The Dreamer's Song

by Lynn Kurland

  “Over here, lad, and let’s have a look at what ails you. Léirsinn, there’s drink on the sideboard. Let’s have something very strong.”

  Léirsinn wasn’t sure when Acair’s mother had learned her name, but she set that aside as something she likely wouldn’t ask about later. She helped Mansourah sit, then went to look through the bottles huddling a healthy distance away from bowls, platters, and a collection of shiny knives.

  Ye gads, as Acair would have said, what had she gotten herself into?

  “Nay, gel, don’t linger at the task,” the witchwoman of Fàs said briskly. “Bring me that amber bottle. ’Twas a gift from the current ruler of An-uallach. Not the best-tasting whisky in the world, but very efficient for our current business.”

  Léirsinn found the correct bottle, fetched a glass, then poured a substantial amount. She set it in front of Mansourah and supposed he would drink it when he thought best.

  “You should sit as well, dearie,” the witchwoman of Fàs said absently. “Don’t want you falling into the fire.”

  Léirsinn sat, because it seemed like a very sensible thing to do. She didn’t argue when Mansourah pushed his glass toward her. She had a healthy sip, then wished she hadn’t. The whisky burned all the way down her throat to then set up a robust bonfire in her gut. She had to admit, though, that she felt slightly less anxious than she had but a moment before, so perhaps that was all she could ask for. She handed the glass back to Mansourah with a shrug. He closed his eyes briefly, drank, then gasped for a bit until he could apparently breathe again.

  “You’re handsome,” the witchwoman of Fàs observed, “but a bit of a gel when it comes to strong drink.”

  “Have you tasted that bilge?” Mansourah wheezed.

  “I take only discreet, ladylike sips,” she said archly. “I’ve appearances to keep up. Now, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself, ye wee babe.”

  Léirsinn wasn’t weak-stomached, but the sight of Mansourah’s forearm bent at a spot where it shouldn’t have been was unsettling, to say the least. The witchwoman of Fàs clucked her tongue at him.

  “The follies of youth, obviously.”

  “Of course, Mistress Fionne,” Mansourah managed. “If I might call you that.”

  “You might call me several things, my wee princeling,” Acair’s mother said, “and that would be the least of them.” She considered, then looked at Léirsinn. “No magic, eh?”

  Léirsinn shook her head. “Not a drop.”

  “Life is simpler without it, but a far sight less exciting.” She looked at Mansourah. “Acair couldn’t see his way clear to do anything about this?”

  “He is enjoined from using any magic for the time being,” Mansourah said, wincing as he shifted. “I’m certain he’ll tell you all about it when he arrives, though that may take some time. He’s walking here from Eòlas.”

  “Do him good,” the witchwoman of Fàs said without hesitation. “Let’s have a closer peek at your arm, young Mansourah.”

  Léirsinn exchanged an alarmed look with Mansourah, but she had absolutely no idea how to stop what they’d set in motion. His sleeve was carefully cut away and tossed into the kitchen fire. Acair’s mother shook her head, tutted, and uttered the occasional salty curse. It was nothing Léirsinn hadn’t heard before from Mistress Cailleach, so she didn’t think anything of it.

  She was genuinely appalled, however, to watch Acair’s mother drop words like feathers onto Mansourah’s arm and see how they sank into his flesh. She could have sworn she heard his bones snick back together—

  Mansourah poured himself another generous glass of whisky, then tossed it back with abandon. He gasped, his eyes watered madly, then he looked at Acair’s mother.

  “My most sincere gratitude, my lady,” he rasped.

  The witchwoman of Fàs put her hand to her throat and colored a bit. “Don’t you have pretty manners, child. My lady, indeed.”

  He set his glass down with an unsteady hand. “I must repay your kindness,” he said. “I am your servant.”

  Léirsinn watched Acair’s mother consider him calculatingly for a moment or two and wondered how high that price might be.

  “I have nieces,” the witchwoman of Fàs said slowly. “They would appreciate a delicious piece of goodness such as yourself. That, and I owe their mother a great whacking favor.”

  “Ah,” Mansourah began, looking absolutely panicked.

  “Come along, Léirsinn,” Acair’s mother said without hesitation. “We’ll leave our young prince here to contemplate future delights whilst we give your pony instructions on where to go look for that blasted Acair. He’ll come limping in at an unseemly hour and cause a great ruckus if we don’t find him first.”

  Léirsinn looked at Mansourah, shrugged, then followed Acair’s mother through her house and back out the front door. Words were beyond her. That magic back in the kitchen . . . all she could do was shake her head. It had been as real and tangible as any piece of tack she’d ever put her hand to.

  She decided abruptly that she had had enough magic for the day. She knew what she’d seen but she didn’t want to believe it, never mind all that rubbish about essence changing and shapechanging when all she wanted to do was change the topic of conversation—

  Unfortunately, she was starting to see why the stuff might come in handy, which was probably the most appalling thought she’d had in a solid fortnight of absolutely shattering thoughts.

  She came to a teetering halt next to that worker of dangerous magic and gaped at Acair’s dragon, who was currently in mid-chew of something with feathers. He looked at Acair’s mother, then tossed whatever he’d been eating up in the air, caught it again, then swallowed it in one bite.

  Léirsinn thought it might be time to have a little lie-down.

  The witchwoman of Fàs only laughed. “A fitting match for my youngest. How do they get on?”

  “Sianach tries to bite him every chance he has,” Léirsinn said weakly.

  “Perfect,” the witchwoman of Fàs said. She walked over to the dragon and looked at him sternly. “You may not want to do this, but he’s your master, ye wee fiend. You’d best go find him, hadn’t you?”

  Sianach snorted out a very discreet, almost chagrined bit of smoke from his nostrils. He heaved himself up, waddled backward a step or two, then leapt up into the sky.

  “Wind is faster,” the witchwoman of Fàs shouted at him.

  He threw back his head, roared, then disappeared. Léirsinn wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he had become, mostly because she’d already been on his back when he’d chosen a different shape than horse, Pegasus, or dragon.

  Chosen a different shape. She laughed at the thought, truly she did. If she laughed silently and it sounded thoroughly unhinged in her head, who was to know?

  Acair’s mother returned, shaking her head. She stopped and looked at Léirsinn.

  “I’ll see you settled, gel, then you can decide to wait up or not. Acair’ll manage to get here or he won’t. Worrying won’t change that.”

  Léirsinn scrambled for something to say. “I wasn’t worried.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs grunted at her, then nodded toward the door. “You should be,” she said bluntly. “That boy takes terrible chances, but he’s old enough to make his own choices. Children leave the nest and all you can do is bar the door so they don’t come back in and eat through your larder. I’ll do him the favor of reworking the spell here so it doesn’t fall on him and slay him instantly, should he manage to outrun whoever is chasing him at the moment. ’Tis the least—and the most, I’ll admit—that I can do for him.”

  Léirsinn shut her mouth when she realized it was hanging open. She was beginning to see why Acair had such a tolerance for shocking things.

  She put her head down and followed the woman inside, hoping she wouldn’t see anything more than she already had.
That had been more than enough for the night.

  • • •

  It was a pair of hours before dawn when she heard the front door open. It wasn’t that she’d been listening for that, of course. She’d had plenty of her own concerns to see to.

  She’d watched Mansourah be placed in the best guest bedchamber with the same sort of care a baker might use while popping a delicate batch of cakes into an oven. She’d been quite happy to be offered a spot on the divan in front of a roaring fire in the Lesser Parlor, then spent the better part of the night pacing. If she’d fallen asleep for an hour or two, sitting on that divan with her cheek propped up on her fist as she leaned against the rolled arm of the sofa, who could blame her?

  That she knew without thinking how to make a quick dash for the front door said nothing but that she was thoroughly committed to being able to find the nearest exit, should such a necessity arise. If she made a complete ass of herself by throwing her arms around Acair of Ceangail’s neck and shaking right along with him for far longer than was perhaps circumspect, well, who was to know?

  She pulled away from him, took his cloak and hung it on a hook by the door, then put her arm around his waist.

  “You’re soaked,” she said. “Your mother has whisky, though I suppose you already know that.”

  He only nodded, looking thoroughly exhausted. She realized he wasn’t going to be giving her the details of his journey anytime soon, so she pulled him with her into the kitchen. She thought he could most likely find his own chair, so she concentrated on bringing the fire back to life. That seen to, she poured him a hefty mugful of what had been so helpful to Mansourah, then set it down in front of him. He eyed the glass, then looked at her.

  “Poisoned?”

  “Mansourah drank copious amounts and is still breathing,” she said, pulling out a chair for herself, “or so I assume. I tried it and I’m still alive, if that eases you any.”

  He took a deep breath, then threw back the entire glass without pause. He shook his head sharply, then rubbed his hands over his face. He looked at her and smiled faintly.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Forgive my lack of manners before.”

  “Long journey?”

  “Shattering,” he said. He tried to speak a time or two, then he rose and went to stand with his back to the fire. “He’s evil.”

  “Your pony?” she asked. “I’d say he’s just trying to impress you.”

  “He succeeded brilliantly,” Acair said with feeling. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her. “I’m assuming that since we’re both inside and not lying dead outside in a ditch that my mother extended her hospitality.”

  “She did,” she agreed. “We might want to thank Mansourah for it. I believe your mother is inviting a pair of your cousins to come for a visit with him as the prize.”

  He pursed his lips. “I would have sympathy for him, but I’m fresh out of the same. I assume she locked him in a bedchamber so he won’t flee during the night.”

  “He’s enjoying the best guest chamber, or so I understand. We’re enjoying the Lesser Parlor.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it. “I was fully prepared to make a lecherous remark, but I’m too damned tired to try. You might have to carry me there, though.”

  “No food first?”

  “I’d likely fall asleep in my porridge and smother myself. I will, however, tend the fire—”

  “Nay,” she said, rising and taking the fire iron away from him. “Go lean somewhere and I’ll see to this. I don’t have any means of restoring your face if you fall into the hearth.”

  “And what a terrible loss that would be,” he said with a mighty yawn.

  She had to agree, but she wasn’t about to agree out loud. She banked the fire, then walked with him to the door.

  “First one to the parlor takes the sofa,” he said.

  She wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t serious about that, but he was beginning to slur his words so perhaps he was simply babbling with weariness. She did enter the parlor first, though, which left her less than a handful of minutes later stretched out on that perfectly comfortable divan, covered in a decently warm blanket. Acair took off his boots, then rolled himself up in a blanket a pace or two away. Silence descended save for the occasional snap and pop of the wood in the hearth.

  She could have sworn she heard a hint of song in those flames.

  She watched the fire for a bit, trying to decide if she were losing her wits or not, then gave up and looked over the edge of the cushion at her companion. Acair was watching the ceiling, no doubt looking for answers to mysteries she imagined she didn’t want to know about. He had seen things, that lad there, things she absolutely knew she wouldn’t want to encounter. It showed in his eyes in what were apparently very rare moments when he let his guard down. For all anyone else knew, for all he admitted to, he was simply a terrible worker of magic on an endless quest to do foul deeds.

  She wondered how true that was.

  She cleared her throat. “Was that your bedchamber Mansourah took?”

  He looked at her then, then shook his head. “I slept in here in front of the fire, actually.”

  “To keep warm?”

  “To keep a fire iron always hot and at the ready for the regular occurrence of one of my siblings attempting to do me in during the middle of the night.”

  She leaned up on her elbow and looked at him in surprise. “You can’t be serious.”

  He smiled faintly. “Is it any wonder I turned out so well?”

  “It is a miracle,” she said honestly. “How many brothers did you say you have?”

  “Six that belong to my mother. An indeterminate number who don’t, plus those impossible elven troublemakers Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn foisted off onto the world. My brothers didn’t live here for very long, thankfully. Once they were old enough to toddle on off to the keep up the way, they did. I alone remained until I left to make my way in the world. I was, and likely still am, my mother’s last, best hope for someone truly vile.”

  She smiled. “You must be such a disappointment to her then.”

  He looked at her seriously. “I believe I am.”

  She felt her smile fade. “Do you think so?”

  “Tonight, I have no idea.” He sighed deeply. “Her spells didn’t slay me at the front door, which is unusual, but that may have been because she didn’t want to frighten either you or that finicky prince of Neroche by having you see the mess.”

  “Do you never come visit her?”

  “More often than the rest of the rabble,” he said with a shrug, “but not as much as I likely should. So much mischief to make in the world, you know, and so little time. I have a very full calendar.”

  “I imagine you do,” she said. She watched the fire for a bit longer, then found even that was too much trouble. “I should have tended your horse—”

  “He’s off hunting,” Acair said with a yawn. “I’ve no doubt he’ll find somewhere warm to curl up after he’s filled his belly. He’ll regale you with all his adventures in the morning, I’m sure.”

  She didn’t doubt it. She rested her chin on her hands, then realized she looked as foolish as any young girl gaping at her first sight of a handsome nobleman.

  “You’ll have to sleep eventually,” Acair said, opening his eyes and looking at her. “Difficult when you have me to look at, I know, but perhaps possible with enough effort.”

  “How is it possible you can look so tired but still be able to talk so much?”

  He smiled. She closed her eyes in a last-ditch effort to save herself, but perhaps it was too late. She opened her eyes in surprise as she felt him take her hand and pull it toward him.

  He kissed her palm, then put her hand on his chest and covered it with both his own.

  “You were worried,” he murmured.

  “I
wasn’t,” she countered. “Not for a moment.”

  “You’re a terribly bad liar,” he said, looking at her. He smiled wearily. “Do you truly think I would abandon you to the clutches of that prissy archer from Neroche?”

  “I thought someone might catch you and kill you, rather,” she said frankly.

  “Me?” he scoffed. “Never. I always emerge alive and unscathed.” He paused. “Relatively unscathed, if I’m to be entirely honest. But always alive.” He reached up and brushed her hair back from her face. “Always.”

  She wasn’t sure how he could possibly guarantee that when he had nothing but a quick smile and an impressive collection of curses to hand.

  She was beginning to agree with his mother that magic was a very useful thing to have.

  She would have asked Acair for his opinion on the matter, but he was asleep. She knew she would wake with her hand numb and her arm likely feeling as if it had been pulled from its socket, but she wasn’t about to take her hand away.

  She was tired, that was all. She was tired, she thought the fire might keep her awake all night with its song, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t dreaming the whole of her life. If she weren’t dreaming, she wasn’t sure she wanted to think about what her life looked like when she was awake—

  She turned away from the thought because it was maudlin and ridiculous and because she had things to do, secrets to uncover, and one terribly beautiful but impossibly reckless man to keep safe so he could save the world and rescue her grandfather.

  All without magic.

  She rolled her eyes and promised herself a full morning of work in whatever stables Acair’s mother might possess. It might be her only hope of regaining her good sense.

  She closed her eyes and fell asleep to the song of the fire weaving its way into her dreams.

  Eight

  Acair woke to a kink in his neck and pain in his face. The latter he assumed came from the fact that he was sitting on the floor of his mother’s library with his face pressed against books placed on shelves he’d built for her during his youth. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but he had the feeling it had been somewhere between an extremely tedious treatise entitled Meithian Archers of Note and a collection of rather bawdy tales about women of a certain profession from Gairn. That the books were written by the same author had obviously been enough to send him to seek refuge in sweet slumber.