by Lynn Kurland
“I don’t have your courage,” she said very quietly.
“Aisling, my love, you don’t,” he agreed. “Yours is far greater.”
She shook her head. “All I want to do is run.”
“Why don’t we shapechange instead?” he asked. “Well, once we come to an understanding with your magic. I don’t want to fling myself off the roof of your father’s house in dragonshape and become part of his garden path where I land.”
Her look of misery hadn’t faded. “I thought I was alone. There in the Guild.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But it sounds as if they did the best they could not to leave you by yourself, doesn’t it?”
But what he didn’t say was that if they had resorted to hiding her out in the open in a bloody weaver’s guild, she must have powerful enemies indeed. If those enemies had been able to slay her mother, that was one thing. That they’d apparently slain her grandmother the dreamspinner . . . well, that was something else entirely.
If those wishing Aisling’s mother and grandmother ill could slay those two women, one of whom was perhaps possessing powers far beyond the norm, how would Aisling fare in their sights? Worse still, if no Bruadairian had been able to save them, who the hell did he think he was to suppose he might manage it?
“Let’s walk.”
He let her pull him to his feet, then kept her hand in his and started around the garden with her.
Perhaps he had an advantage that the others didn’t have. He might not have been Bruadairian. He might not have magic that was completely manageable on Bruadairian soil. He also might have more than a passing familiarity with the lad who was making the mischief they were facing.
All he knew was that he loved the final dreamspinner who had been so carefully and painfully kept out of sight for almost three decades.
Whatever he had to do, whatever power he had to call on, whatever spells he had to use, he would do it all to keep her safe.
Eleven
Aisling walked through the garden and wondered absently how it was she could have lived her entire life in Bruadair and been so utterly oblivious to her surroundings.
Or, rather, the souls peopling her surroundings. She’d been acutely aware of how miserable the Guild was. She had memorized every ugly crack in every passageway she’d walked down day after miserable day. She had never not been cognizant of her surroundings as she’d wandered within a small part of Beul on her day of liberty each week because she hadn’t had time to roam farther afield. But she had never looked at any of the people there, never made note of anyone potentially being someone unexpected, never considered that those around her might be friendly.
Euan was her cousin and Bristeadh was her father. It was almost unbelievable.
Perhaps in time the memories might reveal themselves, but for the moment all she knew was that she’d done her damndest to forget everything she’d ever seen during those hellish years of her youth and young adulthood, and apparently she’d done a very good job of it.
She looked at her father’s house and felt absolutely no connection to it. Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised her given how little time she’d obviously spent in it. There was magic surrounding it, that much she could see. It wasn’t magic that came from her father. He had again freely conceded his lack of the same without hesitation the night before at the supper he’d cooked for them by very ordinary means. He volunteered that his lack of magic had been something of an impediment to his marriage, but his extremely noble though not royal bloodlines had made up for that.
Not that it matters here in Bruadair, he’d said with a smile as he’d stirred his soup.
She had no idea what that meant and actually no desire to ask him. Perhaps she had spent too long with Rùnach, who considered first a man’s mettle before his station and only trotted out his own royal connections to tease her. Asking her father to explain the possible caste system of Bruadair was more than she’d been willing to do.
She’d been happy enough to simply sit in his parlor next to Rùnach and listen to the father she hadn’t known and the man she had grown to love talk politics. It was a little startling to realize she knew several of the players in the grand councils of kings and queens. It was also a little surprising to realize that she looked more like her father than she ever would have suspected. His hair was the same color as hers, a color that she decided wasn’t without redemption especially when viewed by lamp and firelight. He fidgeted the same way she did, restlessly looking for things to do with his hands. Once he had decided that Rùnach wasn’t worthy of death, he stopped fingering his dagger and started carrying on friendly conversations.
Rùnach, for his part, had been deferential. She supposed he thought permission for marriage might potentially need to be obtained from Bristeadh of Bruadair, a notion she had briskly disabused him of as he’d later left her in front of a guestroom door. She had decided that she liked him very much and even Bruadair didn’t seem opposed to him. That was enough for her. Rùnach seemed to think there might be permission to be requested from others further down the road, but she couldn’t bring herself to think about that. She was still trying to swallow the tidings of who her father thought she was.
She glanced around the corner of the house, hoping to catch sight of that very handsome elven prince, but he was nowhere to be found so she left off with her pacing and wandered back toward the kitchen. Both her father and her would-be betrothed had stated their intention to simply wait for her to make up her mind about what to do, a remarkable idea all by itself. She wasn’t accustomed to making decisions of even minor import. She honestly hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to do—
Actually, that was less true than she would have liked. She did know what to do. She simply didn’t want to do it.
She entered the back door to find only Bristeadh there, chopping vegetables for lunch. He smiled at her.
“Nice walk?”
She leaned against the doorframe and looked at him seriously. “I know I should remember you.”
He shook his head. “Nay, love, you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was the Guildmistress’s personal guardsman,” he said slowly. “I did my damndest to make sure you were as often out of her sights as possible.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled grimly. “Cold comfort, I know, but if you knew the identities of the people who were—and still are—searching for you . . .” He paused, then shook his head. “I’ll give Rùnach a list at some point. I’m not sure it’s anything you need to see. And speaking of seeing, you wouldn’t have recognized me anyway at the Guild. Soilléir made sure of that once the plan was decided upon.”
She looked at him in shock. “He used a spell on you?”
“Just to change the color of my hair and eyes. Surprisingly painful, actually, though I don’t think he took any pleasure in it. He was good enough to restore things to their proper color once we were sure you were safely away.”
“Have you told Rùnach any of this?”
“We’ve chatted about several things this morning,” he conceded. “Briefly, though. He’s had things to do.”
She could only imagine and she imagined those things had to do with digging through books in the library for things he likely shouldn’t know. She considered her father. “How well do you know Prince Soilléir?”
Bristeadh smiled faintly. “Our families have known each other for centuries. Personally? For all of my adult life, surely. I think when your grandmother was slain, he was forced to heed Muinear’s call for aid. I know he wouldn’t have come on his own for anything other than a social call. He doesn’t like to interfere.”
“Did you know Gair?”
“Sarait, rather. I knew of Gair, of course. But I never had the pleasure of an introduction.”
“So you didn’t know Rùnach was with Soilléir at Buidseachd?”
“Soilléir never even so much as hinted at it and I can’t say that I paid all t
hat much heed to the goings on out in the world. I was busy enough with the task I was allowed, which was to keep you as safe as I could.” He paused, then shrugged. “I do remember hearing a rumor that Gair had been about a piece of foolishness at Ruamharaiche’s well, but as you might imagine, there were few who felt to mourn just deserts richly dished out. Good riddance to bad rubbish, and all that. It was common knowledge that Sarait and the children had been slain with him, but I had no connection to them. I grieved for their lives lost, but nothing more.”
“I thought Gair was a myth.”
He smiled. “I don’t doubt it. And why is it I suspect Muinear was the one who filled your ears with that sort of thing?”
Aisling smiled in spite of herself. “She did. I’m not sure if I should be grateful for that or not. I looked for pointy ears on Rùnach for at least a fortnight before I came to grips with what he was.”
“I’m not surprised.” He smiled, then his smile faded. “And to answer your question directly, nay, I had no idea Rùnach had survived the well, though it doesn’t surprise me somehow. He’s a canny one, that lad.”
She had to agree, though her thoughts were perhaps a bit more substantial than that one. She sighed and looked at her father, trying to place him. She supposed she had perhaps learned too well to simply keep her head down and her thoughts to herself at the Guild.
“I don’t remember you. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m not sure you would want to,” he said quietly. “Let’s say that I did several things I wish I could take back and couldn’t stop many more I wish I could have.”
She felt a little ill. “I’m not sure if I should pity you for that or loathe you.”
“You would be justified in the latter,” he said seriously, “but I did what I could to mitigate the horrors there.” He stopped chopping and looked at her. “It wasn’t just the fate of Bruadair, Aisling, that hung in the balance, though that was grave enough. ’Tis the fate of the world is at stake.”
“So says Soilléir,” she said weakly, “but surely not.”
He set his knife down. “Do you know who Sglaimir is?”
“Rùnach says he’s the grandson of a very evil mage.”
“Carach of Mùig,” Bristeadh agreed. “One of the viler of the black mages to slither through the Nine Kingdoms over the centuries. Sglaimir is his grandson.”
“What does he want with Bruadair?” she asked. “It isn’t as if he’s gone out of his way to improve the condition of the palace or surround himself with immense riches. Admittedly I’ve only seen him from a great distance, but he didn’t have dozens of courtiers with him or a grand retinue.”
“He wants what every mage wants,” Bristeadh said with a shrug. “Power.”
She would have disagreed with him, but she couldn’t. She’d seen that for herself.
“And you think he’s taken Bruadair’s for himself?” she asked.
Bristeadh considered his veg for another moment or two, then looked at her. “I don’t know. If he has, I agree it certainly doesn’t show.”
“Do you think he had help with his scheme?”
“Absolutely. From whom is the question. I would say Acair of Ceangail is in the thick of things. He’s been closeted with Sglaimir up at the castle far too often for it to count as simple social calls.”
“What is to be done about him, then?” she asked uneasily.
“I believe, daughter, that your would-be fiancé will have to give us aid there.”
She frowned. “And what if he hadn’t come?”
Bristeadh only smiled. “Soilléir’s sight extends far.”
Aisling would have laughed, but she realized the man was utterly serious. “You mean to tell me Soilléir saw us?”
“Ask him next time you see him.”
“He won’t tell me!”
“Then I suppose you’ll be left with speculation. Unless you decide to wring the answer from me, which I beg you not to do.” He looked at her with a weak smile. “I have no magic, remember?”
She snorted. “And I do?”
“Aye, Aisling, you do.”
She shivered and wished her cloak had been thicker—
Her father laughed at the heavy wool she was suddenly swathed in. “You had best learn to be careful what you wish for, my girl. Bruadair takes a special interest in her dreamspinners. As for anything else, I believe you and Rùnach have a few things to work out before too much more time passes.”
“Do you like him?”
“Do you care if I do?”
A question for an answer. She sighed. Perhaps she was doomed to be surrounded by men who weren’t capable of simple ayes and nays. She looked at her father and felt something inside her shift. He looked like her, she had to admit, and he had suffered perhaps even a bit of her own pain in the Guild. He could have just as easily sent her off and not thought of her again.
“I find,” she said finally, “that I do.”
He smiled. “Then I’ll tell you that, my earlier reaction aside, I’m thrilled beyond measure. It is a very lovely family. Well, with the exception of Sìle who is the epitome of an arrogant, blowhard-ish elf, but perhaps that can’t be helped.”
“He is fairly magnificent.”
“Which is the first thing he tells anyone who’ll listen,” Bristeadh said promptly. He shook his head gently. “Nay, Aisling, I’m very happy for you both. You deserve someone who will cherish you, which I think Rùnach will. He, I must admit, deserves someone who will value him for who he is apart from his bloodlines, which I daresay you will do. I suppose between the two of you, you’ll manage to keep each other safe.”
Aisling walked over and put her arms around his waist before the impulse was chased away. He hesitated but a moment before he enveloped her in a return embrace. She thought he might have sobbed, just once. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes, hard-hearted wench that she was. She pulled away and cleared her throat.
“I’d best go see that Rùnach hasn’t ransacked your library. He’s not to be trusted with that sort of thing.”
Bristeadh had tears standing in his eyes, but he nodded, smiled, then made a great production of going back to chopping his carrots and potatoes. Aisling left the kitchen before she became more maudlin than spring soup deserved.
She wandered through the passageway, running her fingers along the wall as she did so, touching patterns that were painted there. Not everything was circular, but so much was that she thought she could safely say the house had been built by someone obsessed with spinning wheels. She would have to ask Bristeadh—er, her father, rather—who had built the place and for whom.
The door to the library was open, so she eased inside, then simply stood at the back to see what Rùnach was doing.
He was sitting at the table, poring over a robust selection of things open and spread out in front of him. She wasn’t unaccustomed to the sight, so she ignored the books and looked at the man. Well, elf, rather. He was, she was the first to admit, rather handsome, all things considered.
Very well, he looked almost a bit like what she’d always pictured the kings of Neroche to look. Not the current one, whom she knew, of course, but the kings who had lived centuries before. Impossibly noble, terribly majestic. That sort of thing.
Only the truth was, Rùnach would never look like a king of Neroche. No matter how handsome Miach and his brothers might have been, Rùnach surpassed them all. Even if he didn’t have pointed ears as she had once believed all elves must have, mythical creatures that they were.
“Are you looking at my ears?”
She realized he was leaning back in his chair, looking at her. She smiled.
“Might be.”
“Come closer where you can see them better.”
She smiled and met him halfway across the room. She realized that somehow the table had been moved to a different location, which left them standing in the center of a carpet whose pattern radiated out from the center like spokes on a wheel.
; “A dreamspinner’s house,” she said with a sigh.
“Or built by someone who loved one,” he agreed. He pulled her into his arms and held her close for several minutes in silence. “Finish your think yet?”
“I think I was finished before I began,” she said with a sigh. She pulled back and looked at him. “And you?”
His eyes were bright with excitement. “Want to see?”
She laughed a little. “You look like you’re about to open a large collection of presents.”
“Just one and it’s for you. Come watch.”
She followed him over to the table, smiling at his enthusiasm. He pushed the books to one side, fetched a candle, then rubbed his hands together.
“Watch this.”
She listened to him weave a spell over the candle, though she supposed it was less an entire spell than just a simple command. She realized immediately he was using not Fadaire, but rather Bruadairian magic. The flame atop the candle came to life and burned with a soft, dreamy sort of beauty that soothed her just to look at it. She looked at Rùnach in surprise.
“Impressive.”
“Wait.”
He extinguished the flame with his fingers, then took a deep breath. The next flame was of Fadaire, springing to light in all its elven beauty. She watched it for a moment or two before she realized what was unusual about it.
“You didn’t burn the house down,” she said in wonder.
“I know,” he said, sounding thoroughly pleased. “We’ve come to a bit of an understanding, Sìorraidh and I, about my birthright. Well, about Fadaire, at least. I’m trying not to push my luck about anything else.”
“And what was the understanding?” she asked.
“I keep you safe and it doesn’t try to kill me anymore.”
She smiled. “A lovely truce, that.”
He laughed and threw himself into the chair at the end of the table. “You might be surprised how many things I had to promise to get this far.”