by Lynn Kurland
He folded his arms over his chest and looked at Annastashia’s brother.
“I take it Léir didn’t tell you what happened to me?”
“You know he says nothing,” Astar said, frowning slightly. “And tell me bloody what?”
“My father took my magic at Ruamharaiache’s well.”
Astar’s mouth fell open. “What? That’s impossible.”
“’Tis quite possible, as I’m sure you know. He took my brothers’ as well.” He sighed. “I don’t think he took my mother’s but I fear by the time he might have tried, she was past—”
“I understand,” Astar interrupted quietly. “Còir told me what his father had found there. I honestly thought you’d all perished along with her.”
Rùnach supposed he shouldn’t have felt such profound gratitude to Soilléir for having kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help a brief moment of it. He looked at Astar and shook his head slightly. “My mother perished, as did my younger brothers. Well, save Ruith. He was living peaceably in Shettlestoune until events forced his hand, though he did a goodly work with my father—”
“Your father is alive still?”
“If you can believe it,” Rùnach said grimly. “He’s now quite contained, thankfully, behind spells that I would imagine Ruith managed to pry from your cousin. Mhorghain is alive and wed to Miach of Neroche, which I suppose you know.”
“I had heard that much at least,” Astar said with a faint smile. “A good match for them both, I daresay.”
Rùnach nodded. “Our mothers would be pleased. As for Keir, he perished shutting the well and I’ve been loitering in the shadows of Léir’s solar for the past few years, mourning the loss of my magic and looking for replacements for my father’s spells.”
Astar went very still. “Why would you want them, Rùnach?”
“So I knew how to counter them should they find themselves out in the world,” Rùnach said. “And trust me when I say it was a very academic exercise. Or it was until a fortnight ago when I discovered that perhaps my magic wasn’t as plundered as I’d feared.”
“Should I be sitting down for the rest?”
Rùnach smiled. “I’ll tell you if you can best me with the sword.”
Astar snorted. “And here I feared you would require something difficult of me. Let’s go, then, lad, and I’ll try to leave something of you so you might spew out the rest of your sorry tale over a bit of restorative beer. My grandfather’s alemaster has had a particularly good year, you know.” He paused. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather use spells than steel?”
That was tempting, Rùnach had to admit. Astar for all his ridiculous preenings was a very dangerous mage and he had a reputation for having no mercy on the field.
“You hesitate,” Astar noted, rubbing his hands together purposefully. “Come now, Rùnach. You weren’t such a coward in your youth. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you were forever begging me to trot out to the field beyond my granddaddy’s glamour and beat on you.”
Rùnach laughed a little uneasily, because it was entirely true. He’d been to Cothromaiche at least a score of times he could remember, all whilst on his search for the impossible and powerful, and he’d never passed up a chance to hone his magic against the man facing him. He didn’t want to speculate on which of the spells of essence changing Soilléir’s younger cousin knew, and he’d never dared ask lest the knowledge not allow him to sleep easily at night. What he did know was that Astar had a penchant for the odd and the elusive, and Rùnach had queried him about both more than once.
“Spells, then,” Astar said brightly. “I can tell you’re too polite to ask me to leave you on your knees, weeping, so I’ll grant your unasked request. Leave your very fine Durialian steel on that bench there and let’s see what sort of job was done by whoever took pity on you and restored your magic to you. I can’t imagine it was my cousin.”
Rùnach had the feeling he might regret agreeing, but supposed he had reason enough to take any opportunity to hone his rather unwieldy magic.
It turned into a very long morning.
Astar proved to be every bit as unpredictable and offensive on the field as he had ever been. His spells weren’t so much terrifying as they were full of twists and turns Rùnach very quickly found he couldn’t counter easily or even begin to anticipate. It was thoroughly irritating, which he could tell Astar knew very well. And still Astar wove things around him, things that vexed him, poked at him unexpectedly, continually pulled at the ground under his feet as if he’d been standing on the edge of the sea as the tide was going out.
He dragged his sleeve across his face. When had the sun become so bloody hot?
Astar only smiled in a way that tempted Rùnach almost beyond reason to go wipe that smirk off with his fists.
There came a point where he’d had enough, yet holding up his hand to cry peace went unheeded. He opened his mouth to point out to Astar the concession he’d missed only to have a spell he hadn’t seen slam into him and wind him. Damned Cothromaichian magic that made no sense. Who had invented such ridiculous spells?
He reached for something to match his irritation that had somewhere during the past half hour become something far stronger. He wasn’t so much surprised as rather satisfied to find there were spells there at his fingertips, spells that came readily to his hands, complicated pieces of magic that were worthy of the power he could feel rushing through his veins—
He realized abruptly that he was standing in the midst of terrible spells that were robbing him not only of what breath Astar’s spells had left, but almost all movement as well. It took him only a bit longer to realize those weren’t Astar’s spells, they were his own.
Or his father’s, rather.
The tangle that had sprung up around him and was dense and full of thorns. He couldn’t move without something impaling him and causing him intense pain. It was, he could admit freely, agony of his own making. A dark, unrelenting, breath-stealing agony that left him feeling as if he were falling into a blackness that had no end—
And then, suddenly it was all gone.
He leaned over and gasped for breath. He saw Astar’s boots before he managed to straighten, and felt his sparring partner’s hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Astar said, sounding very sorry indeed. “I pushed you too hard.”
Rùnach attempted to shake his head, but he couldn’t. He stood there for another few moments, waiting for the stars to clear and the ability to breathe to return. He finally heaved himself upright.
“My fault,” Rùnach managed. “My apologies.”
“Nasty spells, those,” Astar said faintly. “They were . . . dark. And I couldn’t stop them, if you want the truth.”
“Neither could I,” Rùnach said, then he realized they weren’t as alone as he might have suspected.
Soilléir was standing twenty paces away, watching him thoughtfully.
“What?” Rùnach said defensively, though he knew the answer himself. He had reached for things he shouldn’t have, things that had come too easily to hand. His brother Ruith had warned him he wouldn’t want their father’s spells, but he hadn’t heeded that warning. He supposed he should have.
Yet still Soilléir said nothing.
Rùnach rolled his eyes, trying to save his pride. “An aberration or two. I’ve been without magic for half my life now. One makes the odd mistake now and again when pressed.” That Soilléir had been forced to stop whatever he’d been doing and come to rescue not only him but Astar as well . . . well, he supposed that was something he could avoid thinking about, surely.
“There is that,” Soilléir said mildly.
Rùnach shot him a look. “Regretting giving me your spells?”
Soilléir blinked, as if the question not only surprised him, but also wounded him slightly. “Nay, my friend. I know what lies at the bottom of your soul.”
Rùnach dragged his hand through his hair. “Forgive me. I’m weary.”
�
�You’ve had a busy day that looks to be not ending anytime soon.” Soilléir smiled. “But perhaps after supper we can escape the madness in the hall and retreat to the library for a bit of peace. I’ll go see if I can make that happen.”
Rùnach didn’t dare hope for it, but perhaps Soilléir had means at his disposal beyond the norm. His spells certainly qualified.
He waited until Soilléir had left the field before he looked at Astar. “I apologize.”
Astar clapped him on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Rùnach.”
“I’m not sure how things got so out of hand there.”
“And I have no idea what in the hell you were spewing at me, but I suppose we could save that for some light after-supper conversation. Let me nap this afternoon and we’ll talk tonight when I’ve recovered. Though if you want to hasten my recovery, you might tell me how it was you regained your power. I’m a little surprised at that, Rùnach, I don’t mind saying so. Gair was notorious for not leaving any spoils behind, as it were.”
Rùnach retrieved his sword and walked with Astar back to the palace. He paused at the doors leading inside and looked at Soilléir’s cousin.
“It was actually never lost,” he said carefully. “Apparently, my mother hid it beneath scars on my hands and face.”
“Your mother was exceptionally beautiful,” Astar said, “and obviously exceptionally clever. I’m assuming you knew what she’d done.”
“Hadn’t a clue,” Rùnach said. “I thought magic was lost to me forever.”
Astar blinked in surprise. “How dreadful.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“So how was it recovered?”
Rùnach looked at him seriously. “It was spun out of me, strung on a loom of fire, and dropped back into my barely breathing form by Uachdaran of Léige.”
“Uachdaran of Léige spun your magic out of you?” Astar asked, clearly stunned. “As if such a thing is possible to begin with—”
“Nay, he’s the one who enspelled it back into me.”
“Who spun it, then?”
Rùnach looked at Astar steadily.
Astar blinked several times, then his mouth fell open. “You jest. Aisling?”
Rùnach nodded.
Astar gestured inelegantly toward the field. “And what of that ugly display? This ethereal woman certainly didn’t gift you with any of that.”
“Nay, nor did the king of Durial, I daresay,” Rùnach said. He shrugged helplessly. “Too many of my father’s spells rattling around in my head, I suppose.”
Though he supposed that wasn’t at all what was going on. His father’s spells he knew, aye, but those he could control. His magic he could sense sparkling in his veins and there was no evil there. It wasn’t anything Aisling had done, nor King Uachdaran. He couldn’t believe that his mother would have created such a thing in him either.
But there was something there.
He looked at Astar and forced himself to smile. “I should bathe, I suppose, and dress for supper. Better that than more time on the field.”
Astar shot him a look. “Lesser of two evils, Rùnach?”
“Something like that.”
“If you’re choosing my sister over more time with me, you’re choosing the wrong thing.”
Rùnach laughed in spite of himself. “That’s your sister you’re disparaging.”
“I know of what I speak. But not to worry. I’ll keep watch over our Aisling tonight whilst you’re about the heavy labor of negotiating your escape from Anna’s clutches.”
“She’s not your Aisling,” Rùnach said, opening the doors and walking inside. “How many times must I say it?”
“A few more at least. The day is young.”
Rùnach had to agree that it was, though he supposed he wished it had been otherwise. He wanted to find Aisling, see how she fared, survive supper, then send Annastashia of Cothromaiche off to contemplate her numerous offers of marriage, all of which hadn’t come from him.
And then perhaps he would have the courage to face what he knew he wasn’t going to want to.
That darkness on the field hadn’t come from his father’s spells.
It had come from his own.
Three
Aisling wandered about the chamber that reputedly belonged to Cothromaiche’s chief spinner and found herself too restless to sit but utterly unsure about what to do next. She walked over to the window and looked out. That window overlooked the garden, which she appreciated. Spring was obviously hard upon them even so far north and early flowers had awakened to welcome it.
Cothromaiche was an odd place, she had to admit. She had seen other gardens in other places that had seemed unusual, but in a fairly predictable way. The gardens in Tòrr Dòrainn boasted flowers that were full of pleasure at being of use to the king and queen of the elves. She’d listened to trees in the dwarf king’s garden sing half-sleepy dirges with strains of sparkling harmonies running through them, a perfect reflection of the souls who looked inside the earth for their treasures.
King Seannair’s gardens were much different. She’d walked in them an hour ago but the stone pathway beneath her feet had been simply stone, the trees and flowers welcoming but not volunteering any conversation past a soft good morning and an invitation to sit amongst them and be at peace. Then again, after watching Rùnach be enveloped in a passionate embrace by a woman who frightened the hell out of her, Aisling supposed peace had been the best the garden could offer.
Soilléir had shown her back to the chamber where she was currently standing, repeating the offer of free rein over its contents that he’d made a pair of days earlier. She found waiting for her on her stool an empty little purse made of marvelous fabric, silent yet somehow quite sentient. She had fished about in her pocket for the thread she’d picked up previously, then put it in that bag. That thread joined something she found earlier, dangling from the flywheel of the spinning wheel set there near the window.
Those tasks seen to, she now had nothing to do but either think too much or make yarn. She looked at the baskets at her feet, baskets full of deliciously soft roving that was nothing more than wool, and decided she would make yarn. It was less complicated that way.
She sat down at her wheel and began to spin a soft cream-colored wool shot through with almost imperceptible strands of gold. It was terribly regal, that bit of business, though she had to wonder what anyone would make with what she was able to spin. But it was lovely under her hands so she kept on with it. Perhaps she would spin gossamer threads and make a shawl for the queen of Tòrr Dòrainn should she ever see her again.
The door to her left opened softly and a throat cleared itself. She looked over, half expecting to see a guard there come to tell her she was lingering where she shouldn’t, but it was only Rùnach.
Only Rùnach.
She started to rise but the look of disbelief he gave her had her sitting back down again. He made her a small bow.
“May I?”
“If you like.”
“I like,” he said, coming in and shutting the door behind him. He found a chair, then set it a discreet distance away from her and sat down.
She had no idea what she was to say to him, so she said nothing. When last she’d seen him, he’d been in the library being inundated with complaints by that woman in the hideously expensive gown. Perhaps he only wanted a bit of peace and quiet for himself.
That, she had in abundance. The only sounds at the moment were the whir of her wheel and the faint squeak of the treadle, but those were soothing sounds, so she didn’t complain. She also didn’t dare look at Rùnach.
He had stretched his legs out and crossed his booted feet at the ankles as if he had nothing better to do with his time than simply sit there. She waited him out until she thought she would go mad from spinning under his scrutiny.
“So,” she said finally, because she couldn’t bear it any longer, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“For what?”
He blinked, then his mouth fell open. “Are you daft?”
“I’m trying to be polite.” There was no point in saying that she would have preferred to be impolite and heave something heavy in his direction. Perhaps he would sense that without her having to say anything. “What else am I supposed to be?”
He shifted, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. “I’m sorry she knocked you over. I should have rescued you immediately.”
“Don’t think anything of it,” she said. “The carpet and I commiserated about her choice of footwear, then Prince Soilléir took me to the gardens for a bit of bracing fresh air.”
He smiled faintly, but said nothing. If only he hadn’t been so . . . she sighed. So himself. Familiar and safe and far too beautiful for her peace of mind.
She started up her flywheel and spun for a bit longer until she had to stop again. She looked at him frankly.
“I won’t blame you if you want to remain here.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“So you could wed her,” she said, gesturing vaguely behind her. “The princess, that is. And nay, I’m not daft.”
He straightened, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Aisling, I have no desire to wed Annastashia of Cothromaiche.”
“She seems to disagree,” she said slowly.
He rubbed his hands over his face and looked at her. “Will you have the entire tale?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Do I want it?”
“It paints me in a very unflattering light. Does that help?”
She smiled reluctantly. “I can’t believe that’s possible, but feel free to try to convince me otherwise.”