River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  Supper arrived soon after their wine was finished, and Aisling fell asleep soon after that. Rùnach didn’t suppose she would fall out of her chair, but he thought there was no harm in moving his chair closer to her and providing her with a shoulder against which to rest her head.

  She slept through the entire affair.

  “Well, you know what she is.”

  Rùnach looked at the king. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked that question.”

  “And your answers have been?”

  “In no particular order, a girl, a lass from a northern country, and a very lovely gel with no magic but an uncanny ability to pull things out of thin air.”

  “Lost your magic, did you?”

  “Aye.”

  Uachdaran shook his head. “That grieves me, Rùnach, and I don’t mind telling you so. I wasn’t fond of your father, but you and your brothers inherited none of his evil. Your brother Keir was a fine man.” He looked at Rùnach from under bushy eyebrows. “And unlike your wee brother Ruithneadh, you never once snuck into my solar and poached any of my spells.”

  “Nay, Your Majesty,” Rùnach said solemnly, “I just took the ones you left like chocolates on my pillow.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  Rùnach smiled. “King Uachdaran, one of my deepest regrets is that I no longer have the power to use any of them, for they were mighty spells indeed.”

  “And those weren’t even the best ones. Imagine what lengths your brother and that dratted king of Neroche would have gone to otherwise.”

  “The world trembles at the thought.”

  The king pursed his lips. “It does, indeed.” He studied Aisling for a moment or two, then looked at Rùnach. “A quest?”

  Rùnach supposed since the quest was now his, there was no reason not to be frank. “She was tasked with finding a lad to overthrow her country’s current, ah, usurper.”

  The king considered a bit longer. “Interesting. Are you going to share with me which country needs a bit of pruning at the top?”

  “Do I need to?”

  Uachdaran smiled. “I imagine you don’t. I’ve had occasion to have speech with Frèam of Bruadair more than once over the past score of years. But I sense there is more to it than just your lass’s quest. On the run from something untoward, are you?”

  “Is it obvious?”

  “Rather, my boy. I generally don’t have visitors during the middle of the night who aren’t flying under cover of darkness, so to speak. What are you running from? Or should I ask who?”

  “My bastard brothers.”

  “I imagine that galls you,” Uachdaran said with a snort. “Any one of them in particular, or the whole writhing pile of them?”

  “Acair primarily,” Rùnach said with a shrug. “He wants me dead.”

  “Lad, I would imagine Acair always wanted you dead.”

  Rùnach studied the king for a moment or two and couldn’t help but smile a little. “You know, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t have believed a score of years ago that you knew anything about my family.”

  “Much less give any of your family sanctuary here, is that it?” Uachdaran asked. “’Tis a bit of a shock to me as well, as you might imagine, but I suppose you can blame Miach of Neroche for starting the whole sorry state of affairs. Or that might have been the very charming Queen Mehar. The details escape me now, but I can tell you that I seem to find myself overrun with regularity by some or other of your relations. I allowed your grandfather into my hall—a first, if you’ll have the truth—only because Miach had begged it of me.”

  “Did he behave?”

  “Sìle?” Uachdaran scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “To my continued surprise, he did. I’m tempted to let him in again if the occasion arises.” He considered, then nodded toward Aisling. “Is this quest she’s on hers, or are you joining her in it?”

  “What I would have preferred was to replace her on it,” Rùnach said, “but she insisted on coming along.”

  “And you couldn’t say her nay.”

  “I might have had an ulterior motive,” Rùnach said.

  Uachdaran smiled. “I should certainly hope so. How is that working?”

  “Not as well as I would like. She seems reluctant to entertain any of my advances.”

  “Do you think?” the king asked with a bit of a smirk.

  “I try not to,” Rùnach said honestly, “especially where she is concerned. Then again, it isn’t as if we’ve had much chance to do anything but run.”

  “That would tend to put a damper on amorous adventures, I’ll allow.” Uachdaran looked at him over the top of his cup. “You do know what she is in truth, don’t you? And if you say a girl, I will stick you for it.”

  Rùnach couldn’t see Aisling, but he did notice that at some point during the recent conversation he’d scarce managed to stay awake for, she had put her hand over his. She was assuredly asleep, so perhaps she had done it in her dreams. He looked at her hand over his for a moment or two, then looked at the dwarf king.

  “Do you?”

  “I know many things,” Uachdaran said mildly.

  Rùnach sighed. “I know she’s Bruadairian. I know she has abilities that I don’t understand, but I don’t know why she has them or how she came by him. I thought only Bruadairian royalty had any sort of”—he couldn’t bring himself to say magic, so he looked for another word—“unusual gifts.”

  Uachdaran leaned back in his chair and cradled his mug in his hands. “You don’t know anything about the place and you’re keeping company with that lass there?”

  “In my defense, her details have been a bit hard to come by,” Rùnach said. “It isn’t as if she was willing to divulge anything.”

  “Bad luck to do so.”

  “She was told it was death.”

  Uachdaran snorted. “Here’s something to learn now, which is something I’m surprised you didn’t learn at Soilléir’s knee: people exaggerate.”

  “Do Bruadairians exaggerate more than most?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say they have reason enough to want to protect what’s theirs.”

  Rùnach considered, then cast caution to the wind. There was obviously no point in hedging.

  “So,” he said slowly, “do most everyday Bruadairians have magic?” He attempted to ask the question as casually as possible lest it appear more important than he wanted it to.

  Uachdaran lifted an eyebrow. “Not that I’ve seen.”

  Rùnach looked at him then. “None of them?”

  The king shrugged. “Again, not that I’ve seen, though perhaps I’m not the best one to ask. I know what Frèam and his wife possess, but other than their sight, their abilities seem to end at their border. As for what magic they can call upon inside Bruadair, it is very powerful, but wielded in a way that I wouldn’t have the patience for. As for anyone else, I suppose it’s possible that there are ordinary Bruadairian lads and lassies who possess a rudimentary sort of magic.” He nodded knowingly. “You know, the ability to blurt out the odd charm of ward or create a love potion.”

  “Useful.”

  “For you, aye, it might be, especially considering the lack of progress you’ve made so far with that gel there.”

  “She’s a difficult case.”

  “Either that, or you’ve been too long out of decent society. Obviously Soilléir wasn’t of any use to you in this area. Then again, it isn’t as if he’s had any success with the fairer sex.”

  “He’s intimidating.”

  “He a bit of a bungler when it comes to impressing a woman, or so I would say. He’ll need vast amounts of help if he’s ever to wed. Don’t look at me for that sort of thing where you’re concerned.”

  Rùnach wasn’t sure Uachdaran of Léige was the one he wanted advising him in matters of the heart, but he thought it prudent not to say as much. He rubbed his hands together, wondering why they ached so much. The rain, perhaps. He looked at his hands, his hands that had once sha
ped magic beneath them without his having to think about it overmuch. He frowned, then looked at the king.

  “Soilléir has magic.”

  “So he does,” Uachdaran said with a nod. “Mighty magic, indeed.”

  “Do they all in Cothromaiche, do you suppose?”

  “Didn’t you think to ask him?”

  Rùnach shook his head. “I never did.”

  “Too busy memorizing his spells, I’ll warrant,” the king said with a snort. “And don’t look at me for that answer either. I would imagine ’tis like anywhere else. There is the odd strain of magic in the general populace, but I would imagine it finds itself there courtesy of some encounter with nobility back in the branches of the family tree. Magic always comes from a bloodline somewhere, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Is it the same thing in Bruadair, I wonder?”

  “Ah, now we come to it,” Uachdaran said.

  Rùnach waited, but the king didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. “I’m not sure what to think.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Rùnach shook his head. “My sister-in-law doesn’t have magic, does she?”

  “Apart from the fact that she Sees?”

  “Which I would suspect she inherited from Artair of Cothromaiche. She inherited nothing from her mother, yet Sorcha was Bruadairian royalty.”

  “And?”

  “Aisling is not royalty,” he said. “She’s a weaver.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “I think she would know if her parents were related to the king,” Rùnach said pointedly. “I think they had aspirations of being nobility, at least, but I think we can say with a fair amount of certainty that if they had been of royal blood, they wouldn’t have sold her to the weaver’s guild.”

  “Perhaps she was a changeling left on their doorstep.”

  Rùnach laughed a little, then he realized the king was perfectly serious. He looked at him in disbelief. “A changeling?”

  “Stranger things have happened, I daresay,” the king said with a shrug. “Did they sell any of her siblings to the weaver’s prison?”

  “Nay, but . . .” Rùnach paused, but couldn’t bring himself to go down that path. “Perhaps she annoyed them.”

  “Perhaps she annoyed them because she wasn’t theirs.”

  He shook his head, because he couldn’t imagine that. Her parents had sold her because they were selfish and stupid, not because of anything more . . . well, anything more. Surely.

  But they hadn’t sold her siblings.

  “It is interesting, isn’t it,” Uachdaran mused, “that you should meet a gel from Bruadair. Coincidental, even.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in coincidence.”

  “Then perhaps you should see if there’s someone pulling your strings, shouldn’t you?”

  Rùnach blinked. “What?”

  “Just what I said.” He set his cup aside. “Think about that when you can’t sleep, my boy, and see if you can’t come up with an idea or two.”

  Rùnach shook his head. “Your Majesty, I believe your thoughts are simply too deep for my poor head tonight.”

  “You asked.”

  “I think I wish I hadn’t.”

  Uachdaran slapped his hands on his knees and laughed as he rose. “Ah, what I live for: to confuse and confound any elf cheeky enough to enter my gates. Best be off to bed, lad, before your wee brain gives up entirely.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rùnach said dryly. “I’ll take that advice to heart.”

  “I seriously doubt you will, but I’ve done what I can. Let’s get your lady to a proper bed before she wakes with a kink in her neck. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  “I appreciate the refuge, King Uachdaran.”

  “Oh, don’t think I won’t have something out of you in return for it,” Uachdaran promised. “Just haven’t decided what yet.”

  “I’ll pay it gladly.”

  “I imagine you will,” the king said mildly. “Goodnight, lad. I’ll send someone along to show you to your chambers.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. You’ve been exceedingly kind.”

  “Don’t noise that about,” the king said on his way out the door.

  Rùnach sat in front of the king’s fire until he heard a discreet tap on the door and knew his escort had come. He put his hand over Aisling’s.

  “Aisling? Time for bed.”

  She sat up so suddenly, she put her hand to her head, apparently to stop things from spinning around her. She looked at him, then rubbed her eyes.

  “Tell me I didn’t drool.”

  He smiled. “Not once.”

  She looked around herself. “Where is the king?”

  “He went to bed, which is where you need to be off to.” He set his wine aside, then rose and held down his hand for her. “I’m sure even the bedclothes will take pity on you tonight and allow you to sleep.”

  “One could hope.”

  He left the king’s solar with her, then followed the servant down the passageway to where they were to be offered chambers. The dwarf made them both a low bow.

  “This is for my lady’s pleasure,” he said. “Your Highness, your chamber is a bit farther down the way. I will await you there, if you like.”

  Rùnach nodded, and the man bowed again before he withdrew discreetly down the way. Aisling looked up at him.

  “This seems like a safe place,” she ventured.

  “It is a fortress,” Rùnach agreed. “I don’t think all seven of my half brothers would dare assault it. You may sleep in perfect peace.”

  She smiled wearily, then followed a serving girl into the chamber provided. Rùnach reached in and pulled the door shut, trusting that she would be well taken care of. He had no reason to suspect anything else.

  He walked thoughtfully to his own bedchamber, thanked their guide, then went inside and wasted no time in putting himself to bed.

  Sleep was long in coming, though he supposed he had reasons enough for that. Most of his discomfort came from his very location. He had to admit he didn’t much care for having to run from refuge to refuge in an effort to keep himself alive. He just wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do to change that. He supposed his grandfather’s glamour he’d asked for and the runes on his hands he hadn’t might provide him with defense and Miach’s spell might provide him with anonymity, but how far would that go in seeing Sglaimir off Frèam’s throne or convincing Acair that he would be better off amusing himself with the pursuit of other mages?

  Then perhaps you should see if there’s someone pulling your strings, shouldn’t you?

  Of all the thoughts he’d had that day, that one was, he could safely say, the most unsettling.

  And the most ridiculous. There was no one leading him down a path he hadn’t chosen himself, much less forcing him down that path. He had an entire world full of possibilities in front of him, all waiting for him to choose the one that pleased him the most. After, of course, he saw to Aisling’s business for her, then took care of his own.

  Besides, who would possibly be interested in either of them? She was a simple weaver and he a man with no power. Surely they weren’t of interest to anyone but themselves.

  Surely.

  Fifteen

  Aisling followed Rùnach and the king down a passageway that descended at a slow but steady decline. Actually, the truth was she was stumbling along behind them, but it was the best she could do at the moment. It had nothing to do with her sleep, which had been deep and restful, or the supper the night before, which had been wonderful. It didn’t even have anything to do with the company, which was delightful.

  It was that the rock was talking to her.

  She hadn’t heard it whilst she’d been sleeping. She would have remembered that, she was sure. In fact, her chamber had been comfortingly silent. Even the fire had simply burned in a cheery but voiceless way, leaving her to her own thoughts.

  It hadn’t been until noon, when she’d managed to get hers
elf to the king’s great hall and the king had asked them if they wanted a tour of his palace, that she had realized that it was as if the entire place were holding its collective breath for something. She had walked behind the king and Rùnach only because she continued to be distracted by the intricate carvings on the walls, which led her to endlessly fall behind.

  And then she’d put her hand on one of the walls.

  Even the king had looked back at her then, the torchlight and shadows playing equally over his expression of surprise. His surprise had soon turned to something else that she hadn’t been able to identify. She thought it might have been approval, but she honestly couldn’t tell. She was too busy being deafened by all the things the rock was telling her.

  She took her hand away, but the cacophony continued. It wasn’t a single voice; it was a plethora of voices that sounded as if the whole mountain were sliding down on top of her with an endless rumble. The only way any of it made any sense was if she trailed her fingers along the cold stone, for then at least she could understand what was being said. Or at least that had been the case in the beginning. Now, she found she could understand the stories being whispered to her without touching anything at all.

  She supposed it might not have been so shocking if her only other experience with the sudden learning of a tongue hadn’t come in Tòrr Dòrainn. The language of the elves there and the corresponding expression of the spells permeating the realm had been flowers and streams and endless sunlight falling down unless it had been interrupted by a gentle rain to freshen and renew.

  The king of Léige’s tongue had all the delicacy of an enormous stone being dropped on her head.

  The language was a perfect reflection of the palace, she supposed: hard, unyielding, full of complicated twists and unexpected turns. The king and Rùnach were speaking in the common tongue—or so she thought; she wasn’t sure she was capable of distinguishing anything from the low rumbling speech of the rock all around her. She couldn’t tell what was speech, what was magic, and what was simply the stone that had borne the footsteps of tens of thousands of souls over the millennia of the palace’s existence.