Dreamspinner (38 page)

He gave Aisling a leg up, swung up behind her, and exchanged a final look with his brother-in-law. He didn’t doubt that Miach had arrived in some form not his own and would return to Tor Neroche in precisely the same way, well before he and Aisling managed to reach the road leading up to the keep. He could only hope that the front gate guards would allow him in without an excessive and unnecessary number of questions.

He left Miach to his work, turned Iteach back to the south where they wouldn’t have to watch either Lothar or Losh as they leapt into the sky, and gave his pony his head.

He was extremely grateful for the rescue.

He just wished he hadn’t needed it.

A
n hour and a bit of vista viewing later, he was walking up to the front gates with both Aisling and his pegasus-turned-horse in tow. Aisling hadn’t said anything when Iteach had shed his wings, though Rùnach supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. She had been riding a pegasus for three days and she had just seen Lothar of Wychweald in all his glory. Perhaps she’d simply become numb to things of an otherworldly nature.

The massive front gates were standing open, but that didn’t surprise him. There were magical safeguards there enough, he supposed, and the barbican was simply bristling with well-weaponed men-at-arms. If there had been an assault in truth, an enormous steel portcullis would have dropped immediately and heavy metal gates would have slammed shut behind it. Miach’s defenses were not only intimidating but thorough.

He was very relieved to find there was an escort waiting for them, an escort who asked no questions but simply bid them follow him along a more discreet route to the stables.

The servant waited whilst every last one of the stable lads gathered around Iteach to loudly admire him, which he accepted as merely his due. Rùnach turned him over to the stablemaster, who looked as if he’d just been offered the chance to tend to the Fleet of Angesand himself. Rùnach picked up his gear and Aisling’s and followed the servant to what he hoped would be a tack room that would be at least free of mice.

What he found, however, was a surprisingly luxurious chamber with a window that looked out over a garden. The bales of hay that were seemingly serving as furniture were covered by plain but clean blankets, two baskets of food were sitting on a low table, and there wasn’t a mouse in sight. There was, however, his sister
standing there, waiting for them. He set his burdens down just inside the door, then reached out and pulled her into his arms. He hugged her tightly, then kissed her on both cheeks before he released her.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, feeling pleased.

“Nor I you,” she said, smiling, “yet here we both are.” She looked around him and held out her hand toward Aisling. “I’m Morgan, Rùnach’s sister.”

Rùnach knew that was what she had been called for the whole of her life he hadn’t been a part of, so he knew he shouldn’t have been startled by it. It was what Miach called her and what she called herself when she wasn’t wearing a crown. He supposed there was no point in wishing things could have been different for the both of them. All he could do was be grateful she had been looked after during her youth, in some fashion, and that she now had Mochriadhemiach of Neroche to keep her safe at present.

He could only wish that events in his own life would work out so well.

Aisling shook Mhorghain’s hand, studying her as if she couldn’t quite decide how to take her. “I am Aisling.”

“You both look as if you need a decent sleep,” Mhorghain said, waving them on to a bale of hay, “but perhaps food first. This isn’t grand, but Miach says you both have come recently from Gobhann, so I imagine you won’t be displeased with what’s available.” She shook her head. “Even I will admit that the food Weger provides for his students is barely edible.”

“Especially when ’tis laced with lobelia,” Aisling said grimly.

Mhorghain frowned in displeasure, then looked at Rùnach. “Did you beat Baldric properly for his cheek?”

“Didn’t have to,” Rùnach said cheerfully. “I just told him I was your brother and that seemed to be enough. Anything you have there, though, I’m sure will be a vast improvement over the unidentifiable substances we were favored with there. I will warn you, however, that we have also been a handful of days at Lismòr and Lord Nicholas’s cook was outdoing himself at every meal.”

Mhorghain shook her head. “I’m not sure this will compare,
but at least it’s hot. Sit, the two of you, and let’s dive in. I think that’s Miach coming along the passageway.”

Rùnach sat with Aisling, then attempted to put on his best manners for breakfast. Though Nicholas had thoughtfully provided them with rations for a long journey, Rùnach hadn’t been above wishing for something fresh and hot.

Along with his meal, he soon found himself also enjoying things he hadn’t had the time nor the heart to think about properly over the past fortnight. First was hands that worked as they should have. He had made do in Buidseachd, grateful beyond measure for the delicate restoration Soilléir had affected, but still doing little more than making do. He supposed Soilléir could have wrought a change of essence and healed him completely, but Soilléir had demurred—for his own unfathomable reasons Rùnach hadn’t had the energy or the cheek to question. But now, to be able to do the simple tasks of holding a cup without worrying he would drop it, or pouring wine easily, or grasping the hilt of a sword with strength…aye, those were unexpected and very welcome gifts.

As was the pleasure of simply sitting back and enjoying the company of souls he was passing fond of. He watched his sister chatting earnestly with Aisling, though he couldn’t have said at the moment what they were discussing. He was too busy watching Mhorghain and wondering how it was possible she could look exactly like their mother but be so much herself instead. Almost as entertaining was watching little Mochriadhemiach of Neroche unable to tear his eyes away from her.

Rùnach shook his head wryly. That one had been trouble from the very beginning, trailing along after his own mother, Desdhemar the Fair and Devious, from the moment he’d been able to toddle, learning all her most appalling habits of poaching spells she shouldn’t have been adding to her collection. Rùnach wasn’t sure who had begun the association, but there had come a time when Miach and Rùnach’s younger brother Ruithneadh had combined forces. He could bring to mind without effort a score of occasions
when he’d happened upon Miach and Ruith hiding in a corner, plotting their next adventure.

He supposed, looking back on it now, that Desdhemar and his own mother Sarait had kept Miach and Mhorghain apart simply for Mhorghain’s safety, though perhaps they’d known that the youngest prince of Neroche would have fallen for her even at a tender age and then the course of events would have been forever altered. It was perhaps enough to know now that Miach loved Mhorghain and would keep her safe. Their mothers would have been content.

Miach realized he was being observed, looked at Rùnach in surprise, then smiled gravely, as if he knew exactly what Rùnach had been thinking. Which Rùnach supposed he did.

And he supposed if he thought any longer on it, he would grow maudlin past the point of anyone enduring him, so he concentrated on listening to the animated conversation going on between his sister and his, er, well, whatever she was.

“I keep seeing these strands everywhere,” Aisling said, waving her hand about, a hand that wasn’t very steady. She looked at Mhorghain. “I think I’m going mad.”

Rùnach found himself the recipient of a look from his sister that, to his surprise, he had absolutely no trouble understanding. He lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. He hadn’t had any idea what to say to Aisling without saying far more than he cared to. Mhorghain scowled at him, then shifted so she was facing Aisling squarely.

“You must know the truth.”

Aisling looked as if she might be ill. Rùnach agreed wholly with the feeling, though he supposed the warning looks he was sending his sister were never going to be heeded. He jumped a little when he realized Aisling was looking at him.

As if she had become accustomed to looking for him.

He was in trouble.

“She is your sister,” Aisling managed. “What truth is she going to give me?”

“I have no idea,” Rùnach said. “She does have all Weger’s
strictures memorized, though, so I suppose that should ease us both a bit.”

Aisling looked no less unsettled, which Rùnach could understand. He put his hand on her back and smiled gravely at her. She relaxed slightly—he felt her do it—then nodded and turned back to look at Mhorghain.

“I am ready.”

Mhorghain, to her credit, didn’t so much as put on even a hint of a smile. Then again, Rùnach had the feeling she herself had been in Aisling’s shoes at one point and knew exactly how the poor gel was feeling.

“I didn’t believe in mages either,” Mhorghain said bluntly. “I had been raised for as long as I could remember by mercenaries. They had no dealings with magic, unless you call their ability to intimidate and terrify those they came upon with their frowns alone magic.”

Aisling nodded.

“Even at Lismòr, there was no talk of anything unusual,” Mhorghain continued, “and you can only imagine Weger’s opinion on the matter.”

“Magic is a prissy, unmanly way of going about one’s business,”
Aisling repeated dutifully.

“Exactly,” Mhorghain agreed. “So, whilst I was willing to allow there might possibly be such rot in the world, I wasn’t convinced.”

Rùnach continued to trail his fingers over Aisling’s back, though he wasn’t sure if it were more to soothe her or himself. He exchanged a glance with Miach. Thinking about Mhorghain’s past was difficult, primarily because it was unsettling to think about how little any of those who had known where she was had been willing to interfere in the course of her life. Not even twenty years of watching Soilléir of Cothromaiche watch events unfold in the world and remain still had erased his first instinct, which was to march out onto the field and change things to save others pain.

“What convinced you?” Aisling asked very quietly.

Mhorghain sighed deeply. “I was asked by Nicholas of Lismòr
to carry a knife to the king of Tor Neroche. It turned out to be Queen Mehar’s knife—do you know of her?”

“Rùnach read me the Tale of the Two Swords at Lismòr,” Aisling said, “but I thought it was merely a legend.”

Mhorghain shook her head, her expression serious. “I thought as you did whilst I was there, but I came to learn that it wasn’t so much fiction as it was a faithful retelling of actual events.” She smiled briefly. “Holding the knife in my hand was useful in convincing myself of that fact, as you might imagine. Also difficult to deny was the fact that it was slathered with magic.”

“How did you know that?” Aisling asked, sounding as if she had absolutely no desire to have the answer.

Mhorghain looked at her steadily. “I could see it.”

Aisling leaned back against Rùnach’s hand so hard, he flinched. She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head and started to pull his arm away, but she shook her head quickly.

“Please, don’t.”

He wondered if it were possible to throw something very hard at the king of Neroche and not find himself hanged in the courtyard at dawn for his cheek. He settled for glaring at his brother-in-law who was blinking owlishly and doing what he obviously considered his damndest not to smirk. Rùnach ignored him and put his arm around Aisling’s shoulders. He didn’t protest when she turned a bit and used him as a sturdy place to lean against.

He imagined when she found out the truth about him, she wouldn’t be using him as a place to lean, she would be using him as a place to stow any number of her very sharp arrows. That would hurt, because she was an astonishingly fine archer.

He also suspected he wouldn’t care for what it did to his tender heart.

Aisling took a deep breath. “If I ask you questions, Morgan,” she said quietly, “will you tell me the absolute truth?”

Mhorghain frowned. “Has my brother not been answering your questions?”

“He ignores many of them.”

Mhorghain pursed her lips. “Unsurprising. At least he doesn’t hedge, for which he deserves some credit.” She shot her husband a pointed look, then turned back to Aisling. “And aye, I will answer whatever you ask as truthfully as I’m able. If I cannot answer your question, I will tell you that plainly.”

Aisling was trembling. Rùnach would have wrapped his arms around her but didn’t dare. He did, however, catch the throw that Miach tossed to him and pulled it over Aisling. What he wanted to be doing was bolting through the door so he didn’t have to look at her when she realized all the things he hadn’t told her—

Then again, what would he have told her? He had no magic, no claim to any elven throne, no power except the ability to smell a clue in a row of books all the way across an enormous library.

“Are there curses?”

He came back to himself in time to hear his sister snort.

“Of course not.”

“In truth?” Aisling asked in surprise.

Mhorghain shrugged. “Spells, I suppose, but not curses.” She looked at her husband. “Have you a different opinion?”

Miach shook his head. “I don’t believe in curses.”

“Weger said the same thing,” Aisling said, sounding as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.

Mhorghain tapped the mark over her brow. “Trust Weger. He knows these kinds of things.”

“Then what of other things?” Aisling asked. “These creatures of myth?”

“What would those be?” Mhorghain asked.

Rùnach realized that his sister had seen him trying to shake his head slightly in warning but she was thoroughly ignoring him. He looked at Miach, who only leaned back against the wall and put his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and looked perfectly at ease.

“Elves,” Aisling said, “dwarves, those sorts of creatures.”

Rùnach was somewhat satisfied to see Neroche’s monarch lose his smile thanks to his bride’s elbow in his side. Mhorghain looked at Aisling seriously.