Dreamspinner (22 page)

But at the moment, all she could do was look at the woman in horror and wish she’d put her spinning wheel in a different room.

Then again, from the look of things, the house didn’t have a different room.

Aisling felt Rùnach put his hand over hers, but it wasn’t enough to anchor her in the world. Her hand slipped from underneath his as if it had been water slipping down the face of the slick stone in Weger’s upper courtyard. She found herself standing in front of the wheel without knowing quite how she’d gotten there. She stopped because she could go no further.

The wheel was old and weathered and so beautiful she couldn’t look away from it. She brushed her hand over the flywheel, not touching it.

It spun just the same.

She heard gasps behind her, but she could do nothing about that. She reached out and touched the wheel as it revolved—

And her world exploded.

She was no longer standing in a humble cottage, touching the worn wooden wheel of a simple village spinner. She was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring out over the ocean. In front of her the sky had exploded into a thousand colors, a thousand scenes of battle, of reunion, of delight and beauty. She stood there struggling to draw in a normal breath, struggling to understand what she was looking at, where she was, how she was going to find her way back into herself—

And then her world went black.

R
ùnach managed to catch Aisling as she fell only because he’d been halfway to her before she’d started to sway. He lifted her up into his arms. She was utterly senseless, which surprised him. She’d also just been babbling in that tongue he had never heard before, that same tongue she’d been murmuring in Weger’s tower chamber. A handful of the words had been the same, which he supposed might be useful at another time in determining just what language it was. He wondered if perhaps she had been calling for help.

She had cause.

“Get out,” said a voice from behind him. “And take your witch with you.”

He turned around and found himself facing an old woman brandishing a very large boning knife.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked in surprise.

The woman gestured with her knife. “Her, befouling my wheel with her magic. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

He didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to argue with that very
well-tended blade. He eased around his erstwhile hostess, exited as expediently as possible, then continued on out into the rain. The door slammed shut behind him and the bolt was thrown home.

Rùnach stood ten paces from the house with Aisling in his arms and wondered several things, beginning and ending with just who the hell she was.

He considered his options and decided that he had only one and that was to find shelter as quickly as possible and see if Aisling was merely senseless or if she was dead. She was absolutely motionless, but the rain so driving and the wind so fierce, he wasn’t sure he would be able to hear her breathing if he tried. He started to walk forward, then almost dropped Aisling in his surprise.

His horse stood there in front of him, watching him silently.

Rùnach rolled his eyes. That was all he needed, to have that granny behind him start throwing boiling oil at him for being a sorcerer. Horses appearing from nowhere would do nothing to enhance his already tarnished reputation.

Rùnach pursed his lips. “How did you escape—nay, never mind. I don’t want to know. I don’t suppose you saw an inn—nay, never mind that, either.” He hadn’t intended to make any uninvited visits to other locales on Melksham, but then again, he hadn’t given much thought to where he would go after he earned Weger’s mark—which he hadn’t done even though the spot over his brow burned like hellfire. He looked at Iteach. “Well, any ideas, you irascible pony?”

Iteach took a handful of steps backward, tossed his head, then flapped his suddenly sprouted wings. Rùnach spared a brief but very fond thought for his grandfather’s foresight, then climbed as gracefully as he could onto Iteach’s back. He supposed all those years he’d spent riding served him at the moment, for whilst he had a saddle, his horse had definitely not provided him with any reins. He was fairly sure that hadn’t been an oversight.

Screeching ensued from inside the house.

“South, I think,” Rùnach said quickly, “and perhaps a bit east—”

Lissssmòrrrrr
…

Rùnach blurted out a curse, but only because Iteach had leapt up into the air, not because the bloody horse was inside his head,
whispering and rolling his r’s in a particularly equine way. He decided abruptly that he would definitely be having words with Sgath. He just wasn’t quite sure which ones wouldn’t get him boxed ears.

“Well, aye,” he gasped. “Lismòr would do quite nicely.”

And that was the last thing he said for quite some time. He managed to get Aisling’s head on his shoulder and his cloak settled around her, which he hoped would shield her from the worst of the truly terrible weather. He kept his seat only because he’d been riding literally from the moment he could walk. He hadn’t done very well on his way to Mhorghain’s wedding at Seanagarra, but those were memories perhaps better left behind. It had been so long since he’d been out of Beinn òrain that he’d been a little unnerved by the whole journey, he who had traveled the world before, striding about with all the confidence and arrogance of an elven prince. He had spent the entire trip reduced to a less-than-confident clutcher of reins, wishing he’d asked Soilléir to strap him to the saddle before they’d leapt up into the night sky on the backs of other shapechanging horses. It was little wonder he’d lost what gear he’d brought with him.

He turned his mind away from that. They were useless notes that he’d dropped as they’d flown, notes that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but him. He might have forgotten the contents of his father’s book, but a score of years with nothing to do but read and run endlessly up and down stairs in the dead of night to keep his body strong had at least given him the time to retrain his mind to memorize what he saw.

He didn’t want to think about the things he couldn’t remember.

In time, he saw the faint twinkle of lights at the university. Iteach seemed to be sharing his thoughts of discretion because he landed gently half a league away and his wings vanished. He cantered for most of the rest of the distance, a smooth, elegant gait that left Rùnach feeling as if he were sitting on a comfortable chair in his grandfather’s library.

Iteach stopped fifty paces before the walls. Rùnach supposed his steed might have continued on a bit farther in different circumstances,
but an arrow sailed through the air with a whistling sound, then went to ground right in front of them. Iteach stopped, snorted, then did a lovely bit of piaffe until Rùnach begged him to stop. Rùnach slid off the saddle, rather more grateful than he could say for a solid horse who didn’t seem to mind when he used him to lean on until he’d gotten his feet underneath him.

He carried Aisling across the remaining distance, followed closely by his horse. Perhaps he looked harmless enough, for no other arrows came his way. Or, perhaps they were waiting until they had a sure shot before they wasted any more. He had no idea and decided he wouldn’t bother asking.

He stood instead at the gate in the driving rain and kicked at the gate because he had no hands for it. At least, for a change, that wasn’t because his hands didn’t work. His arms, however, were shaking so badly, he thought he might drop Aisling before he managed to get her to safety.

A small panel slid back and a lamp appeared. That was followed in good time by a long, pointed nose.

“Who are ye?”

“Travelers seeking refuge,” Rùnach said, loudly, over the sound of the howling wind.

The gatekeeper seemed to be in no hurry, despite the nastiness of the weather. “We have many travelers here—”

“Oh, bloody hell, just open the door,” Rùnach exclaimed. “You know you must offer refuge to all who seek it.”

The panel slid shut, the bolt was pulled back, then the gate creaked on its hinges until only the gatekeeper stood in Rùnach’s way. He held up the lantern.

“Name, or ye don’t pass.”

Rùnach opened his mouth, then shut it. He knew that Nicholas had cultivated anonymity at his university, so it was impossible to give the man in front of him the entirety of his name. He wasn’t sure if anyone knew who Mhorghain truly was or whom she had wed, but he didn’t dare count on that either. He looked at the gatekeeper.

“I am called Rùnach,” he said, finally.

The gatekeeper, Master James if Mhorghain were to be believed, pursed his lips, then motioned to a lad who turned and bolted into the darkness.

Master James looked at Aisling. “Ill, is she?”

“Senseless, rather.”

“But she’s not dead,” Master James said, peering into her face. He looked at another of the lads waiting there for something useful to do. “Lead this man to the infirmary,” he said briskly. He looked back at Rùnach. “Someone will be waiting for you.”

Rùnach could only hope so. He nodded to Master James, then followed the lad along paths that led past gardens and buildings, and finally to a large courtyard surrounded by a beautiful portico. Rùnach would have perhaps admired it another time. At the moment he was simply glad to be out of the rain.

He rubbed his face on his shoulder, trying to get the water out of his eyes. He blinked, then realized that there was someone standing in front of him.

That Nicholas of Lismòr didn’t seem to be particularly surprised to see him didn’t surprise him at all. His uncle was, after all, the former wizard king of Diarmailt, which wasn’t exactly a realm known for its pastoral and unremarkable nature. Strange happenings there, or so the tales went. Rùnach didn’t want to know what his uncle was capable of.

Nicholas only nodded gravely at him and sent Rùnach’s escort back to the front gates. Rùnach followed the lord of Lismòr around the edge of that large courtyard until they came to a long passageway. Nicholas paused in front of a door, opened it, then stood back for Rùnach to enter.

The chamber was lit by candles driving the darkness back into the corners. A fire burned brightly in the hearth. Nicholas said nothing but Rùnach was suddenly standing there in dry clothes.

Rùnach sighed lightly.

Nicholas undid the clasp of Aisling’s cloak, then helped Rùnach get her into bed. Rùnach was willing to pull off her boots, but he could go no further than that. He supposed that didn’t matter. Aisling’s clothes had obviously been just as enspelled as his.
Nicholas put his hand against her forehead and was very still for several moments. Then he sighed, drew the covers up over her, then went to pull up a chair by her bedside. He looked up at Rùnach.

“Make yourself at home, nephew,” he said with a smile.

Rùnach realized he was still standing there with his gear on his back and his cloak almost choking him. He took off his cloak, shrugged out of his pack, and collapsed into the chair opposite his uncle.

“Will Master James see to my horse?”

“What horse?”

Rùnach opened his mouth, then shut it. “Never mind.”

Nicholas smiled. “A gift from Sgath?”

“How did you know—nay, don’t tell me.” Rùnach shivered. “I don’t want to know how you know anything.”

“I imagine you don’t.” He reached out and brushed Aisling’s hair back from her face. “What befell this lovely gel here?”

“I have no idea,” Rùnach said, rubbing his hands together restlessly. “We were seeking shelter at the hearth of an old woman, just off the road to Bere. She saw a spinning wheel.” He looked at Nicholas. “She touched it and fainted.”

“Is that all?” Nicholas asked politely.

Rùnach blew out his breath. “Of course not. Before she put her hand to the wood, she set it spinning without touching it and after she touched it, she babbled in a tongue I couldn’t understand.”

“Before she fainted.”

“Aye,” Rùnach said wearily. “That is the order of events.”

“Interesting. Who is she?”

“Her name is Aisling. Past that, I don’t know.”

Nicholas smiled. “Rùnach, lad, you’ve lost your touch. I heard tales that you could, in your youth, walk into a ball and leave every lass in the place tripping over anything in her way in order to press her name on you. Fights ensued, or so I was told.”

Rùnach pursed his lips. “And who told you that?”

“Desdhemar of Neroche, actually,” Nicholas said. “You were kind to her son. I think she appreciated it.”

“And I think I might have slipped her a coveted spell or two,” Rùnach said dryly, “which I imagine she appreciated more.”

“I imagine that’s true,” Nicholas agreed. He was interrupted by a knock. “Ah, supper. That is most welcome. William, come!”

Rùnach didn’t argue as Nicholas drew up a small table between them and his page set down a hearty meal. He attempted a bit of polite conversation, but Nicholas waved him on with a smile.

“Don’t stand on ceremony with me, my boy. I’ve never been inside Gobhann, but I’ve heard tell of its culinary wonders.”

“How did you know I was in—” Rùnach held up his hand. “Again, never mind.”