The White Spell (29 page)

Acair looked at him in surprise. “That's all? I was intending to do that just the same, for Léirsinn's sake.”

“Do for mine as well.” Hearn paused, then swore quite inventively for a bit before he seemingly ran out of vile things to say. “That lad I told you about?” he asked grimly. “The one who went mad?”

“Aye, I remember him,” Acair said slowly. “And?”

“He's my son.”

Acair had to shake his head a time or two, but that didn't aid him in ridding himself of his surprise. He settled finally for looking at Hearn in astonishment. “You're wed? I should say, I knew you had sons, rather, but, ah, I've never seen—”

“We don't live together any longer,” Hearn said shortly. “We see each other now and again and I see that she lives a life of luxury, but the truth is, I drive her to drink. My youngest son is with her and has been for the past month. She fears he will simply sit still for so long that he'll stop breathing.” He looked at Acair. “Find who creates those, stop him, then tell me how to heal my lad. That is my price.”

Acair held out his hand. “Done.”

“Say nothing—and if you give me your word as an honorable black mage, I will flatten you.”

Acair smiled briefly. “My word as Sgath's grandson, then.”

Hearn shook his hand, then nodded briskly. “I'll go speak to your mount.”

“Thank you.”

“You may regret that,” Hearn said airily, as if they'd been discussing nothing of import but a moment or two before. “That one is a demon.”

Acair watched Hearn walk off and supposed if he'd been paying less attention, he might have suspected he'd imagined the whole thing. He wasn't sure if he were more surprised that Hearn was wed or that one of his sons was the one who had gone mad.

There were foul things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms.

He was beginning to wonder why he seemed to be encountering them so often.

•   •   •

T
heir leave-taking was accomplished with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever. Hearn shook Acair's hand, patted Léirsinn fondly on the shoulder, then turned and walked back inside his gates as if he didn't know either of them. Off to do other things, perhaps.

“What now?” Léirsinn asked, holding Falaire's reins.

“Tor Neroche, if we can manage it,” Acair said. “'Tis a fair distance, even in the air, but at least we're getting an early start.”

“Acair, it's halfway to noon.”

“As I said,” he said. “Early.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. He had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to smile back at her. He took the reins of his . . . well, the beast was a horse at the moment, but he supposed that wouldn't last. He fussed with reins, made a production of looking at stirrups and a saddle whilst having absolutely no idea if they were settled properly or not, then gave himself up for lost. The seventh bastard son of the worst black mage in history and his lover the witchwoman of Fàs finding himself smitten with a flame-haired stable lass?

He was in trouble.

But, hopeless romantic that he was, he couldn't help but think about it a bit more as they flew. Sianach was apparently on his best behavior, though Acair was sure that had nothing to do with him. Léirsinn had talked to him before they'd taken flight and she was obviously the sort of horsewoman a pony wanted to make a good impression on. He had to admit he understood.

What he didn't understand, as the morning turned into afternoon, was why the hell he'd spent so much time not paying any heed to his surroundings. He realized with a start that he should have been concentrating on what was going on behind him instead of who was riding beside him.

A clutch of black mages in flight. He recognized the type.

They were hardly past Chagailt, not that anyone there would have let him inside the doors anyway, but at least it would have been some sort of shelter. As it was, they were simply flying over the endless plains of Neroche, completely out in the open, perfectly visible to anyone who cared to look up.

Damn it anyway.

He looked at Léirsinn. “We're in trouble,” he shouted over the wind.

“Why?” she asked, obviously startled.

He nodded back over his shoulder. He would have warned her not to look, but it was too late. He had no idea how many there were, but he would have guessed a dozen at least. That alone surprised him. It wasn't as if he had anything anyone wanted—

Was it?

Perhaps putting his foot in that shadow had stirred up a great deal more trouble than he'd thought.

Either that, or some busybody—Ehrne of Ainneamh came immediately to mind—had sent word to as many vile mages as he could that Acair was out in the open without his usual protections to hand.

Good hell, it was just impossible to move about as a normal mage with his past that trailed after him like sparks. Unfortunately what was trailing after those mesmerizing sparks was a burgeoning cloud of blackness that was rapidly darkening the sky.

It occurred to him with a startling flash of clarity that he had seen the beginnings of that storm the night before as he'd stood in Hearn's courtyard. More the fool was he for not having paid better heed to it.

“What are they doing?” Léirsinn exclaimed.

“Theatrics,” Acair said succinctly.

He would know. He'd done the same thing hundreds of times. Black mages were pompous gits, there was no getting around that.

Unfortunately, whoever those lads behind him were, they were
very good at several things not limited to a showy display. He might not have been able to use his magic, but he had two perfectly good eyes and a nose for all kinds of untoward things. That cloud of mage was gaining on him rapidly, more rapidly than a group of neophytes would have managed. He didn't have the patience to try to identify them, but he supposed that didn't matter. If they caught up, they would first slay Léirsinn, then they would take him off to places he wouldn't want to go, do things to him he wouldn't like, then watch him as he enjoyed a lingering, painful death.

He knew. He'd watched it be done. Whether or not he'd done it himself was something he didn't think was particularly useful to bring to mind at the moment.

He considered his mount, who was wearing a modest but rather fierce-looking pegasus shape, then wondered what else the horse might be willing to do. He wasn't quite sure how to communicate that query, so he thought perhaps a gentle suggestion might be a good place to start.

“We're going to have to go faster, you demon steed,” he bellowed.

Sianach paused in mid-flap, leaving Acair wondering if the damned beast was in league with those lads behind him. Then his mount tossed his head and showed Acair a mental image of an evil intention speeding across countries as quickly as a piece of palace gossip.

“I'll be damned,” Acair said in surprise. He looked at Léirsinn and held out his hand. “Jump.”

“What?” she squeaked. “Are you mad?”

“Jump,” he said impatiently. “Sianach will go very fast. Bring your horse along.”

If there was one thing that could be said without reservation about that horse-mad gel, it was that she didn't lack courage. She pulled her feet out of her stirrups and jumped. She almost knocked him off his own mount, truth be told, but he managed to catch her and keep his seat. Barely. Falaire had to struggle to keep up with them, then he seemed to gather himself together for a final bit of a
change. Léirsinn scarce managed to catch him as he flung himself toward them in the solid shape of a lovely little pewter pony. Eulasaid's influence, obviously. Well, if nothing else, they could throw him very hard at someone and perhaps leave a mark.

“Hold on,” Acair managed as he felt Sianach gather himself for a bit of equine magic.

And that was the last thing he said for quite some time.

He would have to give Léirsinn as much credit as possible. She didn't scream or faint and she would have been justified with either. He had no idea what Sianach considered himself at present, but it was something only slightly more substantial than horse-shaped air. His speed was terrifying and Acair thought he might be qualified to judge that given that he was someone who had craved speed like another might crave sweet wine after supper. He shifted Léirsinn toward him and tried to wrap his cloak around her to cut some of the wind. It was hopeless, of course, but she didn't complain.

It turned into a perfectly horrible afternoon, even by his very low standards of comfort acceptable whilst being chased by mages with his death on their minds. Sianach was nothing short of spectacular and Acair supposed he might have to do more than what he'd promised Hearn in order to properly repay him.

“They're gaining on us!”

Acair looked over his shoulder and realized she spoke the truth. He swore, then looked down to see where they were. He could hardly believe they had come so far north so quickly, but there was no denying the lay of the land, as it were. He supposed
without words
was Sianach's preferred way of communications, so he asked—

And almost fell off backward from that hint of horse.

He clung with one hand to the reins, which looked as if they were attached to nothing more than a fond wish, clutched Léirsinn to him with the other arm, and tried to distract himself.

It was impossible. The truth was, he'd been watching Léirsinn ride that grey beast and he'd seen the speed that one had achieved. He'd been rather relieved it had been her riding the wind, as it were,
and not him. But what Sianach was managing at the moment was much more than that. It was as if he'd become the bitterest of winter winds screaming across the plains of Ailean.

Acair laughed before he could stop himself. It shouldn't have been possible that he had forgotten so quickly what true flying felt like, but apparently it was.

It was, in a word, glorious.

“You're mad!” Léirsinn shouted.

Most likely
was half torn from his mouth before he realized that his pleasure was going to be short-lived. The black cloud behind him that had become a terrible, terrifying storm was so close to them, he could feel the cold reaching for him. Sianach could obviously sense it as well for he suddenly fell from the sky like a bolt of lightning.

“We're going to die!”

Acair wasn't entirely sure she didn't have that right, but they were within Neroche's borders, which was something of a relief. He supposed he could point that out to Léirsinn later and tell her how it was he always kept a weather eye out for that silver-blue line that separated their soil from everyone else's, but at the moment, he was too busy being grateful for the spell that accompanied that thin line of border. He suspected most people came and went across that line and under the canopy of that spell without having any idea either existed. He knew, though, and he was, for a change, damned grateful for it.

Even so, the land north of the border was still an endless stretch of farmland, dotted with little hamlets and farms and other pedestrian though no doubt quite useful dwellings. Sianach was hurtling toward an enormous field that looked as if it might be just the right sort of place for a horse to wander over, eating its bloody head off.

In the midst of that expanse of prairie stood a lone figure.

Acair could only hope it was who he hoped it was and not his sire escaped from his prison in Shettlestoune.

The spell guarding Neroche parted long enough for them to
scamper through. Acair supposed he should have discussed with Sianach the need to slow down before he drove them straight into the ground, but thankfully that horse was as intelligent as he was deviously creative. He skidded through the air as he slowed, then he made a rather lazy, impudent circle around the figure in the field before he came to ground in front of the man standing there, simply watching.

Acair squawked as his mount dipped his head in something of a bow, went rolling arse over teakettle over the damned horse's neck, then landed with Léirsinn in an untidy heap in front of a lad who looked far too young to be wearing that hint of a massive crown atop his head.

Acair attempted to untangle himself from his companion, but he found himself too distracted to do more than push himself up far enough to sit, wrap his arms around Léirsinn, and watch as Mochriadhemiach of Neroche did what he did best. Acair had never faced him over spells, but he'd heard tales. He had to admit what he was seeing did the lad credit.

The spells that guarded Neroche kept out some of the rabble, but half a dozen very disreputable sorts had somehow managed to slip through the gates, as it were, and had taken up temporary residence fifty paces away. Acair watched in a good deal of surprise as Sianach turned himself into a barrier covered with a rather substantial spell of protection and set himself in front of them in an advantageous fashion.

Well, if that was how things were going to be, there was no point in not enjoying the rest of the entertainment.

Miach of Neroche was young, true, but the lad was nothing if not inventive and he obviously had a collection of spells that Acair realized he should have taken note of much sooner. Perhaps they could discuss that list over tea at their earliest opportunity.

He kept a running tally of the magics Miach used—one never knew when that sort of thing might come in handy when a spot of extortion was called for—but had to admit that the earliness of his hour of
departure from Aherin was beginning to take its toll. He yawned, patted his mouth discreetly, then finally rested his chin on Léirsinn's shoulder. He suspected he might have closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, but he thought it wise not to admit to anything.

Léirsinn elbowed him at one point. “You're snoring.”

“I never snore,” he said, suspecting that might not be as true as he would have liked. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one of his wrists, then assessed the field of battle.