River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  “And if I agree,” Aisling said slowly, “will you promise not to do anything untoward to Prince Rùnach?”

  The witchwoman of Fàs peered at her. “Hmmm,” she said again. “So that’s how it is. And what, my young miss, will you do if I damage him?”

  Aisling lifted her chin. “Something dire, I assure you.”

  “But, my girl, your magic will not work in my house.”

  “I don’t have any magic.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs studied her for another long moment, then looked at Rùnach. “What does she have except your heart?”

  “Vast amounts of courage,” Rùnach said, vowing he would at his earliest opportunity sit down and see if he couldn’t determine exactly why others seemed so damned determined to credit Aisling with what she most definitely couldn’t possibly have. She had no more magic running through her veins that he did. She would have known it otherwise, surely.

  “Even the rudest village brat can possess courage,” the witchwoman of Fàs said with a snort. She looked at Aisling. “Enlighten me further about your possible plans for revenge. Would they involve spells?”

  “I don’t have any spells,” Aisling conceded, “though I could spin yours into something I could hide along with your spectacles so thoroughly that you never found either again.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked positively delighted. “I might have to have you spin something after all, just to see how you do it. And nay, I won’t damage your lad.”

  “He isn’t my lad.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked up at Rùnach with a jaundiced eye. “Well, I’ll allow that he is no longer a boy. And I’ll concede that he turned out well, in spite of the path he chose. Quite a mighty mage in his youth, though perhaps he hasn’t said as much. I’m not opposed to the odd display of modesty. My boys could certainly benefit from the like.”

  “I believe, my lady, that you have that aright,” Aisling said without hesitation, “though one of them did offer me tea several days ago.”

  “I assume you didn’t drink it.”

  “That seemed prudent.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs laughed merrily. “I like you. Off you go, my girl. I’ll be much more at ease when I can see you both, then we’ll have a lovely tea and make a proper visit of this.”

  Rùnach watched Aisling go off to look for the witchwoman of Fàs’s glasses, then looked at their hostess. She was watching him from watery blue eyes that he was quite certain needed no ground glass to sharpen their vision.

  “Yes, Mother Fàs?” he asked politely.

  “Nasty business at Ruamharaiche’s well.”

  “So it was.”

  She shook her head. “I tried to tell your mother that the location was the wrong one for what she wanted to accomplish, but she saw no other alternative.” She shrugged. “We do what we must, I suppose, with the means we have at the moment.”

  Rùnach had always thought after what he’d seen over the course of his life that he was past surprise. Obviously not. “You spoke to my mother?”

  “Conversed with your mother, ye wee fool, and more than once, at that. Does that come as a surprise?”

  “A very great one,” he said honestly.

  She straightened the collar of her dress. “I have manners, just like the next lass. I’m just sorry things went so poorly for her. As for your father, however, he deserved what he got, the arrogant bastard. I heard tell Ruithneadh dealt him a rather confining blow recently.”

  “I might know details about that.”

  “I imagine you might. That’ll do for a start. I’ll also have the guest list for Princess Mhorghain’s wedding.”

  “That too,” Rùnach agreed.

  “Anything else of interest?”

  “Name it and ’tis yours.”

  “Done, then.” The witchwoman of Fàs took her glasses from Aisling, polished them on a bit of her skirt, then put them on. She looked at Rùnach. “You haven’t changed.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly.

  She looked at Aisling, then went very still. “Ah, what do we have here? I think I may have missed a thing or two before.”

  “She’s a weaver,” Rùnach said.

  “A nobody,” Aisling added. “No one of importance.”

  “Hmmm,” the witchwoman of Fàs said. “Very interesting. As I said, I perhaps missed things before, but perhaps those things should stay missed. Not terribly pretty, are you, dear?”

  Rùnach made a noise in protest, had a wrinkled wink as a reward, then found his input was apparently not necessary.

  “I’m not,” Aisling agreed.

  “The word doesn’t apply to you,” the witchwoman of Fàs said bluntly. “Nor beautiful. What does Rùnach call you?”

  “Ethereal.”

  “And so you are, little one. Not all Bruadairians are, but there are some right handsome girls there and even more extremely handsome men. Preening fowl they are, but there you have it.”

  Rùnach found Aisling looking at him as if she weren’t sure if she should laugh or weep.

  “I imagine you knocked that one there flat when he realized how he felt about you,” the witchwoman of Fàs said wisely.

  Aisling gaped at her. “Oh, I don’t think he—”

  “Am I spoiling something?” The witchwoman of Fàs looked at Rùnach and blinked owlishly. “Don’t you like her, Rùnach?”

  “Very much.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs grunted, then looked at Aisling. “And you?”

  “Are you a matchmaker, my lady?”

  The witchwoman of Fàs laughed. “I’m no lady, girl, and no matchmaker. Miserable people are more interesting, you see, and I’m interested in interesting. What do you think of my erstwhile lover’s least favorite son?”

  Rùnach wasn’t sure what Aisling thought, but he thought she looked as if she might like to run back out the front door and take her chances in the forest.

  “Oh,” Aisling said miserably, “that isn’t a very nice thing to say to him.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked at Aisling shrewdly. “And so you see who I am. But have no fears for young Rùnach’s feelings.” She took Aisling by the elbow. “Let’s go see what sort of poison is in the pot, then I’ll tell you all about your would-be lover there and how thoroughly his father loathed him.”

  Rùnach clasped his hands behind his back and walked behind them, suppressing his smile. He had to admit that he was actually rather fond of his father’s first, er, well, he supposed she wasn’t his father’s first anything. Whatever she might have been, he couldn’t help but appreciate her unstinting honesty and her robust collection of facts. He considered that until he was called upon to carry a surprisingly elegant tea service that produced a tea that was nothing but tea and cakes that were definitely not laced with anything magical. He was vastly relieved to realize he could see that thanks to the spell of clarity his uncle had gifted him.

  He was going to have to be about writing the odd thank-you sooner rather than later.

  “I suppose his scars bother you.”

  Rùnach pulled himself away from the contemplation of the bottom of his cup to realize the ladies were discussing him.

  “I don’t see them anymore,” Aisling said.

  “Of course you do,” the witchwoman of Fàs said with a hearty snort. “How can you miss those damned things? But count yourself fortunate he has them else you wouldn’t be able to look at him twice. Too handsome by half, that one.”

  Aisling seemed to be having trouble picking her jaw up off the floor. “But, Mistress Fàs—”

  “Fionne,” the witchwoman of Fàs corrected her. “You may use my name.”

  “Thank you,” Aisling said faintly.

  “You,” the witchwoman of Fàs said to Rùnach, “may not.”

  “Of course, Mother Fàs.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs smiled pleasantly. “Haven’t heard that in years.”

  “But don’t your sons call you that?” Aisling asked.

  �
�My sons,” she groused. “They call me nothing. They live within shouting distance, but do they ever come to visit? Do they send missives? Of course not, the worthless little sods. Useless, every last one of them.”

  Rùnach had a far different opinion of those bastard sons, but he decided there was no use in saying as much.

  “Of course, my sisters didn’t fare any better with their children, but that’s a cold comfort indeed.”

  Rùnach blinked. “You have sisters?”

  “Well, of course I have sisters, dolt,” the witchwoman of Fàs said impatiently. “Fiunne and Leannagan, though we never talk about Leannagan.” She shook her head in disgust. “Always had an unwholesome fascination with doing good, that one did. You try to show family the error of their ways, but there’s only so much a body can do when another is determined to ruin her life.” She looked at Aisling and nodded in Rùnach’s direction. “Didn’t have any success with that one either.”

  “Did his father try?” Aisling asked hesitantly.

  “I tried, but failed miserably. Gair could scarce bear the sight of him. And why not? Rùnach was extremely handsome, terribly bright, and hopelessly skilled with a sword, something his sire never managed even after all his years of living. Used to tell others he never cared for steel, but what a liar he was. And to find his second son with all those annoyingly appealing characteristics wrapped up in a healthy dose of delicious elven glamour?” She shook her head. “I’m surprised Gair didn’t murder him in his sleep long before now.”

  “Not much chance of that any longer,” Rùnach said dryly. “Thankfully.”

  “Aye, and fortunately so—you with no magic to use against him,” the witchwoman of Fàs agreed. She pushed away her tea and looked at them expectantly. “Very well, time is short, so let’s begin the negotiations.”

  Aisling jumped a little, but Rùnach reached out and tapped the toe of her boot with his.

  “That was my foot, you wee oaf,” the witchwoman of Fàs groused.

  Aisling looked faintly appalled. “You aren’t very nice to him.”

  “Imagine how awful I am to those I don’t care for,” the witchwoman of Fàs said with a sly smile. “Now, what is it you need from me, children?”

  “My lady needs a safe place to rest,” Rùnach said. “I need an opinion on a book I found in the library at Eòlas.”

  “Found it,” she repeated with a snort. “I daresay you stole it, did you?”

  “Without remorse.” Then again, the book was his, so perhaps the method of its liberation could remain safely uncategorized.

  “There’s hope for you yet, lad.” The witchwoman of Fàs nodded. “Very well, what else?”

  “That’s all.”

  “And in return?”

  “Those details you might want about happenings out in the world.”

  “That seems rather thin, as far as offerings go,” she said doubtfully. “On the whole.”

  “What else would suit?” he asked.

  “I have wood that needs chopped.”

  “Seems a bit perilous to be outside,” Rùnach pointed out.

  “Wear that spell from young Miach and that blasted glamour of your grandfather’s. I’ll use something of my own to muffle the sounds.”

  Rùnach supposed that if the muffling was limited to the sound of an axe falling on wood instead of his head, he couldn’t argue.

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked at Aisling. “You, Mistress Aisling, will stay inside and keep your hound from chewing on the legs of my furniture.”

  Aisling looked at her with the expression of one who had had enough surprises for the day. “How did you know my name?”

  “Rùnach mentioned it, I’m sure.”

  “He didn’t.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs shrugged. “It’s written plainly enough on your soul, gel. You might want to learn to hide that eventually, but I doubt you’ll learn that from me.” She rose. “Come along, Rùnach my lad. Off to your labors.”

  Rùnach hesitated. “Perhaps Aisling would rather come sit in the sunshine.”

  “Don’t be daft,” the witchwoman of Fàs said. “It isn’t as if I’m going to pop her into my oven and roast her for supper, now, is it?”

  “I should hope not.”

  She pursed her lips. “She’s too ethereal and skinny for that. Now, one of those sturdy lassies from Gairn might tempt me. Ever been to Gairn, Rùnach?”

  “Never, Mother Fàs.”

  “Don’t go. They’re rough and tumble there in the north. Might offend your delicate elven sensibilities. Now, come along and bring your best efforts with you. Your lady will be safe enough with me inside.”

  Rùnach shuddered to think what might happen to Aisling during the afternoon with Fionne of Fàs manning the tea table, but perhaps since they’d already eaten, she might be safe for an hour or two. He rose, then stood with his hand on his chair and wondered what sort of parting words he should leave with Aisling before he went to pay the purchase price of what he wanted to know.

  “Good hell, Rùnach,” the witchwoman of Fàs said impatiently, “I said I wouldn’t harm her.”

  “You said you wouldn’t roast her,” he said pointedly. “That leaves several options still quite open.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs winked at Aisling. “Don’t think he didn’t hone some of that decent thinking here at my hearth. Did he tell you that he built on to my greenhouse and created a spell for my plants that waters them just enough at precisely the right moments? He had one of my best spells as payment and more than a few details about Gair’s weaknesses as well.”

  “What spell was that?” Aisling asked.

  The witchwoman of Fàs frowned thoughtfully. “Can’t say as I remember. You, Rùnach?”

  “I believe it was a spell that when laid upon a mage caused his nose and ears to grow in direct proportion to the evil intent behind whatever unsavoury spell he might lay on another.”

  Mother Fàs slapped her thigh and cackled. “That was the one.” She shot Aisling a look. “Not particularly useful for protection, but good for a chuckle. You should have seen Gair’s face the first time Rùnach cast it on him. Rùnach blamed it on one of my boys. Can’t remember which one.”

  “Amitàn,” Rùnach said dryly. “I imagine he still hasn’t forgiven me for it.”

  “Likely not.” She looked at Aisling. “Sadly, my gel, that was the one and only nasty thing Rùnach did in the whole of his youth—and that despite my efforts to show him the error of his ways. I imagine he still feels guilty over it.” She nodded toward her back door. “We may as well go with him, girl. He’ll fret else and not do justice to my wood pile. You would think one of my sons would be interested in seeing my fire fed, wouldn’t you?”

  “Don’t you have a spell for that sort of thing?” Aisling asked.

  “It never yields as fine a blaze as does some decent labor from a lad who knows how to wield an axe. Come along, Rùnach, and show your lady here something useful. Did I tell you, Aisling, how handsome he was as a youth?”

  “Not fully, Mistress Fionne.”

  “Mistress Fionne,” the witchwoman of Fàs echoed with a snorting laugh. “Pretty manners from—what did you say you were?”

  “A weaver.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you don’t care for the art?”

  “It might be the sneer attached to the word.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs laughed heartily and shot Rùnach a look. “A worthy mate for you, this one. Well, come along, Rùnach. Show her you can do something besides sit upon your prissy elven ar—”

  “Mother Fàs,” Rùnach warned.

  The witchwoman of Fàs rolled her eyes. “See, Aisling? Prissy is the perfect word for those elves. Don’t know how I put up with Gair for all those centuries, but I was younger then, and I stole him from someone else. Hard to put away a trophy you’ve stolen from someone else is my thinking.”

  What Rùnach thought was that he might have to sit down soon and digest what he was hearing. He
had never thought to ask about his father’s past, and now he understood why. He could only hope that Fionne of Fàs would leave off with her revelations whilst he had an axe in his hands. He wasn’t concerned about her, but he was quite concerned about his toes.

  He followed the ladies out a side door that fortunately wasn’t the portal that sat under Mother Fàs’s eminently useful spell of death and saw them seated before he retreated to the chopping block. He stole a look at them sitting in chairs half in and half out of the sunlight and smiled to himself. The witchwoman of Fàs was obviously enjoying shocking Aisling, and Aisling was perhaps unwittingly giving her pleasure by gaping at her as if she simply couldn’t believe anyone could be that plainspoken. It was an unlikely pairing, but one he couldn’t help but enjoy for a moment.

  “Rùnach! Chop, you lazy—”

  He smiled and set to his work.

  Thirteen

  Aisling sat in the sunshine, in what had to be one of the most unlikely spots for comfort in all the Nine Kingdoms, and wondered how much stranger her life could become.

  The witchwoman of Fàs, Fionne by name, was snoozing in a chair that looked to have been fashioned with that sort of activity in mind. One of her wild white locks had come free of her bun—and Aisling used that term lightly—and fallen over one eye and somehow over her nose. It seemed to bother their hostess even in her dreams, because every time it would tickle her lips, she would snort, curse, and blow it out of her way only to have it return to its former position when she succumbed again to slumber.

  Aisling would have suspected Rùnach of laying an untoward spell on her, but even if he’d had magic, he didn’t look as if he had it in him. He was simply leaning upon his axe, looking somehow quite harmless and terribly perilous at the same time. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead and smiled.

  “She terrifies her sons.”

  “I can see why.”

  “I think she terrified my father.”

  “And you irritated him.”

  “Apparently so. I had no idea to what extent.” He smiled. “That was likely for the best. I think I might have been quite impossible to live with otherwise. Badge of honor and all that.”