by Lynn Kurland
He walked back into his study to find that whilst she had shifted to one side of the hearth, she was still sitting on the floor and looking profoundly uncomfortable. He ignored how the sight of that gave him pains in the vicinity of his slightly broken heart and decided deeds not words were what was required.
He made a rough bed out of admittedly very fine materials, stretched out, then looked at her.
“Join me?”
“Lecher.”
He smiled. “Not tonight, I fear. You’ll have to hold out hope for better things in the future.”
She rolled her eyes, but she abandoned her post next to the fire and lay down next to him. He didn’t argue with her when she turned away to face the fire. He waited until she was settled before he put his arm around her and laced his fingers with hers. Icy still, which led him to suspect her trembles were less from the chill than they were from other things.
“Did you conjure all this up?” she asked, finally.
“Fetched it from a closet, rather. Utterly unmagical geese gave their all, I’m sure.”
She was silent for so long, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.
“I will protect you,” she said very quietly. “I just need to catch my breath first.”
He found absolutely nothing in his vast repertoire of off-hand remarks that was equal to responding to that. His eyes burned terribly, but perhaps he couldn’t be blamed for it. He leaned up on his elbow and kissed her cheek, trying not to think about how many times in his very long life he had gone to sleep next to a woman he had wept over not once but twice. The number he would likely eventually have to give his mother for her history was zero.
“You’re a bit of a weeper, aren’t you?”
He smiled. “What an outrageously insulting thing to say.”
“I’m going to wake up with a cold thanks to you.”
He laid back down, put his arm around her again, and thought she might be right.
“Acair?”
“Hmmm?”
“What about your spell?” She paused. “You said only Soilléir could get through it?”
“Ah, I did promise you that tale, didn’t I?” Perhaps he might bore her to sleep. Given the identity of the essence-changing protagonist in the promised escapade, that was entirely possible.
“You did.”
He propped himself up on his elbow and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Well, as you might imagine, I am very fond of a decent night’s repose followed by drinkable coffee that bears no resemblance to the sludge my mother makes.”
She looked over her shoulder and smiled faintly. “It was terrible.”
“I think she does it on purpose to discourage lengthy stays by her houseguests, but that’s just my theory. As for my hospitality, let’s just say that I’m extremely choosey about who comes inside my front gates. Not even my sire could break that spell.”
She looked as if she very much hoped that might be true. “But Prince Soilléir?”
“Not even he could, though I imagine he wouldn’t bother to try.” He paused. “Let me rephrase that. Whilst he absolutely could not breach my spell in its current state, he could change it into something else entirely using one of those damned spells he’s so stingy with and definitely walk right through it. The thing is, making that change to my spell would take a mighty piece of magic on his part. He would have to hope he had the strength left afterward to fight off what I would do to him for his cheek.”
“All magic comes at a price,” she said slowly.
“As you know,” he agreed.
“Do you pay anything?”
“The better question is, would I admit it if I did? But because you’ve asked, I’ll give you the easy answer which is that it depends. Little magics? Nay. I’ve been using them for so long that they don’t trouble me. Too much Fadaire—and I know, I said I rarely used it which I’m finding is less accurate than I would like—tends to give me a headache in the same way too much desert might.”
“I can only imagine,” she said.
“I’m certain you can. As for other things?” He shrugged as best he could. “Large pieces of magic leave me flattened for a few days, but nothing worse than that. So to answer your original question, aye, there is a price to be paid and not even I manage to escape it. As far as the other goes, I’m guessing Soilléir can do any number of things without needing even the briefest of naps. That comes from the power that is his bloodright, though I would assume that there are things that would tax even the limits of that.”
“Has he ever had a go at your spell?”
“Now, this is a very amusing little tale,” he said. “Why don’t you come a bit closer and I’ll do it justice.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m close enough, thank you just the same, and I refuse to be distracted.”
He wished he could say the same thing, poor hopelessly lost fool that he was. He decided it was nothing short of exceptional discretion that kept him from commenting that she had no doubt turned over so she could admire him more easily. He rested his head on his fist and put his hand over hers. If he made a point of not inquiring about whether or not her trembles were from his charming self instead of fear, well, he was a gentleman. Her fingers that she intertwined with his were still very cold, which he supposed was answer enough.
“So, to continue,” he said, pulling himself away from things he couldn’t solve at the moment, “I was off one day investigating things that intrigued me when Prince Soilléir caught me lifting up the corner of his grandfather’s ermine-trimmed robe—magically speaking—just to see what sorts of things might tempt an enterprising lad such as myself. He did me the great courtesy of accompanying me back to my humble abode where I nipped inside my own border and then offered a pointed remark or two about either his grooming or his dress—the details escape me.”
“I imagine they don’t,” she said dryly.
He smiled briefly. “Perhaps not. Suffice it to say, he indulged in a little performance of what he can do, because he’s an impossible braggart when he thinks no one important is watching. Properly cowed, I promised never to darken his grandfather’s back stoop again. He very kindly repaired the hole he’d put in my spell, then planted in front of it a very nasty patch of nettles which I’m quite sure will outlive me by several centuries. I’ll show you the spot in the daytime, if you like. But if it eases you any, there isn’t another soul walking the Nine Kingdoms with his power. I suppose we should all be grateful he’s a decent soul, all his catastrophically boring ruminations about virtuous living aside, or we would be doomed.”
“I can see why you want his spells.”
“You might also understand why he won’t give them to me.”
“To be honest,” she said quietly, “I’m not sure I do.”
He found that all he could do was stare at her, mute.
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for the story.”
“I don’t know how else to help you,” he said before he thought better of it.
“That you’re trying is breaking my heart a little.”
“I’m having a bit of heartburn over the notion myself,” he said, finding the lie tripping off his tongue like a Diarmailtian school lad who’d been let off early for his summer holiday. “Cad that I am, of course. Give me a moment to dig deeper for some spellish nastiness. That might suit you better.”
She smiled, then rolled over. “Tomorrow.”
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or weep. He was so damned turned around in so many ways that he honestly had no idea where to begin in recapturing the vile, ruthless mage he’d been not a month earlier.
He put his head down and decided that if he survived the night in any fashion, it would be a bloody miracle. There were, of course, several people he could blame for his current straits.
First on the list was his own mothe
r who had given him a name and a suggestion to raid her mother’s private books which had led to his grandmother’s having given him a map that had led him to his own home. Uachdaran of Léige had furthered the misery by dropping a grandson with a terrible spell in his path, likely not simply to entertain him. And then there was the most egregious meddler of all, Soilléir of Cothromaiche, who had practically handed him the key to his grandfather’s library and invited him to come in and nose about in the man’s books.
If he’d been on his own, his extensive repertoire of terrible spells at his fingertips and no pressing supper plans on his calendar, he would have been skipping merrily off to wreak a bit of well-executed havoc.
Instead, he was, at least outside his own gates, as defenseless as a prince of Neroche in a gilded ballroom, he was continually being reduced to tears by the courage of a spectacular horsewoman, and he was endlessly being hounded by a mage who seemed to think that lurking in the shadows and attempting to look intimidating was going to convince the rest of the world he possessed any power at all.
“You think too loudly,” Léirsinn murmured.
“Do I?”
“You do,” she said. “Go to sleep, darling.”
He smiled, closed his eyes, and gave himself up for lost.
Ten
Léirsinn stood on the threshold of an unrepentant black mage’s lair and felt as if she’d wandered into a dream.
She had seen the sea before, of course, having lived within a decent walk’s distance of it, but she had never seen such a perfect stretch of it. The pale-hued sand gave way to a glorious blue-green water that she had to admit looked a bit like Acair of Ceangail’s equally lovely eyes. She could hardly believe he possessed a place so beautiful yet so rarely stayed there.
He was a mystery, that lad.
She pulled the shawl he had given her earlier more closely around herself, leaned against the doorframe, and simply breathed in the healing breeze. It was so perfectly normal, she never would have guessed in whose doorway she stood. She’d woken that morning to find him bringing the fire back to life through ordinary means. She’d told him that he hadn’t needed to, but he’d shrugged and admitted that he rarely used magic on those even rarer occasions when he was home. He hadn’t volunteered a reason for that and she hadn’t asked him.
Perhaps he too needed moments where he was simply a man going about his daily affairs without being overwhelmed by the impossible things that made up the rest of his life.
Those impossible things seemed to have become a part of her world as well, though, whether she wanted them to or not. Kings, elves, magic, mages chasing after Acair to slay him. She would have said she felt completely out of her depth, but standing there in the doorway of a house that overlooked the sea, she realized that wasn’t what she was feeling at all.
She felt…safe.
She couldn’t remember a time during the past score of years when she’d felt anything like it.
She suspected it might not last as long as she would like, but she was going to enjoy it while it did. Who knew that perhaps she wouldn’t find herself a spot like what she’d seen up the coast from the vantage point of Sianach’s back the day before. A few more coins, a bit of luck, and perhaps a man who had too much land and needed a buyer for some of it.
She wondered where she might find one of those.
She continued to stand there until even her luxurious wrap became no match for the chill. She stepped back inside, then closed the door and wondered what she was meant to do with the tassel hanging there. She had pulled on it to release the spell and open the door, but she hadn’t gone far enough outside for it to close behind her. She finally stepped away from it only to hear a spell click as surely as if it had been a proper lock.
She gave the damned thing another tug, and the spell unlocked itself just as it had before.
Perhaps Acair was right and magic did have its uses. She suppressed a shiver just the same, then turned and walked slowly back through his house.
She stopped on the threshold of his library. The doors had been pushed open and lights set all about the room at exactly the right height. A fire burned in the hearth with two inviting chairs set to either side. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing more books than she’d ever seen in the whole of her life. A table was set in front of windows on one wall, placed in just the proper spot for making use of sunshine or starlight. There were other things as well: sideboards, other chairs for reading, the odd stool standing ready to provide that extra height to reach things just beyond one’s fingertips.
It was a place created by a man who loved better things than counting his piles of gold.
The man who obviously loved books and comfort, however, looked as if he might not care about either at the moment. He was standing with his hands on his table, swearing, and looking as if he’d spent a good part of the morning dragging his hands through his hair.
She wondered if she should clear her throat to announce her presence and avoid being impaled by the pencil he was holding as if he intended to slay someone with it. He glanced at her, then straightened.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”
She smiled. “All that apologizing is going to ruin you for polite company.”
“I fear you might be right.” He tossed his pencil onto the table, looked at her, then froze. “What’s wrong?”
She walked into the middle of that beautiful room full of comfortable things and stopped, mostly because she had no idea where to start in describing where her thoughts were leading her. She could have said that she worried her grandfather would be slain before they could get to him. She also could have said that she’d spent the night dreaming about the mage who stood just behind the edges of Acair’s spell, waiting for them, and she feared there was no way to best him.
Or she could have admitted the worst thing of all which was that no matter how long she looked at the sea, she couldn’t stop wondering how she was going to spend the rest of her life with magic she had most certainly asked for but wasn’t sure she could live with running through her veins.
She rubbed her arms suddenly. “When will your fire heat up?”
“Almost immediately after you drink that brandy I’ve set on the mantel to warm for you.”
“I’m not sure I can,” she said with a shudder. “I’m not sure how you drink it.”
“So says the gel who tossed back all that whisky last evening with the enthusiasm of a Meithian princess trying to forget her last encounter with a prince of Neroche.” He walked over to the hearth, fetched her the glass that was indeed sitting on his mantel, then brought it back and handed it to her. “You’ll be warmer, at least.”
She had a sip of something she wished she’d left alone, then gave him the rest. “Disgusting,” she said hoarsely.
“Not nearly as awful as what King Uachdaran brews,” he said, draining her glass and returning it to the sideboard. “Come and sit, darling. I’ll put more wood on the fire for you.”
She nodded, realizing then how accustomed to his very lovely manners she’d become. She sighed deeply, then went to perch on the edge of a chair drawn up to his library table. She looked at the papers spread out everywhere and noticed that atop them all was a map she hadn’t seen before. She imagined he’d drawn it himself given that there were marks where she could remember having seen those terrible shadows. There were also Xs where she knew they’d encountered the mage following them, including the spot where she’d asked Soilléir to give her what currently ran through her veins like a fever.
She looked up to find Acair sitting around the corner from her, watching her with those pale, sea-green eyes of his that saw more than she wanted him to.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, holding up her hand to hold him off.
He smiled briefly. “So many possibilities there.”
She gestured toward the spot on his map where she’d lit half the forest alight, then realized that location was rife with possibilities as well. She cast about for anything else to discuss.
“I wonder if Mansourah is…ah—” Damnation, but that was no easier than anything else.
“Alive?” He sighed deeply. “As much as I love to mock him for his failings, I have to concede the lad is canny. For all we know, our common enemy was either too distracted or too stupid to hunt him down and finish him. I’m not looking forward to facing my sister if that isn’t the case.”
“She’s very fond of you.”
“Her husband will be much less so if I’ve lost his brother,” he said grimly. “We’ll go look for him once we’ve attended to this business—and that other thing you don’t want to discuss.”
She supposed that since she had seen him at his worst, he might as well see her at hers. She clasped her hands together and took a deep breath.
“I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“There’s no shame in that, love,” he said quietly.
“But you aren’t, are you?”
“Do you think I would admit it if I were?” He looked at her seriously. “He can undo it, you know. Soilléir, I mean.”
She knew who he meant, but couldn’t bring herself to say as much. “I thought you said the change back was never perfect.”
“That’s what he claims, but I think he lies more than he’s willing to admit. He will undo what’s been done, not only because he’ll want you to be at peace but because he knows what I’ll do to him otherwise.”
She felt herself relax almost to the point she’d reached standing at his front door, looking at the sea. “Planning on engaging in that essence meddling of yours?”
“I will meddle until he begs me to stop,” he muttered. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. “The truth is, I would rather you not have to use anything. You have no idea how much it galls me to see you in this position because of me.”