River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  “I wasn’t asking you if you were fine,” he said. “I don’t want you running away.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “Why would you think I intended to run away?”

  “Because you have the look a lass gets when she’s plotting something,” he said, with a knowing nod, “which in your case generally includes running away. You may as well tell me now exactly what you’re thinking.”

  She lifted her chin, because Scrymgeour Weger had taught her to do so. “I’ve made a decision,” she announced, never mind that it was something that came to her at that precise moment. “I can’t let you come with me.”

  He looked unsatisfyingly unsurprised. “Can’t you?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because look at you,” she said, feeling suddenly rather irritated. “You need to be back at your grandfather’s hall, entertaining beautiful princesses and watching them fight over you.”

  “Just there?” he asked mildly.

  “Of course not,” she said shortly. “Every bloody salon from here to Tor Neroche to Tòsan and back will want you to adorn it.”

  “You forgot Meith.”

  “Damn Meith!” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “I mean—”

  She couldn’t speak any longer. That might have been because he had taken two strides and pulled her again into his arms. She lifted her face to protest and found that she most definitely couldn’t speak.

  He was going to have to cease with that sort of thing or she wasn’t going to get anything else done in her life.

  “Why don’t you,” he said after a moment or two, “trust that I am a selfish beast who only makes decisions for my life that are in my best interest?”

  “Because I know you aren’t,” she said miserably. “You’re a hopeless do-gooder.”

  He pulled her close and rested his cheek against her hair. “As, I believe, are you. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “Rùnach—”

  “Whilst we are about enjoying the last of this lovely day, tell me a tale,” he said. “Perhaps the tale of Roland of Istaur.”

  “Don’t you know it?”

  “Aye, I do. I want to see if you know it.”

  She sighed. “Roland of Istaur was a knight who fell in love with Iona of Diarmailt, apparently when Diarmailt was still a powerful kingdom. But because she was the daughter of a king and Roland a mere knight, he had to do something extraordinary to win her hand, so he took on an impossible quest.”

  “Funny, that,” Rùnach said. “The taking on of a quest to win a lady’s hand.”

  “Well, I suppose if a man truly loved the woman in question, then it doesn’t seem so silly.”

  “Nay, it doesn’t.”

  She nodded, then she realized he wasn’t speaking anymore. Hard on the heels of that realization came the one that she understood what he was getting at. She pushed out of his arms and looked at him in shock.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Can’t I?”

  She turned away. The torches sudden lit themselves, which surprised her. She spun around and looked at him. Very well, so she might have glared. It had been that sort of spring so far.

  “You’re an elf,” she accused.

  “Mostly.” He smiled. “And a very weary one, as it happens. Would you mind if I sat down?”

  “Of course not,” she said promptly. “There’s a lovely bench there.”

  He walked over to the bench she’d been perching on earlier, then bent and picked up her book from where she’d dropped it. He opened the cover, smiled, then sat. He set the book aside and looked up at her, his smile fading. “Is my blood an impediment?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and drew on every smidgen of self-control she’d learned during endless days in the Guild. She absolutely would not cry over him now. “Because I am nothing and you are a prince.”

  He looked down at his hands for several minutes in silence, then held his hands out and looked at her seriously. “Spin it out of me, then.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “My magic. Spin it out of me.”

  She blinked. “Why?”

  “Because I think it has changed how you look at me.”

  She sighed, because she couldn’t keep herself from it. “How could it not?”

  “I don’t think it would if you understood exactly what I think it’s good for.”

  “And what is that?”

  He pointed at the torches behind them. They leapt to light with a fire so beautiful, she gasped.

  “Because that and this”—he snapped his fingers and every single tree in the garden blazed to life with the same light—“and that”—lights exploded in the sky above her—“and even that”—he pointed to a spot in front of him and a fountain simply appeared, singing a song of Fadaire as the water fell softly over its edge—“is all rubbish.”

  She thought she might want to sit down soon. “Beautiful rubbish, though.”

  He didn’t smile. “There is only one thing my magic, the magic that you had the uncanny, almost magical ability to see and then spin out of me as not another single person on the face of the earth could have done, is good for.”

  “And what is that?” she asked reluctantly.

  “To keep you safe.”

  She smiled uneasily because the thought was so ridiculous, but she felt her smile fade when she realized he was perfectly serious.

  “You mean that.”

  “Of course I mean that.” He reached out, took her hand, then pulled her over to sit next to him on the stone bench. “I’m not finished with this conversation,” he said, “but I’m not sure I’m equal to doing aught but sitting here for a few minutes and catching my breath.”

  “I can go—”

  “Stay.”

  Well, if he was going to put it that way, she supposed she wouldn’t argue.

  She looked at his hands that had taken her hand between them. Before she thought better of it, she reached out and traced the runes there. She drew Teasraig and Sonairte on the back of his right hand, causing them to flash silver and gold briefly in the torchlight. She could also see Còir’s rune there, buried in his flesh. She could see the rune he hadn’t known the name of, the one that had inspired a goodly bit of uninterest. And beneath them all, covering flesh that was no longer webbed with scars was Comraich.

  A rune of gathering.

  She frowned thoughtfully at it, then looked at him. “What is Comraich?”

  “Comraich?” he echoed in surprise. “It is a rune of gathering, but in the sense of gathering something in and protecting it. Why do you ask?”

  “Because that was what was covering your scars. Beneath that other rune you spoke of that inspired disinterest.” She traced it a time or two more before she dared tell him what else she saw. She met his gaze. “Your mother put both there.”

  His eyes grew very red. “Did she, indeed?”

  She nodded. “It was she who hid your power.”

  He rubbed his face against his shoulder, then looked at her. “Aisling, I think you might reduce me to tears. Again, if you’re keeping count.” He took a deep breath. “How in the world do you know that?”

  She continued to trace his runes, because she thought it might bring him some small comfort. “You told me that your mother had managed to deflect your sire’s spell so you took only a glancing blow, which was obviously the case. I don’t know, not having been at the well, but I believe that what she did was take your power and hide most of it in your hands, then cover it with a rune of Comraich.” She met his eyes, but her eyes were too full of tears to see him properly. “She cut it out of her own hand with a spell and gave it to you. Your voice and your sight and your hearing she covered as well, but I fear by then her power was . . . less.”

  “Less?”

  “The spell she used to do so was
the last thing she said before she perished.”

  He caught his breath, then bowed his head. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She supposed it was his tale to weep over, but she found instead that she was the one who was falling apart. She put his handkerchief over her face, but it did little to stem the tide, as it were. She wept until she thought she might have wept all of her tears for the foreseeable future, wiped her face, then looked at him. He wasn’t weeping.

  He looked at peace.

  She hiccuped, which seemed particularly out of place, but she couldn’t help herself. “She loved you.”

  “I believe she did,” he said quietly. He looked at her and smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you. You have given me a gift I can never repay.”

  “Oh, Rùnach,” she said miserably, “I’m not sure I was even thinking that at the time. I did it because I thought I could, which was an arrogant assumption on my part.”

  “Born of an intense desire to do good,” he said seriously. He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Which is why you and I will go on this quest, save Bruadair, then turn our attentions to more personal things.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that I could have killed you?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t hear any spells of death coming out of your mouth.”

  She looked at him helplessly. “I took a foolish chance with your life because I arrogantly thought I could do something none of your relatives had managed.”

  “And isn’t that interesting?” he said, sliding her a look. “That you managed something none of my relatives could.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t try,” she said with a shrug.

  “I spent twenty years acting as servant to the son of the crown prince of Cothromaiche, who has all sorts of spells for doing all kinds of things,” he said seriously. “He certainly could have done something, I should think, but he didn’t. And in this case, I don’t think it was because he thought it was better that I suffer. He would have restored my magic to me had he been able to.”

  She thought she might have rather preferred her life when all she did was weave rough thread. “What are you getting at?”

  He smiled, then leaned over, stopping just short of kissing her. “Might I?” he asked politely.

  “You’re asking?”

  “I thought I should.”

  “Why?”

  He blinked, then smiled before he kissed her. He rose, pulling her up with him, then put his arms around her and held her tightly for a moment or two. He pulled back and met her gaze.

  “Let’s go read your book.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m still thinking about what to say, which might take me all day, so why don’t we seek out a comfortable spot in front of the king’s fire and read your book until I manage it?”

  “If you like.” She paused. “He has been very kind.”

  “I’m not sure that describes it,” Rùnach said wryly. “I’m not sure even my grandfather has seen the inside of the king’s private solar, much less enjoyed the privilege of sitting in it for hours at a time. I think we can safely assume he’s doing this because of you, not me.”

  “Surely not.”

  He only smiled and took her hand. She didn’t find that a particularly satisfactory answer, but she obviously was going to have nothing more from him.

  She walked with him back toward the king’s hall and tried not to jump as first the fountain disappeared, then the lights above them, then the lights in the trees after they were no longer needed.

  “I don’t think the king would want to have Fadaire in his garden,” Rùnach said.

  Aisling imagined not. She continued on with him back into the palace, then through the passageways toward the king’s solar. She flinched a little each time someone would bow to them—for it wasn’t just to Rùnach. She looked up at him to find him watching her with a small smile.

  “Why do they keep doing that, do you suppose?”

  “I think they know who you are.”

  “But I’m just me,” she said in surprise. “I’m no one.”

  “I believe Mehar of Angesand said the exact thing at one point.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Actually, I think I might. And something else you should know is this: there have been several lads who spent much effort and questing to win the heart of a Bruadairian lass. You’re quite an exclusive lot.”

  “I think you’re inventing all this on the spot.”

  “And I think you’re beautiful,” he said seriously. “I should also mention that Uachdaran has a vein of something special in an easily accessible place. Too fine for picks, too hard for fingers. He was thinking you might want to see if you could spin it out of solid rock.”

  “I’m not sure I can spin anything else unusual today,” she said with a shiver.

  “Then let’s leave it for tomorrow.” He shot her a meaningful look. “There are several things we must needs discuss, Aisling, but perhaps we should leave those for tomorrow as well. But don’t think I’ve forgotten any of them in my delight and profound gratitude over the events of today.”

  “Events that you can only see out of one eye.”

  “I’ll beg a bit of healing from the king, and you’re changing the subject.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

  She nodded, but she could say nothing else. The day had been full of things she hadn’t expected, things she wasn’t sure she would be able to think about in the future without weeping.

  Rùnach had his magic back.

  She couldn’t help but believe that had changed a great many things.

  Eighteen

  Rùnach had always suspected it would be magic that would kill him in the end. He just hadn’t expected it would be his own.

  He stood, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, and wondered if it would be simpler to beg for mercy and lose his pride or let Uachdaran of Léige’s very unsettling spells simply do their work and rid him of anything resembling a sentient existence.

  “There’s ale on the bench over there.”

  Aye, no doubt laced with spells that would leave him retching far into the evening, which he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t just do all on his own. He heaved himself upright, nodded his thanks to the king, then staggered over to the wall where he indeed found what had been promised. He downed half a cup of pale, undemanding ale before he realized what he was missing.

  Aisling.

  “She left an hour ago.”

  Rùnach looked at the king standing next to him. “Have we been here an hour already?”

  “Two,” Uachdaran said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Don’t you remember?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “I told her to go,” the king said. “Didn’t think she should see you on your knees begging for mercy.”

  Rùnach couldn’t even nod in thanks. Uachdaran inviting him into his private lists had been, he had to admit, a very generous offer. He and Aisling had encountered the king on their way back inside from the garden whereupon the king of the dwarves had invited Rùnach to step into his lists for a bit of late afternoon’s exercise. Rùnach had agreed, then experienced a moment’s pause when the king had told him he wouldn’t need a sword. He’d suppressed a flinch, agreed to Aisling’s request that she come along, then hoped he hadn’t gotten himself into something he might not emerge from unscathed.

  In truth, the entire experience had felt like something out of a dream—and not just the two hours he’d apparently spent in the king’s lists. Watching Aisling pull his power from him, power he hadn’t realized he still possessed, then spin it into something even he could see was a moment he was sure he would never forget. She had draped that power around his shoulders like a delicate shawl fashioned from something far less tangible than spiderwebs. He had felt it sink into him, though, with the power of a thousand hammers.

  Nay, that didn’t come close to describing the
pain of it, though he supposed that might be a memory he didn’t care to entertain until the misery had faded from it.

  He’d woken to the sight of some sharp-eyed dwarf peering at him, listened to the man identify himself as Uachdaran’s personal physick, then sat up and looked about for Aisling.

  And then it had occurred to him what she’d done.

  He supposed it was fair to say that he had leapt out of bed with a giddy laugh. Perhaps Ollamh would forget in time that Rùnach had spun him around as if they were both professional players capering about to jovial music. The man likely thought him mad, which perhaps he had been at the time.

  He had extinguished the flames in the hearth with a word, then lit the wood again and almost set his bedchamber on fire. It had taken him a moment or two to breathe enough times to calm himself down and use his power in a useful, measured fashion.

  And he had Aisling to thank for it.

  The truth was, he’d had to bite his tongue to keep himself from proposing to her earlier in the garden. He wasn’t sure how that was related to having his magic back. At the moment, he honestly wasn’t sure of anything except that he wasn’t sure he could look at any more of Uachdaran of Léige’s spells without puking.

  He looked at the king. “This is very generous.”

  The king drained his cup and set it down. “It is,” he agreed. “I seem to be indulging your family in this regularly. I put Ruithneadh through his paces recently, if memory serves.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Well enough, and so you know, he escorted his lady out after a pair of hours. I did that for you, which I believe I just mentioned.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Rùnach said honestly.

  “Lad, you were too busy trying not to lose your lunch to remember much of anything. Are you up for more?”

  Rùnach took a deep breath. “Why are you doing this?”

  “For my own amusement. Are you afraid?”

  Rùnach considered. “I am my father’s son, as you know.”

  “Am I supposed to be afraid?”

  “Confident in my lack of surprise over your spells, rather,” Rùnach said dryly. “I did also live in the same keep as Droch for a score of years, as it happens.”