The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  “It was my idea,” she said, beginning to wish she’d continued on with her avoidance of the whole subject. She gestured to his map. “What did you discover about your grandmother’s map besides that list of places you wouldn’t want to go?”

  He rubbed his hands over his face, then shook his head. “Nothing interesting save perhaps wondering why my house figured so prominently on it. I finally decided that she covets my stash of port and doesn’t want me to drink it all before she can lay her greedy hands on it.”

  She ran her fingers over places on his map that she recognized. The only thing that did for her was to put her forearm in front of her where it reminded her that she’d broken it terribly. She wasn’t sure she would ever forget the sight of it bending where it hadn’t been meant to.

  Now, though, ’twas difficult not to simply stare at it. Though her flesh hadn’t been torn by her bones, there was still a spot where it looked as if the magic might be lingering on her skin in one of the most beautiful rashes she had ever seen.

  “Fadaire is a beautiful magic.”

  She looked up. “How do you know any of it?”

  He gave her the same very small, mischievous smile she’d watched him attempt with his grandmother. Unlike Cruihniche of Fàs, however, she was anything but immune. She was rather thankful, all things considered, that she was sitting down.

  “The better question is,” he said, “did the king catch me pinching any of his spells? The answer is, nay, he did not, though I’ll admit I ruthlessly took advantage of his having temporarily handed off his kingly topper to his eldest son for a bit whilst about the genteel work of recovering from some mighty piece of magic or other. That son, Prince Làidir, is loyal, conscientious, and never saw me hopping over his father’s proverbial garden fence to rummage about in the old rutabaga patch.”

  She could just imagine. “Did you know his daughter?”

  “Princess Sarait?” he asked. “Only well enough to say that she was far too good for my sire. I’m not sure why she wed him, though I suppose he can be charming when he needs to be. More than one mage has succumbed to his chumminess over supper only to regret it before sunrise as he was sent on his way without either his pocket money or his magic.”

  She wished she could have dismissed it all, but unfortunately she knew better. “So, your father stole magic, and the mage you’re looking for steals souls, but is it the same thing?”

  He looked up from what he’d been absently sketching in the margins of his map. “What a thought,” he said faintly. He looked off into nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t put one’s power and one’s soul into the same pot, so to speak, though in theory I suppose the end result is somewhat the same. I suppose the most we can be grateful for is that whilst my sire’s spell is perfected, this mage’s is not. Otherwise, as we’ve discussed before, we’d all be nothing but soulless husks.”

  She watched him continue to draw mythical beasts along the edge of his map and wondered how many of them came from his imagination and how many he’d actually seen. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “Your spell of death seems to have rounded up a few pieces of you.” she offered. “Funny that your mother suggested the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the word I would use, but aye, the whole thing is unnerving. I understand why she suggested it, but why is that damned thing trapped in the spell over my house when I’m able to walk through that same spell as if it weren’t there?”

  “Not enough of your soul in its possession?”

  “Does that sound as daft to you as it does to me?”

  “I might not be the best person to ask about anything to do with magic,” she said honestly. “It all sounds daft to me.”

  He set his pencil aside and rubbed his hands together. “Answer me this, then: Why are we seeing so many spots in so many locales and none in others?”

  “Because there’s something there that he wants?”

  “Agreed, but what? I’ve been looking at this damned map all morning and can’t find a single pattern that isn’t utter rubbish.”

  She decided that he reminded her of a feisty, frustrated stallion who had spent too many days locked in a stall. What he needed, she suspected, was to get out and run, though she supposed he wouldn’t manage that. A distraction, though, wasn’t unthinkable.

  “Let’s speak of something else,” she suggested. “Tell me the difference between essence changing and your grandmother’s spell. And remember that I think ’tis all foolishness.”

  He rubbed the spot between his eyes, looking as if it pained him. “The changing of an essence is permanent whilst her spells are more like a flirtation with a change. Not permanent, though for a time the results are eerily similar.”

  “Why have such a thing?” she asked.

  “So you might pin a mage down and rifle through his pockets whilst he can only remain there, mute and furious?”

  She laughed a little in spite of herself. “You’re an awful man. Do you never work for your gold?”

  “I’m offended,” he said, sounding anything but. “I’ll have you know that the funds for the glorious hovel you’re sitting in came from a series of days full of honest labor. You might be surprised how much gold desperate monarchs are willing to pay for a finely crafted spell.”

  “Is that true?” she asked skeptically.

  “I never lie, as you know. The spells I created for my royal clients were, if I might say so, absolutely spectacular, even if they may or may not have come with an expiry date.”

  She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. “You’re vile.”

  “But charming, which you have to admit. There were no complaints and several offers of more commerce should I decide to take up the pitchfork down the road, if you know what I’m getting at. ’Tis tempting, given the location of this luxurious perch, to add a bit to my empire.”

  “Where are we exactly?” she asked.

  “The land was part of Wychweald, though I’m not sure that’s where it originated,” he said with a shrug. “There is a ruined shell of a hall up the way, so perhaps this belonged to that kingdom in times past. As to how I came by it, I went to King Stefan and bought it from him for an eye-watering price.”

  “In spells or gold?”

  He looked at her knowingly. “Both, and clever you for considering that. I was perhaps more fastidious than I needed to be about this place, but the gold was earned fairly and from less unsavory things than I might have otherwise created.”

  She watched him as he spoke and saw him again how he’d appeared in the king of Neroche’s garden, standing perfectly balanced between light and darkness. Perhaps he was not so much a mystery as a man full of profound contradictions.

  The sunlight that filtered in from the window was pale from its winter’s arc, but it suited him perfectly, that dark-haired, sea-green eyed man who no doubt had women fighting each other to land in his path the moment he walked into any ballroom. She understood. He’d been shoveling manure—badly—and swearing when she’d first seen him and she’d been tempted to put the back of her hand to her forehead and swoon artfully onto the closest bale of hay.

  “Who are you?” she wondered.

  “A vile black mage taking a breather from the usual business of wreaking havoc,” he said wearily. “I will return to it with renewed vigor, purpose, and commitment the first chance I have.”

  “Where does saving my grandfather fit into all that?”

  “Not yourself?”

  She shrugged as casually as she could manage. “I can see to myself. I worry about him.”

  “I’ll see to him as I promised,” he said, “then the world had best brace for the onslaught of my wrath.”

  “As you will, Acair.”

  He didn’t move. “That doesn’t terrify you?”

  “I’m n
ot afraid of you.”

  He let out his breath slowly. “Not even after what you saw in Uachdaran’s cellar?”

  She wasn’t sure what she could possibly say that would make any difference. He was who he was, as was she. What she thought she might possess was less a tolerance for difficult things and more an acceptance of things as they were, but perhaps that could remain unsaid.

  She considered his map and looked at the coastline he’d drawn. The ruined castle was there, but also that little stretch of land that looked just big enough for what she hardly dared hope for. She reached out and traced her finger along it, finding herself unable to look at him.

  She wondered, in a place where she almost couldn’t allow herself to go, if there might be a small piece of unwanted land there where she might build a house with a barn. Nothing like the grand house she sat in presently, of course, but a modest abode with a pair of bedchambers for her and her grandfather. She had the money Mistress Cailleach was keeping for her, after all. Who was to say that in time she might not have enough to purchase it?

  She couldn’t look at him, but she rested her finger on that part of his map that indicated a spot north of his house.

  “Will you let me buy a bit of this and build a barn there?” she asked carefully.

  “That wasn’t an answer.”

  “You already know the answer, I imagine.” She looked at him, then. “So, will you?”

  “Nay.”

  She had to simply wait for a bit until she thought she could speak. “I see.”

  “I will build you a barn, though,” he said quietly. “You may fill it with as many ponies as you like.”

  “Of course,” she said, hoping she sounded as if she weren’t cursing herself for being disappointed that she might be nothing more than a stable hand to him. “You would need someone to manage the horses.”

  “I thought Doghail might be better suited to that, if you think he would be interested. I have other things in mind for you.”

  “Do you?” she asked, wishing she’d kept her bloody mouth shut to begin with. “I can’t imagine what.”

  He looked at her steadily. “I told you in Uachdaran’s lists how I feel.”

  “Oh,” she said, though she was fairly certain there had been no sound behind the word. “I thought that was the last gasp of a man who thought he wasn’t going to see dawn.”

  He shrugged. “The truth comes out at odd times.”

  If there was color creeping up her cheeks, she thought she might manage to blame it on the brandy. She watched him reach over and cover her hands with his. She looked at her arm that he had healed with a magic so beautiful she was still a bit blinded by it, then at his hands that had wielded that same magic.

  “So,” she said slowly, “you don’t want me as a stable hand?”

  He pulled away. She thought she might have said too much, then she realized he had gotten to his feet and come around the corner of the table. She found herself pulled to her feet and into his arms. He smiled briefly, then bent his head and kissed her.

  Well, she would have been the first to admit she was not the best judge of the same, but in her opinion he was very good at several things, the business of romance included. She wasn’t quite sure if she should feel faint or indulge in completely inappropriate laughter, but what she did know was that she was definitely out of her depth at present.

  She managed to catch her breath eventually, though she wasn’t unhappy to have help staying on her feet.

  “Was that a proposal?” she managed. “Or just a substitute for a maudlin sentiment?”

  “Perhaps a bit of both,” he said.

  She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’ll leave you to decide and go make supper.”

  “Must you?”

  She pulled away and glared at him, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I am not so terrible a cook.”

  “Darling, you…” He shook his head. “You look over maps and I’ll go forage for something edible.” He started to walk away, then turned back around and caught her hand. He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her softly. “Don’t bolt on me.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t.”

  He looked at her for a moment or two, then nodded and walked out of the library.

  She took a deep breath, then looked for a distraction before she found herself thinking about…things.

  Doghail would have looked at her, laughed, then walked off, shaking his head. She thought she might rather have a bit of a lie-down, but if Acair caught her in a faint over a simple kiss, he would likely never let her forget it. Better to busy herself doing something more productive than swooning over a man.

  Never mind that she thought she just might love that man in truth—

  She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and wander through his library. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know where he had come by all the books there—he was who he was, as he said. She was somehow not at all surprised to find things shelved in an organized fashion.

  She stopped at one point and put her hands on a shelf, then decided that perhaps resting her forehead there might be an even better idea. She closed her eyes and let the silence of Acair’s fire soothe her. Given that the flames in his mother’s house had sung a song that had nagged at her almost unpleasantly for days, she appreciated the fact that Acair’s fire was simply that. Perhaps he had built it that way to give her some peace.

  She wouldn’t have been surprised.

  She opened her eyes and straightened, then had to look a second time at the books sitting on the shelf in front of her face. Her memories of her childhood were distressingly few and unfortunately faint, but there was something about the book in front of her nose that seemed familiar. The color of the spine perhaps. She imagined Acair wouldn’t care if she had a look at it, so she reached up—

  “Léirsinn, supper!”

  She hesitated, her curiosity warring with her belly. She supposed books weren’t going anywhere and supper might be, so she left the book where it was—half pulled out from its fellows—and imagined it would be there when she returned.

  She wandered back to the kitchens, ridiculously comfortable slippers on her feet, and found Acair busily stirring something in a stew pot. He was frowning at it thoughtfully.

  “Won’t be long now,” he said. “I hope we can choke it down.”

  It smelled better than anything she’d ever cooked, so she imagined she wouldn’t be complaining. She collected things she thought might be useful, then arranged them on the table. She thought it looked complete, though admittedly her experience was limited to rare glimpses of her uncle’s fancy dining chamber set for guests and even rarer trips to the pub.

  Supper was, she found, very good indeed, though the company would have been worth much worse fare. She finished, then simply rested her chin on her fists and watched Acair sit back and swirl his wine in a beautifully cut glass goblet. The firelight sparkled against the facets in a way that reminded her she was definitely not having supper in a barn.

  What was familiar, however, was the collection on the table that looked as if it had come from some pocket or other. She hadn’t known a stable lad who hadn’t continually maintained a collection of useful bits and bobs, so perhaps Acair wasn’t all that different in that respect. She pushed aside her bowl and gathered his pile toward her. It sparkled right along with his wine glass, though she supposed that was the rune sporting his spell of death to reflect the firelight most beautifully. She reached out and began to idly sort everything.

  “If you tell me you’re deciding between nicked and earned, I will shout at you.”

  She smiled. “Of course you won’t. I just find it interesting what lads consider valuable.”

  “You never know when a bit of string will turn the tide,” he agreed.

  She doubted that. His bounty consisted of sever
al loose gems, a folded doily—

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  He shrugged. “There was one under a crock of butter in Uachdaran’s kitchen. I flattered the most susceptible-looking kitchen maid for it.”

  “You’re absolutely incorrigible.”

  “And my grandmother is absolutely terrifying. Facing Uachdaran’s fury seemed a much more pleasant prospect than showing up to tea at her table without something to appease her.”

  She shook her head and turned back to the pile. The remaining items consisted of that golden wafer slathered with a self-casting spell of death and a stub of a pencil. He was his mother’s son, certainly. She nudged the gems into piles by color, ignoring the fact that she’d done the same thing on the floor in front of his mother’s fire very late one evening. If she hadn’t, if he hadn’t grumbled over the fact that Soilléir of Cothromaiche’s aid seemed to be limited to doling out runes, she wouldn’t have known to use that same rune to call for Soilléir’s aid, and they certainly wouldn’t be enjoying a hot fire and full stomachs at the moment.

  “You’re not afraid anyone will rob you?” she asked, looking at him.

  “Me? Never. That said, I only carry a few things I value and tuck others in select spots.” He paused, then shook his head. “I think I might regret having asked Odhran to keep that rune for me, though he wasn’t without his own store of magic.”

  She sat back and looked at him. “Who slew him in truth, do you think? That mage in the glade?”

  “I’ve wondered,” he said slowly, “though I can’t imagine why unless ’twas simply for spite. Though he certainly has the power to do so, his spells aren’t terribly impressive.”

  “Didn’t he force Mansourah back into his own shape?” She listened to the words come out of her mouth and didn’t bother to marvel over them any longer. The descent into madness was complete.

  “That isn’t difficult,” Acair said. “I’ve done it scores of times. Now, dear old Gran could do the same and keep a lad in a shape he didn’t care for quite a bit longer than he liked, but, again, that’s essence meddling for you.” He nodded knowingly. “Makes you wonder whose pockets she’s rifled through, doesn’t it?”