Dreamer's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  She sat down around the corner from him, leaned her elbows on the table, and her chin on her fists. “Have you been talking to Bruadair behind my back again?”

  He leaned over and kissed her softly, smiled, then kissed her again. “Aye. And I think we should both count ourselves fortunate that I was born in Seanagarra and grew up accustomed to all manner of mythical happenings or at this point, I might be looking for a swooning couch.”

  “Is that where you were born?”

  “Whilst my father was off making mischief of some kind, aye.” He shrugged. “He always seemed to have an excuse for never being at our births, but I have the feeling my grandfather’s glamour would have ruined his dignity somehow had he attempted to cross the borders after wedding my mother. For the first time in my life, I can say I understand.”

  “Bruadair let you in.”

  “Because I love its daughter,” he said. He leaned back and tangled his feet with hers. “And how is that daughter today, in truth?”

  “Having fewer murderous feelings than usual toward my father in particular and Bruadairians in general.”

  “That’s good of you,” he said, his smile fading. “And I mean that, Aisling. You would be justified in being more than angry.”

  “He did the best he could,” she said with a sigh.

  “I believe he did.”

  She considered for a bit, then looked at him. “Do you find it curious that he has no magic or do you think he has magic but is unwilling to admit it?”

  “I think, my love, that if he had had magic, he would have used every last drop to keep you with him and safe,” he said seriously, “so aye, I think he’s telling the truth. Uachdaran told me once that whilst magic might be in the air and water here in this lovely, accommodating country of yours, not everyone possesses the ability to use it. Perhaps they can only appreciate what others can do.”

  “All the more reason for them to have something to appreciate,” she said.

  “Besides dingy grey everywhere?” he asked. “Absolutely.”

  She fingered the cover of one of the books lying there, then looked at him. “So what do you think we should do now? We’ve found my father, but I’m not sure he has the answers we need.” She met his eyes. “I’m still not sure I can believe anyone was looking for me.”

  He was leaning back in his chair with his knee propped up against the edge of the table. “Your cousin Riochdair certainly believes it. There’s a madame in Beul who would say the same.” He looked at her seriously. “Someone knows who you are, Aisling.”

  “I didn’t think to ask my father who,” she said, finding herself rather grateful all of the sudden for the heavier cloak Bruadair had provided her. “Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

  “I don’t think he does,” Rùnach said slowly. “I think, Aisling my love, that there are some very curious events surrounding your birth and the deaths of your mother and grandmother. I also think that you are without a doubt the most ethereal creature I have ever clapped eyes on.”

  She blinked, then smiled. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I like this one much better.”

  “You didn’t ask my father for my hand.”

  “I’m working on it. He says he won’t give you to me if I can’t keep you safe.”

  She felt her smile fade. “Things are odd here.”

  “And that, my love, is an understatement that might not even be surpassed by the master of understatement, Soilléir of Cothromaiche who, it seems, is far more familiar with the innards of your country than he let on.”

  “We should scold him for lying.”

  “Hedging, he would call it,” Rùnach said dryly. “I believe you and I are perhaps a little too familiar with the practice ourselves to reproach him overmuch.”

  She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. It was circle after circle after intersecting circle, all carved from a glorious dark wood.

  “Rùnach?”

  “Aye, love.”

  “Are you frightened?”

  “For myself? Nay. That I’ll fail you? Terribly.”

  She looked at him. “You won’t.”

  He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “You have more faith in me than you should, perhaps. But I don’t think my faith in you is misplaced. You certainly spared me a skewering yesterday.”

  She shivered. “That was a rather nasty spell of death, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would,” he agreed. “Very unpleasant.”

  “Who do you think put that spell there?”

  “I didn’t look at it long enough to discover that,” he said, “but I suspect we could find out, if you’re curious. I would guess it was either your mother or grandmother. Or perhaps your Mistress Muinear.”

  Aisling looked at him thoughtfully. “I wonder how she managed to be at the Guild for so long without being marked for who she was.”

  “She must have power we can’t begin to imagine,” he said, sounding a little uneasy, “which leads me to believe I should perhaps ask your father for your hand before she’s there to offer an opinion. I’m not sure how long I would last against her in a duel of spells. As for the other, I imagine pulling the wool over the eyes of the Guildmistress was child’s play for her.”

  “I can’t believe she was there,” Aisling said quietly.

  “She obviously loves you very much.”

  She shook her head. “It is very strange to think I do have a family of sorts that tried to look after me.”

  “I hope it will be comforting to you, in time.” He glanced out the window, frowned, then looked around the library. “It must be clouding up outside. I’ll light the lamps.”

  She looked at him quickly. He was obviously chewing on his words quite thoroughly. “And?”

  “I don’t want to burn the house down.”

  “I thought you and Bruadair had come to an understanding.”

  He took a deep breath. “So we have.” He rubbed his hands together and looked at her with a faint smile. “I’m nervous.”

  “I could go get a bucket of water.”

  “Well, between that thought and the one of my sire laughing himself sick over my straits at present, I think I’ve just found the courage to press on.” He considered, then spoke a spell.

  Lights sprang to life on candles and in lamps. They burned with exactly the right brightness for her comfort, with a cheery sort of light that felt like sunlight captured inside the library walls. She looked at Rùnach.

  “A thumb in your father’s eye?”

  He smiled affectionately. “I appreciate the thought, but I daresay they’re tempering themselves simply to please you. I’m just the happy beneficiary of that.”

  She enjoyed the light for a moment or two, smiled to herself at the feel of Rùnach’s boot pressing against hers, and wished quite heartily that they could spend the next year with nothing more pressing in front of them than soup at her father’s table. But she knew that wasn’t possible. Never mind what Rùnach was able to do inside her father’s library, the rest of the country was being drained of what made it lovely.

  She closed her eyes briefly and considered the magic of Bruadair. It seemed intact enough, but she could see where there was a part of it that was becoming . . . well, threadbare was the only word she could think of to use to describe what she was seeing. As if it had been a tapestry stretched out to its full length while one corner was becoming slightly less dense than the rest of it. She had no doubt that the whole thing would unravel if the damage wasn’t stopped.

  She opened her eyes and looked at Rùnach. “We have to stop the unraveling.”

  He looked at her blankly. “The what?”

  “I think Bruadair’s tapestry is beginning to unravel in one corner.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding. “How do you suggest we go about stopping that?”

  She had to take several deep breaths, then a pair of less deep breaths, because she felt light-headed, before she thought she could speak with any reasonable confidenc
e. “I think I need to learn to use my magic.”

  He reached over and took her hand, no trace of anything on his face but compassion. “I think you’re right.”

  “Where do I go to learn, do you think?”

  “Where do you suggest?”

  She attempted a scowl, but she didn’t suppose she’d been all that successful. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Love, this is your country. I’m just the guest.”

  “You’re more than a guest, Rùnach.”

  He leaned over, kissed her hand, then sat back. “Then as a hopeful inhabitant, I’d suggest we find your great-grandmother and see what she has to say. I would hazard a guess she taught her daughter how to use her magic, perhaps even your mother as well. For all we know, she’s waiting for you to make an appearance on her doorstep for just such lessons.”

  “Well, she did loan me that book on myths and fables as often as I wanted it.”

  “She obviously has a finely honed sense of humor,” he said solemnly.

  “She may check your ears.”

  He laughed. “As long as she’s not doing it after having slain me with a pointed spell, she can look all she likes.” His smile faded. “I think, if I could offer an opinion, that we probably need to go fairly soon. I hate to rush your reunion with your father, but I am a little queasy over the thought of what mischief Acair might be combining as we sit here.”

  She couldn’t argue with that sentiment because she felt the same thing. She glanced toward the window. “Nasty weather for traveling, unfortunately.”

  “Iteach will complain, I’m sure, but perhaps we’ll find him and his lady a dry stable soon enough.”

  She nodded, then looked at him. “You won’t put a rune over Bristeadh’s door, will you?”

  “Only one of welcome, if it pleases you,” he said, then he smiled. “I’m trying not to think about Dallag and how thoroughly she must be cursing the both of us right now.”

  “As long as she didn’t vent her ire by telling the Guildmistress where we were headed, I’ll leave her to her cursing,” Aisling said, “and happily so.”

  “She couldn’t have known,” Rùnach said.

  She looked at him in surprise. “You don’t sound entirely convinced.”

  He considered his hands for a moment or two, then looked at her. “I don’t believe either Dallag or Riochdair has any idea if your father is alive or not. And we had as much privacy as possible when your cousin was giving us ideas where to go looking for your sire.”

  “And if someone had been eavesdropping?”

  He shrugged helplessly. “I hesitate to think.”

  “Do you think they know where my father lives?”

  “Impossible,” Rùnach said confidently.

  The word was hardly out of his mouth before the world sounded as if it had rent in twain.

  Twelve

  Rùnach thought the house might be coming down around their ears. He put out the lights almost without thinking and leapt to his feet.

  “Stay here,” he said to Aisling.

  “Are you mad?” Aisling said with a gasp. “Of course I’m not staying here!”

  He supposed she wouldn’t be any less safe with him than she would be if he left her behind, so he nodded briskly and reached for his sword. He ran for the door, trying to ignore how the floor seemed suddenly to be spinning beneath his feet. He looked over his shoulder at Aisling, reached for her hand, then continued on, ignoring the sense of vertigo. Perhaps whoever was trying to assault the house was suffering far worse.

  He jerked open the door and looked out into the passageway. There was nothing there, but that was hardly reassuring. Whatever spell was laid over Bristeadh’s house was shrieking as if it were being torn at in a way that caused it pain.

  “Stay close,” he threw over his shoulder at Aisling before he sprinted down the passageway. He almost knocked himself unconscious near the front door by abruptly encountering Aisling’s father.

  “The parlor,” Bristeadh said grimly. “We’ll manage to make a stand there.”

  Rùnach didn’t want to know exactly what he meant by that or why he would know what could or could not be done in his parlor, so he followed without comment.

  He made certain Aisling was safely out of sight, then joined Bristeadh at the window, taking one side whilst Aisling’s father took the other. He let out his breath slowly, then eased forward until he could see out.

  The spell of protection had become visible, almost completely obscuring what he could see past the gate. Almost. He could only hope those on the other side of the rock fence were having that same experience, but he didn’t dare hope for it.

  “Who is it?” Aisling asked from behind them.

  “Sglaimir,” Bristeadh said. He took a deep breath. “I think the Guildmistress is with him.”

  “Impossible,” Rùnach said in disbelief. He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “They’ve had twenty years to hunt me down,” Bristeadh said. “I suppose it was a matter of time.”

  “I can’t imagine Sglaimir can use Sìorraidh,” Rùnach said. He looked at Aisling standing against the wall to his right. “Do you think?”

  “Perhaps he’s trying,” she said, gesturing toward the window, “and that’s why the magic is protesting. I wonder if the Guildmistress has magic?”

  Rùnach looked at Aisling’s father. “You would know. What say you?”

  “I’ve never seen her use any,” he said slowly, “but I’m not sure that’s an answer we can be satisfied with. All I know is she’s not Bruadairian by birth. What that means for any magical abilities, I can’t say.”

  Rùnach wasn’t sure he wanted to know at the moment, truth be told, but he knew better than to go into a fight not knowing the abilities of his opponents.

  He found Aisling standing next to him and put his arm in front of her before he realized what he was doing. Aisling put her hand on his arm and pushed it gently down, then moved to stand next to him.

  “I’ll look.”

  “Carefully,” he stressed.

  She smiled at him briefly, then looked out the window. She went very still.

  “It is the Guildmistress,” she said faintly.

  Rùnach put his hand on her back. “And?”

  “At least a pair of black-garbed guardsmen.” She glanced at Bristeadh. “Not from the Guild.”

  “Nay, daughter,” he said. “From the palace.”

  “And the man with the finely embroidered tunic and ermine-trimmed cape?”

  “That would be our illustrious ruler,” Bristeadh said with a snort. “I’m surprised he managed to leave his soft seat at the palace to come this far—” He stopped suddenly and looked at them. “That is unusual, I must say.”

  “It makes you wonder what he was told, doesn’t it?” Rùnach asked, though he didn’t want the answer to that.

  “How did they find us, do you think?” Aisling asked.

  “Someone obviously didn’t care for not being able to shut her door, perhaps,” Rùnach murmured.

  She laughed a little, but it was without humor. “Surely not. I can’t imagine anyone would listen to her.”

  “She could have sent a messenger to Beul,” Rùnach said carefully. “It isn’t that far away with a fleet horse.”

  “Or magic.”

  “Or magic,” he agreed. “Though that makes me wonder what sort of magic they’re using that Bruadair isn’t stopping. I have absolutely no idea how any of this works.” He looked at Bristeadh. “What’s your opinion?”

  Bristeadh pursed his lips. “As I said, I’ve never seen Iochdmhor use magic—”

  “She has a name?” Aisling interrupted in surprise. “I’ve never heard it used.”

  “She doesn’t like it,” Bristeadh said. “Thinks it’s too pretty. Sglaimir imported her, though from where is anyone’s guess. If you were to press me, I would say that she is a wizardess of some sort, but I’ve been told I have an overactive imagination. Sglaimir
came to Bruadair, I believe, with his own magic and he’s certainly had ample time to experiment with using the same inside the borders.”

  Rùnach suppressed the curses that were on the tip of his tongue. What he needed was the same amount of time to discover what he could do, but obviously he wasn’t going to have that luxury. He knew unfortunately very little about Carach of Mùig or from what insignificant hamlet he and his spawn had emerged. There were, as his father likely could have attested to, numerous places in the Nine Kingdoms where dark magic was the norm and black mages the acknowledged masters. Countering their spells was possible, as his father likely also could have confirmed, but the power and skill required was not insignificant.

  What he needed was a day with Muinear to see if he could even begin to use his own magic inside Bruadair’s borders.

  The spell’s shrieks suddenly became louder. Aisling clapped her hands over her ears and Bristeadh looked as if he’d been struck by someone who had intended it to be fatal.

  “Go,” he gasped. “Out the back. I’ll distract them for as long as I can.”

  “But you can’t,” Aisling protested. “What if the spell fails?”

  “Then I will have done what I could for you and will rest in peace.”

  Rùnach found Aisling looking at him, but he didn’t have to ask what she was thinking. They couldn’t leave her father, but there was no guarantee they would manage to get themselves all out alive. He dragged his hand through his hair before he looked at her grimly.

  “I don’t think I should do this,” he said, “simply because whilst I might be able to avoid burning the house down, I’m not sure how Bruadair would react to any more aggressive spellweaving.”

  She nodded, a jerky motion that spoke eloquently of her distress. “What spell do I use then? And please know that I can scarce believe I’m asking that.”

  “I believe it and what spell you use depends on what you want to do.” He looked at Bristeadh. “Who fashioned the first spell? Muinear?”

  Aisling’s father nodded. “She laid it over the house and grounds before Aisling was born. It has seen its share of abuse, which has led me to wonder over the years if perhaps we weren’t as careful about hiding the house as we should have been. There’s nothing to be done about it now. What I can tell you for certain is that I haven’t a bloody clue what the spell is or how to repair it.”