The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  Somewhat less surprising was the sight of the king himself standing but a handful of paces away. Acair attempted a polite bow. That sent him pitching forward onto his knees, which was perhaps better than landing straightway upon his poor visage though not by much. His guards hauled him back to his feet, then did him the very great favor of holding him up until he could stand there on his own. He waited until the stars stopped swirling about his head before he nodded his thanks. The dwarves stepped away a pace or two, but no farther.

  First things first. Though Léirsinn had told him the king had offered her a chamber, there was no sense in not making certain of it.

  “My lady?” he asked pointedly.

  “She is safely housed and recovering from her attempts to destroy my hall.” The king leveled a steely glance at him. “I blame you for her misguided actions.”

  “As you should,” Acair agreed, furiously calculating the amount of strength it would take to get both himself and his love out the front gates.

  Though it galled him to admit as much, he knew it would take more than he had at the moment. The best he could do was keep himself free of the dungeon and recover a bit until the opportunity for escape presented itself.

  He reached for his best expression of contrition, appalled by how easily it came to him, and faced the king squarely.

  “I believe I feel an apology coming on.”

  Uachdaran folded his arms very slowly over his manly chest and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you, indeed.”

  “Perhaps more than one,” Acair amended. “If there’s time.”

  “I have all morning. Spew away.”

  Acair supposed the longer the apologies, the more chance to catch his breath, so he jumped in with both feet. “First, I would like to apologize for rushing off into the night with your middle daughter. If it appeases Your Majesty any, she almost killed me with a chair.”

  “I’ll speak to her about leaving things undone when next we meet,” the king said. “What else?”

  “I apologize for making use of one—”

  “More than one!” the king shouted.

  “Several,” Acair conceded. “Several rivers belonging to you that I appropriated for my own unsavory purposes.”

  The king looked at him for so long without moving that Acair began to wonder if perhaps all those sleepless nights he was responsible for might have done more damage than he’d suspected. The king was indeed a bit puffy about the eyes and he looked as if he needed a decent nap. Acair imagined his own visage didn’t look any better, so perhaps ’twas best to let that observation lie.

  “Insufficient,” the king said crisply. He stroked his beard, encountered a few equally crispy ends, then pointed toward the stables. “Look at the damage there. Apologize for that.”

  Acair had already looked and wasn’t sure he cared for a second viewing. “I didn’t do that.”

  The king snarled a curse at him. Acair wasn’t unfamiliar with the dwarvish tongue—it came in handy for knowing which spells to poach—so he understood precisely what the king was telling him to do with himself. He would have pointed out that he couldn’t very well consign himself to Hell and engage in those sorts of activities by himself, but he imagined he didn’t need to. With the way the king was looking at him, he wasn’t entirely sure the king wouldn’t be his escort and primary tormentor if given the chance.

  So, instead, he chose discretion and kept his mouth shut. He would have attempted a look of regret, but he’d tried that a time or two in the past and found that sort of thing just didn’t sit properly on his features.

  He was made for sneers. It was his burden to bear, to be sure.

  “I never said you lit the fire,” the king said curtly, “though I’m guessing yours was the spell that was used.”

  “I don’t imagine—”

  “Shut up,” the king said, turning away. “We’ll go have a closer look and decide then. Follow me.”

  Acair didn’t dare not, though it was rather a more dodgy business than he was comfortable with. He stumbled along behind the king, accompanied by a decent collection of palace guards, and tried not to dwell on the fact that he was within bolting distance of the gates. He also ignored the fact that at any other time he would have found the number of obstacles in his path toward freedom to be exhilarating not exhausting. At the moment, it was all he could not to weep with gratitude when the king stopped and turned to glare at him.

  “Your lass, Léirsinn, said this morning that she wanted to do a bit of horse work. I agreed, because I thought it would keep her from trying to burn my house to the ground again.”

  Acair refrained from commenting on that. He’d heard all about that rather fiery adventure from the woman herself. It had been unsurprising, actually. She had recently acquired a bit of magic—something he still hadn’t quite come to terms with—and her first act had been to set half a forest on fire. Red hair equaled a bit of a temper or so he’d heard, but he suspected that mentioning the same to her would only result in her turning her incendiary sights on him.

  So many conversational topics to avoid. ’Twas enough to leave a man of quality reaching for ink and parchment in order to jot them down for reference.

  “This,” the king continued coolly, “is what your wee horse miss did earlier this morning after I refused to bring you upstairs.”

  “I can’t imagine she would have burned a stable full of horses to the ground over that,” Acair said slowly.

  “She was aiming for me!” The king blew out his breath, accompanied by a curse or two. “My stables bore the brunt of her fury, though my own person is not without damage as well.”

  Acair thought it wise not to comment on the condition of the king’s long, glorious beard, though that was where discretion ended. He considered, then gave his all to drawing himself up in his best imitation of a very dangerous black mage on the verge of dire deeds.

  “You said my lady was well, but I have no proof.” He gestured toward the stables. “That isn’t proof.”

  The king’s expression was enough to leave Acair wondering if the man was capable of sheering off parts of his mine with his glares alone.

  “I do not harm women,” Uachdaran said frostily. “Mistress Léirsinn is recovering from her exertions, as I said. I’m still considering whether or not I’ll allow you to see her before I send you off to your well-deserved reward in Hell. You’ll improve your chances by remaining silent.”

  Acair nodded, silently. He would have pled for a moment to enjoy his relief that Léirsinn was indeed safe, but dwarvish swords being loosened in finely tooled dwarvish sheaths were a chorus of reasons why he was better off not making any requests. He followed the king into his stables without comment and hoped for the best.

  The truth was, the barn had only sustained minor damage and even that was only on the outside where Acair suspected the horses didn’t find themselves troubled by it. He shuffled past pristine stalls until the monarch paused. He glanced to his left and was only marginally surprised to find his own horse housed there.

  Sianach, that damned nag, had his nose buried in a bucket of something that smelled so much better than anything Acair had choked down over the last few days that he had to clutch the edge of the stall door to keep from swooning. He wondered briefly if his blasted horse would bite him if he tried to steal his breakfast. Sianach lifted his head, bared his teeth briefly, then went back to his grain.

  The king grunted and continued on.

  Acair walked until he simply couldn’t go any farther. He grasped a post when it presented itself as something to be used in remaining upright, then blinked in surprise at the sight of a different horse sticking its rather distinctive nose over a stall door.

  “Is that an Angesand steed I see in yon kingly accommodations?” he asked faintly.

  “It is,” the king said grimly.

  “Lord Hearn is
a good friend to send you such a valuable beast,” he ventured, wondering why the dwarf-king seemed less than pleased with the gift.

  “It isn’t a gesture of friendship,” Uachdaran said shortly, “’tis a bribe.” He reached out and stroked the horse’s nose. “And a tempting bribe it is. Hearn knows all too well that I’ve coveted this lad for quite some time.”

  The horse whickered in pleasure, then snuffled the king’s hair. And damn Uachdaran of Léige if he didn’t chortle a bit himself, looking as if he were a lad of ten summers facing his first decent mount and feeling the thrill of possessing the same.

  “You have excellent taste in horseflesh, Your Majesty,” Acair said. It was hard to go wrong with an Angesand pony, but they were equally hard to come by. That Hearn should relinquish one without a king’s ransom being surrendered in return was unusual, indeed.

  Uachdaran shot him a dark look. “Damned right I do.” He pursed his lips, considered, then pulled a missive from out of a pocket. He looked as if he were considering chucking the thing into the nearest pile of manure, if such a thing could be found in such immaculate stables, then thrust it out without comment.

  Acair had gained a healthy dislike for the written word over the past several months and suspected the current offering would be no more welcome than any of the others. But he was no coward, so he took it. Reluctantly, but there it was. He fully expected to find anything from additional questing tasks to pointed threats on his life scribbled there for his pleasure. He steeled himself for the worst, then unfolded the sheaf.

  I need the bastard alive

  Well, at least he didn’t have to ask who had penned those words with such an aggressive scrawl. He half expected to see that the note had been sealed with manure and stamped with a horseshoe, but perhaps Hearn was trying to impress. He was vastly relieved to learn that the good lord of Angesand wanted him still on the job, as well as being enormously flattered that the man valued his services to the tune of a very fine horse.

  Then again, perhaps that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Hearn had bluntly asked for aid in healing his son, Tùr. As had become habit of late, his own damnable propensity to spread joy everywhere he went had risen up like last night’s bad beef to choke him and he’d agreed to add that to his list of Good Deeds To Do, a list that seemed to lengthen with every powerful soul he met.

  The gods help him, he was going to finish his present business, retreat to his house on the edge of the sea, and lock himself in his study for at least a decade. He would never have any peace otherwise.

  He handed the missive back to the king. “Interesting,” he said casually.

  “This is a heavy favor he asks of me,” the king grumbled. “I would prefer to kill you.”

  Acair imagined he would.

  “There is also the fact that your woman almost set my barn on fire,” the king continued, “though knowing her love for horses, I must believe it was an accident. You need to teach her self-control.” He paused, then snorted a mighty snort. “You, self-control. I can hardly believe those words came out of my own mouth.”

  Acair found himself in that same place more often of late than usual, but decided there was no point in admitting it.

  “She’s senseless at the moment, which I suppose leaves my hall safe.”

  Acair didn’t imagine she’d been felled by anything she’d found at the king’s table. Poison was not anything the man stooped to, and why would he? Uachdaran of Léige had a collection of spells and a reserve of power that any black mage worthy of the name would have happily investigated for as long as allowed.

  He knew. He was that mage.

  “I would say ’tis her magic that troubles her,” the king continued. “I don’t suppose I need to ask who succumbed to her foot-stomping and gave it to her, damn that weak-kneed lad from Cothromaiche. The only question is why she wanted the wretched stuff to begin with.”

  “I believe it was to save me,” Acair said, finding it surprisingly difficult to say as much.

  “You don’t deserve her,” the king said flatly.

  Acair couldn’t have agreed more. Soilléir didn’t use his magic very often, or so rumor had it, so for him to have worked such a change in her was unprecedented. That Léirsinn had been willing to risk so much for his benefit alone was almost more than he could bring himself to think about.

  Uachdaran pointed back toward his hall. “You’ll attend that feisty gel in her chamber. A guard will be waiting outside the door, though I doubt you’ll be much trouble in your current state.”

  Considering how desperately he wanted to lie down on anything that didn’t slither about beneath him, he had to agree.

  “I will apply myself to determining how I might slay you yet still keep that horse.”

  “It is a very fine stallion,” Acair agreed.

  “And you are not, so enjoy your breathing whilst it lasts.”

  Acair thought that might be best. He followed the king back into the hall, wishing he had the strength to check the path they were taking against his memory of the insides of the palace. The best he could do was note that they were headed toward the more exclusive guest chambers, not that that said all that much given that Uachdaran had very few guest chambers of any stripe. The man wasn’t known for his willingness to entertain.

  ’Twas little wonder his middle daughter had wanted a life beyond the front gates.

  The king stopped finally before a door, knocked, then stepped aside.

  “My physick is inside with her. He is powerfully fierce, so keep that in mind if you think to escape.”

  Acair knew the king’s physician and could say with certainty that the only thing Master Ollamh was equal to was clunking an intruder over the head with a bottle of tincture and hurrying off to hide behind a cabinet of herbs.

  The door opened to reveal a well-appointed chamber with a large bed, an enormous hearth, and a table under the window that looked as if it might be holding up edible food. Acair found himself most relieved that Léirsinn was indeed safely tucked in.

  Uachdaran nodded sagely toward the patient. “Such should be a warning to all who attempt essence changing, no matter the reason.”

  “I believe that in this matter, Your Majesty, we are in perfect agreement.”

  Uachdaran turned and started down the passageway. “Behave,” he threw over his shoulder.

  Ah, but that could apply to so many things. Acair supposed there was no point in assuring the king of things he couldn’t whole-heartedly commit to, so he didn’t bother. He walked inside, shut the door behind him, then swiftly crossed the chamber to the bed.

  He took Léirsinn’s hand in his own, hoping she would forgive him for his condition, and winced at the chill of her fingers. He had seen the results of essence changing a time or two and he had most definitely examined the remains of those who had surrendered their magic to his father—unwillingly, of course—but he wasn’t sure what to make of the woman in front of him. If he’d been the sort to pray, he might have indulged. He would have been far more likely to sit down at a gaming table with some powerful being or other and do what he did best in return for a healing concession of some kind, but he didn’t see any of those sorts of lads or lassies loitering in the vicinity.

  The king’s physician, however, was standing not far away, looking as if he currently found himself locked in a dungeon with a nest of vipers. Acair attempted a reassuring smile.

  “I have no magic.”

  Master Ollamh considered. “None?”

  “None that I can use,” Acair amended.

  The physick pulled up a stool and sat down on the other side of Léirsinn’s sickbed. “One shouldn’t change one’s essence.”

  “On this, my good Master Ollamh, we agree completely.”

  “Have you ever seen the results of it?”

  “My family tends to favor outright pilfering rat
her than messing about with alterations,” Acair said, “if you know what I mean.”

  “I believe, my lord Acair, that I do.”

  Acair watched Léirsinn for a few moments, then looked at the king’s healer. “Is there anything to be done?”

  The man shook his head. “Time alone must do its goodly work.”

  Acair nodded, though he didn’t agree at all. He’d seen what his father had left of mages whose power he’d taken and knew no amount of time would ever heal those lads.

  That thought left him back where he’d been before, sitting in a dungeon and fretting over how quickly time was running out for him. There were mages at large with his death first on their to-do lists, he still had a damned spell dogging his steps with only one thing on its mind, and there was yet someone else roaming about the wide, vulnerable world whose goal seemed to be stealing all the souls he possibly could.

  He himself was without the ability to use his magic, trapped in the hall of a monarch who wanted him dead, and the only thing standing between him and the gallows was the gift of a horse he was quite sure he would pay for down the road.

  The single, faint ray of hope in the gloom had been a gloriously feisty, red-haired horse miss who could see things he couldn’t and had saddled herself with powers she couldn’t control to save his sorry arse.

  Now, though, she looked to be nearer death than he was and he who had toppled thrones and brought terrible mages to their knees could do nothing at all to aid her.

  He wasn’t one to trust to time what he could see to himself, but at present, he thought he might not have a choice.

  The sooner that changed, the better.

  Two

  Léirsinn dreamed.

  She stumbled through a forest full of fire, struggling to keep to a path that grew fainter with every step she took until it suddenly disappeared and she was left teetering on the edge of an abyss. She spun around only to find the path behind her gone and the trees obscured by heavy smoke that billowed toward her. There was no escape, no way out but forward into darkness.