Dreamer's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  Carach was not pleased.

  “Stop it, you . . . you . . .”

  “Dreamspinner,” Aisling said crisply. “The First Dreamspinner, if you want to be exact. You are trying to rob my country of its birthright and I will not allow it.”

  Rùnach thought he might want to find somewhere to sit very soon. If he managed to see his grandmother Brèagha again, he would ask her to paint that woman there just as she was at present: a slender, pale, impossibly beautiful barrier between a black mage and the destruction of an entire country.

  She was breathtaking.

  Carach took a step back, then whirled to look at Rùnach. “I will not submit.”

  “Then draw your sword,” Rùnach said with a shrug, “and let’s see if that’s just for show or not.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t a fair fight. Rùnach’s last encounter on any serious level had been with Scrymgeour Weger, after all, and that after several days of a brutal training regimen. It took him less time than perhaps it should have to disarm Carach and leave him standing there, swearing furiously.

  “Rùnach, move!”

  He looked at Aisling in surprise, then spun around to see what she was pointing at. He leapt out of the way of tendrils of magic that were slithering out from the fountain. The stench that accompanied that magic reminded him so sharply of what his father had loosed, he almost lost his gorge. Aisling pulled him out of the way and held his arm tightly as the magic felt for Carach. It surrounded him in an embrace he obviously wasn’t going to escape, then drew him inexorably to itself.

  He went over the edge of the fountain and into its depths with a shriek.

  Rùnach pulled Aisling into his arms. He wasn’t surprised to find he was the one shaking, not she. He stood there with her until he thought he could speak without weeping.

  “Thank you,” he managed.

  She tightened her arms around him so quickly, he lost his breath, then she pulled back and looked at him. “You’re welcome. But I had help.”

  “I think you were the one offering help,” he said. “You were magnificent, by the way.”

  She lifted her chin. “I decided I wasn’t going to look at the ground anymore.”

  “Weger would be impressed.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “I think he’ll notice before you can.” He nodded toward the fountain basin. “We should close that.”

  “Wait,” she said, taking his arm before he could walk away. “We can’t yet.”

  “Why—oh.”

  She nodded. “Oh.”

  He resheathed his sword. “What can I do?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said slowly. “Let me see if I can spin the magic back here, then we’ll decide what to do with it.”

  He nodded, then watched her consider. He supposed it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to sit for a moment or two, so he found a handy stone bench and availed himself of it. He looked down to find his bastard brother lying at his feet, gasping as if each breath were his last.

  He reached over and yanked the knife from Acair’s body, then healed him with the first thing that came to mind. Acair put his hand over his chest, sat up, and glared at him.

  “Fadaire?” he accused.

  “It was all I could think of in a tight spot,” Rùnach said with a yawn. “Shut up and let Aisling work, would you?”

  Acair patted his chest suspiciously. “You put something inside there.”

  “I wouldn’t have bothered. It’s probably leavings from the blade. Soilléir gave it to Aisling so I can’t guarantee what was on it.”

  “I feel an undue warmth in the vicinity of my heart.”

  “Heartburn from all your vile deeds,” Rùnach said. “And still shut up.”

  Acair fell silent, thankfully. Rùnach watched Aisling continue to spin. He realized Acair was watching as well because his half brother was making the sort of noises a body makes when it’s on the verge of a faint.

  Aisling had created a flywheel and bobbin out of air and sunlight and was spinning magic back from the fountain. She looked over her shoulder.

  “Help.”

  He pushed himself to his feet and strode over to her. “How?”

  “Things are coming with it that I don’t like. What can you do?”

  “Pick them out as I see them?”

  “Perfect.”

  And so he did. He realized that Aisling had done the same thing as she’d been spinning his magic out of him, which led him to believe that whatever darkness had been left inside him was of his own making. Muinear would have something philosophical to say about it, he was sure of that.

  Time passed in a way he couldn’t measure. He worked with what Aisling was spinning until he was almost blind from a weariness he suspected was exacerbated by the spells he’d used against Carach of Mùig. At the very moment when he thought he might have to unman himself by begging Aisling for a rest, the last of Bruadair’s magic was drawn from the fountain. Aisling sighed deeply, then fashioned a loom of sunlight. He would have told her that he was beginning to suspect she’d found her favorite medium with which to create otherworldly things, but he was too damned tired to.

  “A rest?” he asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll sleep later.” She paused. “What of you?”

  “If you can continue, so can I,” he said, hoping that would be the case.

  She leaned over, kissed him, then smiled. “I love you.”

  “I think you’ve inspired me to bear up for at least another quarter hour.”

  She laughed a little, then began to weave what she’d spun until it was an enormous piece of fabric that sparkled with endless facets of light and shadow. She looked at him and sighed.

  “What now, do you suppose? A dwarvish spell?”

  “That seems a little indelicate,” he said slowly, “don’t you think?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Mist?”

  “Can you do mist?” she asked.

  “Today, Aisling, I think I can do anything.”

  She smiled and stepped back. “Then the task is yours, my love.”

  He considered, then decided he couldn’t make a bigger fool of himself than he had by using his father’s damned spells earlier. He posed a silent, casual question to Bruadair’s magic that was spread out on that loom in front of him and was almost surprised to find the decision of what to do was left up to him.

  If he managed to survive the rest of the day without weeping, he would be very surprised.

  He gathered the cloth of magic, infused it with the spell for creating a healing mist his grandfather had learned from his own land, then flung the magic up into the sky. He watched, openmouthed, as it spread almost instantly farther than he could see. And then, to his utter surprise, magic fell like rain.

  Or, rather, mist.

  Aisling laughed, then put her arms around him and held him tightly. “Beautiful.”

  He held her close, closed his eyes, and wished for nothing more than any place to lie his sorry self down and sleep for a fortnight. He sighed and looked at the fountain.

  “We need to close that portal still.”

  “Will you?”

  “Will Bruadair mind a Cothromaichian spell—or perhaps not.” He had known Bruadair had a mind of its own when it came to things inside the border, but now that magic was drenching everything the country’s opinions were undeniably clear. He took the spell he was given, wove it over the portal, and felt to his bones how the entire doorway calcified, then sealed itself closed with a faint click.

  He thought he might have to sleep not for a fortnight, but a solid month. He yawned, covered his mouth as an afterthought, then put his arm around Aisling’s shoulders.

  “Let’s find somewhere to sit.”

  “Let’s find somewhere to nap.”

  He smiled and kissed her hair. “That too.” He yawned again, then walked with her to where Acair stood, still looking terribly unsettled. Rùnach wasn’t at all
prepared to forgive him—he was a complete bastard, after all, in every sense of the word—but perhaps leaving him alive wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. He considered, then looked at Aisling.

  “What shall we do with him?” he asked.

  “Do?” Acair echoed. “What do you mean, do? As if either of you had the power to do anything with me!”

  Rùnach looked at Aisling. “You could give him nightmares. Well, not you, exactly, but you have people who do that sort of thing.”

  “I’m not afraid of nightmares,” Acair said haughtily.

  “Nay, not nightmares,” Aisling said slowly. “Something less dark.”

  “Unicorns and dancing elven maidens?” Acair asked sourly.

  Aisling looked at Rùnach. “Unicorns?”

  “I believe those definitely are creatures from myth,” he said with a smile.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I think perhaps there are things in this world we haven’t investigated yet—”

  “Spare the world any more of your quests,” Acair interrupted.

  Rùnach looked at him coolly. “You know, you’re not helping your case any. You did, after all, try to steal all the world’s power.”

  “I’m my father’s son,” Acair said with a shrug. “And my mother’s. It’s in the blood.”

  “Why did I avoid it?”

  “Too much of your mother in you,” Acair said. “I can’t help that.”

  Rùnach looked at the half brother who had made his life so miserable as a youth and supposed that perhaps even Acair couldn’t help some of his predilections. After all, both his parents had been less than stellar souls. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little penance and then retire quietly to a little spot in some obscure country where he could at least refrain from attempting to undo the world.

  “We could have him go round and apologize to those he tried to use for his own nefarious purposes,” Aisling suggested.

  “And why,” Acair said in disbelief, “would I do that?”

  “Because,” Rùnach said, “I know all Soilléir’s spells of essence changing and if you don’t, I’ll turn you into a gargoyle for your mother’s front porch. Or, better still, a servant to the faeries of Siabhreach.”

  “Oh, please nay,” Acair gasped. “Those mindless flutterers? Rather take that blade and put it back in my chest where you found it.” He looked at Aisling narrowly. “You, woman, forget I pulled you behind that bit of stone and saved your sorry life. What was I thinking? And now look who’s arrived to complete the misery of the morning!”

  Rùnach looked to his right to find Soilléir standing a few feet away, looking as if he’d done nothing more taxing with his morning than linger over a cup of tea. Which, knowing Soilléir, he likely had. Rùnach smiled.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not surprised,” Soilléir said pleasantly. “But I knew what you two could accomplish together.” He moved to stand next to Aisling, then looked at Acair. “Prince Acair.”

  Acair snarled a curse at him.

  Aisling looked at Soilléir. “We’re thinking of sending him off to repair the damage he’s done. What do you think?”

  “I think what I always do,” Soilléir said with a smile. “If there were no evil in the world, what would there be for good men to do?”

  “Ah, kill me now,” Acair moaned. “I want to find a dull blade and fall upon it when you start with that rot.”

  “And what would you know of it?” Aisling asked.

  “My mother has an entire book of his sayings,” Acair said with a shudder. “An extremely thin volume, but there you have it. She has no taste. And look, you have yet more witnesses over there. Perhaps that might cause you to hesitate before doing me any injuries.”

  Rùnach looked to his right and realized Acair spoke the truth. There was Bristeadh, looking very much worse for the wear, Muinear, and even Uabhann. The latter was sending meaningful glances Acair’s way.

  Acair shifted closer to Aisling. “Who is that lad?”

  “He’s the dreamspinner in charge of nightmares.”

  “Thought I recognized him.”

  She looked at Acair seriously. “Go do good.”

  “I’d rather perish.”

  “Your choice, of course.”

  He considered, then nodded shortly to her. “If I see someone on the verge of death, I’ll give him a good kick to help him along. It’s the best I can do.” He looked at Rùnach. “My thanks for my life, damn you to hell for it.”

  Rùnach smiled. “I have a lifetime of torment to repay you for.”

  Acair scowled at him, then walked away. He gave Muinear a wide berth, shot Uabhann a look of faint alarm, then left the garden.

  Rùnach watched the door close behind him, then sighed as Aisling went to embrace her great-grandmother. He looked at Soilléir.

  “Well?”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “You don’t lie well.”

  Soilléir smiled. “Very well, I was worried. But I’m not surprised you were successful. Very resourceful, the two of you.”

  Rùnach studied him for several minutes in silence. “Have you ever used a spell of essence changing in a fight?”

  Soilléir shifted. “Why would you ask?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Shouldn’t you be careful what your curiosity leads you to ask?”

  Rùnach smiled. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “It’s my favorite technique.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s one you taught me quite well, which renders it perhaps less effective than you might hope.”

  Soilléir sighed. “Perhaps. And perhaps I’ll tell you one day, when we’ve absolutely nothing else to discuss.”

  “You inspire me to entertain you regularly at my table.”

  Soilléir smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I would hope you would.” He stepped away. “I think you should rescue your lady before Uabhann monopolizes her. I think he’s looking for new ideas to use in his craft.”

  Rùnach shuddered to think of what sorts of things Uabhann might find interesting, no matter what Muinear had said about him. He looked around the garden once more, breathed in deeply of the wholesome, rich air, and was grateful for the gifts he’d been given. Light, darkness, the ability to govern both of them within himself.

  And the chance to spend the rest of his days with a woman who loved him in spite of both.

  Twenty-one

  Aisling walked along the same street she had traversed so often during her time at the Guild, only now she wasn’t sure she had ever seen anything more beautiful. Beul was drenched in magic that still hung over the city like a mist. She had the feeling that mist was healing the country—nay, she knew it was. The entire land of her birth was sighing in relief, as if it had been perishing of thirst for years and had finally been offered sweet water. It was without a doubt one of the happiest days of her life, made all the more lovely because she was walking next to the man who had made it all possible.

  “I didn’t.”

  She looked up at Rùnach and smiled. “Of course you did,” she said, “and how did you know what I was thinking?”

  He smiled wryly. “You’ve told me so half a dozen times in the past hour. I’ve disagreed at least that many.”

  “You closed the portal.”

  “You quite handily took Carach’s magic away from him before he killed me.”

  She smiled. “Then perhaps we can consider it a joint accomplishment.”

  He nodded and fell silent, but she had the feeling it was a silence inspired by more than weariness. She continued on with him for a bit longer before she looked at him.

  “You’re thinking.”

  He smiled briefly. “Barely.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m not thinking anything very useful.”

  “I’m coherent enough to listen,” she said. “Barely.”

  He breathed out a huff of a laugh. “I understand, which is why I�
�m not sure I want to clutter up the day with my thoughts, but I will if you can bear it.” He considered, then shook his head again. “I suppose ’tis simply my past intruding on the pleasure of the present, but I didn’t like what was coming out of that fountain.” He looked at her then. “Too much like what my father loosed, truth be told.”

  “But it’s sealed shut now,” she said slowly. “Don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure of it,” he said, sounding very sure indeed.

  “That magic took what I’d spun out of Carach and pulled it into the fountain with him, if that worries you,” she said.

  He closed his eyes briefly. “It did, actually.” He stopped, turned her to him and put his arms around her. “It concerned me greatly.”

  She understood. The evil Gair had loosed had trickled through the Nine Kingdoms for years before Rùnach’s siblings had managed to shut the well Gair had opened. Rùnach had every reason to be unsettled to think another source of it had sprung up. She held him tightly for several minutes, ignoring the people that walked around them as they stood in the middle of the thoroughfare, ignoring how all she wanted to do was find a flat place to lie down on and sleep for a fortnight.

  “Wed me?”

  She laughed a little. “Aye.”

  “I just wanted to make sure.”

  She pulled away and looked at him. “Was there any doubt?”

  “You still have that enspelled handkerchief my cousin gave you. I feared you might feel the need to scratch a wobbly rescue me from Rùnach on it before I managed to get you to an altar and there he would come to save the day.”

  “He didn’t save my country.”

  “He didn’t save my sorry arse this morning, either,” Rùnach said with a weary smile, “so I suppose neither of us needs him. But perhaps what we do need is a cup of ale and a scrap of floor. And look you, there is a likely lad to ferry us to such a place if we’re fortunate.”