The White Spell (38 page)

“I'll trade Hearn a spell for your pony's care,” Miach said, sounding as if he'd already made the decision for her. “That and a bit of gossip will likely suit.”

She nodded. “Droch paid for Falaire, just so you know.”

“All the more reason to leave a spell or two behind with Lord Hearn,” he said pleasantly. He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “And the opportunity to vex Droch of Saothair? I should be paying you for the privilege.”

She smiled, but she honestly didn't want to know what Miach's interactions with the man had been. She'd seen enough for herself. She nodded, unhooked her pack, then looked at him. “I will repay you someday.”

“Of course you won't,” he said with a smile. “'Tis my pleasure. And my library is still open to you, remember. You can even bring your lad with you, if you like.” He pointed down the hill. “He's that way.”

“I hope I don't regret this.”

“I hope not, either.”

She slung her pack over her shoulder, then paused and rested her cheek against Falaire's nose. Stallion though he might have been, he simply stood there and permitted it, as if he knew what was in her heart and didn't want to disturb it. She stroked his nose a final time, then looked at Miach.

“Thank you.”

“I think I should be thanking you,” he said quietly. “I said this to Acair, but I'll say as much to you as well. If you need aid, send word. I'll do what I can for you.”

She nodded because she didn't trust herself to speak. She took a deep breath, then turned and walked away from the gates into morning sunlight streaming onto her face.

She could only hope she wasn't making the worst mistake of her life.

I
t wasn't often that Acair found himself a seedy, disgusting pub, surrounded by his sort of disreputable lads, and felt completely out of place. Uncomfortable. Ill-at-ease. Things were not as they should have been in his life.

That he was even wallowing in such maudlin sentiments was testament enough of the disaster that had become his very existence. He had been sitting in the same place for the whole of the morning, waiting for he knew not what. It was becoming apparent to him that he was going to be continuing to wait, alone.

He toyed with an almost drinkable mug of dark ale and examined all the reasons why he should have been thrilled with that. He was in a truly vile little village, in the worst part of that village, and a cursory glance about the pub in which he found himself told him that there were foul deeds going on. Indeed, he had every reason to kick up his heels and dance the proverbial jig. He had a dull dagger down his boot—something he definitely needed to remedy at his earliest opportunity—he had a fairly straight course laid out before him, and he has his health.

Oh, and he wasn't lingering in some mouldy part of a decrepit old forest in the depths of Shettlestoune where he was trapped behind impenetrable spells of essence changing, admiring all his power
that had, by those same spells, been tossed down a well and locked there for eternity.

He also was again flying unencumbered, as it were. No one to worry about but himself, which was just how he preferred things. No need to always be making sure a companion was safe and warm and fed. That damned spell, which had turned out to be of someone's make besides Soilléir's, could certainly see to itself. He was free. Full of vim and good humor over the evil he would get right to as soon as he was at liberty to do so.

He applied himself to a goodly quaff of ale. It should have cured what ailed him, as it were, but all it did was leave him just as uncomfortable as he had been before. He eyed his cup suspiciously, but there was no magic adorning it that he could see and no poison garnishing it that he could smell.

He considered.

It wasn't possible that he was . . . well . . .
missing
her. Was it?

There was a commotion at the door. He sat up in surprise. Surely that wasn't—

Well, he would be damned. It was.

He started to rise, then decided that perhaps it was best that he not become part of the carnage there. A slender figure paused, looked at the trio of lads in various states of incapacitation around herself as if she could scarce believe she had felled them with such a judicious use of her elbows, then brushed her hands off before she walked over to the innkeeper and apologized politely for the necessity of teaching them manners.

The man laughed and promised her luncheon.

Acair watched as the woman—and it was indeed a woman—walked over to his table and sat down. She was dressed in black, which he supposed might have been intimidating if it hadn't been for that flame-red hair that had apparently escaped her cap during her, er, instruction.

Very well, so she was beautiful. He had to admit it. He admitted it a bit reluctantly, to be sure, for she wasn't his usual sort of woman.

“What is your usual sort of woman?”

He blinked, then looked at her. “Was I muttering?”

“Oh, nay, you were quite clear.”

He would have flushed if he'd been a different sort of lad, but he didn't flush. He didn't cause others to flush either, as it happened, he caused them to faint or shriek or feign death to escape his notice.

“I was thinking aloud,” he said.

“So I see,” she noted. “If it eases you any, you aren't my usual sort of lad, either.”

“Do you have a usual sort of lad?” he asked.

“I do, and you aren't it.”

He nodded to the barmaid and indicated his companion was missing a mug of something drinkable. The girl sprang into action, prodded there no doubt by the innkeeper who had just finished directing his lads to clean up the pile of refuse Léirsinn had left just inside the door. Acair half suspected that the majority of them had simply fallen into a faint over the sight of her hair, but perhaps that was something better kept to himself.

He waited until Léirsinn had something to drink, then wrapped his hands around his own mug. “Tell me more about your usual sort of lad.”

She looked at him from clear green eyes that he realized with a start were seeing things in him he wasn't sure he cared for. He hadn't had a chance to talk to her about her journey into the center of that spot of shadow, but perhaps that would need to be put on his list, near the top.

“I don't like lads with dodgy pasts,” she said firmly.

“Understandable,” he noted. “One never knows what sorts of unpleasant things might crop up from that past.”

“One certainly doesn't,” she agreed. “And I don't care for lads without a decent amount of chivalry.”

He nodded. “One never knows when a large helping of chivalry or a robust display of courtly manners will be what turns the tide of battle, as it were.”

“I would imagine that is indeed the case.” She propped her chin up on her fist as if she strove not to nod off. “Now, what of you?”

He couldn't say he wasn't highly tempted to have a nap right there near the fire with her. It had been a long night that had been but one in a succession of very long nights. What they both needed, he supposed, was a safe haven that might welcome them for more than just a single night. More was the pity that he supposed that wasn't going to be in their future for quite some time to come.

“Oh,” he said, dragging himself back to the matter at hand, “I prefer a brittle, unpleasant sort of woman who is accustomed to snubbing royalty and putting servants in their places. I daresay she should possess an encyclopedic knowledge of ways to poison visiting mages without their having seen it coming.”

“That is quite a list.”

“Perfected over decades of associating with just such shrews,” he assured her.

She looked at him thoughtfully. “I think I might like a kind, honorable sort of lad who isn't afraid to show his feelings.”

He felt a little queasy. “Show his feelings?”

“Daily.”

“Ye gads, woman, are you mad?”

She smiled and he thought he might like to sit down. He realized he
was
sitting down.

What he needed, perhaps, was indeed a nap.

“And what,” he said, grasping at the first thing to come to mind, “if the man—let's be serious here, woman, and speak of men, not lads—what if the man is more comfortable with dragons than horses?”

She sipped at her ale. “An interesting change of pace, I suppose.”

“If you were interested in a man.”

“Which I'm not.”

“Well, I'm not interested in a woman, so I suppose that makes us equal in that regard.”

She nodded, then her expression of fierceness faded. “I am rather frightened by this whole idea,” she said quietly. “Magic and shadows and not having any way to fight either.”

He understood completely. “Why did you come, then? Well, apart from no doubt being overcome by the desire to spend copious amounts of time gazing upon my admittedly spectacular visage.”

She smiled faintly. “You are impossible.”

“And you're impossibly beautiful,” he said honestly. “Not brittle and beastly enough to suit me, of course, but very easy to look upon.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“I think so,” he said. He paused. “Does it need work?”

“Copious amounts,” she said dryly.

“I'll work on it later.” He sipped his ale. “So, in truth, what sent you scampering after me before I could scamper away?”

“When you say scamper, do you mean
sit here until Léirsinn comes after me
,” she said slowly, “or something else?”

He pursed his lips. “We'll discuss that later, perhaps.”

She considered, then pulled a necklace out from under her tunic. She held it out slightly and looked down as the firelight danced against the form of a dragon.

“That is interesting,” he said thoughtfully. “Where did you come by it?”

“Your great-aunt Cailleach gave it to me several years ago.”

He blinked. “She did? Has it magical properties?”

“I don't think so.” She looked at him. “'Tis a bit like me, I suppose.”

“I have enough for the both of us, I daresay.”

“Magic you can't use.”

“A temporary condition, I assure you.” He had another sip of ale. “And the answer to my question?”

She looked at him very seriously. “I didn't want you to go without me.”

He finished his ale because it was either that or break down and
weep, hard-hearted bastard that he was. He made a production of complaining about the smoke in the room as well, because that seemed prudent. And once he'd gotten himself and his traitorous heart under control, he looked at his companion. “Let's go, fire-breather.”

“Are you buying?”

“As if I would allow a woman to pay for my ale,” he said, tossing coins on the table and taking her hand. “I'll teach you to play cards if we have the odd moment where we aren't being chased by mages with our deaths on their minds. I daresay you would be very good at fleecing lads who might find themselves completely overcome by the color of your hair. Then you can pay for us both.”

She only sighed and walked with him. He hazarded a look, though, and found that she was smiling a bit.

The heavens were no doubt weeping over how far lost he was.

He paused on the front stoop of that very seedy pub and looked across the courtyard. He would have gaped, but he was too tired to. “Is that Mansourah of Neroche over there, guarding my horse?” he said grimly.

“It seems to be.”

“So, you're taking up with him, now?”

She elbowed him rather sharply in the ribs. “I'm not taking up with anyone. He found me and volunteered to escort me to find you so I could guard your back. He suggested I do that because he thought your defense skills were lacking. He offered to come along on our quest and aid you in bettering them.”

“I am utterly unsurprised.” And he was. If there existed a family disagreement, political conundrum, or blossoming romance that Mansourah of Neroche could ruin by inserting himself into, he did. He walked with his lady across the way and stopped a handful of paces away from the man he had the feeling he was going to do damage to very soon. “Your Highness,” he said stiffly.

“Bastard.”

“I have a very long memory,” Acair warned, “and no liking for
insults. Never mind that I am a bastard
and
a bastard, if you appreciate the distinction.”

Mansourah snorted. “I do and I have no fear of you given that you apparently have no ability to use your puny powers.”

“That won't last forever.”

Mansourah shrugged. “One can hope you'll meet your end before that time.”

“Planning on helping whoever attempts to send me off to Hell?”

“I thought I might.”

Acair looked at him narrowly. “Mhorghain asked you to come along, didn't she?”

“You're stupid, but I'm surprised to find you're fairly bright.”

Acair wondered if he should send along a note to his sister thanking her or cursing her. “Did Mhorghain also tell you what we're about?”

“She thought I might like to hear the tale from our charming lady here.”

Acair tucked Léirsinn's hand under his arm. “She's not
our
charming lady.”

“Well, she's not yours.”

“She's definitely not
yours
.”

“Could you both please stop?” Léirsinn asked. “Not that I'm not enjoying this more than I thought I would, but it seems a little silly at the moment, doesn't it?”

Acair thought that
silly
might cover anything worthwhile about Mansourah of Neroche, but refrained from saying as much. He elbowed Mansourah out of his way and walked over to where he'd left his horse. Mansourah followed, something Acair realized he was going to have to accustom himself to. That, he admitted without any hesitation at all, didn't set well with him.

“Where are we going?” Mansourah asked.

“The library at Diarmailt.”

“Are we?” Léirsinn asked in surprise. “Why?”

“I need to fetch a book,” Acair said. He wasn't going to be able
to use his damned book even if he could fetch it, but perhaps that wasn't a useful thing to admit at the moment. It was full of his own scribblings, true, but also a list of spells he'd either hidden in other places or thought he might like to liberate from their owners who were residing in other places. That was the sort of thing he didn't particularly care to have cluttering up his mind on a daily basis, which was why he'd written it all down and hidden it so well.

Mansourah looked at him as if he'd lost his wits. “But Rùnach has the book you left behind there.”