River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

“King Nicholas’s?” Aisling asked. She shrugged. “I didn’t want to know what was in it.”

  “You have paintings of Bruadair. Is that Brèagha’s mark I see in the corner of them?”

  Aisling shot her a look. “You’re thorough.”

  “It’s what makes me a good recorder of history,” Mistress Fionne said. “And I have to admit, though the words fair burn my mouth, that your country wasn’t too hard on the eye in its heyday.”

  Aisling looked at the old witch sitting in front of her and wondered if she dared ask such an unreliable source the question that popped into her head, then supposed there was little harm in it.

  “Why do you think the magic is gone?”

  “Why do you think the magic is gone?”

  Aisling looked at her thoughtfully. “I suppose someone took it.”

  “I was afraid there for a minute that you weren’t too quick on the uptake,” the witchwoman of Fàs said bluntly. “I still have my worries, but fewer of them. Of course someone took the magic, you silly girl. The magic from an entire country doesn’t simply up and walk off on its own.”

  “But why?” She could hardly believe she was asking the woman for her opinion, but there it was.

  The witchwoman of Fàs blew that stray lock of her hair out of her eye. “You are an innocent, aren’t you?” She leaned forward and looked at Aisling. “Because of power, my girl. That’s what all mages want and there is never enough of it to suit them.”

  “But Rùnach isn’t like that.”

  “That’s because he hasn’t got any of his magic left, but don’t think for a moment he wasn’t as happy as any of the rest of them to have any power he could lay his grasping hands on.” She paused, then scowled. “Very well, I’ll allow that perhaps grasping was unfair. And I’ll also admit that he did always use his power for good, an annoying habit that no amount of my attempting to talk sense into him could erase.” She pursed her lips. “He’s a terrible do-gooder, that one. But don’t think any of them wouldn’t be happy with a bit more oomph behind the old spells.”

  Aisling smiled in spite of herself. “And you, Mistress Fionne?”

  “My oomph vanished into the ether long ago, my wee lass, but I’m still powerful enough. And as for your books, I don’t think Nicholas would have given you anything harmful. A lamentable trait to be sure, but there you have it.”

  It was hard not to like the woman on a certain level. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  “When your looks are gone—which in your case I daresay will never happen—it’s all you have left.”

  Aisling smiled in spite of herself. “I’ll remember that.”

  “And remember something else.” The witchwoman of Fàs leaned closer. “I’ve been having bad dreams. See if you can attend to that when you have the chance of it, will you?”

  Aisling was spared from having to disappoint her hostess with her certainty that she would never have the means of doing the like by Rùnach coming back out of the house. She rose, took the book from him, and put it in her bag without looking at it.

  She could hear it, though, whispering things she was certain would give her nightmares if she listened.

  “Hark, I think I hear someone coming,” the witchwoman of Fàs said, putting her hand to her ear.

  “Mother!” a voice bellowed in irritation from the other side of the house. “Mother, damn you, let me in!”

  Aisling felt her heart stop. She looked at Rùnach. “Who is that?”

  Rùnach cursed and shot the witchwoman of Fàs a glare. “Acair, I daresay.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs only smiled. “Best be on your way, hadn’t you?”

  “I thought you said he didn’t have a key.”

  “That’s why he is shouting instead of just barging in. Doesn’t dare come through the back now, does he?” She heaved herself out of her chair, patted Rùnach on the cheek, then pinched Aisling’s arm as if she tested for substance there. “You wouldn’t have been worth the effort to spit, girl. Come back when you’re fatter.”

  “I think I don’t dare,” Aisling said uneasily.

  The witchwoman of Fàs laughed, winked at Rùnach, then walked back toward her house. “Stop your bellowing, you stupid git,” she shouted, her voice and curses fading as she apparently wended her way to her front door.

  Rùnach donned his cloak and his pack, then looked at Aisling. “Can you run?”

  “How far?”

  “Out of earshot, then we’ll fly.”

  “I imagine I can,” she said breathlessly. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “Does that exist?”

  He took her by the hand and pulled her along with him. “In the realm of myths, love, all sorts of things exist.”

  Aye, mages and magic and those of the first persuasion who had no scruples about using the latter for evil ends. She was sure that in the realm of all things mythical, all manner of things existed, things she had likely never read about even in Mistress Muinear’s most treasured of books.

  She just wasn’t sure she wanted to meet them.

  Fourteen

  Rùnach stood at the gates of Léige, soaked to the skin and weary beyond belief. He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful for the cover of darkness or worried that because of the darkness, he couldn’t tell if he was being followed or not. He hadn’t seen Acair along the way, not even a hint of him, but he didn’t suppose that should be reassuring. It wasn’t as if Acair didn’t have his own spell of un-noticing, however inelegantly it might have been woven. It also wasn’t as if the witchwoman of Fàs could possibly be trusted to keep their visit a secret, though he supposed he could rely on her oft-stated desire to cause her son as much grief as possible. Perhaps they had managed to get away without being noticed.

  At least the only thing he was noticing at present was the looks of perfect boredom adorning the faces of the guards. They didn’t even flinch as the fierce black dragon waddling along behind Rùnach and Aisling changed himself back into a lovely chestnut stallion with a blaze down his nose. They also weren’t looking at Iteach as if he had been spat up from the depths of hell to torment them, though Rùnach supposed those lads from Léige had seen too much during their days to be surprised by anything.

  The lad in charge stared at Iteach for a moment, frowned thoughtfully, then looked at Rùnach. He motioned with his sword for him to remove his hood, which Rùnach did.

  The man’s mouth fell open, but just briefly. “Your Highness,” he said, dropping his slightly less-than-starched pose like a dirty cloth. “We had not expected such a distinguished guest, one of King Sìle’s grandsons, obviously, so late in the evening. I would guess Prince Rùnach, but perhaps I guess amiss.”

  Rùnach wondered if the time would come when he wasn’t surprised at being recognized in far-away places. He supposed he was less surprised at that than he was at not being sent away immediately simply because he was an elf, but perhaps his grandfather had caused more of a thawing of relations between Tòrr Dòrainn and Léige than Rùnach been aware of.

  He smiled at the guard. “Nay, you have it aright. I compliment you for your keen eye.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” He nodded to one of his fellows, and the portcullis was immediately raised. “Please, come inside the gates and take your ease by our fire. I’ll have word sent to the king immediately.”

  “Oh, no need for that,” Rùnach said quickly. “We would simply be grateful for a dry place to pass the night, if someone can be found to grant us that request. I wouldn’t want to trouble the king so far into the night.”

  The guard hesitated only briefly. “Your courtesy does you credit, Prince Rùnach. I’ll have word sent about that as well.”

  Which, Rùnach supposed, was all that could be done. He didn’t imagine dragging King Uachdaran out of bed was going to smooth their path for them, but it wasn’t his place to order about men who weren’t his. He kept Iteach’s reins in one hand and held Aisling’s hand with the oth
er as he walked under the barbican. At least they were out of the rain.

  The portcullis was lowered discreetly behind them, and he and Aisling were offered pewter mugs of something steaming. He didn’t ask, he merely drank and was grateful for watered-down mulled wine instead of that strong ale he’d sampled at Mansourah of Neroche’s table.

  He looked at Aisling to see how she fared. She looked much as he suspected he looked: bedraggled and exhausted. Léige wasn’t as far from Ceangail as the inhabitants of Durial might have preferred, but still it was a fair distance. Rùnach was surprised Iteach had traveled that distance so quickly, but that pony had magic at his disposal for which Rùnach was extremely grateful. It had to have been close to midnight, which he regretted, but perhaps at the very least they might manage to sleep in a stall. Far better that than arousing the ire of a sleeping dwarf king.

  He hadn’t but finished the last sip of ale before a page came running out toward the gate. The captain of the night guardsmen spoke briefly with him, then came to stand in front of Rùnach.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting here, Your Highness. If you don’t mind following young Seamus there, he’ll lead you to the hall where others will be waiting to see to your comfort and the comfort of your lady.”

  Rùnach wanted to protest, but he supposed it was too late. “Thank you,” he said simply. “You’ve been very kind.”

  The guardsman acknowledged the comment with the slightest of nods, then hesitated. “About your horse, Your Highness. There are obviously, er, unusual qualities about him. What sort of housing does he require?”

  “I think at this point he would be content with a dry stall and a bucket of warm grain. If he wants something else, I imagine he’ll find it.”

  “As you say, of course.” He looked at Iteach. “I cannot leave my post to see to him, but I imagine the stablemaster—ah, there he is, striding this way with every intention of taking over your steed’s care.”

  Rùnach shot Iteach a warning look, had an indignant tossing of the head in answer, then handed over the reins to the stablemaster who was already making noises of appreciation and admiration as he reached up to stroke Iteach’s neck reverently. Iteach allowed himself to be led off to what would no doubt be kingly accommodations.

  Rùnach thanked the guard for his aid, then smiled politely at the page who stood ready to lead them into the hall. He glanced at Aisling as they started across the courtyard.

  “How are you?” he asked in Fadaire.

  She blinked, then smiled. “Surviving in spite of my intense discomfort at not being grand enough for this place.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful for a lass who just learned my tongue. Do you want to borrow a thread from one of these lads here so you can greet the king in his own language?”

  “Dare I, do you think?”

  “At this point, love, I think you can dare whatever you like.”

  He meant it. He was beginning to think that not only might she do whatever she liked, but she quite possibly had the . . . well, to be honest, he wasn’t quite sure what to call what she had. Others seemed to think it was magic. He wasn’t sure he was ready to call it that, but there was no denying that she had ability far beyond the norm.

  Besides, what did he know? He knew of elven magic because he possessed it as his blood right, had encountered all sorts of other types of magic over the course of his life because he had sought them out, and he had admittedly seen some very strange things in places he hadn’t particularly wanted to go. Unfortunately, he had never been to Bruadair, nor did he know anyone who had been born and grown to adulthood there, so he certainly wasn’t in a position to know anything about what sorts of otherworldly powers they possessed.

  Well, save Aisling.

  “I think I’ll leave the guards be,” she said. “I’m not sure I can take in anything else tonight.”

  “Then I’ll flatter the king until you’ve had a chat with your pillow,” he said, suppressing a yawn. “I speak the king’s tongue, which will please him, and apparently my grandfather during a recent visit made great strides in giving the relations between our countries a firm turn toward warm. I think we’ll at least be granted beds, not just a spot on the floor.”

  She looked up at him. “How do you know their tongue?”

  “Well, whilst my grandfather was in the past never a welcome guest—I’m not sure in all the years he’s been alive he’s ever made it past the front gates—my mother most certainly was. I’ve been here at least thrice I can bring to mind.”

  “And you thought learning their tongue before your visits might flatter the king enough to earn you a spell or two?”

  He smiled. “It seemed wise.”

  She started to say something else, then she looked at the massive doors in front of them and fell silent. Rùnach found himself, as he had been on the previous trio of times he’d been inside those gates, rendered absolutely speechless by the sight of the dwarf king’s hall. Seanagarra was light and delicate song and a beauty that was not quite of the world. Léige could not have been more opposite.

  The entrance to the palace looked as if it had been carved from the stone of the mountain itself, though he seriously doubted any mortal hands could have managed the feat. He wasn’t entirely sure that the hall hadn’t simply pushed itself out from the rock to offer itself as refuge for the first king of Durial who had demanded it. Where rock failed, heavy wood continued along with a floor so polished, it seemed as if they walked on water.

  A solemn dwarf awaited them there just inside the front doors, introducing himself as Riaraiche, the king’s steward. Rùnach was surprised to find he recognized the man, but perhaps it hadn’t been so long since he’d been a guest at Léige.

  “You are most welcome, Prince Rùnach,” Riaraiche said. “And your companion . . . er . . .”

  “Aisling,” she supplied. “Just Aisling.”

  Riaraiche, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye. He did, however, hesitate. “I would say you hail from the north, but perhaps I am speaking out of turn about things you would rather keep unsaid.”

  Rùnach felt Aisling’s fingers twitch in his hand, but she didn’t bolt.

  “I think that would be best,” she managed.

  “Of course,” Riaraiche said promptly. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the king. Your gear will be brought in, of course, and settled in your chambers for you.” He looked at Aisling’s satchel. “Shall I—”

  “Nay,” Aisling said quickly. “I mean, thank you, but nay.”

  Riaraiche nodded. “As you will, of course.”

  Rùnach exchanged a glance with Aisling after the steward had turned away to lead them through the palace. He winked, had a weak smile in return, then supposed they would both survive the evening. At the very least, they would have a safe place to sleep.

  It occurred to him after a bit that Riaraiche wasn’t taking them to the king’s main audience chamber, but his private solar. He was very surprised by that. Perhaps the man was in his nightclothes. It wasn’t possible that he and Aisling would have merited any other sort of welcome.

  Riaraiche knocked, was bidden to enter, then opened the door and led the way.

  “Prince Rùnach of Tòrr Dòrainn and Mistress Aisling, Your Majesty.”

  “And at this unearthly hour,” the king grumbled. “Very well, might as well have a chat before I have them put to the sword.”

  Rùnach wasn’t sure what startled him more: the sound of the king’s voice or the sensation of walking over his own grave. The last time he’d been in the king’s private solar, he had been hunting down Miach and Ruith who had been about the poaching of a spell. Rùnach had always supposed the king left that spell of hiding easily accessible to incorrigible mage’s get so they would leave his more perilous spells alone, but who knew for certain? Uachdaran of Léige was an unknown quantity to all but a select few.

  Riaraiche stood aside. “Please enter, honored quests.” He bowed to them both, then departed,
pulling the door shut behind him.

  Rùnach took a deep breath, then put on his best company manners. He made the king a low bow and felt Aisling attempt the same.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, straightening. “Your kindness for weary travelers knows no bounds.”

  “Travelers as well as soggy elven get, you mean,” Uachdaran said with a snort. He glanced at Rùnach—well, glared at him, actually—then turned a fierce frown on Aisling.

  Or, rather, he did for the space of approximately two heartbeats before his mouth fell open and he pushed himself to his feet. He stared at her in silence for several moments.

  “Well,” he said, finally. He stepped forward and offered Aisling his arm. “Come sit by the fire, gel.”

  Rùnach caught the quick, panicked glance Aisling sent him, smiled encouragingly at her, then watched as the king escorted her with grave formality to a chair across from his near the fire.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Aisling said faintly.

  “You’re very welcome, lass.” Uachdaran shot him a look. “Rùnach, you go find your own chair—after you pour us wine. What were you thinking to have this wee thing out in the wet so late?”

  “An inescapable exigency, Your Majesty,” Rùnach said.

  The king grunted. “I can just imagine. Well, you’ll dry off, warm up, then we’ll see this girl settled in a comfortable chamber. If that suits, Mistress Aisling—or may I call you Aisling?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “This incorrigible rogue has obviously been dragging you all over the Nine Kingdoms without a thought for your proper care.”

  “Oh, it isn’t his fault,” Aisling said. “You see, we’re on a quest.”

  “I would be surprised by anything else,” the king said. “Ah, thank you, Rùnach. Most welcome. Have some wine, Aisling. It’s warm and not from my own cellars, both of which should be considered boons. Now, if you can, tell me of your journey here. I assume you didn’t walk.”

  Rùnach fetched himself a cup of wine, grateful still that he could do so with hands that worked as they should, then sat down in a chair next to Aisling. He supposed at another time he would have paid full attention to the conversation going on next to him, but at the moment, all he could do was fight to stay awake.