The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  But until that happy time came, perhaps there were things she could do to improve her situation.

  “Your Majesty,” she began, “I would like to offer my apologies.”

  “As well you should, mistress,” the king said, “for both my hall and my stables.”

  “I apologize, especially for the stables.”

  He smoothed his hand over his beard protectively. “Knowing you were aiming for me shouldn’t lessen the sting of that, but I find it does. Apology accepted, though I blame that wee bastard for inspiring you to do things you shouldn’t have.”

  She was too far beyond changing course there, so she had no choice but to simply press on.

  “He is what he is,” she allowed, “but I still need him alive.”

  The king made a noise that sounded a bit like rocks tumbling down a well. “So says everyone I encounter of late, to my surprise. No doubt Fionne’s runt is picking at things he should leave alone, though if Hearn is willing to trade me a pony for the lad’s life, perhaps there are things only he can see to.”

  He looked at her expectantly. She realized she was facing the same sort of dilemma she had been with Acair’s mother when the witchwoman of Fàs had waited with an ear bent for pertinent details. She suspected Mistress Fionne was quite a bit fonder of Acair than the local monarch was, but at the moment she couldn’t think of any reason not to divulge at least the main purpose of their travels. It might be what kept them both alive for a bit longer. She took a deep breath.

  “He is on a quest.”

  “Is that what he’s calling having another go at stealing the world’s supplies of magic?” the king asked politely.

  “This time he’s off to save the world.”

  The king choked on his drink. If she’d known that sort of announcement would have unnerved him so, she would have used that long before she’d used a spell.

  The king dragged his sleeve across his mouth and looked at her in disbelief. “And you’ve put your life at risk for that whopping falsehood?”

  She looked around to find the kitchen servants keeping a discreet distance, but she leaned closer to him just the same.

  “He is on a quest to find the creator of a certain type of shadow,” she said quietly. She sat back, then paused. “I don’t suppose you know anything about shadows.”

  The king pursed his lips. “More than I’ll own, to be sure. Tell me more whilst I down several cups of my very fine ale until I’m equal to believing that Fionne of Fàs’ youngest brat might be about anything good.”

  Well, while the king of the dwarves might not have had fond feelings for her traveling companion, she imagined he did for the world in general. That and he hadn’t tossed her in a dungeon when she’d set his beard on fire. Perhaps a bit of truth might even improve things.

  “I’m not exactly sure where to begin,” she admitted.

  “Begin at the beginning,” the king suggested. “Where did you first encounter him? Was he being pursued by mages trying to slay him?”

  “Actually, I met him in my uncle’s barn where he’d been sent to spend a year without magic, shoveling manure.”

  The king smiled pleasantly. “I like where this is going so far. How was he at it?”

  “About as you’d expect,” she said. “He wasn’t allowed to reveal his identity, so I thought him nothing more than a pampered lord’s son down on his luck. In the end, he invited me to come along while he looked for someone to take away that spell of death that stalks him.”

  “Invited,” the king said with a snort. “I hope that’s true, though I suspect you’re leaving out details that are none of my affair. Very well, so you agreed to go along with him because he doesn’t lack a gilded tongue under the right circumstances, and then what?”

  “Somehow word got out that he couldn’t use his magic and we’ve been on the run ever since.”

  “Who made that spell of death that hounds him?”

  “He doesn’t know. It almost killed him the day before we crossed your border. Prince Soilléir came when I called him—something I wouldn’t have known to do if Acair hadn’t been complaining about it under his breath on our journey from his mother’s house—and he saved Acair’s life.”

  “And gave you magic.”

  She looked at him seriously. “I asked for it.”

  The king fussed with his mug of ale for a moment or two, then looked at her. “I can’t say that I blame you, gel, though there is a steep price to be paid for any essence changing. I assume you asked for it to protect that wee bastard?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she said quietly. “He is on a quest to find the maker of a particular sort of shadow that steals souls and he can’t do that if he’s dead. There is no one else to watch his back.”

  “I’m finding that I agree with you there,” he said grimly. “I’m guessing Hearn has some inkling of what he’s about, which is why he wants him still alive.”

  “I haven’t discussed the particulars of that with him,” Léirsinn admitted, “though you might be right. Do you have those sorts of shadows here, Your Majesty?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen one, but perhaps the maker of them can’t find a spot on my soil to accept his foul creations.”

  “He might be afraid of you.”

  “He would have good reason to be.”

  She thought that might be true. “I understand Acair agreed to his year without—well, you know—because he wasn’t enthusiastic about coming here.”

  The king smiled. “I never said the boy was stupid, just evil.” He rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together. “Nay, he’s clever enough to know who to avoid most of the time, though I’m not sure you understand who he is. He has gone places and done things that should alarm anyone with sense, though that doesn’t redeem him.”

  “And if he were trying to turn over a new leaf?”

  “Well,” the king said slowly, “I’m not one to hold a man’s past against him unnecessarily, but with that lad, it would have to be several very large leaves.” He looked past her, then shrugged. “Perhaps ’tis time to see if I can frighten him for a change and restore balance to the world.”

  “Shall I go groom your pony for you again, Your Majesty?”

  The king laughed shortly. “I won’t land on your bad side again, child, for fear of my front gates getting singed this time. And I won’t slay your lover, if that worries you. Perhaps the world needs him alive for a bit longer.”

  “Then you’ll just chat a bit?”

  “Hearn said to leave him alive,” the king said, “but there is a very wide gap between alive and barely breathing. I might see how wide that gap is.” He paused. “I might make use of him for a different thing or two after all—besides distracting my kitchen maids, those poor innocent gels.”

  Léirsinn could hear the lassies swooning from where she sat and looked over her shoulder to find the source of the commotion. Acair was easy on the eye while covered in muck and lingering in a dwarvish dungeon, but cleaned up and exercising his considerable charm on every soul within earshot?

  The king made a sound of disgust. “He’s devoid of all morals.”

  She would have disagreed, but it was Acair after all. “I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  The king grunted, then looked up at Acair. “Sit and don’t speak.”

  Acair pulled out the chair next to Léirsinn and sat. Food was laid out without delay, but she feared she wouldn’t manage to do more than toy with it. There was no conversation going on between Acair and the king, but perhaps there was nothing useful to be said. The king spent his time sending Acair looks that bespoke dire intentions and Acair was applying himself to his supper with the singlemindedness of a man who hadn’t eaten anything decent in at least a week. He also tossed back a mug of the king’s ale with only a sigh of satis
faction.

  “Delicious, as always.”

  The king was obviously unmoved. “Did you read the book I sent you?”

  “I fear I didn’t have time to indulge in more than a cursory glance, Your Majesty,” Acair said. “I’m sure, however, that I will find it fascinating—”

  “It was meant to be instructive, you fool.” He shook his head. “You mages delve too deeply into things you shouldn’t. Look where it gets you.”

  “I would have to agree,” Acair said slowly. “On the other hand, I suspect you’re never surprised by what your digging uncovers.”

  “I am not, which should terrify you more than it does.” He finished his ale, set his mug down with enthusiasm, then pushed his chair back. “Come with me and I’ll show you why you aren’t wrong.”

  Léirsinn looked at Acair, but he only shrugged and rose. He held her chair for her, then took her hand and walked with her behind the king out into the passageway. She put her hand in her pocket to make certain Acair’s spell was still there, but that didn’t ease her any. For all she knew, the king would put them both in the dungeon and their last hope would be to use that spell and run.

  She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but with Uachdaran of Léige, she just didn’t know.

  Five

  Acair walked through passageways he’d previously skulked along with little thought for anything besides how to most efficiently help himself to a few of Uachdaran of Léige’s best spells. He was going to need a proper rumination on all the things he had—and hadn’t—managed to abscond with, but perhaps that could be put off a bit longer. At the moment, he was too busy trying to remember if the twists and turns they were making led to the king’s dungeon or somewhere worse.

  He felt Léirsinn squeeze his hand. Either she was trying to bolster his courage or she was preparing to give him a bit of comfort before he met his doom. He didn’t ask her for the particulars. He had enough of his own dark thoughts to keep him occupied for the moment.

  The king seemed to know where he was going in spite of the unrelenting gloom. Unsurprising. The old bastard was likely far more familiar with the dark paths lying beneath his hall than he cared to admit. Whether he only found gems there, not spells, only he would know.

  Acair had his suspicions.

  He’d had a quick look in the king’s private books to try to verify the same, of course, but that had been decades ago when he’d been a bit more cavalier about someone else’s ability to do him in. He’d only once managed to nip in and out of the king’s private solar—an evening full of memories he absolutely didn’t want to relive if possible—and he’d lingered in the king’s library for a pair of hours. He’d made the proverbial beeline for the nastiest and most perilous pieces of the king’s collection and hadn’t been disappointed in what he’d found there.

  Dwarves had strong stomachs for shadows, to be sure.

  He preferred even his most evil of spells to come with a bit of elegance, but that didn’t seem to be the case in Durial. Rough-edged, efficient, brutal things were apparently their preferred way of doing business, which he supposed he understood. No wonder Ceannairceach of Durial had wanted to escape, though he wasn’t entirely certain living a life of exile was any better, particularly when that life was being lived with that absurd Baoth of Tòrr Dòrainn.

  But, to each his own, he supposed. The king’s daughter would spend her life with an elf who couldn’t keep away from the nearest polished looking glass, and he would, with any luck, spend his in front of a hot fire, drinking exquisite wine and admiring the equally beautiful Léirsinn of Sàraichte.

  Truly, he was a simple man with simple needs.

  The king came to an abrupt halt. Acair nodded knowingly to himself over that. No conversation, no putting guests at ease with social niceties, just a sudden stop in front of a rough-hewn wall where death no doubt lingered on the other side. Whether it would come by sword or spell, he didn’t know. Given that what lay on the other side of that wall might well be worse, he thought he might prefer to remain out in the passageway.

  Uachdaran looked at him coolly. “Come inside.”

  “I’d rather not—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you want!”

  That was certainly a sentiment he’d heard far too often over the past several months, but there seemed to be no escape from it quite yet. He steeled himself for entering what he wasn’t entirely certain wouldn’t be some sort of torture chamber and nodded his head with as much grace as he could muster.

  The king made use of a rather ordinary and—thankfully—unmagical latch and pushed the heavy wooden door open. He walked in first, which Acair appreciated, then beckoned for them to follow, which Acair wasn’t entirely sure he was going to enjoy. He followed, though, because he supposed it might at least buy him a bit of time to determine the best way to continue to avoid the gallows.

  Or perhaps that would be unnecessary.

  The chamber sprang to life with lights that were more otherworldly than anything he had seen during a lifetime of gazing at impossibly beautiful things. The walls glowed with a light that whilst retaining every color imaginable—and some he couldn’t put a name to but would definitely investigate if given the chance—seemed to focus their efforts in a pale yellowish sort of business that looked a bit like mid-morning. Light fell from the ceiling as well, more sparkling and beautiful than anything ever produced by the finest of chandeliers created by the glass-smiths of Obair-ghloinne. The floor remained discreetly unlit, which he appreciated given that he might have hesitated to walk over it otherwise.

  Léirsinn was gaping at the chamber with what Acair assumed was a mirror of his own expression. She looked at him and simply shook her head in wonder. He nodded slightly in agreement, then turned to the king.

  “A spectacular hall, Your Majesty,” he said sincerely.

  “My lists,” the king said. “I suggest a bit of exercise here.”

  Acair wondered how he might manage to extricate himself from the like without losing his head in the process. Whilst he wasn’t at all opposed to a morning of lively sparring with both spell and sword, the thought of facing the intimidating dwarf-king of Durial whilst bumbling about as a mere mortal gave him pause.

  “Alas,” he said, putting as much regret into his tone as possible, “I have no sword. I would, of course, be positively thrilled to admire even the least of what might come from your spectacular forge.”

  “Spells,” the king said succinctly. “We’ll bring our best to the fray and see who survives.”

  Acair was terribly torn. The chance to look over what he was certain would be a veritable feast of the king’s finest, encouraging the king to blurt out each one and memorizing them as they left the hoary-headed monarch’s bearded lips? The thought was enough to leave any mage worth his pointy hat a bit breathless. He had certainly learned more that way than from even the most thorough rummage through the private hosiery cabinets of king and mage alike. Unfortunately, he knew where giving voice to even the simplest spell would leave him, which made demurring a very bitter business indeed.

  “I am simply crushed,” Acair managed, “to decline your very generous offer.” He pointed to the death-dispensing spell half-draped over his shoulder. “This lad here keeps me on my best, non-magical behavior.”

  The king didn’t spare the beast even the briefest glance. “Do you honestly believe I cannot contain that wee thing there? How do you think the ceilings stay up in my mines?”

  Acair had honestly never considered that anything magical might be involved in that, though he certainly hoped it was more than spells keeping everything from caving in on itself.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” he said slowly.

  “No trouble at all,” the king replied. “It would be a pleasure to see just how much pain you can endure without weeping.”

  Acair s
uspected that point had been found several days ago when he’d thought Léirsinn would never wake again. As an uncomfortable counterpoint to that, he decided it was useless to inquire how close to dead the king wanted him. If he emerged from his current scrape with any of his bones still intact, he would be fortunate indeed.

  But the thought of using even a fraction of his own magic was intoxicating. He flexed his fingers before he could stop himself, though hard on the heels of that thought came another, less palatable one. He could trot out his best spells, true, but that sort of display would reveal more of what he could do than anyone watching might want to see. That would be doubly true, he feared, given whom he would be fending off.

  “She’ll have to know what you are eventually,” Uachdaran said mildly.

  Acair met the king’s gaze. “I would prefer to put that off for as long as possible, if it’s all the same to you.”

  The king looked as if he might have liked to offer a bit of comfort, but ’twas obviously neither the time nor place.

  “She can stay and watch if she likes, though I wouldn’t recommend it. I might miss with a spell and leave your innards decorating one of my walls.”

  “I thought you wanted that pony,” Acair said before he thought better of it.

  The king smiled. “Hearn said to leave you alive. He didn’t say I couldn’t rough you up a bit, now did he?”

  That was unfortunately all too true. That happy thought kept him company as he watched the king order his wispy purveyor of death to go take a seat on a slab of stone jutting out of one wall. Perhaps that served as a gallery for spectators, though why a body would want to see what the king was truly able to do was anyone’s guess.

  Well, he would have been that body in a Diarmailtian minute, but he would have preferred to have been well-rested and taking notes, not standing unprotected in the king’s sights.

  A far different sort of spell dropped down in front of his keeper, leaving it spinning itself about and hissing furiously. Despite its nefarious designs, though, that shadowy creature was no fool. It cast the king an uneasy look, then helped itself to a seat on that bench-like rock where it commenced gnawing on its fingers.