The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  But nay, she was simply looking at him as if she might have been concerned that he would nip out the back and be slain.

  He caught his jaw before it made an abrupt trip south—something he was having to do with unsettling regularity. And damn those bloody magics in his chest, Fadaire and that rot Soilléir had crammed inside him, if they didn’t tangle themselves together in a fond embrace and give his heart a mighty squeeze. He could hardly catch his breath. Worse still, he felt torn between weeping and…well, weeping. He cleared his throat roughly.

  “I didn’t realize you’d burned supper,” he said, grasping manfully for something that sounded reasonable. “Smoke is still lingering terribly, you know. Best open the back door next time.”

  She walked over to him, leaned up, kissed him, then put her arms around his neck.

  “You are a terrible man,” she said quietly.

  “Such sickly sweet sentiments,” he said, clutching her to him so tightly he wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t heard her squeak. “Awful wench that you are.”

  “But you’re very fond of me.”

  “I am. And I’m quite sure you return the feeling, though driving me to such displays is a very poor way of expressing it.”

  She whispered something in his ear. He wasn’t sure if it had been an expression of mild affection or a salty you’re a complete ass, but he decided perhaps the exact words didn’t matter. He understood the sentiment.

  He pulled away. “I’ll return soon.”

  “I can’t stop you,” she said slowly.

  “You can’t.”

  She looked at him seriously. “I wouldn’t actually try, if you’re curious. But if you aren’t back by morning, Sianach and I will find you, then I will give him leave to stomp the life from you.”

  He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it with as much gallantry as he possessed. “You do love me.”

  “I might tell you when you return,” she said, “so you’d best be careful, hadn’t you?”

  He thought that might be another fact for his mother to make a note of: the number of times in the course of his very long, perilous existence anyone had pointed him toward the door with those words.

  The number was still zero.

  He made Léirsinn a low bow, then slipped past her and out the back door as a chilly winter breeze.

  He flew along the coast, covered in a vile spell of un-noticing—Lugham, it had to be said—because it would definitely discourage anyone from having a closer look at him bolting across the sky.

  If he turned east and took more time than necessary to fling himself out across the expanse of water that separated his land from Bruadair, who would know? That dreamspinning bride of Rùnach’s might, but surely no one else.

  He would have wept if he’d been the sort of lad to indulge. Never again would he ever take his magic for granted. The thought was so profound, he suspected he might have to pen a restrained thank-you to both Rùnach and Soilléir for that realization. He also might have to take them to supper and drop something in their stews just nasty enough to leave them indisposed for a day or two, then remain helpfully nearby and do nothing but watch them retch until they wept, but he could do nothing less. Altruism was, as usual, his watchword.

  He looked behind him, but found no one there. That was another thing he might not have appreciated as thoroughly had he not spent the past several weeks being hunted. He couldn’t say he enjoyed that sensation very often—he tended to be the one on the prowl, as it happened—but perhaps that also needed change in the future.

  There was also something useful about being near the sea and having brisk sea air blowing the cobwebs from one’s mind. His mother claimed too much time in his study had driven the illustrious and admittedly unreasonable Gair of Ceangail mad. Whilst he suspected his father’s madness had come from other sources, he couldn’t deny that he tended to become a bit testy when cooped up for too long.

  So in honor of the absolute perfection of flying without worrying about his steed taking a bite out of him, he set aside thoughts of things that troubled him. He would enjoy the last of the day’s light by making a lazy journey back over to his side of the bay of Sealladh, having a little look at the ruin up the way that he’d never had the chance to investigate properly, then swooping up a bit higher to make note of the lay of the land for use in correcting his grandmother’s map. He was certain she would be gratified to know where she’d drawn amiss.

  He might have to drop that note off at the front gates and be back over the border before her minion reached her solar door, but that was something to be considered later.

  He didn’t hurry, even though there was a storm brewing and the winds were growing fierce. He also didn’t bother to fight the current as it drove him toward the shore.

  He did pause in the air above that ruined keep. It left him wondering why he’d never bothered to take a closer look at it previously. Well, perhaps that was less true than he would have liked. There was nothing there, certainly no well-laid table or comfortable salon. Why would he have donned rough boots and tromped about a perfectly savage collection of stones?

  He rose with a goodly on-shore breeze and checked the identifiable landmarks against his memory of the same. Bruadair lay across the bay to the east, cloaked in its usual shadows of things that discouraged a closer look. Over to the west lay his home, a handful of mountain ranges of various sizes, and many lakes and rivers.

  He held himself in the same place for a bit, realizing then what struck him as odd. He hadn’t noticed what a short distance it was around the bay from his house to that ruin, or that there seemed to be a hint of a trail winding its way through the forest hugging the northern feet of the Sgùrrach mountains. He supposed that worn track would eventually become completely overcome by the trees, but he wondered just how many years ago that had been the thoroughfare linking the keep to his land.

  He supposed the next time he found a place to build a house, he might do a better job of looking about to see what sort of neighbors he stood to inherit. He’d been so concerned about those damned nightmare creators to the east that he hadn’t thought to have a proper look to the north. Lesson learned, indeed.

  He set that thought aside for contemplation with a stiff drink at his elbow and decided to simply accept that his house was downwind from a fascinating ruin. It was a haunting place, to be sure, especially with the sun heading toward the west and casting the ruined tower into deep shadows—

  Shadows. Why did it always come back to that?

  He would have shaken his head if he’d had a proper head to shake, but things were happily what they were. He turned toward home and let his thoughts wander right along with the evening breeze.

  The one thing his father had taught him, perhaps the only useful thing, was that an enemy who was unnamed could not be bested. Knowing his father, weaving a mage’s name into his mighty spell of Diminishing had been not only vicious, but necessary. For himself, he simply wanted to put a name to the mage wanting an endless supply of souls so he might know where to go digging to determine just how the man was creating all those pools of shadow.

  He swirled down just inside the edge of his spell, resumed his proper shape, then continued to wear his spell of un-noticing as he walked away from his house down to the shore. For some reason, he felt as though the places his thoughts were taking him required some sort of grounding.

  Perhaps he couldn’t name that maker of shadows, but it occurred to him with a flash of something he might have called insight if he hadn’t been so damned tired, that he might be able to at least take the mage following him off his list.

  He had to admit it hinged on the fact that that shard-spewing mage had made no move to assault him, not even in that glade on the other side of Durial. He would have considered that odd, but he himself had stalked several souls over the years, waiting for just the right time for the
proper bit of revenge. His brothers and sundry relations might be able to speak to that with a fair bit of enthusiasm.

  Perhaps he had run afoul of the man at some point in the past, the time had come for retribution, and a finely honed sense of vengeance demanded that he exact the final piece of it only after a lengthy stalking of his victim.

  He paused in mid-step. What if the truth had been right there in front of him the entire time and he’d simply been too distracted to notice it?

  What if the shard-spewing mage was indeed that orchardist whose spell he’d tossed in the fire all those years ago?

  The idea wasn’t entirely farfetched. The man had, after all, been robbed and humiliated. What if he’d bided his time, nurturing his grievance until the chance came to get back a little of his own? Perhaps a hearty bit of terrorizing had been the only possible way to mollify the dignity of one who had been knocked off his ladder and left flailing on the ground in a flurry of cloak, half-rotten peaches, and rather unimpressive curses.

  The timing was odd, to be sure, though it wasn’t as if the man could possibly have known that one day he himself would be placed under an injunction not to use his magic. Soilléir was a colossal bore at parties, but he was notorious for his ability to keep his mouth shut. Rùnach was even more tight-lipped, if possible.

  Besides, they wanted him alive. Where would be the sport for them if he popped off before they’d had their full year of humiliation?

  Odder still was how it had all come about. First he’d been chased by that cloud of mage, only for the herd to find itself thinned and the shard-spewing mage to be the last one left standing. Patience was one thing, but that sort of holding back from the fray was almost impolite.

  He walked back up to his house, through his spell of protection, then paused to look up the way toward where he could see the faintest outline of the keep there. It was full dark and there was no moon, but the stars were bright enough, he supposed. That they were out and so clearly was a bit startling. He had been gone longer than he’d thought.

  He frowned thoughtfully as he walked around to the back of his house, lost in thought. He paused at the back door, then looked off into the forest.

  He was somehow unsurprised to find his enemy keeping watch.

  Considering how rarely he came home and how few people—if any—knew where it was, how did that mage there come to find it?

  There were very odd things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms, to be sure.

  He let himself into his house, slightly gratified to find the door hadn’t been bolted against him. The fire in the kitchen was low, but still burning. He realized that the makings of tea were there, plus a bit of soup left to warm. He stood there and looked at them for a moment or two, bemused, then made himself a very late, hasty supper.

  He walked quietly through his house and found Léirsinn asleep in front of the fire in his study. He wasn’t sure she would ever use that luxurious chamber he’d offered her, but perhaps she felt more secure where she was. He leaned against the doorway and watched her for a moment or two, that flame-haired, flame-tempered, impossibly courageous gel—

  “You should come to bed.”

  He blinked and realized she wasn’t as asleep as he’d thought.

  Those were certainly words he’d never expected to hear from Léirsinn of Sàraichte, but the hand waving she did immediately following uttering them was somehow rather reassuring.

  “I don’t mean that. You should come sleep. I can hear you cursing from here and I don’t think it’s helping you.”

  He left his shoes by the wall and padded over to the hearth in bare feet. He sat down on a stool and sighed.

  “I’m too restless to sleep.”

  “Something to drink?”

  “Why not a game of cards instead? I’ll owe you a kiss for every hand you win.”

  She sat up, her glorious red hair cascading over her shoulders, her stunning self looking so fetching in the nightclothes he’d loaned her that he thought he might cheat just to lose.

  “You are thinking lewd thoughts.”

  “Of course,” he said lightly. “You know me. Predictable, as always.”

  She patted the spot next to her on the very unmagical, not entirely uncomfortable pallet he’d made for them the night before.

  “Why don’t I read you a tale instead? Do you have any faery stories?”

  “None that would inspire pleasant dreams,” he said grimly. He pulled a deck of cards out of thin air. “This is less perilous.”

  She studied him. “Will you cheat?”

  “To lose? Absolutely.”

  She smiled. “All right. How was the sea?”

  “Glorious.”

  “You look more at peace, all things considered.”

  He made himself comfortable on the floor across from her and wished he could agree. Unfortunately, the truth was that he had more questions than answers and no amount of scrawls on parchment seemed enough to shift the balance of that. The list of people who might want revenge against him was, he suspected, commensurate with the number of black mages in the world who wanted the same. He supposed there were those without magic who also might want to see him eating a few just desserts, but those lads and lassies didn’t speak in shards.

  He just didn’t understand why now.

  “I’ll go find something to drink.”

  Be careful was almost out of his mouth before he came back to himself and heard what she’d said. He watched her walk across his study to look for things he was quite certain she wouldn’t want to imbibe.

  He rubbed his fingers over his eyes, shook his head to bring back a decent bit of good sense, then started shuffling. Léirsinn was in his house and they both were safe.

  That might be enough for what was left of the night.

  Twelve

  Léirsinn stood inside Acair’s library and wondered if he didn’t have just too many books.

  She was half tempted to go back to what she’d spent most of the morning doing, namely standing at the front door, looking out at the ocean. ’Twas true that she’d also peered out of every door and window, admiring the mountains behind the house and the deep forests on either side, but somehow she’d always found herself back watching that glorious stretch of beach in front of her. It had taken a great amount of self-control to shut the front door a few moments ago and be about something useful.

  She was finally starting to feel a bit more like her old self, though she suspected she would never feel entirely the same again. That wasn’t anything she particularly wanted to dwell on, so she faced the staggering number of books in front of her and made her best guess as to where to start looking for a name to put to that mage that watched them from under the trees.

  She walked along the walls of shelves, stopping to touch books that looked interesting, but she didn’t pull any of them out from their places. Though she thoroughly enjoyed reading, she hadn’t had the luxury of time for it very often. Mistress Cailleach had loaned her various things over the years: books on healing things with herbs, romantic tales of yore—obviously wept over more than once—and at least one very small tome on winning wars against trolls and their ilk.

  Conspicuously missing, however, had been anything to do with mages, witches, or spells. Given whose great-aunt Mistress Cailleach was, Léirsinn now thought that had shown great restraint on the woman’s part.

  Acair’s library, however, was very different. She found everything from histories of countries she hadn’t known existed to beautifully illustrated treatises on varying species of animals to detailed drawings of various castles and buildings. She raised her eyebrows over the dozen heavy, obviously well-loved books making up that last group. She suspected he’d used them more than once to aid him in less-than-legal activities.

  But in addition to all those lovely but fairly ordinary offerings was a very robust collec
tion of all things magical including a grimoire that gave her chills just looking at it. She suspected that if Mistress Cailleach ever came to visit, she and Acair might be engaging in a bit of a tussle for possession of that thing.

  She continued to simply wander, ignoring the lights that brightened at the first sign of squinting on her part—perhaps keeping company with a mage had its advantages after all—and found herself back where she’d been earlier that morning: at a loss for where to start.

  It was no wonder Acair was so frustrated.

  She stopped and put her hands on a shelf to give herself something to hold onto while she took a moment to remember all the reasons she had asked for the magic that had at least taken a bit of a rest from tormenting her. The only one that came to mind had to do with a man who had gone off to look for answers in the garden earlier, so perhaps she could be forgiven if she simply credited her request as fondness for him and let it go.

  She bowed her head and breathed for a bit until the blood rushing through her veins didn’t sound so loud in her own ears and the magic Acair had used to heal her arm had stopped sparkling at her.

  She opened her eyes and lifted her head, then blinked. She realized she was standing in front of that book she hadn’t quite pushed back into its place the night before.

  A Child’s Book of Heroic Tales

  She closed her eyes briefly again, then opened them, hoping she would see something different there in front of her.

  She didn’t.

  She clutched the edge of the bookshelf and felt the very air around her become still in a way she’d never before experienced.

  ’Twas ridiculous, of course. She was doing nothing more interesting than looking at a child’s collection of tales. It was something that could have been found in any number of places, surely.

  The world was full of libraries that were full of that sort of thing. The university in Eòlas was one such place that she’d seen for herself. Even there they no doubt had the odd copy of something fit for a child lingering on some shelf or other.