by Lynn Kurland
She sighed. “But you’re a prince and I am no one.”
“Well, unless we make a quick visit to my father or Acair has somehow acquired spells he shouldn’t have, I can’t renounce my magic—which you bear some responsibility for, as it happens—but I can renounce my title.” He looked at her, then shooed her. “Go on and fetch me paper so I can send my grandfather a missive.”
Her mouth had fallen open. “Fetch it yourself.”
“But I am a prince and you are a weaver. I don’t fetch.”
“Neither do I,” she said, then she scowled at him. “I think somewhere along this journey you have corrupted me and filled my poor head with thoughts of loftiness. Listen to me now.”
“You just told the grandson of the king of Tòrr Dòrainn to fetch his own paper,” he said easily. “Lofty behavior there, don’t you think?”
She considered her hands, then looked at him. “Ridiculous.”
“You know, I will exact some sort of painful recompense for every time you say that.”
“You might try.”
He smiled and took the book she handed him, then left her to her knitting while he read humorous tales of mages trying to take over Bruadair with their pitiful magic. He was surprised to find notes about parliamentary rules and procedures in the section of the book dealing with magic—
He froze, seeing something there in front of him on the page that startled him so badly, he almost dropped the book. He flipped past the page quickly, then patted his shoulder and looked at Aisling.
“You look weary. Come use me as a place to rest your head.”
She covered a yawn with her hand. “It has been an eventful day.”
And he suspected the events hadn’t ended yet. Aisling put her head on his shoulder and yawned again. A bit of juggling resulted in his managing to capture her hand with his whilst still holding the book, propping it up against his knee.
It only took another long slog through relations with other countries before she was asleep. Once he was certain she was, he flipped back to the page he hadn’t wanted her to see, though he supposed he was being overly . . . something. Protective, perhaps. Unable to believe what he’d just read, definitely.
The original charter of Bruadair was drawn up between the three parties, each agreeing to remain confined within their particular disciplines. The ruling class vowed to keep their magic separate from the others and leave them free rein to do as they saw fit with their stewardship. The weavers were to oversee not only the tangible creation of cloth but a select few were to spend their labor attending to their true business of creating the fabric of the world.
The dreamspinners were few and soon faded into memory.
He turned the page only to find the report continued with talk of the noble houses in the land and their gentle disagreements about the colors for their heraldry. He shut the book and shook his head. If that was the worst they’d had to face, they had been fortunate indeed. He set the book aside, then looked into the fire.
Dreamspinners?
He turned that over in his mind for a very long time, but from every angle it still looked like something he wasn’t sure he could reduce in such a way that it seemed manageable.
There were dreamspinners in Bruadair?
He looked down at the hands of the Bruadairian lass sitting next to him on the very comfortable sofa he had drawn closer to Uachdaran’s fire for Aisling’s comfort. One of her hands was held in his own. The other was resting on his arm. He had watched those hands do all sorts of things that left him with more questions than answers.
How was it a simple weaver from a country known for nothing more than buckets of rain and secrecy could reach beneath impervious Fadairian runes of power and protection, beneath scars half created, he was convinced, by not only a bit of his father’s dark spells but a well of evil, beneath spells his mother had put there to hide and contain, and pull out a single thread of power that no one he knew had seen before? How was it possible that that same weaver had taken that magic, spun it out of him in spite of what he was sure had been his shrieks of agony, and put it onto a bobbin she had created out of air and fire?
How was it that same weaver had fashioned a shawl of that power, draped it around him, then not been slain immediately when a dwarvish king had put his hands over hers and spoken a spell that Rùnach couldn’t help but wish he’d been capable of memorizing?
The door opened behind him, almost sending him off the sofa onto the floor in his surprise. He looked over his shoulder gingerly so as not to wake the woman sleeping next to him. The king stood there, looking grave.
Rùnach sat up before he thought better of it, then had to catch Aisling before she pitched off the sofa. The king strode inside his solar, walked past him, then sat down in the chair facing him.
“There’s been an incident.”
“What sort?” Rùnach asked, though he had the sinking feeling he wouldn’t be surprised by what he heard.
“I just had word that your grandfather and his company were attacked on the plains of Ailean. They’re not sure there are any survivors.”
Rùnach felt the ground beneath him shift and the room grow dim. He supposed he might have fainted if Aisling hadn’t had hold of his arm in a grip that pained him. He hadn’t realized she was awake, though perhaps he should have—
He blinked aside the haze, then focused with an effort on the king. “Are they sure?”
Uachdaran looked at him grimly. “The scouts are not mine, and I don’t trust any but my own lads. The tidings were from a generally reliable trader. He saw the battle, which was mighty, then saw elves being flown back to Tòrr Dòrainn. He thinks those who came to fetch them were not in the battleguard. But, he could be mistaken. He claims he saw a group of mages—dark ones, he stated—turn and come this way in a frightful hurry. But that would have been yesterday, at least.”
“Acair was at Mistress Fionne’s house yesterday morning,” Aisling said quietly.
Rùnach looked at her and realized she had it aright. He could hardly believe it had been such a short time ago, but it was true. And perhaps now Acair knew he was not traveling toward the schools of wizardry.
The question was, where would Acair believe he might be going?
North, if the witchwoman of Fàs had told him anything.
“You are both weary,” the king said, “but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll leave under cover of darkness.”
Aisling stood, swayed slightly, then picked up her knitting. “I’ll pack quickly.”
“I’ll walk you to your chamber—” Rùnach said.
“Nay, I’ll find it on my own.” She touched his shoulder briefly. “I’m sure your grandfather is well.”
He nodded, waited for her to go, then looked at the king. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Uachdaran asked grimly.
Rùnach handed him the book on Bruadairian lore. “You might want this back.”
“Read it, did you?”
“I couldn’t help myself. I learned an interesting fact or two.”
“I imagine you did, lad.” The king rose. “I’ll go see to rations for your journey. I have a blade for you, if you’re interested.” He shot Rùnach a look. “Something in my forge seemed to think it needed to come on your adventure.”
“Very kind,” Rùnach managed.
The king grunted. “So it is.” He started toward the door, then paused and looked at Rùnach. “Remind your lady about what runs under my land. I don’t like that I can’t identify it.”
Rùnach nodded. It was one more thing to add to the rather robust and unsettlingly long list of things that puzzled him. Spinners, dreamweavers, ethereal weavers who could see and touch things others could not, books of spells gone missing to be replaced by maps he couldn’t understand.
Why did he have the feeling all the answers lay in Bruadair?
It was a mystery. And as he’d admitted more than once in the past pair of months, he loved a good mystery.<
br />
He only hoped the solving of it didn’t kill them all.
Nineteen
Aisling knew she shouldn’t have been cold. She was wearing clothing provided by the dwarves of Léige, boots, leggings, a long tunic, and a cloak that was neither too thin nor too heavy. She should have been perfectly comfortable in spite of the fact that twilight had faded and there was no moon. But terror did that to a person, she supposed.
“Not to worry,” Rùnach murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“I’m not worried about me,” she said, her teeth chattering. “How will I keep you safe?”
“I think you’ve done that often enough in the past to merit a rest at present,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll see to it this time.”
She could scarce see his expression for the darkness. She could, however, see a hint of his magic running through his veins. “I forgot.”
“I never will, believe me.”
She nodded, then looked at the hall in the distance. There were torches lit around the perimeter else she might not have seen anything at all. As for how to proceed, she had no idea. She was late arriving to meet, or, rather, sending her mercenary to meet the person responsible for setting in motion the plan to rescue Bruadair. The likelihood of anyone being there to meet her was very slim. Perhaps she had failed utter—
Rùnach’s hand was suddenly in front of her, keeping her from moving.
“What?” she managed.
He eased them both back a step, then nodded toward the ground. “Spell.”
She wondered how he possibly could have noticed, though now that he pointed it out, she could see it as well. A thin line of shadow that wasn’t quite as dark as the rest of the shadows. Rùnach considered, then took a step forward, tripping the spell with the toe of his boot.
“Now we wait.”
They didn’t wait very long. Aisling jumped a little as a shadow detached itself from the trees and walked toward them. She was fully prepared to find it was one of Rùnach’s bastard brothers. The tidings they had had the night before in the dwarf king’s solar had been stunning, though she couldn’t help but hold out hope that the trader had been mistaken and Rùnach’s relatives were unharmed. She was fairly certain Rùnach hadn’t believed what he’d heard, though she hadn’t had the chance to talk with him about any of it as yet. They had packed their gear, bid farewell to the king in his courtyard, then rushed off into the night without fanfare.
Rùnach had used both his grandfather’s glamour and Miach of Neroche’s spell of un-noticing to cover their passing, which had surprised her a little until she’d had the chance to think about it a bit. Rùnach had had his magic restored to him for less than half a day. Perhaps he wanted to test it a bit more than just in King Uachdaran’s training lists before he relied on it.
Either that or he had been even wearier than she herself was at the moment.
Whatever the case was, she couldn’t help but think he’d been wise in his choice. If that shadow coming toward them was one of his bastard brothers . . .
But it wasn’t.
It was the peddler.
There was no mistaking his profile when he turned to look at the pegasus standing to one side of them. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised to see him there. After all, he hadn’t said he wouldn’t be the one meeting her mercenary at Taigh Hall. The truth was, he hadn’t said anything past what he’d said to frighten her into compliance.
The peddler stared at them both for several minutes in silence, then beckoned for them to follow him. Aisling heard Iteach flap off up into the sky as something she didn’t have the wherewithal to identify at the moment, then felt Rùnach take her hand. He pulled her behind him and to his right, so he was between her and the peddler. She would have told him it was unnecessary, but she supposed it would have been a waste of breath.
They followed the peddler through the woods and around to the back of Taigh Hall. It was a rather large place, but very rustic. She stole looks at the shadows in the trees as they walked but saw nothing untoward. Still, once they reached the back door, she had to force herself not to turn and bolt. If Rùnach was going to go inside, then so was she.
Guards stopped them at the back door, saw the peddler, then allowed them to pass. She looked at Rùnach quickly, but he only shrugged and flashed her a very brief smile. She frowned, but what did she know? Perhaps the peddler traveled more than she had suspected and was known in places she wouldn’t have suspected.
They walked swiftly along hallways, weaving their way ever inward until the peddler stopped in front of a doorway and knocked. It was opened by what Aisling assumed was a servant, which surprised her. The chamber was opulent, which also surprised her. She saw a couple standing near the hearth, but she didn’t know them, so she dismissed them. Perhaps the peddler was acquiring a small army and those two were his first recruits.
He turned around, folded his arms over his chest, and frowned at her. “You’re late.”
She pushed her hood back and looked at him frankly. “I did the best I could.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “My, how cheeky you’ve grown, little Aisling.”
“Being lied to for the whole of your life and finding out the extent of it in uncomfortable ways at inconvenient times will do that to a woman,” she said shortly. “Again, I did what I could.”
“Who did you bring with you?”
Aisling looked up at Rùnach. He released her hand, then lifted his hood back from his face and looked at the peddler.
The peddler only smiled.
“What an interesting choice.” He stepped back and made Rùnach a low bow. “Prince Rùnach, what a pleasure.” He lifted an eyebrow briefly. “Rumor has it you perished at Ruamharaiche’s well.”
“Rumor is ofttimes wrong,” Rùnach said mildly, “Prince Ochadius.”
Aisling realized her mouth was hanging open. She gaped first at the peddler, then at Rùnach. She shook her head, because she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She considered, then decided that perhaps the peddler could be addressed first. “Do you know Rùnach?” she asked incredulously.
“Prince Rùnach?” he said, then he shrugged. “Personally? Nay. Of him? Of course.”
Aisling found that particularly unsatisfying, so she turned to Rùnach. “What did you call him?” she demanded.
Rùnach nodded at the other man. “I called him by his proper name, though you would have had no means of knowing that. Perhaps I should have allowed him to introduce himself, if he dared.”
The peddler sighed, then looked at Aisling. He inclined his head. “Ochadius of Riamh, at your service, my lady.”
“I am not your lady and you are a walloping liar,” she said, glaring at him. “You sold me your own book!”
Ochadius shrugged. “Had to have some of my own back, didn’t I?”
“I suggest you not go anywhere near Gobhann,” she said shortly, “or Weger will give you more of your own than you’ll care for.”
“No doubt,” Ochadius agreed with a brief laugh. “Let’s just say I have a finely honed sense of humor, re-term all that went between us as hedging not lying, and move on, shall we? I did what was needful, as did you. And whilst we’re about introductions, allow me to present you to our hosts tonight. You may leave your gear over here, if you like. It will be safe enough.”
Aisling shot Rùnach a look he only lifted an eyebrow at before she shrugged out of her pack and left it next to Rùnach’s by the door. She walked with him over to the people standing in front of the fire. Aisling had no idea who they were or why they would be hosting anything, but being plunged into things she wasn’t prepared for seemed to be her lot at present. Ochadius made the couple a low bow just as he’d done to Rùnach, then turned from them. He gestured expansively to the pair.
“If I might present Their Majesties, Frèam and Leaghra of Bruadair,” he said formally. “Your Majesties, Prince Rùnach of Tòrr Dòrainn and our own Aisling of Bruadair itself.”
Aisling wondered if she should curtsey or bolt, but Rùnach was bowing, so she chose a curtsey instead. The king held up his hand.
“Of course we will dispense with the formalities,” he said kindly. “Prince Rùnach, we know of your doings, of course, from various sources. We are leaving tomorrow for a visit to your brother Ruithneadh and our niece Sarah.”
“Ruithneadh made mention of his delight over your impending arrival when last I saw him.” Rùnach said with a smile. “I recommend sampling the wine my grandmother Eulasaid makes, but perhaps not indulging overmuch in anything from Prince Sgath’s cellars.”
Frèam laughed a little. “I’ll be sure to remember that. And now we must greet our own Mistress Aisling.”
Aisling found herself being studied by both the king and queen. Given her experience with royalty over the past pair of months, she knew she shouldn’t have been unnerved, but these were the ousted king and queen of her country. She took a deep breath, then made them another curtsey.
“Your Majesties,” she said quietly.
To her utter surprise, the king and queen made her a similar courtesy. She tried not to gape at them, but she had to admit she was perhaps too tired to trot out her best manners. The king gestured to chairs.
“Sit, friends, and take your ease for as long as we’re able to provide peace for it. Unfortunately, there is much to discuss and perhaps less time than we might hope in which to do so.”
Aisling found herself sitting in a chair next to the woman who should have been her queen. She hardly dared venture a glance, but found she couldn’t help herself.
Leaghra was watching her gravely.
“Your Majesty?” Aisling asked carefully. “Is there something amiss?”
“You are so young,” Leaghra murmured. “And so beautiful for such a burden.”
“Oh,” Aisling said uneasily, “I am not beautiful.”
“Aye, you are,” Rùnach said, then went back to discussions of swords and replacement arrows.
Aisling looked at the queen. “He has trouble with his eyes.”