The White Spell (37 page)

“There is magic infused into the parchment,” Miach said slowly, “don't you think?”

“Impossible,” Acair said immediately, then he paused. “A change of essence, perhaps?”

“I would agree, but 'tis impossible to animate something that has no soul.” Miach looked at him. “You can turn a living being into a rock, but not a rock into a living being, if you appreciate the difference which I'm sure you do.”

“Then this is not a spell of Soilléir's.”

Miach shook his head slowly. “Not one I know.”

Acair sat. He supposed he was fortunate that there was a chair beneath his arse and supposed it had been Miach to shove it there. He looked at the paper in his hands—his trembling hands, it had to be said—and thought things he didn't care for.

Soilléir's spell of un-noticing had been odd, hadn't it? And Soilléir had denied having fashioned the spell now looking over his shoulder at the sheaf barely in his hands, hadn't he?

Had the man gone mad?

Or had someone else nipped into Seannair of Cothromaiche's library and had a look in spell books that obviously needed better locks on them?

He folded the sheaf of parchment back into quarters and tucked
it inside a pocket. He rose, brushed off his jacket, and looked at Miach.

“My most heartfelt thanks for the safe haven and that vile ale. Both have been very enjoyable.”

Miach only looked at him with eyes that saw far too much. “Off hunting, are we?”

“Hunting what?” Acair scoffed. “The scribbler of that note and the maker of that spell? I wouldn't stir myself to even entertain the thought. Nay, I think I'll pop around to some of my old haunts and see what's on the fire. One must keep up social calls, you know.”

Miach didn't move. “If you need aid,” he said very quietly, “send word.”

“You're a capital fellow,” Acair said. He smiled pleasantly. “I'll rouse our horse miss over there, then I believe I should perhaps be on my way. If you wouldn't mind giving her an escort to wherever she wants to go? I believe she would be safer very far away from me.”

“As you will, of course,” Miach said, nodding.

Acair nodded in return, woke a woman who he supposed was accustomed to not having the chance to rub the sleep from her eyes before she needed to be about her business, then left the king's solar. That was preferable to plopping himself down on Miach's lap and begging the king to spot him a spell or two to keep him from being slain until he could solve his own tangle.

“I didn't mean to sleep,” Léirsinn said.

“It was likely better that way,” Acair said. “Long night and all that.”

She said nothing else, which he considered a mercy. If he'd looked at him with those knowing green eyes of hers, he likely would have broken down and spewed out everything he knew before he could stop himself.

He walked her to her door, made her a low bow, then pulled the door shut once she'd gone inside. If he'd bid her goodnight, he honestly didn't remember it. He did come back to himself in time
to realize he was facing Mansourah of Neroche and the man wasn't smiling. At least it wasn't Prince Rigaud.

Mansourah looked down his nose at him. “I believe I could have escorted her to her chamber.”

Acair smiled pleasantly. “And I believe that if you don't leave her be, I will kill you.”

“You forget I have magic as well.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Mansourah looked primed to say something nasty, then suddenly sighed instead. “I find my heart is lost.”

“I believe they breed excellent hounds in Darbyford,” Acair said. “Hire a couple of those pups and put them on the scent. And stay away from Léirsinn.”

“You flatter yourself if you think she wants you.”

“What I can tell you is that she wouldn't want
you
.”

“Don't you think she should have that choice?”

Acair spluttered. “You've known her less than a day. 'Tisn't possible to fall in love in that short a time.”

“How long did it take you?”

Acair started to speak, then decided that didn't merit an answer. He glared at Miach's older brother. “I'm finished with this conversation.”

“And with that spectacular woman as well, one could hope.”

Acair glared at the man, then turned away. Aye, Mansourah had it aright. He needed to be finished because he couldn't ask her to go where he suspected he was going to need to go. He had no means of keeping her safe. He didn't even have a bloody sword to hoist in her defense.

All he had was his wits, various caches of gold scattered all over the Nine Kingdoms, and a nose for sniffing out unpleasant spells. He had the feeling the sooner he got to using all three, the better.

He shut himself inside his own chamber, ignoring the fact that nothing but a wall separated him from the woman he lo—er, the
woman he was somewhat fond of. If he went and pressed his hand against that wall to be closer to her
,
well, there wasn't a damned person who was watching him, which meant he could make as great an ass of himself as he liked.

He was going to have to somehow lock her into her chamber by rather normal means, then be on his way before she woke in the morning. If he didn't, she would follow him, and then where would he be?

He stood there with his hand pressed against that damask-covered wall for a very long time indeed.

•   •   •

H
e walked out the front gates of the palace at dawn only to find his sister standing there, waiting for him. He shot her a warning look.

“You're not coming with me.”

She shook her head. “I hadn't planned on it. Just thought I should send you off with your horse and a little rucksack of food.” She shrugged. “I might have raided Rigaud's closet for clothes and his desk drawer for a few coins. I forget now exactly what it was.”

He imagined she hadn't forgotten anything. “Thank you, Morgan.”

“My pleasure. Any messages for your lady?”

“You could tell her that I think her hair is glorious,” he said, “and that I left to keep her safe. She'll understand.”

“She won't like it.”

“But she'll understand.”

Mhorghain nodded and handed him Sianach's reins. “Off you go, then.”

He took the reins, then paused. “There's something you should know.”

She looked at him sharply. “If you tell me you are my father instead of Gair, I will stab you.”

He attempted a smile, but he feared it hadn't come out very well.
“Nothing so dire.” He blew out his breath because he had never told a soul what he was about to vomit all over his sister. He shook his head. Bloody hell, if anything else untoward happened to him that day, he would simply . . . well, he would stomp about a great deal and rage, because that was what he did. He took a deep breath and looked at his sister. “About the well.”

“The well?” she asked uneasily.

“Ruamharaiche's well,” he clarified.

“I didn't realize it had a name.”

“It does.”

She looked a little pale. “Did you know what he planned?”

He nodded.

“And you didn't try to stop it?”

“My sire, the soulless bastard, has the spell of Diminishing,” Acair said grimly. “There is no fighting that. Or at least there wasn't for me at the time. And if you must know, I was off at the time, making mischief.”

“I see.” She looked at him from clear eyes that were Sarait's eyes. “And?”

“We all knew what he planned,” he said carefully. “My mother, if you can believe this, tried to convince your mother to not go forward, but I'm guessing she saw no other path.”

“I think that is true,” Mhorghain said very quietly.

“I felt him loose the well's power,” Acair said. He looked about him, then looked at her. “This won't mean anything to you, I suppose, but I came as quickly as I could.”

She didn't move. “You?”

“My life has been full of black mages and their ilk,” he said, “but that doesn't mean I don't have the occasional impulse for good sneak up on me like bad eggs once or twice a century.”

She didn't smile. “Am I going to want to be seated for the rest of this?”

“I'd prefer that you be relieved of your weapons and don't think
I haven't heard about how many you tend to wear,” he said, looking at her pointedly, “but you can look for a bench, if you like.”

“Perhaps I should stand.”

“Easier to stab me that way?”

“Something like that.”

He looked for the right words. “I won't tell you too much, for I can't fathom what you—” He had to take a deep breath. “I just wanted you to know that I did what I could.”

“And what was that, Acair?”

“I told the mercenaries where to find you and paid them to watch over you.”

She blinked. “I thought Nicholas of Diarmailt did so.”

“I thought it might go badly if anyone knew the truth. King Nicholas agreed.”

“You know
Nicholas
?” she asked in surprise.

“Well, we don't have tea often,” he said stiffly, “but aye, of course I know him. I've nicked several of his books over the years.”

“He can't be pleased with you over that.”

“I always bring them back,” Acair admitted, “but don't noise that about.” He shrugged. “'Tis just for the sport of it and a bit of pleasant conversation.”

“I don't think you're nearly as awful as you want people to believe.”

“Definitely please don't noise
that
about.”

She looked at him for so long, he flirted with the idea of turning and bolting.

“I've lost several of my brothers,” she said finally.

“Well, you surely don't want any of mine.”

She conceded that with a nod. “Nay, but I think I'll take you.”

It was his turn to blink rapidly. Damned dusty roads. “You should have your men see to these byways more often. Hard to keep one's eyes clear, as you can plainly tell with me at the moment.”

She smiled faintly. “Of course. And I won't tell a soul anything but that you are the worst black mage in history.”

“Stop,” he pleaded, “lest you drive me to tears.”

“We wouldn't want that,” she said. She looked at him seriously. “You can count on at least one safe haven with us. Well, Rigaud will kill you if he can, but you likely expect that most everywhere you go, don't you?”

“I do.” He paused. “Thank you, Morgan.”

“You're welcome. And the number is seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

“The number of blades I could have stabbed you with before you'd seen me draw them.” She smiled. “State secret. Don't noise it about.” She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Send word if you need aid.”

Damn the wench if she wasn't about to reduce him to tears again. He nodded, though he suspected that where he was going, no aid could follow.

He watched his sister go back inside her husband's fortress, then turned his face toward the sunrise and hoped it wouldn't be the last one he saw.

L
éirsinn stood in the courtyard of Tor Neroche and looked off into the late morning sun. It had been a horrible night's sleep, but that was perhaps all a woman could hope for when she knew that the man she suspected she might love was about to abandon her and go off alone into the Deepening Gloom to chase after evil things.

She had missed catching Acair before he left, but that was because he had stuffed those damned coppers he'd earned in Sàraichte between her door and its frame, effectively locking her in. It had taken a solid hour of shouting before someone had finally come to her aid, then more time still for them to determine what was keeping her inside, then yet more time to remedy the situation because obviously there wasn't a damned person in all of Tor Neroche with enough magic to simply make those coppers disappear as if they'd never been there.

She had suspected everyone was in league with Acair to keep her from following him.

She wondered if they might have it aright. If she'd had any sense, she would have asked Miach for an escort back to Angesand and left Acair to his own devices.

Only she didn't have any sense, apparently.

She hadn't been asleep the night before in Miach's solar. Well,
she had been asleep for a bit, but she'd been awake enough to hear several things she honestly wished she hadn't.

Who in the hell had written that note?

It seemed like something her uncle would have done, but she didn't think Fuadain had magic and she was certain he had no idea where they were. She wasn't sure who that left on a list of mages who might want both her and Acair dead. All she knew was that the thought of someone watching them both terrified her. She wasn't sure how Acair carried on from day to day, if that was the sort of thing he faced with regularity.

As she had told Miach the day before, she didn't know nearly enough about the world in general and nothing about the world she was suddenly moving in. Gair had been terrible, reputedly, but surely he hadn't been the only mage in the history of the Nine Kingdoms to have had the idea of making others miserable. Where that left Acair, she didn't know.

She had seriously considered, as she'd been pounding on her door for aid that morning, simply going back to Sàraichte to take her chances with her uncle. She could return to what she knew and understood. Horses, stable lads, the routine of caring for noble beasts; that was the sort of thing she could count on. There was peace and safety in things she could rely on to never change. Even the buyers who would come to look at horses weren't unexpected and she knew how her uncle would behave.

Only the truth was, nothing was as it had been before. Some of it had to do with her uncle, some of it with Acair, and some of it with what stepping in that shadow the night before had done to her soul.

The inescapable truth was, she couldn't go back to where she had been because
she
had changed. She might manage to convince her uncle not to slay her, she might avoid an angry Droch of Saothair, who was likely wondering where his magical pony had gotten to, and she might even manage to learn to play cards well enough to afford to liberate her grandfather and find a place for them both to live out their lives in peace. But she would never forget the sight of
Acair of Ceangail standing in the gardens of Tor Neroche with his soul drenched with magic and his face full of fear that he wouldn't be able to save her.

Nay, she couldn't go back.

She could only go forward, which was exactly what she intended to do. Exactly where that was going to lead her was something she still had to decide.

She pulled her cloak more closely around her and knew very well that she had Morgan to thank for it. She also could likely tender more thanks to Morgan for the pack she'd found just outside her door that morning, a rucksack full of, among other things, light but very well-made clothing that would see her in and out of places with a minimum of fuss and in absolute stealth. She wasn't sure how that would possibly serve her in the future, but perhaps Morgan knew more than she did.

She walked over to her horse and attached her pack to his saddle. She put her hand on his neck, looked at him, then shook her head. It was an astonishing thing to think he could fly.

“He can do more than fly, but I suspect you already know that.”

She squeaked, then looked over Falaire's neck to find Miach standing there. “Do you think?” she managed.

“I do.” He smiled at her. “He's a beautiful horse.”

“I'm afraid he's about to pull up lame,” she said seriously. She paused, then leaned around Falaire's nose. “It has been a difficult journey here,” she said slowly. “Difficult for him to be chased by things, if you know what I mean.”

His smile faded. “Clouds of black mages?” he asked.

“As you saw,” she agreed. “I'm not sure how that bodes for the future.”

He studied her. “That's an interesting thought.”

“I wasn't asleep last night, you know.”

He smiled briefly. “I suspected as much. I'm sorry you had to hear our discussion.”

She stroked Falaire's mane for some time in silence, trying to
decide what to say. How was it a woman with no magic moved about in a world with mages? What if she took the chance to follow Acair and he hadn't just been leaving her behind out of a sense of chivalry? What if he simply wanted nothing to do with her and rushing off alone had been a convenient way to get that across without having to say it?

What if she had lost her mind somewhere along the journey from Sàraichte and she hadn't noticed?

“Has he gone off to find the writer of that missive, do you think?” she asked casually.

“I daresay,” Miach said.

She met the king's eyes. She wasn't coming face-to-face with the might of his magic, as it were, but she found she could still see hints of it surrounding him. Hard to believe he was what he was, but she couldn't deny it.

She shook her head, mostly to herself. The things that she had never before considered . . . it made her feel just exactly what she was: a rustic horsewoman from quite possibly the ugliest place in the Nine Kingdoms. If she'd had any sense, she would have taken her magical horse and run off to some equally rustic locale to hide—

Leaving her grandfather in Sàraichte, which she absolutely couldn't do.

She sighed deeply. Life was so much easier in a barn.

She looked at Miach. “I'm honestly not sure I want to follow him.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I could escort you to Hearn's instead, if you'd rather. That was what Acair was thinking, I imagine.”

“Was it?” she asked in surprise. “Did he lock me in my chamber to keep me from following him, do you think?”

Miach smiled faintly. “Aye, of course. He is, and I can scarce get the words past my teeth, trying to exercise a bit of chivalry. I'm not sure he knows how to do it very well, not having had to do anything like it in the past.”

“He's never plied any chivalry on anyone?” she asked.

“Oh, he has very fine manners when it comes to being
presentable at a state dinner,” Miach said, “but as for the other sort? I'm not sure he's had much call for it.”

“Are you telling me that he's trying to protect me?”

Miach looked at her with eyes she suspected saw far more than he would ever admit. “He is trying to protect you,” he agreed.

“And he told you this.”

“He told me several things very early this morning, most having to do with my either staying out of his way or going to hell. But amongst the rubble of his conversation, aye, there was a very pointed mention about what he preferred that I do for you.”

“And that was to send me to Angesand?” she asked.

“Or offer you shelter here, which we would have done just the same. Just until he's finished with his business. Then I suppose you'll need to decide where you go from there and if you care to have him along for that journey.”

She nodded. Regardless of the fact that she had her horse saddled, she had a decision to make about her future that couldn't be put off any longer.

Sàraichte was closed to her, so that took that off her list. She could go to Angesand and ask Hearn for a place. She was good with a manure fork and perhaps in time she could work off whatever care she was certain Falaire was going to need, as well as put aside enough money to go rescue her grandfather.

Or she could stay at Tor Neroche and offer the stable master her services in the barn, then wring her hands until she knew if Acair had survived a quest he surely hadn't asked for.

She reminded herself that it wasn't as if he needed her aid with it. He had seen—and no doubt done—things she couldn't imagine. He was a black mage; she was a red-haired, unsophisticated stable gel. He knew fancy manners; she knew how to look for thrush in her horses' hooves. He could likely produce the proper titles for any nobleman without thinking; she could do nothing besides hope not to get horse droppings on their boots if those noblemen walked past her at an inopportune moment.

Besides, he had left her behind. Not only had he left her behind, he'd gone out of his way to keep her from following after him. He was leagues away, no doubt, well on his way to finding out things she was certain she wasn't going to want to know. He would discover who had made those patches of shadow and see it dealt with. She would go . . . well, she couldn't go home, but she would find somewhere else to go after she'd saved her grandfather, and she would enjoy a very ordinary, very mortal life.

The small silver dragon that lay against her heart seemed to grow warm. She put her hand over her tunic and was surprised to find that was indeed the case.

And as she had heard, dragons didn't particularly care to stay at home and burn up their hay with their snores.

“You could head south,” Miach said slowly. “Toward Angesand.”

She made a decision. She realized it was a decision she had made long before the current moment, but perhaps that was something she could admit later. She looked at Miach. “Angesand is, I believe, the wrong direction.”

He smiled gravely. “I won't stop you, of course, but I will say that I'm not sure this is the wisest course of action for you.”

“What else am I to do?” she asked seriously. “Let him go off into the darkness on his own? I know I don't have any magic, but I can see those spots of shadow.”

“Can't he?”

“Not while he's concentrating on other things.” She supposed Miach knew exactly what Acair could and couldn't see for himself, so there was no reason not to be honest. “He doesn't need me,” she admitted, “but I could be at least of that much use to him. As another pair of eyes.”

“I think you're of far more value to him than just that, but perhaps we can argue that later.”

Léirsinn wasn't sure there would be anything to argue over, but there was no point in saying as much. And as much as she thought well of the man standing across her horse from her, she couldn't
ask him to rid the world of those shadows, stop whoever was sending them, or rescue her grandfather. There were some things, she supposed, that she would simply have to see to herself.

She and Acair, rather.

“He's in the pub a league up the way, if you're curious.”

She looked at Miach in surprise. “He is?”

“I bought him breakfast an hour ago.” He shrugged. “He accepted, but only after he'd called me a meddler and several other unkind names.”

She wasn't surprised. “Were you watching over him?”

“He is my brother-in-law, as it happens. I thought if he were going off on a mighty quest, he might as well put his foot to that path whilst well-fed.” He stroked Falaire's nose. “I asked him why he wasn't farther away.”

“What did he say?”

“Why don't you go ask him?”

She shook her head. “I'm not sure I want to.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “On the off chance that he doesn't want me.”

“Perhaps the more important thing to find out is if you want him.”

“Him?” she scoffed. “Why, he's . . . well, he is definitely . . .” She attempted a handful of other things that ended up getting stuck quite firmly in her throat. “He's a bad mage. I have that on good authority.”

“Unfortunately, he's a very
good
mage at bad magic,” Miach said with a smile, “but even that might change with the right inducement.”

“I think his mouth would catch on fire if he attempted anything like it.”

Miach laughed. “Probably.” He patted Falaire's neck. “I could see your pony to Hearn's stables, if you like.”

“I couldn't ask it,” she demurred, though the saying of that almost killed her. His front right hock was warm, which had concerned her very much, but she had supposed a bit of shapechanging might keep it from worsening. But to send him off where he might be well cared-for? It was too much to hope for.