by Lynn Kurland
Iteach took a handful of steps backward, tossed his head, then flapped his suddenly sprouted wings. Rùnach spared a brief but very fond thought for his grandfather’s foresight, then climbed as gracefully as he could onto Iteach’s back. He supposed all those years he’d spent riding served him at the moment, for whilst he had a saddle, his horse had definitely not provided him with any reins. He was fairly sure that hadn’t been an oversight.
Screeching ensued from inside the house.
“South, I think,” Rùnach said quickly, “and perhaps a bit east—”
Lissssmòrrrrr…
Rùnach blurted out a curse, but only because Iteach had leapt up into the air, not because the bloody horse was inside his head, whispering and rolling his r’s in a particularly equine way. He decided abruptly that he would definitely be having words with Sgath. He just wasn’t quite sure which ones wouldn’t get him boxed ears.
“Well, aye,” he gasped. “Lismòr would do quite nicely.”
And that was the last thing he said for quite some time. He managed to get Aisling’s head on his shoulder and his cloak settled around her, which he hoped would shield her from the worst of the truly terrible weather. He kept his seat only because he’d been riding literally from the moment he could walk. He hadn’t done very well on his way to Mhorghain’s wedding at Seanagarra, but those were memories perhaps better left behind. It had been so long since he’d been out of Beinn òrain that he’d been a little unnerved by the whole journey, he who had traveled the world before, striding about with all the confidence and arrogance of an elven prince. He had spent the entire trip reduced to a less-than-confident clutcher of reins, wishing he’d asked Soilléir to strap him to the saddle before they’d leapt up into the night sky on the backs of other shapechanging horses. It was little wonder he’d lost what gear he’d brought with him.
He turned his mind away from that. They were useless notes that he’d dropped as they’d flown, notes that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but him. He might have forgotten the contents of his father’s book, but a score of years with nothing to do but read and run endlessly up and down stairs in the dead of night to keep his body strong had at least given him the time to retrain his mind to memorize what he saw.
He didn’t want to think about the things he couldn’t remember.
In time, he saw the faint twinkle of lights at the university. Iteach seemed to be sharing his thoughts of discretion because he landed gently half a league away and his wings vanished. He cantered for most of the rest of the distance, a smooth, elegant gait that left Rùnach feeling as if he were sitting on a comfortable chair in his grandfather’s library.
Iteach stopped fifty paces before the walls. Rùnach supposed his steed might have continued on a bit farther in different circumstances, but an arrow sailed through the air with a whistling sound, then went to ground right in front of them. Iteach stopped, snorted, then did a lovely bit of piaffe until Rùnach begged him to stop. Rùnach slid off the saddle, rather more grateful than he could say for a solid horse who didn’t seem to mind when he used him to lean on until he’d gotten his feet underneath him.
He carried Aisling across the remaining distance, followed closely by his horse. Perhaps he looked harmless enough, for no other arrows came his way. Or, perhaps they were waiting until they had a sure shot before they wasted any more. He had no idea and decided he wouldn’t bother asking.
He stood instead at the gate in the driving rain and kicked at the gate because he had no hands for it. At least, for a change, that wasn’t because his hands didn’t work. His arms, however, were shaking so badly, he thought he might drop Aisling before he managed to get her to safety.
A small panel slid back and a lamp appeared. That was followed in good time by a long, pointed nose.
“Who are ye?”
“Travelers seeking refuge,” Rùnach said, loudly, over the sound of the howling wind.
The gatekeeper seemed to be in no hurry, despite the nastiness of the weather. “We have many travelers here—”
“Oh, bloody hell, just open the door,” Rùnach exclaimed. “You know you must offer refuge to all who seek it.”
The panel slid shut, the bolt was pulled back, then the gate creaked on its hinges until only the gatekeeper stood in Rùnach’s way. He held up the lantern.
“Name, or ye don’t pass.”
Rùnach opened his mouth, then shut it. He knew that Nicholas had cultivated anonymity at his university, so it was impossible to give the man in front of him the entirety of his name. He wasn’t sure if anyone knew who Mhorghain truly was or whom she had wed, but he didn’t dare count on that either. He looked at the gatekeeper.
“I am called Rùnach,” he said, finally.
The gatekeeper, Master James if Mhorghain were to be believed, pursed his lips, then motioned to a lad who turned and bolted into the darkness.
Master James looked at Aisling. “Ill, is she?”
“Senseless, rather.”
“But she’s not dead,” Master James said, peering into her face. He looked at another of the lads waiting there for something useful to do. “Lead this man to the infirmary,” he said briskly. He looked back at Rùnach. “Someone will be waiting for you.”
Rùnach could only hope so. He nodded to Master James, then followed the lad along paths that led past gardens and buildings, and finally to a large courtyard surrounded by a beautiful portico. Rùnach would have perhaps admired it another time. At the moment he was simply glad to be out of the rain.
He rubbed his face on his shoulder, trying to get the water out of his eyes. He blinked, then realized that there was someone standing in front of him.
That Nicholas of Lismòr didn’t seem to be particularly surprised to see him didn’t surprise him at all. His uncle was, after all, the former wizard king of Diarmailt, which wasn’t exactly a realm known for its pastoral and unremarkable nature. Strange happenings there, or so the tales went. Rùnach didn’t want to know what his uncle was capable of.
Nicholas only nodded gravely at him and sent Rùnach’s escort back to the front gates. Rùnach followed the lord of Lismòr around the edge of that large courtyard until they came to a long passageway. Nicholas paused in front of a door, opened it, then stood back for Rùnach to enter.
The chamber was lit by candles driving the darkness back into the corners. A fire burned brightly in the hearth. Nicholas said nothing but Rùnach was suddenly standing there in dry clothes.
Rùnach sighed lightly.
Nicholas undid the clasp of Aisling’s cloak, then helped Rùnach get her into bed. Rùnach was willing to pull off her boots, but he could go no further than that. He supposed that didn’t matter. Aisling’s clothes had obviously been just as enspelled as his. Nicholas put his hand against her forehead and was very still for several moments. Then he sighed, drew the covers up over her, then went to pull up a chair by her bedside. He looked up at Rùnach.
“Make yourself at home, nephew,” he said with a smile.
Rùnach realized he was still standing there with his gear on his back and his cloak almost choking him. He took off his cloak, shrugged out of his pack, and collapsed into the chair opposite his uncle.
“Will Master James see to my horse?”
“What horse?”
Rùnach opened his mouth, then shut it. “Never mind.”
Nicholas smiled. “A gift from Sgath?”
“How did you know—nay, don’t tell me.” Rùnach shivered. “I don’t want to know how you know anything.”
“I imagine you don’t.” He reached out and brushed Aisling’s hair back from her face. “What befell this lovely gel here?”
“I have no idea,” Rùnach said, rubbing his hands together restlessly. “We were seeking shelter at the hearth of an old woman, just off the road to Bere. She saw a spinning wheel.” He looked at Nicholas. “She touched it and fainted.”
“Is that all?” Nicholas asked politely.
Rùnach blew out his
breath. “Of course not. Before she put her hand to the wood, she set it spinning without touching it and after she touched it, she babbled in a tongue I couldn’t understand.”
“Before she fainted.”
“Aye,” Rùnach said wearily. “That is the order of events.”
“Interesting. Who is she?”
“Her name is Aisling. Past that, I don’t know.”
Nicholas smiled. “Rùnach, lad, you’ve lost your touch. I heard tales that you could, in your youth, walk into a ball and leave every lass in the place tripping over anything in her way in order to press her name on you. Fights ensued, or so I was told.”
Rùnach pursed his lips. “And who told you that?”
“Desdhemar of Neroche, actually,” Nicholas said. “You were kind to her son. I think she appreciated it.”
“And I think I might have slipped her a coveted spell or two,” Rùnach said dryly, “which I imagine she appreciated more.”
“I imagine that’s true,” Nicholas agreed. He was interrupted by a knock. “Ah, supper. That is most welcome. William, come!”
Rùnach didn’t argue as Nicholas drew up a small table between them and his page set down a hearty meal. He attempted a bit of polite conversation, but Nicholas waved him on with a smile.
“Don’t stand on ceremony with me, my boy. I’ve never been inside Gobhann, but I’ve heard tell of its culinary wonders.”
“How did you know I was in—” Rùnach held up his hand. “Again, never mind.”
“You give me too much credit,” Nicholas said easily. “I overheard you at your sister’s wedding saying it was in your plans, and I didn’t doubt you would make good on the threat. But I won’t force you to delve into the reasons for that choice at present. Eat in peace, my lad. We’ll discuss other things tomorrow.”
Rùnach was happy to take advantage of the invitation. He tucked in contentedly to food that tasted as if it had actually been made with the intention of humans not only eating but enjoying it, finished with a few sips of an elegant, delicate wine, then sat back with a deep sigh of pleasure.
“Better than Gobhann?” Nicholas asked, his eyes twinkling.
“Please,” Rùnach said with feeling, “let’s not discuss it.”
“Then let us choose a different comparison. Was this superior to Buidseachd?”
“That depends on which table you’re talking about,” Rùnach said. “The buttery is, as I’m sure you know, vile, but I didn’t eat in the buttery.”
“Soilléir is a bit more choosey about his fare, is that it?”
“Thankfully,” Rùnach said with feeling. “And I was the beneficiary of that for many years.”
Nicholas studied him. “And what did you find during those many years you were there? Anything interesting?”
“A few things I gave to Miach at Buidseachd earlier in the year, but nothing else of note.”
“And did you find anything interesting in Gobhann?”
Rùnach shot his uncle a sharp look. “Terrible food, endless amounts of work, and Lothar of Wychweald, though I’m guessing you aren’t surprised by any of those.”
“Encounter him, did you?” Nicholas asked mildly.
“I thought the worst would be having to listen to him sing at all hours, but I fear it was much worse than that.” He nodded toward Aisling. “He stabbed her, though I’m not sure why.”
“Don’t you know?”
Rùnach dragged his hand through his hair. “Have I told you how much I loathe riddles?”
Nicholas only laughed. “Consider it a mystery, then.”
“I’m not sure that makes it any more palatable,” Rùnach said grimly, “but I’ll play, if it pleases you. Nay, I don’t know anything about her save she doesn’t tolerate lobelia very well. She’s obviously too thin, rather delicate, and has absolutely no skill in defending herself despite a pair of days with Weger conducting her lessons. And Lothar I’m sure thought her nothing more than a convenient target.”
“In the last, you might be right,” Nicholas conceded. He looked at Aisling for a moment or two, then back at Rùnach. “Who healed her?”
“Weger, if you can believe it.”
Nicholas laughed softly. “I’m actually surprised he managed an entire spell when what was likely tumbling out of his mouth were curses.”
Rùnach nodded, though he found himself suddenly thinking less about Weger’s abundant collection of foul epitaphs in several languages than the look Weger had given Aisling after he’d healed her.
As if he’d seen something that…awed him.
Rùnach looked at the woman lying in that bed, still as death, and wondered what had felled her and what would remain of her once she woke. If she woke.
He looked at Nicholas. “Can you heal her?”
Nicholas smiled. “There was no need for healing, Rùnach. She was overcome by something and had no recourse but to fall senseless.”
“What sort of something?”
“Oh, I imagine it isn’t really very interesting.”
“Isn’t it?”
“She’ll wake to herself,” Nicholas said, as if he hadn’t heard Rùnach, or perhaps had heard him but didn’t want to discuss the subject further. “I wouldn’t have fed you supper if there hadn’t been aught to do.”
Rùnach could only nod, because he should have realized that.
“Sleep is what you need, my boy. You can have the chamber next door if you like, or William can make you up a pallet here before the fire. Aisling will be safe either way, I promise you.”
“I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”
He listened to the words come out of his mouth and couldn’t for the life of him decide where they’d come from. He had the tatters of his former plans to gather up and try to weave back together and Aisling had…well, he had no idea what Aisling had.
If I touch it, I’ll die.
He frowned thoughtfully. That was an odd thing to say. Had it been her mother to so thoroughly warn her off her own spinning wheel that Aisling had continued to believe it far past the age when she should have relegated the words to a mere childhood warning?
Odder still that she had touched it just the same, as if she simply hadn’t been able to stop herself.
Well, that wasn’t precisely true either. She had sent the wheel spinning without touching it. An unmagical woman who had walked into Gobhann with no cloak and no boots had smoothed her hand over air and sent a spinning wheel turning. And then when she had reached out and touched the wood, she had gasped, babbled in a tongue he didn’t recognize, then fallen as if she were dead.
“Mysterious, wouldn’t you agree?”
Rùnach pulled himself back to himself and looked at his uncle. “I’m not sure she’s a mystery I want to solve.”
Nicholas only smiled pleasantly. “What a terrible liar you’ve become there in that hovel so loftily termed a school.”
Rùnach would have protested further, but he knew there was no point. He could perhaps tell himself all day that he wasn’t interested in the things swirling around that very plain, very simple gel from some obscure corner of the Nine Kingdoms, but he would be lying.
The first thing he would start with was that language she had murmured in her unguarded moments.
He looked at his uncle. “How is your library these days?”
“Robustly stocked with all manner of interesting tomes. And when you’ve exhausted your search there, you might come have a peek at the more dangerous things kept in my solar.”
Rùnach found himself unable to keep from smiling. “Then perhaps when our patient awakes, we should make a visit there.”
“I do have a lovely hearth.”
“I imagine you do, my lord.”
Nicholas called William, who helped him clear away the dishes and move the table. “I’ll return in a bit,” he said, putting his hand on Rùnach’s shoulder briefly. “I’ll bring you something to read should she sleep longer than you do.”
“T
hank you, my lord,” Rùnach said. “For that and the refuge.”
“Always, Rùnach. Always.”
Rùnach watched William make up a cot for him in front of the fire. He thanked the lad, then took Nicholas’s chair and simply stared at Aisling by the light of the fire and the candles, which had magically dimmed to just the right brightness.
He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. He hadn’t intended to be sitting in comfort at Lismòr, he’d intended to be freezing his arse off in Gobhann. He touched the spot over his brow where Weger had tried to brand him, not once but twice, and wondered how it was possible his face could hurt him so badly yet there be no mark there to show there was a reason he winced every time his hair brushed his brow.
That was a bit of a mystery, as well.
Though he was more interested, he had to admit, in the secrets of the lass lying in the bed in front of him. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at her, wondering who she was and where in the Nine Kingdoms she had learned a tongue that he absolutely didn’t recognize, a tongue that had left a soldier with almost seven centuries of living to his tally almost speechless with wonder.
“My lord?”
Rùnach jumped in spite of himself. The next words out of his mouth were almost I’m no lord, but he supposed there was no point in bothering. He smiled at Nicholas’s page.
“Aye, William?”
“My lord Nicholas asked me to bring you these things,” he said, handing Rùnach a basket. “Books he thought you might like, as well as sheaves of parchment and pen and ink, if you feel the need to scribble down the odd note.”
“Take him my thanks, would you?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Rùnach waited until he’d pulled the door shut behind him before he peered into the basket to see what Nicholas had sent along. Along with tools for taking notes, there was a book on the detailed political geography of the Nine Kingdoms, a rather thick book entitled The Etymology of Curses, which left him smiling, and a slim, illustrated volume on sheep, the wool they produced, and spinning techniques used in turning those various types of wool into thread for weaving and yarn for knitting. Rùnach set the last aside for Aisling, should she be able to look at it without screaming, along with the book on curses, and opened the tome about the political geography of the Nine Kingdoms.