The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  He walked back over to the fire, knelt down to peer under the bed, and came as close to fainting as he ever had in his life. Finding himself sprawled rather suddenly with his face against the floor and his arse up in the air was an indignity he could have done without. It took more effort than he was happy with to retrieve Léirsinn’s book from under the bed, then very gingerly ease himself back up to his knees.

  He crawled up onto the divan with all the energy of a black mage properly breathing his last thanks to a lifetime of bad deeds, then had to simply close his eyes and wheeze until he thought he might manage to look at his surroundings and find them doing something besides galloping wildly around him.

  No more dwarvish dungeons. His next stay in one was going to kill him.

  He was grateful his hands were cleaner than they had been and refused to grow misty-eyed over the woman who had offered him such a tender service. The insults to the divan, however, were definitely going to be extensive. He likely should have been appalled by the condition of his clothing and what it would do to Uachdaran’s furniture, but given that the man hadn’t allowed him even so much as a quarter hour outside near a well, perhaps he had no need to be fastidious about his sofa-perching.

  He waited until his head cleared a bit more, then turned his attentions to what he held in his hands. It was an unassuming thing, perhaps a bit bigger than his outstretched hand, just the size his mother preferred for her endless scribblings. He had the feeling the woman would choose an empty book over a last meal.

  What made what he was looking at presently so desirable was the fact that his mother’s mother had taken the time to jot down a few things she no doubt thought would unnerve him. A fair trade, perhaps, for forcing him to leave behind what he’d broken into her solar to steal. If he ever had the chance to scamper off with that Book of Oddities and Disgusting Spells his mother had advised him to acquire, he absolutely would and not suffer a single twinge of regret. He’d had a quick peek at its contents and wasn’t quite sure he’d yet recovered from what he’d read there.

  He’d also had a hasty glance at what he held in his hands, but he wasn’t sure if he could trust his memory where its contents were concerned. If his grandmother had seen fit to share even a handful of disconcerting things, he would be penning her a flourishy thank-you as well. He took as deep a breath as he could manage at the moment, then opened the thin tome, prepared to give the scribblings there a proper study.

  It hadn’t seemed as if she’d been at her labors very long, but apparently he’d been more distracted by wondering how to escape her solar than he’d realized. Her notes were simply bursting with nastiness. If he hadn’t been so damned tired, he might have indulged in a chortle of delight. Unfortunately, things were what they were at the moment and all he could do was drag in ragged breaths and try not to leave faintly grubby fingerprints behind as he continued to gingerly turn pages and shake his head over what he found there.

  Spells were laid out, vile mages were listed—his name wasn’t to be found anywhere on that roster which he supposed should have stung a bit—and a handful of oddities that apparently intrigued her had been jotted down for his perusal.

  He sighed and turned another page, expecting to find that she would have nothing more to say to him save a wish that he speedily meet his end. Instead, he found himself facing a spell of reconstruction that left him almost recoiling, he who had spent the bulk of his life foisting vileness off onto almost everyone he met.

  The thing was absolutely appalling, merciless in its workings and rather more permanent than what he was accustomed to using. It was something, he had to admit, that he might have hesitated to use unless absolutely necessary.

  He reread the spell twice before it sank in what he was looking at. It wasn’t essence changing in the usual sense, but it came as close as anything he’d ever seen. The idea that he might mold something into a shape it didn’t particularly want to take and hold it there for far longer than a simple spell of reconstruction should have been able to manage was astonishing.

  Ye gads, what was his grandmother about and why didn’t she have better locks on her hidden cubbies?

  He continued on past that thought before he had time to speculate on what his brothers might do with such a thing. He had his own way of taking bits of his own power and infusing them onto whatever talisman suited him, but that was less essence changing than it was essence slathering. There he was simply taking the same sort of energy he would have thrown behind a spell and more or less wrapping it around his chosen bits and bobs.

  This, however…he took a deep breath. This particular spell made his own look like a village witch’s charm. He could hardly stop himself from trying it out to see just exactly where its limits might lie. He looked to his right and found his ever-present companion crouched on the floor, peeking over the arm of the divan at him as if it might be suffering a bit of unease.

  He understood. The spell was terrifying.

  He memorized it without hesitation, of course, then repeated it silently, checking himself against what he was reading. He mouthed the last word and found himself rather glad, all things considered, that he’d memorized the bloody thing before the damned page caught fire.

  He was so startled by that turn of events that he flipped the book up in the air and thoroughly failed at making a grab for it on its way down. It landed, quite fortuitously, face-down against the rug there. He supposed there was no sense in not smothering the flames by means of his boot placed gingerly atop the cover.

  He waited until he thought a proper amount of time had passed before he picked the book up and turned it over, then swore when he realized that the whole business had been nothing more than the words having burned themselves off the page. The paper bore absolutely no sign of having recently been alight.

  Theatrics. It ran in the family.

  He ignored that damned spell next to him, squeaking as it hid, and considered what his grandmother’s purpose had been in giving him something so dangerous. Even merely repeating the words in his mind set up a merry dance between them and whatever Cothromaichian spell Soilléir had used to bring him back from the brink of death. Perhaps Cruihniche of Fàs had simply wanted to make him miserable.

  Essence changing or essence meddling. He could hardly wait to have the time to investigate the difference between the two.

  He turned another page, fully expecting to find there a few words of comfort and encouragement.

  Instead, he found a map.

  He was, as it happened, not unfamiliar with maps. He was also not unfamiliar with the making of maps. He had taken his half-brother Rùnach’s book of spells, removed those valiant attempts from inside the covers, then inserted a map of his own making in their place. That map had been a curious one, he had to admit, full of scratches that he’d made based on a few furtive glances over the shoulder of a very famous cartographer, Casan of Frith-rathad. The man lived far too close to Bruadair for his comfort, but it had been worth the fraying of his nerves to pose as a servant long enough to eavesdrop for a fortnight.

  He didn’t suppose it was a place he would venture again without very good reason indeed.

  A furtive tap sounded against the door. He frowned, torn. There were things on his grandmother’s map that he suspected he needed to investigate further, never mind that they left him feeling as if he might like a lengthy lie-down sooner rather than later.

  But perhaps trouble was afoot. He heaved himself up from the sofa, paid the price in a robust sway that almost left him cracking his head against the footpost of Léirsinn’s bed, then staggered over to answer the knock. He held his Gran’s scribblings casually behind his back and opened the door, hoping it was someone with food.

  It was instead someone with a book.

  He didn’t imagine that collection would be nearly as interesting—or as perilous—as what he currently held, but there was no sense in spurni
ng something that might turn out to be useful. He recognized his guest as Eachdraidh, bard to King Uachdaran and guardian of the king’s most perilous tomes. Master Eachdraidh also kept a history of the dwarvish kingdom, though why Uachdaran needed someone to jot down the happenings of his realm when the very stones of his foundation couldn’t seem to shut up about the glory and riches of the same he didn’t know.

  He wasn’t one to question those sorts of things, though—at least not within earshot of the local monarch—so he put on his most disarming smile and prepared to, as his mother would have said, make nice.

  “Master Eachdraidh,” he said politely, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

  The dwarf looked as though he considered the encounter anything but, though he held out a book just the same. Acair decided perhaps that rescuing it before it landed on the floor might count as his good deed for the day. He looked at the king’s bard.

  “A loan, I assume?”

  Eachdraidh shook his head. “’Tis a gift,” he said. “From the king.”

  Acair supposed Eachdraidh wouldn’t make anything of his grandmother’s scribblings, so he tucked them under the new acquisition and opened the latter to find a rather pointed title.

  Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish

  or

  When Bad Mages Come to a Worse End

  He would have laughed, but he knew he was still swimming in deep waters where the king was concerned. He nodded thoughtfully.

  “Very kind,” he noted.

  “His Majesty thought you might find it, erm, instructive.”

  Acair imagined the king had been substantially less restrained about what he thought might be gleaned from said offering, but that was also something likely better left unsaid.

  “Please convey my deepest gratitude to the king,” he said. “I’m certain I will come away not only edified but properly warned.”

  “I daresay,” Eachdraidh said nervously, “that such was His Majesty’s intention.”

  Acair was utterly unoffended. He was, as it happened, free of the king’s dungeon and still breathing. He was willing to endure quite a bit of abuse for the privilege. He held the door open and looked at Master Eachdraidh.

  “Do you care to come in and take your ease by the fire?”

  The dwarf looked as if he’d just been invited to hobnob with a collection of lads who likely had taken up a fair bit of ink in the book he’d delivered. He squeaked, shook his head quickly, then turned and hoofed it back down the passageway. Acair sighed, nodded to his guardsmen, then shut the door.

  He rested his hand against the wood and considered the rest of what was left of his afternoon. He supposed Master Ollamh wouldn’t return unless forced, which left him with nothing to do but stay out of trouble.

  So difficult, truly.

  He resumed his seat on the sofa, considered his reading choices, then opened the king’s book. A cursory glance left him encountering many of the usual suspects, which was unfortunately uninteresting enough that he simply sat there, staring at nothing for far longer than he likely should have. The sad truth was he was just too tired to muster up any sort of enthusiasm for what he held in his hands. His robust apology surely should have earned him something more substantial, shouldn’t it? It was almost as if that apology had been for naught—

  He froze, then wondered what else might leave him dumbfounded that day.

  He had apologized to the king. As noteworthy an occurrence as that surely was, it should have merited more than what would likely turn out to be a mere footnote in the record of the king’s daily doings. He thought back to a conversation he’d had with a pair of meddlers in a tavern several weeks earlier, a conversation that was unfortunately still all-too-clear in his memory.

  The choice is yours…no magic, or a visit to the king of the dwarves.

  It had been that damned Soilléir to casually drop that fly into their conversational stew. But if no magic had been the price for no apology, surely now that the apology had been offered, his magic should have been within the grasp of his greedy, outstretched hands.

  Surely.

  He considered what he might try to test his theory and found himself suddenly nose-to-nose with that damned spell of death that dogged his steps. He drew himself up.

  “What are you still doing here?” he demanded.

  The spell only moved to take up a spot near the end of Léirsinn’s bed, folded its arms over a spot where its scrawny chest should have been, and glared at him.

  Acair felt his eyes narrow. There was obviously something more to the whole affair than what he’d been led to believe. If the apology he’d so fervently blurted out hadn’t rid him of that bloody thing there, just what was its purpose?

  There was something that didn’t smell quite right and that wasn’t just his dungeon-soaked garb.

  Obviously the only way to discover the truth was to, as usual, be the one to do all the dirty work of looking for it. Unfortunately, until he could do more than sit on a sofa and wheeze, that search couldn’t even begin. He put the king’s book atop his grandmother’s, pushed himself to his feet, then walked unsteadily around the foot of Léirsinn’s bed, ignoring the spell of death keeping watch there.

  He sat down next to the night stand where sustenance waited patiently to be consumed. He wasn’t sure it would serve him very well, but he forced himself to at least partake of a biscuit or two and a few sips of tea.

  That unpleasant task seen to, he leaned back and took a moment to simply watch that lovely woman there as she slept. He could scarce believe he was keeping company with a lass with absolutely no magic to her name who had bargained he knew not what for a bit of the same in order to save his sorry arse. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had risked anything more serious than a spot at table for him. His mother did him the favor of generally not attempting to slay him when he arrived at her side door for a bite of supper and a bit of gossip, but someone who had no blood ties to him?

  It was astonishing.

  He listened to Léirsinn breathe for several minutes until he thought he had convinced himself that the rattle in her chest was merely from the chill of the chamber, not something more serious. If something happened to her…well, he would outrun that damned spell of death haunting him, find Soilléir of Cothromaiche, and bring him to Léirsinn on pain of death with a demand to heal her.

  He thought he might understand more clearly than he wanted to why Hearn of Angesand had been willing to bargain with him for the healing of his son.

  A knock sounded on the door, which he had to admit was a welcome distraction from his maudlin thoughts. He didn’t dare hope it was anyone more interesting than a servant bearing hot water for tea, but he wasn’t going to spurn that. He rose, then hesitated. There was no sense in leaving dangerous things lying about, so he took the notebook with his grandmother’s map and slipped it carefully under Léirsinn’s pillow. That seen to, he got himself over to the door without undue effort, then opened it.

  He found himself presented with a scene that left him thinking that perhaps all that do-gooding had served him well after all. Sometimes he could scarce believe how well things fell into place for him when his need was most dire.

  Ollamh was standing there with his hands full of bottles, things no doubt brought to aid his patient. Next to him was a pair of lads bearing all manner of fine edibles. On the other side of the passageway were the same lads as before. The only difference was that they were now standing post with a slight slump to their shoulders, as if their duty had become just too tedious to keep them at their best.

  Acair lifted the covering off what turned out to be a quartet of very fine appendages of some hearty bird or other. He didn’t think, he merely liberated a pair, then walked out into the hallway, ignoring the squeaking of the physick.

  “Just off to the loo, of course,” he said smoothly. That excuse given,
he handed the joints to two of the guardsmen with a wink. “Our secret,” he assured them.

  Perhaps ’twas unkind to take advantage of such rumbling tums, but he was a ruthless worker of evil spells and an unrepentant opportunist. What else was he to do?

  He fixed a pleading glance on the third, patted his own belly, and tried to look a bit queasy. Sadly, the effort took far less pretense than he would have liked, but it had been that sort of spring so far.

  “Down the passageway, if you please,” he said, “then right back here for your own supper, my good man. The king will never know.”

  The guardsman looked unsure, something for which Acair couldn’t blame him in the least. As he’d already admitted very reluctantly to himself, not much happened inside Durial’s borders that the king didn’t know about. Perhaps this, though, would be overlooked.

  That was exactly what he hoped would happen for the sake of the senseless lad he subsequently stuffed into the loo only after removing the man’s cloak and donning his helmet. Creases in his own locks were perhaps the least of his worries. Given how badly he needed a good soak in a tub, he thought he might owe his unwitting helper an apology instead of a strongly worded letter of complaint.

  He had no doubts that Léirsinn would be perfectly safe in the care of Uachdaran’s personal physick, so all that was left was for him to nip in and out of the king’s throne room. He needed that damned spell of death stuck to the bottom of Uachdaran’s chair as well as his Gran’s doily if he could manage it. If he could blame the theft of both on an unnamed, never-to-be-found servant, so much the better.

  Once he had one more night of vermin-free sleep behind him, he would face the more difficult problems of mages and shadows and places scribbled on his grandmother’s map where he wouldn’t want to go but would likely need to if the world were to be saved.

  With a hearty but silent curse to keep himself warm, he strode off into the shadows to make mischief.