intended to go either.

  He wondered what had happened to change her mind.

  “Let’s have luncheon cleared, and then we’ll discuss details.”

  Rùnach tried to stay out of the way as Sìle’s servants cleared the dishes and disappeared almost before Rùnach could rescue his glass of wine. He wasn’t much for wine, as it happened, but even Sgath would admit that Sìle’s cellars were without compare and their contents never seemed to leave one without full possession of his wits. He set his glass back down, then realized that he had somehow missed an exchange between Aisling and his grandfather. Gone was the roaring lion. In his place was an old man who was looking at Aisling with the same gentleness he would have used for one of his own daughters or granddaughters.

  “I think, my
girl, that we can be nothing but honest from this point on if we’re to see to discharging your task, something you will not be seeing to yourself.”

  Rùnach watched Aisling close her eyes briefly, then look at an elf who knew a thing or two about protecting the sanctity of his homeland.

  “Do you know where I was born, Your Majesty?”

  Sìle’s expression was very grave. “I do, Aisling. Shall I say it aloud?”

  “If you wish, Your Majesty.”

  Sìle covered her hands folded on the table with his own briefly, gave vent to a brief and relatively quiet exclamation of dismay, then looked about him for someone useful. “Ruith, lad, run and fetch something warm from the kitchen, if you would. And perhaps something strong for your brother. He’ll be requiring it later.”

  “I’m fine, Grandfather,” Rùnach said dryly.

  Sìle shot him a look that made him wonder if he’d spoken too soon, then turned back to Aisling. He considered for a moment or two, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

  “First, it might ease you to know Rùnach has divulged none of your secrets.”

  “Oh, I never thought he would, Your Majesty,” Aisling said quickly.

  Rùnach supposed that might have been one of the most satisfying though least-deserved compliments he’d ever received.

  “Well, in that at least, he has no room for improvement,” Sìle conceded. “As for other things, I will tell you that whilst there are always mysteries of one kind or another swirling around Bruadair, those rumors having to do with death and curses are absolutely untrue.”

  Aisling was looking at him as if she simply didn’t dare hope he was speaking the truth. “Rùnach said he thought as much,” she managed, “and I have personally disproved several. But how do you know for certain, Your Majesty?”

  “Because I have known several Bruadairian kings over the course of my life, and one does talk after supper.” He paused, then shook his head. “It is a strange country, though that is perhaps describing it poorly. Exclusive is perhaps a better term for it. Beautiful in a way I almost don’t know how to describe.”

  Rùnach blinked. “Have you been there, Grandfather?” he asked, thoroughly surprised. “You never said anything.”

  “And what would I have said?” Sìle asked. “I know how to hold my tongue.” He looked at his wife. “When was it, Brèagha? Eight? Nine?”

  “Twelve,” Brèagha said mildly. “Twelve centuries ago, darling, when Frèam’s great-grandfather sat on the throne.”

  “Aye, that’s it,” Sìle said. He looked at Aisling. “The current king, or at least the man who should be the current king, is Frèam, and it was his great-grandfather who was king last time I crossed the border.” He smiled at the queen. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it, my dear?”

  “It was past that somehow,” Brèagha said with a wistful smile. “I’m not sure quite how to describe it in those days. Of course the landscape was beautiful, as it is here, but there was something more than just magic in the air and the soil. It was as if when you first put your foot onto the land, you crossed over into a dream. I’ve never seen colors so vibrant or smelled trees and flowers so perfectly scented, yet it lingered with a delicateness that persists in my mind even until now.”

  Rùnach looked at Aisling. She looked rather ill, truth be told. She looked at him in misery, then turned to his grandfather.

  “It isn’t like that now,” was all she said.

  “Obviously something foul is at work,” Sìle said. “What is the name of that foul thing?”

  “Sglaimir,” she said hollowly. “I don’t know him, of course, because I’m just a weaver, but I’ve heard terrible tales of him.”

  “What has been done to remove him from power?”

  Aisling looked at Sìle. “I don’t think anything. No one dares. I had mates down at the pub who wanted to start a rebellion, but they spent most of their time arguing about how best to go about it.” She paused. “I think they were forced to act by circumstances beyond their control. That last night they managed, in a roundabout way, to get me across the border. A peddler gave me gold and sent me off to Gobhann to look for a mercenary.”

  “An interesting idea,” Sìle said with a frown. “I wonder why they wanted a man and not a mage?”

  “I think they thought a single man without magic would have a better chance of sneaking in and overthrowing Sglaimir than an army would, or even a handful of mages.”

  “And how was this mercenary lad to know what to do?”

  “I am to have him meet an unidentified party at Taigh Hall at a predetermined time.” She paused. “That day was, as Rùnach said, today.”

  “I’m sure they’ll wait for you,” Sìle said dismissively. “Does this Sglaimir have magic?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him, so we’ll assume he’s a self-important wizardling who has simply managed to convince gullible inhabitants of his mighty power. I shouldn’t think it would take more than a score of elves to unseat him.”

  “I think you’re forgetting something, husband.”

  Rùnach could hardly wait to hear what his grandmother planned to say.

  “I never forget anything,” Sìle huffed.

  “Our magic doesn’t work there.”

  Rùnach would have enjoyed his grandfather’s choking if the tidings hadn’t caught him quite firmly in the midsection as well. Perhaps it was a blessing that he had no magic. At least he wouldn’t be counting on something that wasn’t going to work.

  Sìle harrumphed. “I don’t know that we can say that with authority. With enough force it might.”

  “But it has been tried, hasn’t it?” Brèagha asked.

  “Has it?” Rùnach asked. “When?”

  She shrugged. “Your grandfather has made more than one journey to Bruadair; two to be exact. The second was many centuries ago during the reign of Sealladh, who was Frèam’s grandfather. A good man, but not a wise one. He allowed himself to be beguiled by a mage whose name escapes me at the moment.”

  Rùnach glanced at his grandfather and suspected by the look on the king’s face that the name didn’t escape him at all. He turned back to his grandmother.

  “And?”

  She lifted her eyebrows briefly. “Sealladh sent out a call for aid, and your grandfather responded. Only it happened that our magic was not useful within Bruadair’s borders.” She paused. “Not simply not useful, but the spells your grandfather attempted to use went awry somehow. I think that if we had had the time to learn their ways, we might have been successful, but haste was the order of the day.” She paused again. “It did not go well. In the end, Sealladh restored the sanctity of his throne, but the price was his life.”

  “I moved too gingerly the last time,” Sìle said darkly.

  Brèagha shook her head. “My dear, you of all people know that force does not work, not with the precious souls around you and not with magic that isn’t yours.”

  Sìle dragged his hand through his hair. “Damnation,” he said wearily. “Very well, Rùnach. You win.”

  “It wasn’t a battle, Your Grace,” Rùnach said quietly. “Not this time. Not ever.”

  Sìle grunted. “That’s debatable on several points, but I’ll accept the sentiment.” He looked at Aisling. “Very well, my dear, we’ll send for maps from the library and plot his strategy with him—”

  Sìle stopped speaking abruptly at the entrance unaccompanied by a knock of someone into the room, and protested the rudeness. Rùnach would have complained as well, but he was too surprised by the sight of his eldest uncle Làidir walking into the room to do so. Làidir made his father and mother a bow, then paused.

  “Oh, who’s this?”

  “Rùnach’s comrade-in-arms,” Sosar announced helpfully, “Aisling. She’s from Bruadair.”

  “I’m just a weaver,” Aisling said quickly.

  Làidir walked around the table, took her hand, then made her a bow as
well. “I am Làidir, Sìle’s eldest. A pleasure, Mistress Aisling.”

  Rùnach would have complimented his uncle on his pretty manners, but he found himself too busy not liking the look on the crown prince’s face. Làidir continued his way around the end of the table, putting his hand briefly on his father’s shoulder. He stopped in front of Rùnach.

  “Nephew.”

  “Uncle.”

  Làidir pulled a folded note from within his cloak. “I’m not sure how to announce this without perhaps attaching more importance to it than it deserves, but I was given this just outside the border as I was riding homeward early this morning from Slighe.”

  Rùnach took it, knowing without reading it who had written it. He was tempted to see if he couldn’t guess what it said as well, but he had no interest in self-torture. He unfolded the sheaf of parchment and read the untidy scrawl there. It was, he had to admit, a hand he had seen recently. In Tor Neroche, as it happened.

  I have the notes, such as they are, that you left on the plains of Ailean. You have my book. We might trade, or I can find you and kill you and keep both, which means your life is measured in days.

  Fair warning, Rùnach

  Acair

  Rùnach folded the note up and stuck it in a pocket. “Did you see the author himself or one of his representatives?”

  “The author himself,” Làidir said, pursing his lips in distaste.

  Rùnach looked his uncle over but saw no marks. “I assume he didn’t challenge you.”

  Làidir lifted an eyebrow. “He’s a fool but not stupid. You understand the difference very well, I know.”

  Rùnach thanked his uncle, then rose and started to pace. He listened absently to Làidir describing to his father whom he’d encountered and what the message had been. He listened to his grandfather express his displeasure in less-than-dulcet tones. He listened to Ruith, Làidir, and Sosar discuss what utter asses Gair’s natural sons were, but that they were powerful enough not to be taken lightly. He listened with half an ear as Ruith described the truly bizarre markings to be found in the book that had once been Rùnach’s but the innards of which had now been identified as Acair’s, though no one seemed overly interested in having a look at it.