The White Spell (36 page)

She looked away, but finding Miach in her sights was worse. Whatever it meant to be king of Neroche in practical terms was nothing when compared to what it meant for him to be a mage king in that realm. He was Neroche and Neroche was him and she couldn't begin to separate the two or find the words to describe what she saw in him. She fancied he could have cracked the world in two with a word if he'd so chosen, but she knew just as surely that he would never consider it. He held Rigaud's spell of death at bay with very little effort, then caused it to disappear with a single word.

Rigaud was full of a white-hot rage that should have singed anyone who dared come near him, but he cursed his brother, shot Acair a murderous look, then turned and strode away.

Léirsinn watched Acair turn to face her, then saw realization dawn as he understood where she was standing. And in the trio of heartbeats it took him to reach her, she saw
him
.

How she had ever thought him anything but what he was, she couldn't have said. He wasn't a cultured man with a deliciously posh
accent and perfect table manners, he was a mage with power to rival the king of Neroche's. He might not have been able to use it, but it coursed through his veins and drenched his soul, enough power to have brought kingdoms to ruin. She half wondered how he managed to live inside himself. The light and the dark were perfectly balanced in him, something she had the presence of mind to assume he wouldn't want to hear.

He held out his hand to her as if he feared to touch her. She almost feared she wouldn't be able to reach him, but the moment she touched his skin, he jerked her out of the circle she'd stepped in and into his arms.

“Léirsinn,” he said urgently.

“I'm fine,” she managed.

“You were screaming.”

She looked up at him, then felt her eyes closing. She surrendered, because she simply couldn't look at anything else. Everything she'd seen whilst standing in that shadow was gone. Miach and Acair were just men, the garden was nothing more than dirt and leaves, and the moon shone down with nothing more than an ordinary and quite pedestrian light.

She thought she just might weep.

She closed her eyes and saw no more.

I
t was useful, Acair decided, to periodically take stock of one's life and examine it for strengths and weaknesses, and occasionally simply for things that were so odd as to be scarce believed. Such as, for instance, sitting in the solar of the king of a realm full of magic ripe for the picking and not having any desire to bean the man over the head and make off with as many spoils as possible before he woke.

He paused. Well, perhaps he wasn't entirely free of that desire, but he was who he was after all. Old habits died hard.

“I'm afraid my selection of libations isn't vast,” Miach said solemnly, “though I do have some Durialian bitter ale you might want to accustom yourself to.”

“On the off chance I actually set foot inside that irascible old fool's borders and find myself in his dungeon?”

Miach smiled. “It might soften his heart to watch you toss back without flinching something that generally brings lesser men to their knees.”

Acair took a deep breath. “Pour away, then. I like to be prepared.”

“I'll return posthaste. Don't poach any spells whilst I'm away.”

Acair smiled wearily. “Too tired tonight, though don't think the thought hasn't already crossed my mind.”

“I would be disappointed by anything else.”

Acair listened to him close the door behind him, then looked around himself in something he might have called consternation if he'd been prone to that sort of emotion. The archmage-now-king of Neroche's private tower chamber was the last place he would have ever thought to find himself. Well, find himself unfettered, that was. He was torn between walking over to Miach's table and rifling through papers there, or pulling the exceptionally lovely and fierce Léirsinn of Sàraichte up out of her chair and kissing the hell out of her.

Dire were his straits indeed
.

He walked over to toast his arse against the fire and looked at the woman sitting in a chair next to that fire. She had regained her senses true, but she looked easily as devastated as he felt, though obviously for different reasons.

He had caught her as she'd fallen, after he'd pulled her free of that accursed spot of darkness. He knew Miach had covered that patch with a spell so it wouldn't cause anyone else trouble, been grateful for the king's aid, then accepted the sanctuary of that same monarch's private solar. Léirsinn had come back to herself after only a few moments and she hadn't looked terribly upset, but it wasn't as if she would have blurted out her fears right there in front of the company that had gathered to watch the spectacle of Rigaud of Neroche attempting to slay him.

He clasped his hands behind his back and studied his companion. She was simply sitting there, staring into the fire as if she saw things she didn't like.

“Léirsinn?”

She looked up at him. “Aye?”

He wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject of what she'd experienced, so he simply stared at her, mute. Foolish, aye, but there it was. She was completely out of his experience and he was definitely not at his best.

“Are you unwell?” she asked.

He looked at that remarkable woman sitting there in that glorious emerald gown and found himself without a single useful thing to say.

“Speechless,” she noted. “An interesting development.”

“Just trying not to distract you from your admiring of the very fine figure I cut in evening garb,” he managed.

She only smiled at him as if she found him somewhat tolerable. He didn't dare hope for anything else, never mind that he shouldn't have been hoping for anything else—

Ah, hell. There was no hope for it. He was, he had to admit, rather lost. He shook his head. A horse gel. Who would have thought it? He was tempted to linger with that very pleasant thought for a bit longer, but he knew he couldn't. He struggled to drag his thoughts back to where they should have been—namely focused on the business of those damned pieces of shadow—but he was interrupted by the king of Neroche returning with glasses and a bottle or two. He sighed, then walked over to shut the door behind his sister's husband.

From there, things proceeded on the usual course that polite after-entertainment parleys generally took. He stood—well, he leaned, actually—against the hearth and listened to Léirsinn and Miach converse on subjects that he expected Miach assumed would interest her.

“I am ignorant of the world outside Sàraichte,” Léirsinn said. “I would prefer to remedy that, but I have no idea where to start.”

Acair realized Miach was pointing at him and wondered what in blazes he'd muttered before he thought better of it.

“Acair is a treasure trove of anything you would ever want to know, though I'm not sure you would want to wade through all his opinions to get to the facts.”

“But I imagine he knows most of the players, wouldn't you say?” Léirsinn asked.

“Knows what the insides of their private solars look like, rather,”
Miach said wryly, “but aye, I imagine he's at least had a glass of wine with them before ransacking their treasures.”

“I am being maligned,” Acair managed. “I don't rob
everyone
I meet. Your solar here has remained unmolested.”

Miach smiled. “There is that. Léirsinn, when you've the time for it, come stay with us for a bit. You're welcome to take your choice of my private library.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Miach only laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, as Acair could likely attest to. Now, I understand you were most recently in Angesand. What is Hearn breeding these days besides envy for his very fine steeds?”

Acair listened to them discuss horses and lines and prospects as he tried to sip Uachdaran of Léige's most bitter brew. It was absolutely vile and he wasn't sure it wasn't going to dissolve his innards before he finished the glass, but he feared Miach might have a point. There might come a time when tossing back a cup of the vile bilge whilst coming up smacking his lips might be what saved his sorry arse.

He tried to distract himself by listening to the conversation going on in front of him, but it was difficult. If Miach were curious about the night's events, he didn't show it. If Léirsinn were suffering any lingering damage from her encounter with darkness, she didn't mention it.

There were times social niceties were damned frustrating.

But he watched Léirsinn by the light of the fire just the same until his glass was empty, she was asleep, and his heart was utterly lost. He looked at the king of Neroche to find Miach watching him.

“What?” he asked crossly.

“Just enjoying your journey.”

“To where, might I ask?”

“If you don't know, Acair, I have absolutely no hope to offer you.”

Acair shook his head. “A gentleman doesn't discuss matters of the heart in front of the woman in question.”

“She's asleep.”

“She could be pretending.” He set his glass on the mantel and looked at his brother-in-law—something he never thought to have, truth be told—purposefully. “I am, for lack of a better word, doomed.”

“Why?”

“Because that spell that hounds me wasn't, I learned this morning, fashioned by Soilléir.”

Miach frowned thoughtfully. “Rùnach, then?”

“Nay, or so Soilléir claims.” He gestured inelegantly toward the woman—ah, hell. He gestured toward
his
lady, ignored the way even thinking such a thing rendered him off-balance, then looked at the king. “Did you see what—well, of course you saw. I have no idea what that patch of shadow did to her and I daren't ask. All I know is I can't do a damned thing about them and they're starting to affect people I lo—er, I mean, people I am responsible for.”

Miach started to rise, then looked at him. “Do you mind if I have a look at your shadowy companion over there?”

“I would be most grateful, actually. It doesn't seem to care for my peering into its innards, but you go right ahead.”

Miach smiled faintly. “A mystery. You should be enjoying this.”

“Ask me how I feel after the mystery is solved,” Acair said grimly, “something that would be far more easily accomplished with magic than without.”

“I agree,” Miach said, setting aside his cup. “Let's see what we can.”

Acair approached the spell with the king of Neroche and tried not to spend more time than necessary thinking about how odd the whole situation was. He had never thought to stand on the same side of a battlefield with Mochriadhemiach of Neroche, never mind standing with the man in his own solar, accepting his aid.

His life had become very strange indeed.

The spell was standing in the corner—well, slouching there, actually, as seemed to be its habit. It straightened at Miach's approach. Acair would have warned the king not to get too close to it, but decided the lad was wise enough to determine for himself
where to draw the line, as it were. For himself, he decided that keeping a decent distance was the best course of action, lest his irritation prove to be more than he could reasonably control.

“What do you think?” Acair asked, after Miach had done nothing but stare at the bloody thing for far longer than Acair thought necessary.

Miach looked at him. “Have you looked at it closely?”

“I haven't,” Acair said. “I was under the impression it had been created by Soilléir and I could see immediately what its purpose was. What was the point of poking it in the ribs, as it were, to see what it was made of?”

Miach leaned against the edge of his worktable and studied the spell that stood there, looking back at him with the belligerence of a cheeky ten-year-old lad. Acair wondered just who in the hell had possibly created such an obnoxious thing.

“Not Soilléir's,” Miach said. He looked at Acair. “Nor Rùnach's, aye?”

“So Soilléir claims, though I'm tempted to believe he's lying.”

“'Tis an elegant thing,” Miach offered. “For a spell of such power. But it doesn't look like something Soilléir would do. In truth, Acair, I have no idea who fashioned it.”

“But its purpose is to slay me if I use magic.”

“That seems to be the case.”

Acair dragged his hands through his hair, then sighed. “I'm not sure how to describe how much I despise the place in which I find myself.”

“No magic, mages with your death on their minds, and a lovely, defenseless woman to protect?”

“That sums it up nicely.” He looked at the spell in the corner. “And that thing there . . . if I could destroy it, I would, but in destroying it, I destroy myself.” He looked at Miach. “A bit of a tangle there, wouldn't you say?”

Miach shook his head slowly. “I've a strong stomach, but I'm not above admitting it makes me a little uneasy.” He paused, then
looked at Acair. “Since we're speaking of things that make us uneasy, I have something for you.”

“An invitation from Rigaud to another duel? I believe I'll pass.” He looked at his host. “But don't think I don't appreciate the rescue tonight.”

Miach smiled briefly. “My pleasure, of course.” He reached behind him, then handed Acair a folded sheaf of paper. “This was handed to a lad at the gates before dawn this morning.”

Acair took it, though he was the first to admit he suddenly didn't think he wanted to read it. It was a single line.

I'm watching you.

He looked at Miach. “A poor jest,” he said dismissively.

“Which is why I pressed Cathar into watching my son so I could watch over you and Morgan earlier as you traveled to find Soilléir,” Miach said seriously, “then again tonight as you and Léirsinn walked in the garden. I don't think it is a jest, Acair. Read it again.”

Acair didn't want to tell his brother-in-law that he was mad, so he humored him.

I'm watching her.

He looked at Miach, more startled than he should have been. “What's this rubbish?”

“Try again.”

“I don't think I want to.”

“I think you should.”

Acair looked again.

I'm watching you both. Always
.

“Droch,” Acair croaked, “at his least imaginative.”

“I don't think so.”

“Then one of the lads at Buidseachd,” Acair said, grasping for the first thing that came to mind. “Some lad with more time than sense.”

“Do you think so?” Miach asked seriously.

“'Tis a simple trick,” Acair said dismissively. “Overly theatrical, but there you have it. If I didn't know better, I would say my spellish companion over there in the corner had written it just to vex me. Besides, 'tis in a woman's hand.”

“Or a scholar's hand,” Miach said.

“Or the hand of someone forced to write it whilst the creator—a student, I'm sure—slipped quite happily into his cups at the end of a long term at the schools of wizardry.”