The White Spell (27 page)

“Aye,” Acair said, “it would be.”

Léirsinn thought it would be more interesting if they took themselves off to cozy up to a keg in Hearn's cellar, but perhaps that would have been rude to suggest.

Hearn rubbed his hands together. “Offer to aid her in her work here if she asks, Acair, then we'll spend a pleasant evening together. You'll want to be on your way in the morning. Your gel there is welcome to come back anytime she likes.”

“And me?”

“If she invites you, I'll always have things for you to shovel.”

Léirsinn smiled to herself as she worked on Turasadhair's mane. She took longer at it likely than she needed to, but it was soothing work, work she knew how to do, and work that never left her facing anything she didn't anticipate.

Exactly the opposite of what her life was offering at present.

She finished eventually, then handed off her gear to one of the stable lads. She left the feeding of the Grey to lads whose business it was, admired him one more time, then let herself out of the stall. She looked at Acair who hadn't moved from his place.

“You lean a great deal, don't you?”

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“Against doorways,” she said, “walls, pillars, mantels.” She shrugged. “That sort of thing.”

“It gives me the opportunity to display my profile, something you can't help but have admired more than once.”

She smiled. “You are a showy pony, aren't you?”

“You should see me when I'm at liberty to shapechange,” he said.
“Women swoon, mere mortals weep in fear, mages grind their teeth. I would suggest that it is very bad for my enormous ego, that sort of thing, but I will admit I enjoy it. Mainly the swooning, but there you have it. I can't turn my back on who I am.”

She leaned against the stall door. “You say these things, yet I'm not sure you mean them.”

“You don't think my ego is enormous?”

“I think your ego is colossal,” she said, “and there are times I believe you almost take yourself seriously.”

He sighed lightly as he joined her in her leaning. “I have the very fine example of my father to keep me from it, if you want the entire truth. He is so enamored of himself, I'm not sure he ever truly notices anyone else. Oh, he'll make you believe he does, for a time, but it never lasts.”

“What does he want, then?”

“Power.” He smiled briefly. “'Tis what every decent mage wants.”

“Why?”

He nodded toward the spectacular horse with his nose as far into his grain bucket as it would go. “Why do you want that horse?”

She took an unsteady breath. “Hearn already forced me to acknowledge this.”

Acair looked at her. “Wouldn't you have a dozen of his like if you had an endless amount of gold in your coffers?”

“You can only work so many horses,” she said.

“But a dozen of that lad's ilk?” he said. “I would hazard a guess the prize might be worth all the work to have it. And so says every mage with a handful of wits rattling around in his head.”

“But you're not trying to acquire more horses. Surely there's a limit to how much power you can use.” She stopped and looked at him. “I can't believe I said those words.”

“Don't make your pony take you outside and prove again what he's capable of.” He nodded knowingly. “Magic, if you weren't clear on what I was referring to.”

“I'm trying to convince myself I dreamed all of it,” she said, then
she breathed deeply. She gestured toward that magnificent, impossibly swift horse in front of them. “That is what I understand. The rest of it? I will continue to call it fanciful imaginings.”

“Cling to that, my gel. Cling to it.”

“I suspect I should.”

He smiled and watched the Grey investigate the depths of his bucket a bit longer. “As for the acquisition of power, who knows why a mage wants more? Perhaps it comes from being afraid someone might have more of it than he does, or perhaps it simply comes from fear he won't have enough.”

She looked at him in surprise. He was looking at her in almost the same way.

“Good hell,” he said faintly. “I believe I have finally shoveled too much manure and lost my mind somewhere in the pile.”

She smiled. “Stable work is good for the soul.”

“Unless you are me, in which case it is very bad for whatever soul I have left.” He shook his head slowly. “I have obviously had too much time on my hands for thinking ridiculous thoughts.”

She shifted so she could still lean against the stall door yet face him. “Are you afraid you won't have enough power, Acair? And keep in mind I can't believe I'm saying those words without indulging in a snort of derision.”

He watched the Grey for another moment or two, then shook his head with a weary smile. “I'm not sure I can give you the answer that question deserves,” he said. “Perhaps there are only so many spells one can have, just as there are only so many horses one can ride. But how can you not wonder if there might be a horse in a stable down the way who might be the one pony in the world to take your breath away?”

She understood. She wasn't sure she wanted to examine whether or not she could bring herself to believe in magic, never mind what she'd seen and ridden, but she could understand the thrill of wondering what might lie around the corner.

Acair offered her his arm. “I can see you have taken a figurative step down that very dangerous path. I've been walking it for years,
so allow me to point out the pitfalls. The first is not taking advantage of decent meals whenever they're offered, so off we go to supper before you plot a course to that horse haven in the East.”

She could have told him she had no intention of traveling so far, but she hadn't intended to leave Sàraichte either. She sighed, took his arm, then walked with him out of the stables and into a beautiful, chilly twilight. She avoided that spot of shadow almost out of habit, then paused on the steps leading up to Hearn's great hall.

“If you have so much power,” she said slowly, “why don't you just destroy that spell you say is following you?”

He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “An excellent question.” He opened his mouth, then stopped. “I was going to pontificate, but I fear I might bore even myself.”

“Be brief, then.”

“Briefly, then,” he agreed. “The magic I fear that spell is fashioned from is of a different and, frankly, unsettling sort.”

“Worse than the spots?”

“
Worse
is relative,” he said. “Most magic is a bit like a suit of clothes. You put it on, you put it on others, but underneath, you are still yourself and your victims—er, I mean those favored enough to enjoy your attentions—still remain who they were. But that thing there?” He shook his head. “I haven't had the stomach to have a look at it over tea, but given who fashioned it, I assume 'tis Cothromaichian rot. Even with as many things as I've seen and, I must admit, used myself, that magic gives me pause. It doesn't simply lay a spell over something whilst leaving the essence of the thing the same, it changes that thing into something else entirely.”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “Ridiculous.”

“The next time you see a birdbath that looks suspiciously as if it might have been a mage not a fortnight earlier, ask it for its opinion on the matter.”

“And have everyone around me think me utterly daft? Never.” She glanced at the spell that seemed to be never more than ten paces away from Acair. She had no way of judging what its purpose was
and she hardly wanted to dignify its existence with a bit of a look, so she ignored it and looked at Acair. “Is this Soilléir person evil?”

He pursed his lips. “Unfortunately he isn't—and this is not a subject you want to bring up with my mother if ever you meet her. She will talk about his code of honor and what a stellar soul he is until you'll be tempted to look for anything to stuff in your ears to have relief from the torment.” He shook his head. “Unless things have changed drastically, he would never use his spells for ill.”

“Then why would he create something to slay you?”

He considered, then looked at her seriously. “Because I deserve it.”

“For someone with your reputation, you're terribly contrite.”

“It has been a very long few months,” he said grimly. “I'm worn down by the sheer force of all the opportunities to do evil that I've missed. I'm sure I'll be right back to my old self when I'm finished with all this business of do-gooding.”

“Do you know any of Soilléir's spells?” she asked, then she laughed a little at herself. “Spells. Can you believe I'm even using that word with any seriousness at all?”

“I might not be the right man to ask about that.”

“I suppose not. So, do you?”

“Know any of those spells?” he asked. He shook his head. “Not a damned one of them.”

“Something you would no doubt like to change.”

He looked at her. “I would give a king's ransom for a single one.”

“Have you offered a king's ransom for a single one?”

“Why do that when there is the challenge of trying to nick one whilst Soilléir is dozing off after supper?”

She couldn't help but smile. “You are a very bad man.”

“As I said,” he said cheerfully. He opened the door, then made her a slight bow. “After you, mistress.”

“Bad man, good manners,” she noted.

“Easier to invade kings' solars when you have decent manners and can make polite conversation at supper.”

She imagined it was.

•   •   •

A
pair of hours later, she was trying and failing to find any ease in a hayloft over the Grey's stall. Hearn had told Acair very sternly that he was welcome to join her there but he was to maintain a circumspect distance. Léirsinn had rolled her eyes. The very last thing she would ever expect from Acair of Ceangail was that he would look at her twice. Her hair, perhaps, but it seemed to unnerve him more than attract him, so she supposed she was safe enough.

That said, she found
him
rather more distracting than perhaps she should have. She finally sighed and turned on her side to look at him as he lay a few feet away from her. He was awake, staring up at the ceiling.

“You think too loudly,” she said.

He smiled. She winced involuntarily. Admittedly, she had heard what she had to believe was a fairly limited list of his bad deeds, but she had a hard time reconciling all that nastiness with the man there. And when he smiled . . . well, she suspected that was all he needed to gain entrance to any solar he cared to frequent.

“You're watching me,” he said, still not looking at her.

“I'm trying to decide how best to plunge you into senselessness so I can sleep.”

His smile deepened, then he looked at her. “You are a very fierce wench.”

“I'm accustomed to managing stallions,” she said.

“Trust me, I've seen you at it.” He turned back to his contemplation of the ceiling. “What did you think of that grey horse down below?”

“I might be tempted to steal a spell or two for him.”

“Ah,” he said in satisfaction, “now you see how it begins. First a little spell here, then a larger spell there, then you're beginning to look further afield to the odd, priceless treasure. Before we know it, you'll be sneaking back into Ehrne of Ainneamh's palace to pinch his crown and sell it to Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn for an eye-watering price.”

“Is that how it begins?” she asked.

“Either that or one starts out to impress one's father, realizes there is no hope, then one continues on because one is an ignorant ass.”

She smiled. “Is
that
how it is?”

He sighed deeply. “Today, I don't know.” He looked at her. “I think there might be an abundance of anger in me.”

“You need a horse.”

“The
last
thing I need is a horse.”

“They're good for a man's soul.”

“But very bad for his arse, which is where on me most of them seem to think their next meal is located.”

She turned toward him and propped herself up on her elbow. “What do you think those shadows are?”

“Something very bad,” he said seriously, “and I would know.”

“Who do you think could have put them there?”

“The list is long,” he said, “and not one I particularly care to make, though I suppose I should. I don't know that doing so would serve either of us given that I couldn't do a damned thing about it even if I knew who was behind that mischief.”

“Which is why we're off to see Soilléir?”

“I,” he corrected. “
I
am off to see Soilléir.” He looked at her then. “In all seriousness, Léirsinn, I think you should stay here.”

“And you think I'm going to argue?”

He looked at her in surprise, then scowled. “I am only surprised that you can spew out those words with any conviction at all. Surely you're planning on coming. The fairness of my face and the truly appalling nature of my reputation are simply too much to resist.”

“Show pony.”

“Red-haired harridan.”

“Careful,” she warned. “Too much more flattery such as that and I will become as insufferable as you are.”

“I'm not sure you could,” he said seriously, “and your hair is beautiful. As are you. Now, go to sleep so I can think. You're distracting me with all this feminine chatter. And I
will
leave you behind, just so you know.”

“Nay, you won't.”

He blew out his breath and turned back to his study of the roof, but he said nothing.

She watched him watch the ceiling for a bit longer, trying to ignore the appalling fairness of his face and the inescapable realization that he was who he apparently was.