River of Dreams

by Lynn Kurland

  “Rather he is an excellent judge of many things,” Leaghra said with a smile, “now, as he was in his youth. And somehow I am not at all surprised to find him here.”

  “I can’t help but wish he weren’t,” Aisling said before she thought better of it. She supposed it was too late now to call the words back. “I don’t want to have to tell his grandfather that I’m the reason he is dead.”

  Assuming, of course, that Sìle was still alive after he’d gone off to divert attention from their flight, which, again, had been because of her quest.

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Leaghra said gently, “don’t take that on yourself. I knew his mother—and his father, it must be said—and if Prince Rùnach inherited even a fraction of her determination, there is little you can do to sway him when his course is set. And I don’t think you need worry about his safety. He has faced things you and I never would save perhaps in our worst nightmares. He will be well.” She glanced down at Aisling’s hand. “His chivalry speaks loudly.”

  Aisling realized Rùnach was holding her hand. She knew she should have likely pulled away, but found she couldn’t. He squeezed her hand briefly and continued his discussion with the others.

  Leaghra smiled. “I believe his mother would be pleased with him. And you, if I could venture an opinion. I will tell you what I know of her when I have the chance. For now, you should rest whilst I go fetch wine—”

  “Oh, nay,” Aisling said quickly. “You shouldn’t be doing that. I’ll see to it.”

  “We’ll go together, then.” The queen rose. “Where have you been keeping yourself all these years, my dear?”

  Aisling could scarce believe the queen could be interested in her whereabouts, but she wasn’t going to insult her monarch by not responding.

  “I was working in a weaver’s guild,” she said. “In Beul.”

  “In my day, the Guild was a good place,” the queen mused as they walked to a sideboard. “Weavers are highly prized.”

  “Of course,” Aisling said, trying not to choke on the words. “Highly prized.”

  “You must know Muinear, then.”

  Aisling almost dropped the cups she was holding. It was only the queen’s quick hands that rescued them. She nodded her thanks, then set them back safely on a tray. “I did, Your Majesty. She was very kind to me for all the years I knew her.”

  “You speak of her as if she is gone—” The queen went suddenly still. “What happened?”

  Aisling looked at the queen gravely. “She was slain helping me across the border.”

  “Those are grievous tidings indeed,” the queen said quietly. She stood there for a moment or two, unmoving, then shook her head. “I can’t think about that now. Later, when I can grieve properly.” She picked up the tray with hands that weren’t all that steady. “Can you manage the other things, Aisling? Let’s see that you’re properly fed, then you’ll have a safe place to sleep for the night. Morning will come soon enough.”

  Aisling followed the queen back toward the fire and wondered a little at her words. She had the feeling that putting off grief had become a habit for Leaghra of Bruadair. Doing what had to be done in spite of the cost, then thinking about it later. She knew that thought shouldn’t have chilled her as it did, but it occurred to her that up until that point, she’d always had something else in front of her that wasn’t the accomplishment of her quest. Now, there was nothing standing between her and stepping back over the border into the country of her birth.

  She set her tray down on her chair, had help moving a table in front of the fire, then assisted the queen in laying out a decent supper in spite of the lateness of the hour. She supposed she ate, but she didn’t taste it. She finally simply sat in her chair and watched Rùnach, Ochadius of Riamh, and King Frèam discussing things she didn’t particularly want to know.

  In time, she gave up listening and settled for watching. The peddler, who was Lothar of Wychweald’s grandson however many accursed generations there were between the two of them, glanced at her a time or two, smiled, then went back to his business. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Rùnach there, which surprised her. It wasn’t possible that he could have known she would encounter Rùnach at Gobhann, much less anything else of a more romantic nature, surely.

  She shifted a little in her seat so she could look at that object of her unfaced romantic intentions. She supposed she could wear herself out thinking about the fairness of his face, so she decided to accept it and move on. What she noticed at present were other things, things she supposed she hadn’t had the luxury of seeing before.

  She had always had the impression that elves were all painful beauty and nothing else, but she could see that that wasn’t giving them credit where it was due. Rùnach conversed easily about centuries of history she’d never heard of, discussed the current climate of various realms without so much as a pucker of concentration on his perfect brow, and argued strategies in a way that wasn’t argumentative but was certainly respected by the other two.

  Losing himself in an obscure garrison would have been a terrible waste.

  “I don’t think you’ll enter from Beul,” Ochadius said doubtfully. “Too many guards there.”

  “But Gairn is too far,” Frèam said, shaking his head. “It will have to be Cothromaiche, though I don’t know how you’ll beg passage there, no matter your connections with them.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Rùnach said slowly. “But what of when we enter? Who is this Sglaimir and where did he come from?”

  “His father is forgettable,” Frèam said in distaste, “but his grandfather was Carach of Mùig.”

  “Are you sure?” Rùnach asked, clearly surprised.

  “Aye, I am,” Frèam said. “Do you know of him? I only ask because not many have heard of that line. ’Tis very obscure.”

  “I recently had occasion to discuss him with Uachdaran of Léige,” Rùnach said. “Not a pleasant lot, are they?”

  “Not at all,” Ochadius said grimly.

  Rùnach looked at him. “And what is your interest in all this, Your Highness? If I might ask.”

  “His interest is my niece Alexandra,” Frèam said dryly. “She has been inside the palace all this time, trying to win the war from within.”

  Aisling caught the look Rùnach threw her, then found her hand taken by him. He held it in both his own, then looked at the king.

  “And she’s alive still? I hate to ask it, Your Majesty, but . . .”

  “She lives still,” Frèam said. “Which Ochadius well knows.”

  “In that hellhole,” Ochadius said, “which begs the question: why is Sglaimir there? I can understand Weger choosing Gobhann; he’s always had a streak of austerity running through him. Sglaimir, however, is a far different story. He has the entirety of Bruadair at his fingertips, yet he strips the place of all magic.” He shook his head. “Baffling.”

  Rùnach frowned. “How is that possible? Has he taken it all into himself?”

  “Not that you’d know it,” Ochadius said. “He’s as colorless as the rest of us and the palace is shabby.” He shot the king an apologetic look. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, Your Majesty.”

  Aisling watched the king wave away Ochadius’s words. Rùnach, however, seemed much less inclined to do so.

  “No displays of magic?” he asked Ochadius carefully.

  “Not a one. I’ve seen no displays of anything save him strutting about the city without so much as a lad to hold open doors for him, as if he dared anyone to lay a finger on him.”

  “You’ve shown admirable control, lad,” Frèam said quietly. “I don’t think I could have managed it. Not that I have the power any longer to do anything but sit here and rage.”

  Ochadius shook his head. “You were greatly weakened by the last battle with him, Your Majesty. It is left to us to see your throne restored to you, which we will do. I feel sure that when you cross the border, your power will return in full force to you.”

  Aisling listened
with only half an ear to the rest of the conversation, which seemed destined to last most of the night. She didn’t argue when the queen drew her across the chamber and showed her where she might lie down on a comfortable cot. She did take her boots off, but that was the extent of it. She closed her eyes and attempted sleep.

  Rùnach’s words came back to her as if they’d been a whisper. No displays of magic? She had to admit, she wondered the same thing. If Sglaimir had taken all the magic for himself, why didn’t he march endlessly about the country with it on display, making sure all knew what he had taken from them?

  It was curious, to be sure.

  * * *

  She woke sometime during the night with a gasp only to realize that she hadn’t been drowning. She sat up and looked around her. Everyone else was asleep. Well, save that shape sitting in front of the fire with his head bowed and his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely. She put on her boots, then walked over to the fire. She dragged up a stool and sat down in front of him.

  “Did you sleep?” she asked.

  Rùnach shook his head with a weary smile. “Too much to think about.”

  “I’ll hold you in the saddle tomorrow.”

  “Ah, now you see how my plan comes to fruition already.”

  She smiled gravely. “It seems the least I can do.”

  He smiled, took her hands, then bent and kissed the backs of them one by one. He straightened but didn’t release her.

  “I’m wondering something.”

  She imagined he was, which was no doubt why he was still sitting in front of the fire long after everyone had likely gone to their rests. “What?”

  “What color was Beul?”

  She frowned. “Color?”

  “Aye. Do you remember that painting my grandmother did of the city? It was drenched in colors, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded slowly. “Aye, but that isn’t how it is now.” She paused. “I don’t remember how it was when I first went to the Guild. Less grey than it is now, perhaps. Why?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  She liberated one of her hands and reached up to smooth it over his brow. “It shows. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m just wondering where all the color went.”

  “Perhaps it left with the magic—” She froze, then met his gaze. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  He shrugged, though it was none-too-casually done. “I wonder.”

  “But if Sglaimir has no color in the palace as well, wouldn’t that say that he didn’t have the magic himself?”

  “It’s possible,” Rùnach said slowly, “though if he’d taken all the magic to himself, I’m not sure it would show. Then again, I’m not sure it wouldn’t show. I’ve never seen it done—well, let me rephrase that. I watched my father take power from several souls over the years, one by one, but I never noticed any change in him. I honestly don’t remember what he looked like after he took mine and that of my younger brothers.”

  “But a whole country’s worth would show, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m saying.” He looked at her carefully. “I’m just thinking.”

  “But where would you hide an entire country’s worth of magic?” she asked. “It would have to be somewhere substantial, wouldn’t it? Perhaps a lake, or a cistern of some sort?”

  “I should think so, but Ochadius has been all over the country in his guise as a peddler and hasn’t seen anything. But you’re right about the size. It would have to be an enormous place. The magic would run like a river into . . . it . . .”

  He stopped.

  She understood.

  “A river?” she said, finally.

  He took a ragged breath. “I’ve heard that word too many times in the past two months for my comfort.”

  “Have you? Where?”

  “Where haven’t I?” he said, looking slightly unsettled. “First from Captain Burke, who said he was having dreams of magic running through his belowdecks, then Weger and Nicholas, both of whom said their dreams had been troubled by the same sort of thing. Miach was too busy slobbering over my sister to say anything useful, and I was too distracted at Seanagarra to ask my grandfather anything. But then there is what you heard at Léige.”

  “A river running beneath the king’s palace,” she said carefully. “But surely they’re not all related.”

  “Aren’t they?” he mused. “I wonder.”

  “But you would think that if anyone would know what was running beneath his land, it would be King Uachdaran, wouldn’t you?”

  “You would think so.” He shrugged helplessly. “I suppose it’s possible to siphon off a kingdom’s worth of magic and send it as a river somewhere else, but I can’t imagine why you would want to—especially if you had set yourself up as king of the country you were ravaging.”

  “You mean, he would be looking for ways to bring magic in, not send it out?”

  He nodded. “Unless, of course, that’s what he’s doing and we’re just not seeing it. It definitely seems to be a desire that runs in the family. Uachdaran told me Sglaimir’s grandfather Carach had tried to steal Durial’s magic several centuries ago.”

  “Well, that is what black mages do, isn’t it?”

  He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “So it is, but I’ve never encountered one who had aspirations for more than just the power of the lad down the way.” He shook his head. “The magic of an entire country? How do you possibly take that and what would you do with it once you had it?”

  She shrugged. “Rule the world?”

  “And what world would be left to rule? It’s been my experience that those with the desire to enslave those around them generally want those around them to live through the experience. Who else will they play to otherwise?”

  “Even your father?” she asked gingerly.

  “Especially my father,” he said without hesitation. “I firmly believe the reason he took my younger brothers’ power was that he realized immediately that he didn’t have enough himself to control the well, not because he wanted the magic itself. He was sloppy about it, though, and slew them in the bargain. I also believe that he intended to use his spell of Diminishing on the well itself, to take that power to himself. Perhaps Sglaimir is no different. But you would think he would have done something with all that power if he’d had it to hand, wouldn’t you?”

  “For all I know about it,” she said, “aye.”

  He squeezed her hands briefly. “I think we had best find the answers sooner rather than later.”

  “I never unpacked.”

  “I’ll leave them a note—”

  “I’m coming with you,” a deep voice interrupted.

  Aisling looked up to find Ochadius standing there just outside the light from the fire. He stepped forward, obviously dressed for travel.

  “You’ll need me,” he said quietly.

  Rùnach looked up at him. “Does your magic work there?”

  Ochadius raised his eyebrows briefly. “If it had, don’t you think I would have used it by now?”

  Rùnach pursed his lips. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

  “I imagine you don’t, but perhaps you’ll unlock secrets with a key I don’t have. I’ll come along and guard your back, if nothing else. And I have that all-important trader’s license on the off chance you want to simply walk through the front gates.”

  Rùnach nodded. “Very well. We’ll be glad of the aid.”

  Aisling supposed there was nothing else to do but watch Rùnach write the king and queen a note in a very lovely hand, then slip silently out the door. There were a dozen questions she should have asked beginning and ending perhaps with why the exiled king and queen of Bruadair were staying in a rather rustic hunting lodge, but perhaps she would have answers from Ochadius later. He certainly owed her a few.

  Within minutes they were walking out the back door and around the edge of the hall. Aisling heard the rush of wings and assumed it was Iteach. But it wasn
’t.

  It was Gàrlach of Ceangail.

  She found herself pulled behind Rùnach and a spell of Fadairian glamour and protection cast over her before she could catch her breath.

  “Go,” Ochadius spat. “I’ll take care of this one.”

  “You’ll need to,” Gàrlach laughed, “given that Rùnach has no power.”

  Rùnach stepped forward. Aisling saw something come out of his mouth that was dark, as dark as what Lothar of Wychweald had spewed at them. It was a spell of death, though there was something about it that wasn’t right—

  “Rùnach,” she said in surprise, “what are you doing?”

  He paused, then apparently realized what he was saying. He stepped back, away from the spell. It fell to the ground in black, jagged shards. “Call Iteach,” he said hoarsely.

  “Do more than that,” Ochadius said urgently. “Run, for there are more coming.” He looked at Rùnach quickly. “Find Soilléir.”

  “Soilléir,” Rùnach said, sounding stunned. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “More than he wanted to. He’ll be at—damn it, Rùnach, go!”

  Aisling watched Rùnach cast an impenetrable spell of Fadaire over Ochadius—who cursed him thoroughly in thanks—then turn.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Will he live?” she asked quickly.

  “They don’t want him.”

  She supposed he had a point. She ran with him to where Iteach had appeared, pawing impatiently at the ground. Rùnach flung himself up into the saddle, then pulled her up behind him. Iteach leapt up into the sky in something that was part dragonshape and part wind.

  “Don’t faint,” Rùnach commanded.

  “I think I’m going to vomit, rather,” she managed.

  “I think it’s your turn, so feel free.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tightly, trying to keep her gorge down where it belonged. She looked over her shoulder and saw a battle of spells going on behind them. She would have suggested perhaps that they return and offer aid, but she had the feeling Ochadius would have objected quite strenuously.

  There was no turning back now.