The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  It was, he had to admit, his favorite sort of quest.

  Four

  Léirsinn woke to the sight of someone leaning over her. She shrieked and clouted him on the nose before she realized that it was simply Master Ollamh trying to hand her some sort of healing draught, not some foul mage trying to do her in.

  She sat up and looked over the edge of the bed to where the poor dwarf had taken cover. She still had to hold onto the headboard to keep herself steady, but she wasn’t pitching out of bed completely. Progress had definitely been made.

  The healer’s eyes were watering madly and he was protecting his nose with one hand, but his tiny cup of liquid had been spared. He crawled to his feet, holding his brew aloft as he did so. He handed it to her, waited until she’d drunk it, then took it back.

  “How do you fare, mistress?”

  She took stock of her poor form. The fires raging inside her had subsided from the enormous heat of a raging inferno to the toasty warmth of a small campfire, which was definitely an improvement. She wasn’t sure she would ever be the same, but perhaps that was something to think about later.

  She was trying to hit upon a response that didn’t sound daft when it occurred to her that the king’s healer looked very nervous. He was taking an excessive amount of time to set his cup aside, which she supposed should have made her nervous. If there had been something vile in that draught—

  She turned away from that thought before it galloped off with her to places she didn’t want to go. She had never felt particularly at ease in her uncle’s stables, but it had never occurred to her over the course of her time there that anyone would want to murder her. That she considered that more often of late than not was not a habit she wanted to begin.

  She looked at Master Ollamh, prepared to thank him for giving her something that indeed left her feeling somewhat better, and realized that he was wearing the expression of a man who had tidings he didn’t want to deliver. She braced herself for the worst.

  “Is he dead?” she asked grimly.

  The dwarf looked at her in surprise. “Lord Acair? Nay, not that I’ve heard. I am concerned about him, though. He hasn’t returned.”

  Léirsinn felt the same panic rush through her that tended to accompany any news that Acair might have trotted off to do something he shouldn’t have, only this time they were in a place where the local monarch had already kept him in the dungeon for days and likely wouldn’t hesitate to return him there.

  “How long ago?” she asked, wondering where she might start to look for him and if she might need to tack up her best spell of, well, something to use for, ah, something else.

  Magic was, she was finding, harder to manage than even the most difficult stallion.

  “He left quite some time ago to attend to, ah, certain needs.” Master Ollamh paused. “I suppose ’tis possible he forgot the way back here.”

  She could easily imagine all the things Acair might be off attending to and knew they would have nothing to do with getting lost.

  “I suspect,” the king’s healer said in a low voice, “that something foul might be afoot.”

  Of course something foul was afoot and his name was Acair of Ceangail. She threw back the covers and motioned for the king’s healer to get out of her way.

  “No messengers have arrived boasting of having slain him?” she asked briskly, pushing herself to her feet.

  Master Ollamh pointed with a shaking finger at a spot behind her. “Nay, just…ah—”

  She kept herself from falling over Acair’s chair thanks to Master’s Ollamh’s gallantly offered arm, then turned to look at the door to her chamber. She realized then that she had definitely crossed some sort of bridge that should have remained unassaulted. That she fully expected to see something dire—evil mage, feisty witch, powerful wizard with mischief on his mind—waiting for her there…well, if that didn’t say more about her state of mind than she wanted it to, nothing did.

  What she saw was actually worse. The spell of death that constantly attended Acair was standing with only its upper half inside the chamber, waving and hissing at her. That it was no longer nipping at its victim’s heels could mean only one thing.

  Acair was in trouble.

  Well, he was trouble, but she suspected it was a bit too late to make that distinction. She was up to her neck in his madness with no way out but forward.

  She limped across the chamber toward the door, then had to put her hands against the wall and rest for a bit. That at least gave her an opportunity to glare at Acair’s magical chaperon.

  “Did you lose him?” she demanded.

  The fiend shook its shadowy head sharply.

  “Then show me where he went,” she commanded, reaching for the door’s latch.

  “But a dressing gown,” the physick said from behind her. “Shoes, my lady!”

  She didn’t have time to look for slippers, and she was most certainly no lady, but she caught the heavy velvet dressing gown Master Ollamh tossed at her just the same. She shoved her arms through the sleeves before she wrenched open the door. Two burly dwarves stood there looking profoundly irritated.

  “There were three before,” Master Ollamh offered.

  She imagined there had been and didn’t bother asking what had happened to the third of their number. He was likely lying senseless somewhere, which would no doubt be a vast improvement over his condition once he woke from whatever had sent him into oblivion. She suspected that that something had been Acair’s fist under his jaw, but she was slightly cynical when it came to the methods of the youngest son of the witchwoman of Fàs.

  The shadowy spell led the way with merciless swiftness. Léirsinn tried to keep up with it, but even with all her efforts it continually turned itself about to snarl at her. She scowled at it and shooed it on, following as quickly as she could. It occurred to her after the third time she had to stop and rest against the passageway wall that it was a bit odd how protective that creature there was of Acair, but perhaps that was by design. There wasn’t much point in having murder as the sole reason for one’s existence if one’s victim had scurried off into the night unnoticed.

  She drew her hand over her eyes, reminded herself that those sorts of thoughts were not ones she usually entertained, then pushed herself away from the stone and nodded to Acair’s magical keeper.

  She wished absently that she hadn’t refused shoes, but it was too late to remedy that. The chill of the stone beneath her feet inspired her to greater feats of speed, which was likely why she almost plowed into the king of the dwarves himself before she realized she had taken a turn right into his throne room.

  The king was holding a candle aloft, though that was no doubt simply for effect. He glanced at her, then in the next moment the entire chamber burst into light that seemed to come from the very walls themselves, throwing the entire place into something that greatly resembled mid-day. She blinked a time or two until her eyes adjusted to the brightness, then she almost wished she hadn’t.

  Acair was standing next to the king’s throne itself, delicately holding a doily between thumb and pointer finger and looking profoundly guilty.

  “You!” Uachdaran thundered.

  Léirsinn didn’t stop to think, she simply bolted across the polished expanse of floor that separated her from the man she needed alive for various not-entirely-self-serving reasons. She would have flung her arms around him, but he was filthy.

  “This is becoming something of a bad habit,” he murmured.

  She swore at him, then stood there, shaking, while she waited for either a sword or a spell to slam into her back. She was almost surprised to realize the only things flying in that grand hall were noises of disgust and anger coming from the monarch behind her. Given the revolting condition of the man she was protecting, she thought she might share in at least the disgust.

  Acair, that damned
rogue, seemed to find nothing untoward about the situation. Surely that was the only reason he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Thank you, darling—”

  She released him, gave him a bit of a shove and a warning look on principle, then turned and faced the king. She ignored the undeniable fact that she was blushing and hoped the king would do the same.

  “I need him,” she said firmly.

  “And I need him slain,” the king said.

  “You’re supposed to leave me alive,” Acair put in helpfully.

  “I don’t want a horse that badly!”

  Léirsinn suspected the king might want to rethink that given the nature of the pony in question, but perhaps the current moment was not the proper one to offer that sentiment. Actually, she didn’t imagine anyone would hear anything she had to say given the way the king was shouting at Acair and her would-be lover—there, she had admitted it, which she supposed would have satisfied his mother—was returning the favor.

  Acair took her by the hand and pulled her behind him. She didn’t think to protest until she was standing there with her nose as close to his back as she could bring herself to put it. Either the man had lost his wits or he’d decided gallantry could replace his sense of self-preservation for the moment. She would have to compliment him on his copious amounts of the former the first chance she had.

  Then again, perhaps she wouldn’t, given that she realized that in the midst of that piece of chivalry, he had slipped something into her hand.

  A spell of death.

  Realizing that she knew what she was holding without having to look at it was the single most shocking thing that had happened to her in all the moments since she’d overheard her uncle plotting to kill her.

  Knowing Acair, what she was gingerly holding onto was likely a rather elegant disk of gold infused with vast amounts of his power so that he needed to use nothing himself in order to use it on someone else. That she simply stood there and wondered where she might stash it for safekeeping instead of rushing screaming off into the night was…well, it was merely something else to add to that list of things that had never before been a part of her very sensible, magickless life.

  She slipped the spell into the pocket of the dressing gown Master Ollamh had so thoughtfully insisted she put on, then leaned on the king’s throne that sat directly behind her. She realized she’d knocked a helmet off the seat only after it clattered to the ground. Well, the mystery of where the third guardsman’s gear had gone was at least solved. The noise didn’t seem to distract the two men in front of her from their conversation.

  “I could slay you and make it look like a terrible accident,” the king growled. “It’s been done before.”

  Léirsinn stepped forward and stood next to Acair. “But I would know the truth of it,” she said. “You would have to slay me as well to keep it all quiet.”

  The king looked briefly as if that might not bother him overmuch, then he sighed gustily and scowled at Acair.

  “Your woman saves you for the moment, but trust me, that won’t hold true if I get you alone. Now, put that damned piece of lace back where you found it.”

  “But it is my grandmother’s—”

  “Exactly,” the king said crisply, “which is why I’ll treasure it more than usual from now on. She’ll hound you endlessly for it, which will give her something to do besides make a nuisance of herself on my borders.”

  Acair didn’t move. “I don’t imagine begging will sway you—”

  “It won’t.”

  Léirsinn listened to Acair sigh heavily, then make a production of returning the lace to its place of honor on a small round table near the king’s throne. He smoothed it out, then patted it with a look of sadness that she supposed would have softened the heart of anyone watching him save the monarch still tossing vile curses his way. She watched Acair thoughtfully. While recovering his grandmother’s doily certainly seemed a reasonable enough activity, she had the feeling that had been secondary to what he’d come for.

  He’d been after that damned spell of death that was now in her pocket.

  Acair turned and made the king a bow. “And all is put to rights, Your Majesty,” he said. “My apologies for the intrusion.”

  “Your groveling needs work,” the king said shortly. He pulled a rich woolen cloak out of thin air and held it out. “Wrap up in this, Léirsinn lass, and let’s be off.”

  “To the dungeons?” Acair asked carefully.

  “Kitchens,” the king said shortly. “You’ve interrupted my slumber again and I need something soothing to allay the irritation. I’ll consider a final spot for you after I’ve eaten.”

  “Your Majesty,” Acair began carefully, “if I might—”

  “Or you might not,” the king said. “Dangerous to ask too many questions.”

  Léirsinn had to agree, though she didn’t say as much. Acair sighed lightly, then started toward the hall doors, reaching for her hand on his way. She saw him hesitate and imagined he realized that he was holding the hand he’d put the spell into, but the spell was no longer there.

  “Other pocket,” she murmured.

  He smiled at her very briefly. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll keep it close.”

  “And unused, if I might offer an opinion.”

  She would have told him what he could do with his opinion, but she realized she’d been fingering the damn thing with something that might have charitably been termed preoccupation.

  “Very dangerous,” he added.

  Well, if anyone would know, it would be him. She kept hold of utter destruction and walked into slippers that had somehow been placed in her path. Master Ollamh hard at work, no doubt. She accepted the cloak the king handed her with equal gratitude. His hall was warm enough near any sort of fire, but damned chilly everywhere else.

  She glanced around herself as unobtrusively as possible but saw no one but the king striding on ahead of them. She leaned closer to Acair.

  “No guards?”

  “He doesn’t need them.”

  She imagined that was true. She walked next to Acair, his spell trailing along behind them, and followed the king through passageways until they reached what she had to assume were the kitchens. If the king kept his distance from Acair, she understood. The dungeon had not been kind to him.

  The king nodded to an older woman who came to stand in front of him. “Take this stinking lad here outside and throw water on him. He’ll likely need something else to wear, but rags will do. I’m mostly concerned about his stench.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” the woman said crisply. She looked Acair up and down, then nodded briskly to him. “Come along, my lord. We’ll have you smelling less foul in no time.”

  Léirsinn watched Acair turn a tremendously charming smile on the king’s chatelaine and thought she might understand how he managed to have exactly what he wanted so often, no pilfering or spells needed. He made both her and the king a low bow, then marched off to meet his fate.

  She followed the king as he led the way to a large wooden table set there before an enormous hearth. Perhaps he was a frequent visitor because apart from a trio of kitchen lads and lassies who gaped at him in awe, anyone else still awake paid him no special heed. His cook, if that’s what the man was, seemed particularly unsurprised to see him.

  “Ah, Your Majesty,” the man said, wiping his hands on his apron, “what shall it be tonight?”

  “Simple fare for three,” the king said. “Hearty, though. The lad who’ll join us will likely die tonight from the chill if luck is with me, so best send him off with a full belly. What have you left on the fire?”

  “Beef stew, a loaf or two tucked back behind the oven to stay warm, a fine cobbler for dessert,” the cook said, ticking those items off on his fingers. “Ale or wine?”

  “Ale for three, if
you please.”

  Léirsinn had heard rumors of the king’s ale, but thought it best not to give offense by refusing a cup of it as it was set in front of her. She braced herself for something truly vile and wasn’t disappointed. She also didn’t attempt to look at the king until she was certain what she’d imbibed wouldn’t come right back up and leave her spewing it all over the king’s tunic. Then again, given her recent history with the monarch, perhaps that would have been an improvement.

  The dwarf-king glanced at his cook.

  “Wine instead for the child,” he said mildly.

  Léirsinn didn’t argue with either the term or the drink. She was happy to have something that might help her rid herself of the memory of the ale she’d forced down. Unfortunately, it did nothing to alleviate the discomfort she was feeling—and not just from the two liquids that had set up a sort of war in her belly. She made a valiant effort to avoid meeting the king’s gaze, she who had never once shied away from facing the fiercest of horses. The kitchen was full of interesting things to look at, thankfully, which gave her a moment or two to gather her reins and assess her situation.

  She was out of her depth. It was less painful to admit than she feared. She was an ordinary woman with a good eye for horseflesh and a steady hand to use in training them. Her encounters with powerful men had been limited to the peers of her uncle, which likely said most everything needful about the character of those souls. The king of Durial would have sent her uncle into a faint simply by scowling at him.

  But she would make a better showing, if possible, so she ventured a glance at the king. He seemed to be sizing her up as if she were a wall he thought he might like to chip away at and see what lay behind it. She supposed things could have been much worse, so she left him to it.

  What was worse, however, was noticing the way that the magic frolicking in her veins called to the spell of death in her pocket. It also seemed to wrap itself around the charm lying against her breastbone in a way that made her wonder if the damned thing might burst into flames before long. Her only comfort was supposing that it would consume her as well and she might at least have some peace as a result.