Dreamspinner

by Lynn Kurland

  “But I need—”

  “You need to be behind a closed door,” Rùnach said firmly. “Let’s find that, shall we?”

  She found that she was perspiring suddenly. “I think I might be ill.”

  “I imagine Weger feels the same way.”

  “I’m in earnest.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked at him in horror.

  He cursed, then looked for Losh. “Garderobe,” he said crisply.

  She arrived at one only because Losh knew where it was and Rùnach managed to carry her there before she lost her supper. And when there was nothing left inside her wanting freedom, all she could do was lie on the stone of the passageway and wonder if each breath might be her last.

  Which was becoming slightly tedious, as it happened.

  “Hold that book, lad, and follow me. Let’s get this one to bed, shall we?”

  She didn’t protest when Rùnach picked her up and carried her out into the courtyard, down the stairs, and along the passageway to their chamber. She closed her eyes and was extremely grateful for even a hard, uncomfortable wooden bed beneath her back.

  She heard Rùnach thank Losh for his aid, then send him off to bed. A stool scraped across the floor. She turned her head to find Rùnach sitting on that stool, lighting a fresh candle. He held her book in his hands and looked at her.

  “Best spill your guts, lad.”

  She couldn’t see his ears for his hair, but he didn’t look like an elf. He was handsome, true, in a way that was almost difficult to look at, but as for having stepped from a dream…well, obviously Losh had listened to too many fireside tales and begun to take them seriously. Elves were creatures of myth, as were dwarves, trolls, ogres, and dragons. Everyone knew that. Even she who had grown to womanhood cloistered in a weaving guild knew that.

  “Aisling?”

  She looked at him, poor normal-eared man that he was. “I have no tale to tell.”

  He shot her a look of profound disbelief. “I think you might be the first person in the history of Gobhann to leave the lord of the keep stomping off in a snit. There has to be some tale behind that feat.”

  “’Twas the book,” she said, gesturing weakly to what he was holding.

  “May I?”

  She would have nodded, but her head was spinning too violently to even attempt it. She simply waved him on, then closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch him flip the pages.

  “Where did you get this, Aisling?” came his voice from rather far away.

  “A peddler.”

  “Why do you need a soldier?”

  She couldn’t tell him, partly because she couldn’t fight her weariness and partly because if she gave him details, she would die. Though if she didn’t find her way back to Weger, she would die just the same.

  “I’ll tell you about it in a bit,” she lied.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Wake…me,” she whispered. “Before midnight.”

  She felt something be put over her, a blanket perhaps. She opened her eyes a few minutes later and saw Rùnach reading her book. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth, then apparently surrendered to the impulse to smile. She couldn’t decide what he found so amusing about that hapless Ochadius of Riamh’s troubles, but apparently he found something.

  “Midnight,” she managed.

  He looked at her and smiled faintly. “Of course.”

  She closed her eyes and surrendered to a weariness that went far beyond anything she’d ever felt before.

  She hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing she felt.

  Seven

  Rùnach watched Aisling until she fell asleep, which didn’t take all that long. He had no idea what ailed her, not being much of a physick himself. She had no fever, no stuffiness in her head that he could hear, nothing that led him to believe that something had invaded her form. Though given where they were and the appalling conditions to be found there, he supposed she could have been felled by any number of things out of her experience.

  He looked at the book in his hands and had to shake his head. Ochadius of Riamh? No wonder Weger had been slightly startled, Ochadius being one of his cousins however many times removed as was polite. Rùnach stared thoughtfully into the darkness. It would take a bit of thinking about that genealogy to place Ochadius, but he had the feeling he was among the younger of Lothar’s progeny. That Ochadius had escaped Riamh was unusual. Most who were either guests in the hall or stumbled across the borders didn’t find their way out again. That he had gotten himself inside Weger’s gates was even more unusual.

  That he had stayed long enough to memorize all Weger’s strictures was astonishing.

  Rùnach would have given much to have had a wee peep at Ochadius’s brow to see if he sported any kind of mark there.

  He thumbed through the pages carefully, memorizing as he went. Though it was tempting to speculate on how Ochadius had come by Weger’s strictures, the more interesting questions were why he’d lost them and how Aisling had come to have them in her possession.

  Or if she understood what she had.

  A sound at the door startled him. He reached out and caught his sword before the hilt of it slid along the wall and clunked him on the head. He looked up to find Weger standing in the doorway.

  “She is well,” Rùnach said, “if you were curious.”

  “I wasn’t,” Weger growled. “I’m here for a look at that damned book!”

  Rùnach waved him in, waited for Weger to perch on the side of Aisling’s bed, then handed Gobhann’s lord Aisling’s treasure.

  “I don’t think you’ll be surprised by its contents. Our good Ochadius was very thorough.”

  “Damn him to hell,” Weger grumbled. “Never should have let him in the front gates. Still, I would prefer to make certain he’s written all my strictures down properly.” He shot Rùnach a look. “Don’t suppose you’ve had time to memorize what you’ve read, have you?”

  Rùnach smiled. “’Tis a very bad habit, I’m afraid.”

  “The question is, can you call what you’ve read to mind?”

  Rùnach stretched his legs out, because it gave him something to do besides shift uncomfortably on a stool that was better suited to a serving maid of about seven summers. “I can,” he said slowly.

  “Everything?” Weger asked pointedly.

  “There seems to be an unfortunate gap in my memory where my father’s book of spells is concerned,” Rùnach conceded.

  Weger grunted. “There’s a mercy.”

  “I could rectify that, I suppose, if necessary,” Rùnach said, because he thought Weger would be terribly interested in the details. “Keir remembered everything and gave all the spells to Miach before he died. Ruith knows them as well, but as you might imagine, he wasn’t particularly keen to spew them out for my benefit. Miach offered, though.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I thanked him kindly for thinking of me, but demurred.” He shrugged. “I don’t want them.”

  “That would have grieved your father sorely, I daresay, did he know. What delicious irony runs through the world’s tapestry.”

  “Poetically put, my lord.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Weger said, sounding faintly pleased. “Poetry annoys my guest, so I’ve become something of a connoisseur of it, especially of the more rustic forms such as the limerick. I prefer those, especially when dwarves and buxom wenches figure as their subjects.”

  “He does seem to be rather vocal about things,” Rùnach agreed.

  “Have you heard him?”

  “Over the sound of my companion behind you losing all her meals, aye, though the noise was faint. I have the feeling it will grow louder with time.” He looked at Weger. “Are you going to tell me whom I have the pleasure of listening to, or must I guess?”

  “I assumed you would know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that damned king of Neroche would have told you, or so I would have guessed. Perhaps he’s mor
e closemouthed than I give him credit for being.” He slid Rùnach a look. “I don’t mind telling you, though. ’Tis the black mage of Wychweald.”

  Rùnach smiled in spite of himself. “Lothar?”

  “The very same,” Weger said, “which leaves me feeling a certain obligation to make certain he’s well entertained.”

  “I imagine it does.”

  Weger shot him a sharp look. “Has the king of Neroche been gossiping about my genealogy?”

  Rùnach shook his head. “No need. Sgath knew your father, of course, and grieved for his end, though I will admit our discussing that was a very random and unusual tangent indulged in another obscure conversation between just the two of us after a rather thorough session of tasting what his vineyard had produced the year before.” He didn’t bother to add that whilst he had never been one for indulging overmuch in after-supper wine, that was the first and last time he had had too much to drink. He was fairly certain his grandfather had been trying to distract him from thoughts of killing his father. “I have never repeated the details to anyone, if you’re curious.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I should point out that Sgath likely thought the possibility of my ending up in Gobhann was so remote that the knowledge would never be of any import.” He looked at Weger. “And yet here I am, and there below is your guest.”

  “And so he is, the miserable wretch. I make certain to favor him with as much culture as possible. Especially the limerick.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Call it my little service to the betterment of humanity.”

  “I’m sure he’s enjoying your generosity of spirit.”

  “Oh, he is,” Weger agreed. “I find what he enjoys the most are freeform verses where I simply list mages of note and their opulent residences. I still toss in a few nuggets about buxom wenches and dwarves, just to keep myself from wandering too far afield.” He looked at the book in his hands and frowned. “I wonder where your little wench came by this?”

  “I have no idea, but she’s been keeping it in the waistband of her trousers. I thought I should return it there when I was finished with it.”

  Weger shot him a look. “I’m surprised at you.”

  Rùnach held up his hands, which were slightly less twisted than they had been the day before. “I am a gentleman, if that worries you.”

  “It worried every father of note in the Nine Kingdoms when you were a lad of ten-and-eight, I’ll tell you that much,” Weger said with a snort, “though I suppose the manners your exquisite mother beat into your thick head likely saved you several skewerings.”

  Rùnach smiled. “I don’t remember being such a rogue.”

  “I can assure you I never gave it much thought either until you showed up in my courtyard.” He started to speak, then shook his head. “As I said before, I had supposed that the lot of you had been slain at that accursed well.”

  Rùnach blinked. “Did you not know who Mhorghain was whilst she was here?”

  “Hadn’t a clue,” Weger said honestly, “though that makes me a bit of a fool, doesn’t it? Then again, it wasn’t as if I had been expecting the daughter of Gair and Sarait to stride inside my front gates, then proceed to terrify every man in the place with her superior swordplay.” He shook his head slowly. “She’s without peer.”

  Rùnach kept his mouth shut, because he realized in a blinding flash that Weger might have harbored the odd, fond feeling for Mhorghain. That must have put Miach in a difficult position when he’d come inside Gobhann to fetch Mhorghain out. He looked at Weger to see if more details would be forthcoming, but the man had turned his attentions to the book he held. He turned each page methodically, peppering the air first with snorts, then curses that were increasingly vile, and finally resorting to threatening increasingly dire consequences should he ever find Ochadius and his throat within reach.

  He finally shut the book with a snap and handed it back to Rùnach. “Well,” he said, apparently having run out of other things to say, “he was thorough, I’ll give him that.” He glanced at Aisling. “I am terribly curious about this one and how she came by it. Ochadius disappeared long ago, though I’m the first to admit I’m not out in the world often enough to frequent the better salons to find out if he’s been loitering there by the punch bowl.”

  “Apparently he’s been off somewhere, scribbling.”

  “I daresay.” He shifted so he could look at Aisling, then reached over and with surprising gentleness brushed her hair back from her face and felt her forehead. “No fever, but that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Weger clucked his tongue. “It shouldn’t surprise you, either. You should take better care of your valet, Rùnach my lad, or no one will want the position in the future. Word will get round.”

  Rùnach imagined it would.

  “She’s handsome enough, for a simple, unremarkable wench,” Weger mused.

  Rùnach was beginning to wonder if he had acquired an unfortunate habit of muttering under his breath. “Never said she wasn’t.”

  “Plain, though, isn’t she?”

  Rùnach considered all the things he shouldn’t say—and that list was very long. He couldn’t, for instance, say that whilst it had perhaps been wise for her to cut her hair in an effort to pass for a lad, what was left of her hair still looked a great deal like a waterfall of spun gold, sparkling and shining even in the perpetual gloom that was Gobhann. He likely also shouldn’t say that not even shorn hair, rough clothing, and ill-fitting boots could help her swagger in any way that didn’t mark her immediately as a woman. Or that perhaps despite the clothing and the shorn hair and the dogged efforts to turn herself into a swordsman, she could not hide her face.

  Would that she could.

  The protestations died on Rùnach’s lips only because even though his twenty years in Buidseachd hadn’t restored his magic, they had rid him of the unwise habit of saying the first thing that came to mind. He’d indulged in that enough during his youth. He looked at Weger and schooled his features.

  “She seems to have an unhealthy fascination with midnights and a question she hasn’t had the chance to ask you,” he said, finally. “I think she might manage it if she could do something besides puke up what she finds on your delicate platters in the dining hall.”

  “Do we have platters in the dining hall?” Weger asked, scratching his head. “I thought we just poured it all in a trough and let you have at it with your grubby, blistered hands.”

  “The luxurious conditions and delicious culinary stylings found at Gobhann are legendary, my lord.”

  “I’m sure they are, my lad.” He looked at Aisling. “She seems restless, doesn’t she? I like that. Says she’s ready for an adventure.”

  “It says she’s ready for a sewing circle.”

  Weger shook his head. “That, Rùnach, is exactly what she doesn’t need. She would be torn to shreds within minutes.”

  “Then what is to be done about her?” he asked, not really expecting any answer. She was a mystery, that one. “Something terrible must be driving her.”

  “I don’t want to know what it is,” Weger said grimly. “My dreams have been troubled since she came inside my gates.”

  “For all of the past thirty-six hours?” Rùnach said with as much of a snort as he dared. “I daresay, my lord, that those were nightmares brought on from the slop served in your buttery.”

  “You don’t imagine I eat the same fare, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Rùnach said. “Do you?”

  Weger started to speak, then shook his head. “Better not to think about it, actually.” He glanced at Aisling again. “It doesn’t seem to be agreeing with her delicate constitution.”

  “One would swear she was being poisoned.”

  “One should perhaps learn to sniff one’s supper before partaking. We have quite an extensive collection of herbs downstairs. Perhaps some have found their way into her stew.” He looked at Rùnach blandly. “Oregano, dill, the
odd pinch of lobelia.”

  Rùnach felt his mouth fall open. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying lads must find their sport somewhere.” He shrugged. “Sometimes a little tampering with the stew is enough amusement for the evening.”

  Rùnach could hardly believe his ears, but given the fact that Aisling had been puking up everything she’d eaten over the past two days, he supposed it made sense. “But why her and not me?”

  “If I were the cook, I wouldn’t be worried about that wee thing finding out what I’d done. But you? Even with your feeble hands and all the girlish epitaphs you picked up in Buidseachd, you’re enough to give a cook pause. That and you bear a rather strong resemblance to your sister, who, I imagine I don’t need to tell you, thrashed Baldric the slop dispenser to within an inch of his life after she stopped puking that first day.”

  Rùnach pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “She didn’t.”

  “A marvelous wench, that one,” Weger said with a sigh. “That whelp from Neroche—well, I was going to say he doesn’t deserve her, but I suppose I must concede that he does.”

  “He does love her very much,” Rùnach agreed.

  “Please,” Weger said, holding up his hand, “spare me the details. Let’s speak instead of bloodshed.”

  Rùnach smiled, mostly to himself. “Or perhaps something even more interesting, such as that poor lass there next to you. Doesn’t she deserve to at least have your ear for a bit? You could ease her mind, you know.”

  “I do not exist to ease anyone’s mind.”

  “Not even a lass who gives you nightmares?”

  “Well, there is that, I suppose,” Weger said reluctantly. “I’ll consider it, perhaps after supper tomorrow that my cook will prepare especially for me.”

  Rùnach sighed before he could stop himself. “I will think on it with fondness.”

  “I imagine you will.” Weger glanced at Aisling once more. “Don’t suppose you’d spare me time and effort and simply exasperate her until she spews out her sorry tale, will you?”