by Lynn Kurland
“Ah, but did you see anything he fashioned from that bilge he calls magic?”
Rùnach had to concede the point. “I suppose I didn’t, but I’m not sure why that would matter.”
The king reached up and patted his shoulder. “Hope you’ve a strong stomach, little one. Let’s have another go and see if I can reduce you to tears. Your brother didn’t weep, if you’re curious. Don’t imagine you would want to give him any reason to mock you now, would you?”
Rùnach didn’t suppose he would. He took a deep breath, gathered his tolerance for vile things, and followed the king back out into the middle of his chamber.
It was no longer than another hour before he finally threw up.
“Well, at least your lady didn’t see that,” Uachdaran said with a snort. “What a weakling you’ve become.”
“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” Rùnach wheezed, “those were exceptionally vile spells.”
“Dredged them up just for you, though I have to agree.” Uachdaran shivered delicately. “Disgusting, aren’t they?”
Rùnach collapsed on the stone bench and looked at his host. “I’m almost afraid to ask where you learned them.”
“Oh, you don’t really believe your father was the first black mage of note to stride across these nine kingdoms, do you?”
“I’d like to think I’m not that naive,” Rùnach managed.
The king sat down next to him and squinted up at the ceiling. “I believe it was my grandfather—nay, my great—or perhaps my great-great-grandfather who found Carach of Mùig slithering around in the passages below, thinking to stir up mischief and perhaps even steal a bit of our magic. Carach was unhappy to be collared, as you might imagine, and challenged my progenitor, Tochail, to a duel of spells. Tochail was, as you also might imagine, very happy to accept.”
“And?”
“Well, as skilled as he was—and he was a spectacularly powerful mage, I’ll admit—Carach was sorely out of his depth. Perhaps in his own land he might have called upon an advantage, but not here. King Tochail carved out this space with a word, then invited Carach inside to do his best.”
“So Tochail could memorize the spells, one would assume.”
“Of course.”
“But why hand them down?” Rùnach asked. “If they were so vile, that is.”
Uachdaran looked at him lazily. “Well, to torment cheeky elves with, of course.”
Rùnach managed a smile. He had to admit he was somewhat relieved to learn those spells were not of Uachdaran’s make. “So what happened to Carach? I assume he was thoroughly bested.”
“He was,” Uachdaran agreed, “and sent off into the night. Not sure what happened to him. He likely talked some poor wench into wedding with him and sired a dozen sons on her who were just as vile and stupid as he was.” He shrugged. “Not my worry.”
Rùnach shared the sentiment. He had enough on his plate without speculating over the landing place of some mage he’d never heard of. He looked at the dwarf king. “Thank you for sending Aisling away.”
“Rùnach, my lad, there are some things that shouldn’t be seen by the woman you love.”
“Agreed.”
Uachdaran leaned back against the cold stone of the wall. “She’s a strong-willed gel, that one, in spite of her innocence. Full of mighty magic. Perhaps even mightier than yours, whelp.”
“Do you think so?” Rùnach asked frankly. “I must admit this is the thing about her that baffles me the most. I’m obviously still unable to even begin to adequately express my gratitude for what she’s done for me, but even so, I’m not sure I can call it magic.”
Uachdaran looked at him from under his bushy eyebrows. “Have you considered, Rùnach my lad, that sometimes you think too much?”
Rùnach sighed. “The thought has crossed my mind.”
“Allow it freer rein from now on.” The king blew out his breath with a gusty sigh. “You’re looking at it without any imagination at all, which surprises me given who you are. Not every mage or king or village witch possesses magic in exactly the same way, which you well know.”
“But they possess something in their veins that gives them power,” Rùnach said slowly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“For the most part, aye, though you must admit that there are those for whom power is tied to their land. Your grandfather’s magic, and mine as well if you’ll have the truth of it, transcends boundaries of country and birth—to the everlasting disgust of several other, lesser kings and queens. I will allow that young Mochriadhemiach of Neroche seems to carry most of his power with him, but even he might be prevailed upon to admit that there is something about home that cannot be duplicated anywhere else.”
“And Prince Soilléir?”
“He’s Cothromaichian,” Uachdaran said without hesitation. “He’s different.”
That was perhaps an understatement. “And Aisling?”
Uachdaran considered for a bit, then shrugged. “I don’t know enough about those Bruadairians to say for certain. It just seems to me that it might be very interesting to see what she can do when she is within the confines of her own land.”
“I’m not sure she’ll actually cross that border again.”
“I’m not sure she’ll have a choice.”
“We all have choices.”
“And some of us possess the character that allows us to make the choices necessary without thought of self.”
Rùnach sighed. “Very true, Your Majesty.”
Uachdaran elbowed him. “I’m torturing you, Rùnach. You’re altruistic enough for an elf. But if you want my advice, take that gel of yours and make certain she’s never out of your sight. Unless you simply plan on turning her loose in the wide world of kings and queens and fine salons to allow her to fend for herself.”
“Of course not.”
“Annastashia of Cothromaiche never believed you died at the well, you know.”
The change of topic was dizzying, and then it occurred to him that it wasn’t much of a change. He looked at the king. “Didn’t she?”
“She didn’t.” He blinked owlishly. “I’m surprised Prince Soilléir didn’t send word to her that you were safe.”
“He wouldn’t have.”
Uachdaran smiled faintly. “I suppose not, being who he is.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Shall I have word sent to her?”
“Please don’t,” Rùnach said without hesitation. “I’m not interested.”
“You were mightily interested once.”
Rùnach sighed deeply. He had been interested in Annastashia of Cothromaiche, very interested, but that had been before, when he’d been full of his own might and magic, and confident that he could walk into any room and be equal to any woman of rank there.
Which he supposed he still was.
He looked at the king. “I’m not interested any longer, Your Majesty,” he said with a sigh, “though I thank you for the offer.”
“You’d best keep your gel away from them,” Uachdaran said seriously. “Those sorts of women, I mean. They’ll tear her to shreds.”
“I know,” Rùnach said quietly.
Uachdaran considered the ceiling a bit longer, then looked at him. “Bruadair is a strange place.”
Rùnach shifted a bit on the bench so he could look at the king more closely. “Why is that?”
“It isn’t so much the people as what they do.”
“The dreamweavers?” Rùnach asked.
The king grunted. “An odd lot, those.”
“This is the thing that perplexes me most deeply,” Rùnach asked. “How is it they weave dreams?”
“Well, my boy, I think you should probably go find a Bruadairian and put your questions to him yourself. Or you could trot back to Buidseachd and ask Soilléir, not that he’d tell you anything, of course.” He put his hands on his knees, then rose. “It does make you wonder what those dreamweavers weave, doesn’t it?”
Rùnach pushed himself to his feet with far greater effor
t than he would have preferred to have been using. “What do you mean?”
Uachdaran shot him a look. “Well, they have to weave with something, wouldn’t you say?”
Rùnach frowned. “I seem to remember having had this conversation before with my sister and her husband.”
“Did they have any answers?”
“Not a one. Just speculation about how one went about weaving dreams and . . .” He paused and looked at the king. “And who was spinning the dreams they weave.”
“An interesting question, isn’t it?”
Rùnach would have smiled, but the king’s expression stopped him. He shook his head. “I simply can’t believe that anyone would spin dreams or weave dreams or anything that—well, what would you call it? Unsubstantial? Ethereal?”
He stopped and wondered when it was the king had put a solid rock wall in front of him. He saw stars, truly he did. He drew his hand over his eyes, then looked off into the king’s lists until he thought he could pit what was left of his poor brain against what he’d just encountered.
Ethereal. How many times had he used that word for Aisling? He supposed he had applied it to how she looked . . . or had he? He’d thought her beautiful for so long, he honestly couldn’t remember.
But handling things of a less-than-tangible nature, now there was something he thought he might be able to describe with a bit more authority. He had watched her spin several things that were a little odd, weren’t they? Air, fire, water . . . elven magic out of horribly scarred hands. And what of that dream he’d had in his grandmother’s garden? He couldn’t remember at the moment if she’d admitted to it, but he had the feeling she had spun the songs of the trees of that garden and given them to him.
She had given him dreams, he who hadn’t dreamed in a score of years.
He looked at Uachdaran. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Maybe you’ll find a dreamspinner and ask her what you should think.” Uachdaran led him over to the door, then paused. “Be careful with your magic.”
“Your Majesty?” Rùnach said in surprise.
Uachdaran considered, then shook his head. “Just be careful. Magic can be unwieldy, as you well know. You did well today.”
“But?”
Uachdaran shook his head again. “I’ve said too much.”
“Your Majesty, you’ve said nothing.”
“Which was too much.” He shot Rùnach a look from under bushy eyebrows. “Just have a care, with yourself and that girl of yours. Now, would you like supper in my solar or would you prefer to take your chances amongst the piles of traders and their daughters who will be cluttering up my table in the hall?”
“Oh, the former, please.”
Uachdaran smirked. “I imagined you’d say the like. I don’t think I can escape the torture, but I’ll allow you to beg off. You keep your hands to yourself, though.”
“I think I can manage that, at least.”
“One would hope.”
* * *
Two hours later, Rùnach was sitting in a well-appointed solar on a luxurious sofa, and he had almost stopped shaking from his afternoon’s adventures. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what had taken more out of him: regaining his magic or facing the king of Durial and his exceptionally vile spells.
He had, thankfully, shared a lovely supper with Aisling and caught up with where she’d stopped in the book Uachdaran had given her. Currently, he was sitting with the book on his lap and paying attention instead to the lovely woman who was sitting on a stool in front of the fire, contemplating the ball of deep red wool she held in her hands.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This yarn should be washed,” she said thoughtfully, “and that after having been allowed to rest for a bit.” She looked at him. “I don’t imagine we’re going to be here that long, are we?”
“Not if you want to find the lad you’re supposed to meet at Taigh Hall,” he said. “If you want my opinion, I think we should probably leave in the morning.”
She nodded. “Then I’ll knit this tonight, though I’m not sure what with. I don’t suppose you have any knitting needles in your pack, do you?”
He held open his hand and a pair of knitting needles appeared. She took a deep breath, then rose and reached out to take them from him.
“Handy, aren’t you?”
“Trying to be. I think I’m actually just too lazy to go fetch the ones in my pack that Mistress Ceana sent along for you.” That and the very act of creating something courtesy of his magic was simply too glorious not to take advantage of. He patted the place next to him on the sofa. “Come sit by the fire, and I’ll finish up the book for you.”
She hesitated, then sat down—rather far away from him, actually. He shot her a look.
“You could come closer.”
“I’m not sure how.” She looked at him seriously. “I don’t know anything about this . . . this . . .”
“Wooing?”
She winced. “If that’s what you’re calling it.”
He opened his mouth to assure her that’s exactly what he was calling it, when something rather unpleasant occurred to him.
What if she wasn’t uninterested in just wooing, she was uninterested in his wooing? He put her book down and rubbed his hands over his face a time or two.
“Are you unwell?” she asked quickly, putting her hand on his shoulder.
Pity was good, he supposed, but not exactly the emotion he was looking for from her. He looked at her and tried to smile.
“You know,” he said with as much of a casual tone as he could muster, “I think I may have pressed on where I shouldn’t have.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, arrogant clod that I am, I didn’t stop to think that perhaps you might not want to be the object of my attentions. I’ve jested about those lads from Neroche, of course, but they aren’t as terrible as I’ve made them out to be. And my cousin Còir is well worthy of your esteem. It’s entirely possible, likely even, that you might not be interested in me.”
And then he waited. The words were out, hanging there in the air between them. He supposed she could do with them what she wanted: stomp on them, mock them, take them and rearrange them into a list of his flaws she could add to as she liked.
Instead, she laughed.
He looked at her in surprise. “Is it amusing?”
“Your head pains you, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t,” he said, suppressing the urge to scowl at her. “The king restored my eye to its proper form if not its proper beauty, and nay, I do not have pains in my head.”
“Then you have fluff in it,” she said, rolling her eyes. She looked at him, then shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“I think I might be.”
She looked at him as if she were fully convinced he had lost his wits. “I think I must have taken a blow to the head I don’t remember. How can you think I wouldn’t want you?”
“Ah, so you do want me,” he said, putting as much satisfaction as possible into his tone to cover the relief he felt at the thought of a simple weaver not finding him objectionable.
A simple weaver he couldn’t help but think was anything but.
She rose suddenly and walked about the king’s solar for several minutes, apparently not seeing anything. Rùnach sat perfectly still, partly because he was exhausted beyond reason and partly because he feared that she was coming to some sort of decision about him. He supposed that if any of his former interests of the romantic sort had been witness to the scene, they would have been laughing themselves sick over it. He was many things, he supposed, but unaware of his flaws was not one of them. He had, he could admit now that he was safely far away from his youth, been absolutely insufferable when it came to his awareness of how he affected the opposite sex.
He paused. Very well, he’d been a shameless flirt and had likely merited the concern, as Weger had once told him, of every father in the Nine Kingdoms with daught
ers of tender ages. He supposed considering the number of hearts he had perhaps wounded that it would have served him right if Aisling had cut his from his chest with a dull blade and stomped on it until what was left of him wept. His former paramours would have enjoyed that, no doubt.
He imagined he would enjoy it far less.
She finally stopped in front of him and looked down at him.
“This is all utterly ridiculous, you know.”
He squinted up at her. “Could you ignore the ridiculousness of it and at least entertain the thought?”
“I have entertained it,” she admitted with what seemed to him to be an unwholesome amount of reluctance.
“And?” he asked.
She sighed. “I will admit that those lads from Neroche pale by comparison.”
He smiled. “I’ll build you a house on the seashore.”
“I said pale not disappear completely.”
He took her hand and happily pulled her to sit down next to him. She sat on her book, which she had to get up to retrieve, but she sat back down almost as close to him as he would have liked.
“Where is your handkerchief?”
She frowned. “The one you gave me?”
“Nay, Còir’s.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to write something on it.”
She put her hand over her pocket protectively. “I have the feeling it won’t be polite.”
“And I have the feeling it will be something along the lines of I want to ask Aisling to wed me but need your advice on when and where to do so.”
She looked at him again as if he’d lost his mind. “You are serious.”
“Move your feet and I’ll go down on bended knee—”
“Oh, please don’t,” she said quickly. She looked at him, then shook her head. “Rùnach, you are mad. What in the world will your relations think? What will your friends think? What will King Uachdaran think?”
“I’ll answer the last first,” he said, reaching for her hand. “He told me I would be fortunate if you looked at me twice. I believe my grandfather said much the same thing, as did my grandmother the queen. My brother asked me when the wedding was. And I can assure you, all of them thought you would be mad to consider me.”