The Dreamer's Song

by Lynn Kurland

  “Heartily,” he said, not having to look far for where he’d obviously come by many of his best strategies.

  “Now, continue on with your tale,” she said. “You were in Sàraichte, then what?”

  He supposed there was no reason not to tell her about the entire sorry business. “This is where things become a bit dodgy,” he admitted. “I hadn’t been in the south but a day or two when I noticed that Léirsinn was seeing what I can only call spots of shadow. I thought perhaps they were patches of spells laid by the local wizard to lighten purses without the effort of leaving his fire, but I began to watch what happened to those who stepped in them and concluded that I was judging poorly.”

  His mother frowned thoughtfully at him. “What happened when you stepped inside one?”

  He spared the briefest of moments to be gratified that his mother would have expected nothing less of him, then permitted himself a shudder at the memory.

  “I felt as if a part of my soul had been torn from me,” he said. “I managed to wrench myself free, but it was absolutely excruciating.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t repeat the experience for anything, though I think it’s been different for others. I’ve heard there are those who seem to crave a tussle with the damned things.”

  She studied him. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who told you that.”

  “I vowed I wouldn’t.”

  “And I vow I don’t recognize you. You’d best get through this year quickly lest you lose yourself entirely.” She tapped her pencil against her notebook thoughtfully. “So, lest you sully your vaunted code by a bit of dishing with your mum, let me state it for you: you’re here to try to find out who might have created both the spots and that thing in the corner.”

  “That was my plan,” he agreed.

  “You also needed a place to hide for a bit.”

  “I’m not above accepting aid,” he conceded.

  She studied him for a lengthy moment. “I have wood that needs chopping.”

  “Done.”

  “And a roof that needs to be patched.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll put a whip to Mansourah.”

  “That delightful prince of Neroche will be too busy for that sort of rough labor, so I’ll find a hammer for you.” She stuck her pencil back in her hair, slipped her notebook into her pocket, and pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll give your tangle a bit of thought.” She hesitated, then looked at him seriously. “I wouldn’t step in any more of those spots, were I you.”

  “Excellent advice.”

  She continued to chew on her words before she finally shook her head as she headed for the door. “I’d keep my companions out of them as well, but that’s just me. Giving, always giving, am I.”

  “Indeed, you are,” he agreed.

  He watched her go, then considered that last piece of advice. He hadn’t asked the particulars, but he wondered what Léirsinn had experienced when she’d backed into one of the damned things in Miach of Neroche’s kitchen garden. Well, he knew what he’d heard, which was the sound of her screams, as terror-filled as if she’d peered into the pit of hell itself. She hadn’t volunteered details and he’d honestly been too weak-kneed to ask her.

  That had to stop, truly. He was a damned fine black mage, ruthless in his schemes, and absolutely relentless in pursuing the delights provided by stirring up trouble. Too much more time spent looking out for others and he would completely lose himself in that vat of stickiness labeled Do-Gooding.

  He opened the book his mother had handed him and had another, more leisurely look at it. He imagined she’d kept it under her pillow simply because she’d known he would come looking for it—it was something he would have done, which meant he’d likely learned it from her—but now that he had it in his hands, he honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to see what it contained.

  Then again, as he’d had to recently remind himself, he wasn’t a coward. He was hungry, however, and he’d apparently spent most of the morning unconscious on his mother’s library floor, so it was obviously past time he went to see if Léirsinn was safe and whole. Surely, though, he would be forgiven a quick visit to his mother’s stewpot first.

  He tucked his book under his arm and made his way back toward the Greater Parlor, a room that was hardly ever used for anyone less than those of royal blood. It was tempting to trot right on past so as not to be privy to the carnage, but unfortunately his curiosity was simply too strong to be resisted. He peered around the corner and assessed the situation.

  Mansourah of Neroche was currently sitting on the fancy divan that his mother reserved for the use of those she truly wanted to impress. He was flanked by none other than Acair’s own cousins, Mòday and Mùirne of Cael. Acair didn’t like to speak ill of women, but those two there were trouble. They singly had a cache of spells that should have given that prissy prince pause, but together? Acair would have hesitated to meet them both in a deserted ballroom.

  Mansourah shot him a look of pure pleading. Acair was momentarily moved by it, but alas, he had things on his plate that demanded his attention. He shrugged helplessly, held up his hands in a further gesture of helplessness lest the first have been lost on that dolt there trembling into his teacup, then made a hasty exit stage left before either tears or spells erupted.

  He paused in the middle of his mother’s main passageway, though perhaps terming it that was giving it a grander title than it deserved. The house was modest, cluttered, and simply saturated with spells. Then again, it was his mother and she tended to get a bit distracted whilst about her work of keeping a detailed and completely disinterested history of the world. He couldn’t say he blamed her for setting spells of ward to keep herself safe. The spells of death she collected like others might collect figurines were, he knew, just for the amusement of watching powerful mages squawk and beg for mercy when they ran afoul of them.

  He was beginning to suspect he had inherited quite a bit of her less savoury side.

  He nipped into the kitchen for a quick bite and a drink of something he hoped wouldn’t kill him. He then managed to elude what was at her front door only because he tossed a coat out first to test the waters, as it were. His mother’s spell fell upon it, giving him the chance to duck out to the side. His own spellish companion exited with him, then paused to face off with his mother’s spell. Surprising, that, but nothing he wanted to investigate further. He left them to it and darted around the side of the house.

  He noted the enormous nature of the woodpile there in the distance, then promptly ignored it in favor of carrying on toward his mother’s modest set of stalls. That she didn’t own horses had never deterred her from always being prepared for them. He suspected Léirsinn was likely there, conspiring with his pony. He paused and considered the possibility that perhaps she was teaching the beast a few manners, something that definitely needed to be seen to. Perhaps leaving them to it for a bit wouldn’t be unthinkable.

  He leaned against a part of his mother’s house that didn’t look as if it had been plastered with faery sugar, then decided the shadows of her house were too much like the shadows he was trying to avoid. He found a spot in a goodly bit of sunshine, leaned against a fence post, then took his book and considered things he hadn’t before it.

  If he opened it and saw the name of someone he didn’t want to encounter—

  He rolled his eyes at himself. He had already set foot to a path that was going to lead him places he absolutely didn’t want to go. He’d known that the moment he’d been tossed in Ehrne of Ainneamh’s dungeon—nay, it had been sooner than that. It had been at some point during the shoveling out of Léirsinn’s favorite horse’s stall when the damned nag had tried to bite him. He’d known he was in trouble. The rest had simply been what followed along after trouble was first encountered.

  He opened the book and started with the first name written there.

  He though
t it might turn out to be a very long day.

  Nine

  Léirsinn leaned against a stall door in a surprisingly luxurious little barn and watched Acair’s horse work his way through his breakfast. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen a horse eat grain that quickly, but the ponies she was accustomed to didn’t . . . well, the truth was, she wasn’t accustomed to the dietary habits of horses who could change their shapes, so what did she know? Sianach might actually be on the reserved side and she was judging him too harshly. At present, he was snorting opinions at her instead of fire, so perhaps that was the best she could hope for.

  She shivered and wondered if she might be better served to ask him to spew out a flame or two. She was chilled to the bone, but if she were to be honest there as well, it had absolutely nothing to do with the bitterness of the winter morning surrounding her.

  It had everything to do with the book she held in her hands.

  She hadn’t come to the barn to read, she’d come to take her mind off things she hadn’t wanted to think about. Difficult, perhaps, to forget about magic and its makers when she found herself firmly ensconced in the home of a witch, but not impossible. A little shoveling of manure and soaking of grain had seemed like the best idea she’d had in days.

  Instead, she’d found a book on a stool in the barn, sitting negligently next to tools of her trade. She’d picked it up, of course, because she was absolutely daft. There was no other excuse for it save blaming her damnable curiosity on too much time spent in the company of Acair of Ceangail, who was likely going to meet his end immediately after he poked his nose once too often where it wasn’t meant to go.

  Once she’d taken the small volume in hand, there hadn’t been any reason to argue with it when it opened to a particular page she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t help but read.

  Gair of Ceangail lived a thousand years before he wed Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn, youngest of the five daughters of—

  She’d shut the book and dropped it back on the stool. It had remained there as she’d tended Acair’s horse, but those words had echoed in her mind like a song with a tune she didn’t particularly care for but couldn’t forget just the same.

  She had wanted to know about Gair, hadn’t she?

  At the moment, she couldn’t remember why, though she could name at least half a dozen reasons why she didn’t. Unfortunately, all those reasons vanished like a bit of mist after sunrise and she found herself picking the book back up and opening it.

  The spell of Diminishing, which could take from a mage every last drop of his power and leave him a mere husk—

  She wanted to shut the book, truly she did, but she couldn’t bring herself to. As the innkeeper in Eòlas had said, Gair had been a terribly elegant man but ruthless in his pursuit of power, spells, and elven princesses. He had apparently come to a bad end trying to steal vast amounts of power from some well—

  “He’s still alive, you know.”

  Léirsinn almost fell over the stall door into what she was absolutely certain was not a pile of clean straw. She picked up the book she’d dropped, then looked at Acair’s mother, who definitely hadn’t been standing next to her a heartbeat before.

  “You startled me,” she managed.

  “I startle everyone,” Fionne of Fàs said with a shrug. “It’s my stock in trade.” She nodded at the book. “You’re reading about Gair.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Your expression is an equal mix of horror and fascination. It’s how everyone looks when they read about him.”

  “I found this book on that stool over there,” Léirsinn said. “Sitting all on its own.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs smiled. “Of course you did, lovey, because I put it there for you. I thought you might be interested in the sources from whence your would-be lover springs. Me, you have to interview all you like. Gair is more difficult to reach.”

  “Would-be lover,” Léirsinn repeated faintly. “Ah, we aren’t—”

  “Why the hell not? He’s handsome enough, isn’t he?”

  Léirsinn wished the woman wasn’t standing in the way of her collapsing on that extremely sturdy stool. She tried leaning against the stall door, but Sianach kept bumping her elbow with his nose. Acair’s mother looked her over, then turned and walked over to another stool placed near enough the first that easy conversation could be had. She sat, patted the seat next to her, and looked at Léirsinn expectantly.

  Léirsinn took a deep breath and went to sit. She looked at her hostess and decided perhaps there were things that could be gotten out of the way first.

  “I’m still not sure what I should call you,” she said. “I don’t want to be impolite.”

  “I’ve been called many things, but I would hope those sorts of words aren’t rattling around in your pretty head. You may call me Fionne, or Mother Fàs if you prefer. I’ll call you Léirsinn, unless you prefer Red.”

  “Mistress Fionne, if that suits,” Léirsinn said carefully. “Given your reputation, I suppose you can call me whatever you like.”

  Mistress Fionne looked pleased. “I’ll call you by your name, but don’t think I won’t call you other things behind your back. Now, to answer the questions you aren’t asking about my former lover, he is still alive. One of Sarait’s sons shut him up in a garden and used an extremely dangerous spell to drop all his power down a well and seal it there.” She shrugged. “I always thought Gair would come to a bad end, but that didn’t stop me from having several sons with him.”

  “Acair obviously inherited his good manners from you.”

  Mistress Fionne laughed heartily. “And so he did, though his pretty face comes from his sire, it must be said. I’d pay good money to see you manage my youngest son the way I’ve just watched you manage the shapechanging beastie in that stall. My maternal instincts prevent me from smothering Acair in his sleep, so I fear the task of bettering him—or doing him in, actually—falls to you.”

  Léirsinn wasn’t sure if she should laugh or weep. “Indeed,” she managed.

  “Indeed,” the witchwoman of Fàs said. She slid Léirsinn a sly look. “Do I frighten you?”

  “You terrify me.”

  Mistress Fionne looked terribly pleased. “I do my best, as always. Now that we’ve sorted Acair—the annoying little git—let’s move on to you. You said yestereve that you had no magic.”

  Léirsinn wondered if perhaps blisteringly swift changes of subject were usual fare with the woman sitting next to her, but decided she would learn the truth of it without having to ask. “Thankfully, nay.”

  “Can’t say I haven’t shared your opinion from time to time, though it comes in handy.”

  “I’ve never had it to miss,” Léirsinn said carefully, “and to be honest, I didn’t believe it existed until quite a while after I met your son.” She paused. “I’m not entirely sure I’m not still imagining things.”

  “Understandable, dearie, but foolish.” She leveled a look at Léirsinn. “Who is your father?”

  “Saoradh of Sàraichte,” Léirsinn said, then she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have been so forthcoming so quickly.

  Mistress Fionne pulled a book from her pocket and drew a pencil forth from where she’d obviously stowed it behind her ear. She considered, then made a note in her book. “Your mother?”

  “Muireall of An Caol,” Léirsinn said. She’d already put her foot to the path, so perhaps there was no sense in not continuing on. “’Tis near An Cèin, or so I’m told.”

  Acair’s mother nodding knowingly. “Horse lovers, that lot. A few clutches of elves in An Cèin, but they keep to themselves, so you likely wouldn’t have encountered them.” She considered, then jotted down a few things before she snapped her book shut and put it back in her pocket.

  “Does that mean anything?” Léirsinn asked, because that seemed like a reasonable question to ask.

&nbs
p; Mistress Fionne shrugged. “I’ll have to investigate a bit before I can say anything. I don’t know much about your father’s family save that his brother, your uncle, is not a pleasant sort.”

  “I would have to agree.”

  “I’m sure you would, gel. I would suspect, apart from anything else, that your suspicions about your lack of magic are correct. The truth is, I wouldn’t mourn it if I were you. Look what became of Gair. Black magery is a dodgy business. Acair had best watch what he steps in, wouldn’t you agree?”

  What Léirsinn thought she could agree about was that Fionne of Fàs was either too damned observant for anyone’s peace of mind or she had magic Léirsinn didn’t want to know about. She looked at Acair’s mother and took note of the knowing look there.

  “About stepping in things,” she began slowly, “I have some experience with that.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” Mistress Fionne said with a snort, “but we won’t talk about barn delights. Tell me more about places you’ve put your foot that you didn’t intend to.”

  Léirsinn wasn’t sure what she should or shouldn’t say, but she already started down that path of madness so perhaps there was no reason not to keep on with it.

  “I was standing in the king’s garden at Tor Neroche when I stepped backward into a particular sort of shadow.” She took an unsteady breath. “Now I can see things.”

  Mistress Fionne studied her for a moment or two. “What sorts of things?”

  Léirsinn suppressed the urge to shift. “I can see things about people,” she admitted, wishing she had anything but that to discuss. “I’m beginning to think I’m losing my mind.”

  “Keeping company with my son will do that to a gel,” she said without hesitation, “but I likely shouldn’t tell you that. As for anything else, your sight might be merely a sharpening of ordinary horse sense, or it might not. What do you see about me?”

  “I’m afraid to look.”