The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12)

by Lynn Kurland

  She supposed those things might be lasting a bit longer than she’d expected.

  “Wed me?” he murmured.

  “I might.”

  “I deserve that,” he said with a bit of a laugh.

  She smiled and turned to look out over the lake, realizing that she had stood in almost the same place several weeks earlier when she’d been trying to come to terms with what Falaire had been able to do. So much had changed, yet so much hadn’t. Her life was full of horses and magic, Acair’s life was full of magic and horses, and somehow, she imagined they might manage to meet somewhere in the middle and live out their lives together in bliss.

  Very long lives, apparently.

  “My grandparents offered us the use of their garden for a wedding, if you’re interested.”

  She pulled back and looked at him. “I’m interested.”

  “Then let’s go make a guest list. I promise to keep my hands in my own pockets.”

  “For the wedding.”

  “I think I might manage it that long.”

  She walked with him back toward his grandparents’ house, supposing he just might.

  Epilogue

  Life was very strange when one was a black mage extraordinaire on extended holiday from evil-doing.

  Acair had come to that conclusion over a handful of months spent walking along the shore with his shoes off. More often than not, he’d been joined by his wife—something he had honestly never thought to have, though she was the first to remind him that he was, as they saying went, robbing the proverbial cradle. His response was usually to remind her that she owned a decent bit of his soul which perhaps canceled any cradle-robbing on his part. If that was a discussion they would likely be having for centuries to come, he wasn’t going to argue.

  That such a thing would be possible was almost enough, he supposed, to allow Soilléir of Cothromaiche to sleep easily at night.

  As far as others sleeping peacefully beneath his own roof went, he had been surprised to find himself entertaining the occasional guest. The first had been his grandmother who had arrived bearing her yearly Beltane letter. He had figured prominently in the space reserved for Relatives of Note, which he’d supposed was a far better location than where he usually found himself appearing. He had delivered the doily he’d secured, managed to keep her out of his private stash of port, and extracted a promise that she wouldn’t slay him if he and Léirsinn made a visit later in the year to discuss spells and such. He couldn’t have asked for more.

  He and Léirsinn were fairly permanent residents, of course, as was her grandfather. Doghail refused a spot in the ‘fancy hall,’ as he termed it, but his quarters in the stables were almost as fine as what housed Sianach and that beautiful gray horse of Léirsinn’s.

  Léirsinn’s sister had her own bedchamber, which she used more often than not. Her brother had come to visit exactly once thus far, but perhaps they could expect no more.

  In the end, his life was full of things he had never expected and do-gooding had taken root in his soul. It was a sickness he would likely suffer from for the rest of his very long life.

  He ignored the runes on the back of his hand given to him by an elven king which, he was damned certain, had mischief on their minds. That was likely the only mischief he would find himself enjoying any time soon, but a gentleman didn’t complain overmuch.

  He turned his back to the sea and surveyed his domain. The house he had already eyed with satisfaction. The stables, he had to admit, were equally spectacular, but perhaps he could have allowed nothing less. When one housed a steed or two—or perhaps more, he never could keep count and Léirsinn tended to offer rather vague and distracted answers when asked—with Angesand blood in its veins, well, one needed to make allowances. When one had already hosted the good lord of Angesand not a month earlier, one personally made damned sure the stalls were cleaned, the tack polished to perfection, and the floors were something one could eat from if necessary.

  He frowned at the sight of that quartet of souls gathered near the house. That was Doghail, to be sure, and Léirsinn’s grandfather. He was fairly certain that was his wife there as well.

  The fourth was a mystery.

  But given that Léirsinn had a spell or two in her pocket, Acair didn’t worry.

  Much.

  He was who he was, though, and he’d accepted his fate as Second Most Loathed Mage in the Nine Kingdoms, directly behind his father. ’Twas vexing not to be First Horse, as the saying went, but there was little to be done about it. Perhaps in the fall he might give thought to knocking his father off his vaunted perch, but then again, perhaps not. An autumn spent admiring his very lovely wife whilst toasting his toes in front of the fire, penning the odd philosophical essay on the merits of doing good, drinking a respectable amount of various libations, aye, that might be just the sort of work for him.

  But as he’d discovered, plans went awry at the most inconvenient times. He had the feeling he was running up hard against just such a time and that had everything to do with the look of that fourth soul there up the way. He put on his most useful look of utter boredom and strolled back over the dunes, prepared for the worst.

  He presented himself to them with nary a fission of unease, gallantly kissed his wife’s hand, made her grandfather a polite bow, then saluted Doghail with a hearty compliment on the state of the stables. He looked at the messenger and was rather more relieved than he should have been not to recognize the lad.

  “Your business, good sir?” he asked.

  The child couldn’t have been more than a score if he were a day. He held out a gilt-edged missive with a hand that trembled badly.

  “For your p-p-p-pleasure, my l-l-l-lord,” he said, his teeth chattering. He dropped to his knees. “Please don’t slay me, milord,” he blurted out as if all the sundry demons of Hell had sniffed him and only him out and decided he would make a fine luncheon. Added to that, the poor fool looked as if he might soon burst into tears. “I’m only the messenger.”

  Acair took the missive gingerly. At least things were being delivered via humans instead of birds, though he wasn’t entirely sure that instead of his boots being soiled with pigeon droppings, they wouldn’t soon wear the contents of that lad’s stomach.

  Still, the written word had done him dirty in the past and he wasn’t entirely sure that trend wasn’t about to continue.

  He pulled the boy to his feet and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Not to worry,” he said soothingly. “My best spell of death needed a wash and is now drying on the line. I imagine you’ll manage to bolt off my land before I can reach it, don’t you think?”

  The lad wasted no time doing just that. Acair watched him flap off frantically, then turned to his companions.

  Doghail rolled his eyes and walked off. Léirsinn’s grandfather laughed and left to join him. That left just that red-haired vixen standing there, watching him with amusement.

  “What of you, lady?” he asked archly. “No pleas for mercy?”

  She snorted at him. “I have no fear of you.”

  “My plans for you went completely awry at some point,” he said, reaching for her hand and tucking it under his elbow, “but I’ll be damned if I can lay my finger on when or where.”

  “Too many maudlin sentiments, I imagine,” she said mildly. “You’ve become tamed.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  “The truth can be painful, Acair.”

  He smiled in spite of himself because she was right. He looked at the missive in his hands, then at her.

  “Do I dare open this?”

  “It could be an invitation to a house party of some sort.”

  “After the last one we attended, I can see why such a thing would top our list of things to do right off.”

  She pulled her hand away and held it open. “Shall I read it f
or you?”

  He handed the missive over without hesitation. “Please.”

  She broke the seal, then read. Her expression gave nothing away, but she was one of those horse people who managed great, biting, flying steeds without so much as a pucker marring their brows. That, and she lived with him. Her ability to simply watch, then shrug off the most appalling things was unmatched.

  “An invitation?” he asked lightly.

  She looked at him. “I’m not sure I would call it that.”

  “Then what would you call it?”

  “A quest.”

  He could scarce believe his ears. “A what?”

  “A quest,” she repeated. She handed the missive to him. “I don’t think this is a jest.”

  “If it is, ’tis in very bad taste.”

  He read. He felt the blood drain from his face. He quite happily planted his arse rather enthusiastically on a bench that seemed to find itself within sitting distance. He looked at the woman who sank down onto that same bench with him and found himself utterly speechless.

  “Your reputation precedes you,” she noted.

  “A quest!”

  Her eyes were watering madly. “Apparently so.”

  He waved the missive at her. “You’re laughing at me.”

  She succumbed fully. He wasn’t sure if he should have been offended or…well, offended.

  Murder. Mischief. Mayhem. All such fond memories that seemed to be disappearing further and further out of reach.

  He watched his wife remove the Parchment of Doom from his trembling fingers—he refused to think about how greatly they resembled those of the messenger—then continued to watch with profound unease as she turned it over.

  There was scribbling on the back, but he could only assume that was a bit of added joy that would inform him that not only had he been called on an impossible quest he couldn’t refuse, he was to go on said quest with naught but his charm, his good looks, and perhaps a pair of dressmaker’s shears.

  At the moment, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Léirsinn looked at him from those leaf-green eyes of hers. “There’s more.”

  “So I see, and I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Just a few details,” she continued mercilessly. “Location, of course. An opinion on the vileness of the miscreant in question.”

  “If you say lost spells that only you can find, darling, I will weep.”

  She smiled and handed him his gilded doom. “Read it for yourself, then.” She pushed herself to her feet and headed toward the front door. “I’ll go pack our gear.”

  “I didn’t agree to this!” he exclaimed.

  I don’t think you’ll want to refuse was what came floating back his way.

  Well, he damned well would refuse. He was a vile mage of terrible power. He had spells to steal, priceless treasures to nick, a wife to continue to woo. He’d already begun to plot a way to slip inside Inntrig with pencil and paper and lurk in a wardrobe on the off chance Seannair of Cothromaiche talked in his sleep. One never knew what that sort of babbling might yield.

  He also had been toying with the idea of a quick dash across the plains of Ailean to waft over the walls of the schools of wizardry and see just how far he would have to lower himself to earn those seven rings of mastery.

  Of course, that might be unnecessary if whilst having a glass of wine with that essence-changing whoreson—if the man could be found actually laboring instead of flitting off on yet another holiday—and if that wine might be tampered with, perhaps spells might be, again, blurted out in the midst of a nightmare or two.

  That he might have to shelve those items labeled Nefarious Doings for a bit to see to things that numerous other, less devious mages could likely manage with perhaps unsatisfactory efforts—

  “Acair, are you coming inside to pack?”

  He sighed, suppressed the urge to fling the missive up in the air and hope it landed somewhere else—perhaps his grandmother’s garden—and pushed himself to his feet.

  A quest.

  Ye gads!

  To catch up on volumes One and Two of Acair and Léirsinn’s adventures:

  The White Spell

  The Dreamer’s Song

  To find out how it all began:

  Star of the Morning

  For a complete list of titles, visit

  www.lynnkurland.com/books

  About the Author

  Lynn Kurland is the New York Times bestselling author of over forty novels and novellas. She can be reached through her website at www.LynnKurland.com.