Dreamspinner

by Lynn Kurland

  “Well,” she said, “at least that’s the end of him.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  She was vaguely dissatisfied with that, but she was weary, so she decided that her unease and discomfort was merely due to needing sleep. She looked at Rùnach and tried to smile.

  “I think I must retire.”

  “Here by the fire, perhaps?”

  “Aye. I can see to a pallet—”

  “Of course you won’t,” he said promptly. He smiled at her. “You, Mistress Aisling, are far too independent for my chivalry. Go fuss with your hair or whatever it is you gels do to prepare for long hours of beauty slumber and I will see to your luxurious couch.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “It is, as always, my pleasure.”

  She moved out of his way and went across the chamber on the pretense of making ready for bed. In truth, all she could do was think about that poor family of Gair’s who had been slain. She wondered about Gair’s wife, Sarait, and why she had left the splendor—admittedly simply rumored, not verified—of elven halls to link her life with a man who loved evil and not good.

  She supposed Sglaimir was of that ilk, though she had never met him and couldn’t verify if his reputedly unpleasant qualities were due to magecraft or not.

  She watched Rùnach thoughtfully for a moment or two, then remembered something he’d said once about his family having been slain by his father. Perhaps he understood, then, the horrors that might be perpetrated by a father with too much power and lack of pity. At least his father hadn’t had magic—

  But Rùnach’s sister Morgan did.

  Aisling realized she hadn’t slept enough. Picking through the threads of conversation and memories and words that swirled around her was difficult. Perhaps she had heard Morgan awrong. She couldn’t say she knew anything about magic, indeed she hardly believed in its existence, but it was odd that it should skip Rùnach to find home in Morgan.

  Then again, what did she know? She was a simple weaver from a country no one could possibly care about, charged with a quest that was far beyond her ability to accomplish, enjoying for a very brief time the chivalry of a man who would no doubt very soon take up his own business. He hadn’t, after all, promised to do anything past getting her to Tor Neroche. What he would do now was anyone’s guess.

  She didn’t have the luxury of wondering about her future. It had been a very lovely pair of days and she was very grateful for the refuge, but the sword of doom still hung over her head. She was even more convinced of that now that she’d had an evening full of fantastical things that her companions apparently believed were completely true.

  Five days. She had five more days before the three fortnights had slipped into memory.

  She would be about her quest first thing in the morning.

  Twenty-three

  Rùnach made his way along passageways, up and down stairs, until he reached the great hall. The hour was appallingly early, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. It wasn’t that his dreams had been troubled, for he never dreamed. It was just that there were threads that had been woven into his life that had suddenly begun to form a pattern.

  A pattern he didn’t care for.

  He supposed he wouldn’t have given any of those threads any particular thought except to dismiss them as quickly as possible if it hadn’t been for all the tales Miach had told them the night before.

  He would give his brother-in-law credit for knowing some of the most obscure and pointless stories full of romance and ridiculous heroics. And those hadn’t even been the stories about Heroes from Neroche, which Rùnach was fully convinced had been so shamelessly embellished over the years that they bore absolutely no resemblance to the actual events.

  But there had been one tale, one simple, random tale of a lad from Diarmailt who had once upon a very long time ago had an adventure he hadn’t cared at all for simply because he’d been a scholar who had mistakenly handed a greedy mage something he hadn’t meant to and hadn’t had the means to get it back. The mage had been Dorchadas of Saothair, father of the resident evil at Buidseachd. The scholar had been some lad Rùnach had never heard of, which had likely been for the lad’s own good, for he would have gone down in history as one of the biggest fools ever born.

  Rùnach was quite sure Miach hadn’t told the tale to poke at him, but rather to prove to Aisling that there was indeed evil in the world and mages willing to use that evil to their own ends. But it had left him thinking on things he would rather not have thought on.

  He stopped in front of the doors to the great hall. He was faintly surprised to find the guards not only opening the door for him but bowing as they did so. He realized then that he had once again forgotten to shield his face. He suppressed a sigh, nodded politely to them both, then walked into the hall.

  He found the king of Neroche sitting on the edge of the high table, swinging his legs back and forth as if he’d been a lad of approximately eight summers. He was talking to his now-eldest brother, Prince Cathar, who was the only one of the pair to have any respect for the trappings of his office for he at least had his feet on the floor.

  Cathar turned immediately to see to whom the footfalls belonged. Rùnach wasn’t surprised to see that his right hand was twitching. Miach was fortunate to have such a brother standing at his side, ready to defend him. Cathar clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head politely.

  “Prince Rùnach.”

  “Prince Cathar.”

  Miach laughed a little. “And now we have the formalities over with, let’s move on to other things. Why are you up so early?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Rùnach said. “You?”

  Miach shook his head. “Too much on my mind.”

  “Anything besides romantic fluff?” Rùnach asked politely.

  Miach considered. “A pair of things, actually,” he said slowly. “The first isn’t anything you don’t already know.” He picked up a sheaf of paper from off the table. “Here, read this.”

  Rùnach accepted the missive from his brother-in-law, read it as he’d been bid, then sighed. “Well, it was lovely of Weger to let you know Lothar had declined further hospitality at Gobhann. A pity he couldn’t have let us know a bit sooner, or how the deed was accomplished. There is such nuance to escaped.”

  “Sending Lothar to Gobhann probably wasn’t a very good idea in the first place,” Miach said, “though at the time it seemed the easiest solution. That, and I couldn’t help but think it would bring Weger a bit of pleasure to be able to give his grandsire back a bit of his own. But now the burden lies again with me to see to him, which is as it should have been from the start.”

  Rùnach couldn’t disagree, but he didn’t suppose Miach needed to hear that. He waited, but Miach wasn’t moving. “Well?” he prompted finally, when it looked as if Miach wasn’t going to do anything but continue to sit there, swinging his legs back and forth. “You said there were two things. What’s the other?”

  Miach looked at him, his pale eyes full of something another might have called concern. “A puzzle,” he said. “I’m not sure I know what to make of it.”

  Rùnach watched Miach reach behind him, then hand over a sheaf of paper, all without comment. Rùnach took it, then frowned. It looked as if part of it had been torn—and not very well. He looked at Miach, but the king of Neroche only shrugged. Rùnach frowned again, then read:

  This poor wizardling here refused to give me what we bargained for, but now I know where to go to have it.

  Fair warning

  Rùnach dropped the sheaf of paper with the same alacrity he would have a live asp. Cathar leaned over and retrieved it, then set it on the high table, without comment.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Miach asked. “It would appear that someone found our guest in the crofter’s shed. Lothar was—how would you describe it, Cathar?”

  “Worse for wear,” Cathar said succinctly.

  “Lothar was worse for wear,” Miach re
peated. “And I believe he was so angry at having a note pinned to his tunic, he tried to tear it apart with his teeth.”

  “Did you find the missing piece,” Rùnach asked faintly. “The bit after the fair warning?”

  Cathar shook his head. “I was too busy trying to stay out of Lothar’s way. He is bound, but he can roll and kick.”

  Rùnach walked away. He realized he was cursing, but it seemed to help keep him where he was instead of being scattered in a thousand different directions, so he kept at it. He turned and walked back to the table.

  “This is very bad.”

  Miach looked at him in surprise. “Well, I’ll admit it isn’t good that Lothar was found, but surely the note means nothing—”

  “Acair wrote that,” Rùnach said flatly.

  Miach looked at him for a moment or two, then blinked. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Acair of Ceangail,” Rùnach said.

  “I know who you meant,” Miach said, slightly impatiently, “but I’m not sure why you would think of him. He’s dead.”

  Rùnach folded his arms over his chest, because he thought it might give him something to do besides wring his hands. “How do you know?”

  Miach exchanged a brief frown with Cathar, then looked back at him. “After that last battle, we went inside the keep to fetch out Adhémar and Adaira. Cathar found a note in Lothar’s study written by Acair saying he had traded Gair’s spell of Diminishing for Lothar’s help in ridding Ceangail of the rest of his brothers.”

  “He lied,” Rùnach said promptly. “He never had that spell to give.”

  “I didn’t imagine he had,” Miach said slowly. “I simply assumed that Acair had tried to double-cross Lothar and paid the price.”

  “Did you see a body?” Rùnach demanded.

  “I wasn’t looking for a body—”

  “Then he’s not dead.”

  Miach looked at him as if he were mad. “Rùnach, this is Lothar we’re talking about. You know what he’s capable of.”

  “You would know better than I,” Rùnach said, not intending the words to wound, “for which I assure you I grieved with Soilléir every day you were locked in his dungeon. And because you were witness to what I only heard reports of, tell me exactly how many bodies of mages Lothar had destroyed did he not put on display somewhere, either in his hall or on his land.”

  Miach was motionless. “How could I possibly know that?”

  “Very well,” Rùnach said carefully, “how many mages that he destroyed in front of you did he put on display where you could admire them every day?”

  Miach closed his eyes briefly. “Every last one.”

  “Precisely,” Rùnach said. “If Acair had died, his corpse would have been dressed in velvets and displayed outside Lothar’s front door until the sea had rotted it to mere bones and tatters. Such a trophy would never have simply been buried.”

  Miach pulled back, as if he’d just encountered something fragrantly vile in his supper. He considered, then shook his head. “I want to believe you, Rùnach, truly I do, but there was no possible way to escape that chamber.”

  “The seventh and final son of Gair of Ceangail and the witchwoman of Fàs?” Rùnach said flatly. “He has the full force of the power both parents possessed, and he’s devious as hell. I’m not sure any of us knows exactly what he’s capable of.”

  Miach considered, then looked at Cathar. “I suppose that chamber in Riamh where we found Acair’s note earlier this spring wasn’t exactly freshly dusted, was it?”

  Cathar shook his head. “I would imagine no one had been there for several fortnights, at least.”

  Rùnach started to speak, then shook his head. He dragged his hand through his hair, then finally surrendered to the urge to pace. Miach’s floor was made for it. Lovely blue slate with just the right amount of smoothness to make it beautiful but the occasional patch of rough stone so that a man with things troubling him didn’t slip whilst about his pacing and fall upon his arse.

  He stopped and looked at Cathar.

  “How much worse for wear?”

  “Do you want me to describe it for you?” Cathar asked, sounding as if he would have liked nothing better. “Lothar was extremely bruised and battered, but more interestingly, he was almost out of his head with rage. I would imagine whoever had found him had kicked him around quite a bit, then stayed to chat. And that note was pinned to the front of him as if he’d been a wee lad whose mother had sent him off to school with a message to the master?” He smirked. “A truly lovely piece of work, that.” He shook his head, then let out a long breath. “And whilst this has been lovely, all this Fadaire is giving me a headache. If you two lads will excuse me, I need a drink. I’ll let you know, brother, if I hear anything else.”

  Rùnach realized only then what he was speaking. He watched Cathar make Miach a low bow, had a firm hand on his shoulder in turn, then watched Cathar stride purposefully from the great hall. He looked back at Miach who was only shaking his head wryly.

  “He bows to annoy me.”

  Rùnach smiled in spite of himself. “He has always loved you unreasonably. I daresay you couldn’t ask for a better advisor.”

  “He is one,” Miach agreed. “And here is my other.”

  Rùnach glanced over his shoulder to see his sister walking across the hall toward them. He leaned against the table, because every time he saw her, he was startled yet again. A little support for his poor form wasn’t unwelcome.

  “You think she looks so much like her, then?” Miach murmured.

  “My mother? Aye, she does. But they are very different.” He looked at Miach quickly. “Not that Mhorghain isn’t elegant or lovely.”

  Miach laughed a little. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, brother. I knew your mother too. I daresay she would be proud of how you’ve both turned out.” He hopped down off the table and drew his wife into his arms. “You’re up early.”

  “You were gone and I had the feeling you were about business I wanted to be a part of.” Mhorghain looked up and met his eyes. “My love.”

  Miach laughed a little, kissed her thoroughly, then linked his fingers behind her back, keeping her trapped. “Very well, you’ve properly wooed me right from the start. Though the only reason you’ll stay is because this doesn’t involve you.”

  Mhorghain rolled her eyes, pushed out of her husband’s arms, and gestured for him to sit back up on the table. She put her hand on the table, then looked at Rùnach purposely. “Well?”

  Rùnach waved Miach on. “You tell her. I think I haven’t the stomach for it.”

  He did, however, listen to Miach’s very brief recounting of the events so far, because he couldn’t help himself. He helped himself to a bit more pacing, but that didn’t ease him.

  “You’re convinced it was this Acair,” Mhorghain said slowly.

  “Fair warning was his preferred signature,” Rùnach said, trying to keep his lip from curling. “The arrogant little bastard.”

  “I believe, Rùnach, that he’s at least fifty years older than you are,” Miach ventured.

  “Yet he looks not a day over a score,” Rùnach muttered. “He gets that from his father.”

  “What does he mean by now I know where to go,” Mhorghain asked slowly. She looked at Miach. “Is he talking about a place, do you think, or a person?”

  Rùnach rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you think he wants?” she pressed. “Specifically.”

  Rùnach looked his sister full in the face. “The spell of Diminishing, as always.”

  She wore the same what-is-that-in-my-stew look that Miach had just recently worn. They had obviously already spent too much time together. She managed to shake off her disgust more quickly than her husband, but he supposed that came from all that bracing discipline learned at Gobhann.

  “Mages,” she said in disgust. “What an unruly lot.”

  Rùnach exchanged a very brief s
mile with Miach. Some things never changed, apparently.

  “So, what you’re saying,” Mhorghain continued, “is that Acair had gone to Riamh to trade the spell of Diminishing—which he didn’t have—for Lothar’s aid in casting everyone out from Ceangail—which he wasn’t interested in.” She looked at her husband. “That makes no sense, unless he intended to attempt to wrest Lothar’s spell of Taking from him and start his collection with that.”

  “That’s possible,” Miach agreed.

  “But how did he know where to find Lothar this morning?”

  Rùnach swore. He realized he should have paid better heed to his first suspicion, which was that he had indeed seen his bastard brother walking toward Gobhann that morning on Melksham Island. Perhaps Acair had indeed overheard Miach talking earlier in the year about where Lothar was to be sent. If so, it was also possible that he had been loitering outside Weger’s gates, perhaps even waiting for Lothar to come out. And if that was true, he had likely followed Lothar with the intention of having a little tête-à-tête out in the open where he might not be so easily bested.

  Which boded ill for them all, actually.

  Rùnach took a deep breath. “I think I saw Acair on Melksham.”

  “What?” Miach said incredulously.

  “I thought I was mistaken,” Rùnach said slowly, “but now I’m beginning to think perhaps not. Nicholas suggested as much, though I scoffed at it.”

  “And you think Acair knew Lothar was at Gobhann?” Mhorghain asked in surprise. “How is that possible?”

  Miach looked at her grimly. “I wasn’t careful when discussing where to put Lothar,” he said. “I have no idea who might have been listening.” He looked at Rùnach. “I hesitate to say this, but if Acair knew Lothar was in Gobhann and was possibly waiting for him, could he have seen you leave the keep?”

  “Impossible,” Rùnach said, though he realized there was hardly any sound to the word. He started to speak, then shook his head. “Aisling and I left in the middle of the night. Besides, Acair thought I was dead. They all thought I died at the well. If he had known I lived, he would have attacked me in Buidseachd long before now.”