The White Spell (16 page)

She put his halter on, then buckled it. She had hooked on a lead rope before she realized what she was doing. Years of habit apparently. She stroked his nose, then looked at Acair.

“I don't see how we're going to get him out of the city in the middle of the day.”

Acair smiled. “'Tis still early yet. Anyone important is still lingering over his coffee. We'll just march about as if we're supposed to be here. You know what to do. Look as though someone is paying you to do it.” He stepped back. “You lead.”

“I imagine that isn't something you say often.”

“I imagine it's something I say never,” he said with a snort. “You see me in reduced and very unusual circumstances. Trust me, they won't last. Off we go.”

She took a deep breath, then led Falaire out of his stall. Fortunately, she'd had enough experience in barns that finding her way out the back door wasn't a problem. She led them past several turnouts and continued on to the furthermost one as if she knew what she was doing, all the while looking for a gate.

It was found with less trouble than she'd feared, a poor stable lad was invited to turn around and forget having seen them—Acair handed him a pair of gold coins for his trouble at least—and they were outside almost before she realized just what she'd done.

She'd stolen a horse.

Whether by design or sheer good fortune, they managed to catch up with a group of travelers who were heading over a bridge to the far side of the river. Falaire was obviously not a cart horse, but no one said anything. Acair didn't look approachable and she shrugged off the first two questions she was asked.

She was fairly sure she hadn't taken a normal breath until they were out of the city, they had left their companions behind, and she was standing with Acair well off the road in a clearing. He left her there and took a little stroll through the surroundings, presumably to make sure they hadn't been followed. He returned and stood in front of her.

“Let's lay out our journey,” he said briskly. He picked up a stick and drew in the dirt. “Here we are. Neroche is there. The place we need to reach is in the northwestern corner of that country.”

“That far?”

“Aye, 'tis several hundred leagues, even as the crow flies.”

“You're going to ride all the way—” She pointed to the far corner of his map. “—there.”

“Nay, I'm going to fly all the way there.”

She wondered if too much skulduggery had done a foul work on his wits. “On what?” she asked skeptically. “A bird?”

“A horse, actually.”

She could hardly bring herself to spare the energy to snort at him. “You're mad,” she said. “Horses can't fly.”

“Droch wouldn't want this horse without very good reason, so I suspect he can do quite a few things your average fellow can't do.” He looked at Falaire uneasily. “I need to ask him a question or two, but I'm not sure he'll answer me.” He looked at her. “You ask.”

“Ask him what?”

“Ask him if he can shapechange.”

She blinked. “Do what?”

“Shapechange,” he said. “You know, change his shape.”

She suppressed the urge to stick her fingers into her ears. The
man was daft. “He could change his shape into a barrel with legs,” she said, starting to feel a little irritated, “but only with enough sweet spring grass.”

He made a sound of impatience. “What I want to see is if he has magic in him. Most horses don't, but there are some who do. I can't believe Droch would want a horse that couldn't at least do something besides take hay in one end and expel it out the other.”

She blew out her breath. Perhaps 'twas best to humor him before she clunked him over the head with the heaviest branch she could find so she could get herself back home. “And you want me to tell him all that?” she said as patiently as she could.

“I think he's already heard it and he looks like he would like to repay me for it with a bit of a nibble.” He moved closer to her. “Show him an idea in your head of a pegasus or some prancing, frilly thing with wings on his hooves. Something that flaps . . . off . . .”

Léirsinn let go of the lead rope quite suddenly. She did that because not only had Falaire pulled it out of her hands, surprise had left her unable to clutch it any longer. Actually, surprise hadn't just left her without a rope in her hands, it had left her with a numbness that had started at the top of her head and seemed to be working its way downward.

Falaire had trotted around in a circle, come to a stop several paces away from them, then reared. When he came back to ground, he was wearing wings. Er, he'd sprouted wings. Ah, there were things protruding from his back that looked like wings.

He was whinnying. Acair was purring.

She was fainting.

She felt arms go around her as she started to fall.

“Ah, not this, I beg you!”

She looked into sea-green eyes, nay, blue-green eyes, with flecks of gold—

“Léirsinn!”

“I can't take anymore,” she murmured.

Then she closed her eyes and let darkness descend.

A
cair stood in a clearing not nearly as far away from Beinn òrain as he would have liked to have been and was, frankly, rather relieved to be standing on the ground having gotten there of his own volition instead of being dropped there. During their recent and rather unpleasant journey, he hadn't been all that certain that Léirsinn hadn't been about to elbow him off the back of her horse. Given the way she'd shrieked for him to get them back on the ground after she'd regained her senses, he hadn't been at all certain that damned Falaire wouldn't have happily aided her in that endeavor.

It wasn't that he hadn't ridden things with wings before, but he tended to prefer dragons. They were arrogant, showy creatures who always seemed to be more concerned with keeping their riders on their backs than scraping them off at the first opportunity. Pride of the guild, no doubt, and all that.

Horses, though. He shook his head. He wasn't terribly fond of them—various parts of his form agreed—and he wasn't at all sure that damned Falaire wasn't snickering at him every time he whinnied, but he supposed that was the least of his worries.

He had a horse miss standing ten paces away from him, looking as if she might come undone entirely if he didn't do something very soon.

He had no experience with women on the verge of losing their sanity. The women he knew were cold, calculating shrews who thought nothing of incurring their collective fathers' ire to be seen dancing with him or sitting next to him at table. He was accustomed to mages in skirts who had ambition to match his own and were willing to meet him head-on.

This was something else entirely.

“Léirsinn,” he began, dredging up his most reasonable tone, “we've come too far to turn—”

“You should have given me the choice!”

“I tried—”

“You did not!”

He shut his mouth and scowled. Aye, this was what the rescuing of a damsel in distress got a man. A prickly, unpleasant—ah, nay, not tears. He shifted uncomfortably. “Um, the weeping—”

“I'm not upset,” she spat, “I'm furious!”

He considered that. “So you're weeping instead of reaching for a blade—oh, you don't have a blade—”

“Weeping seemed a more reasonable thing to do than kill you, which was my first choice!”

Well, the woman was terribly proficient with a pitchfork, but he suspected she didn't have the heart to inflict any serious sort of damage on anyone. At the moment, though, she looked as if she might be capable of quite a few things. It was likely best to simply humor her and see if they couldn't get that pony back up in the air and be on their way.

“I appreciate the concession,” he said. There, that ought to do it. “Very kind,” he added, on the off chance the former hadn't been enough.

Er, it hadn't been enough.

She was looking around for a weapon. At least they'd left her crossbow and bolts somewhere behind them, likely back in Sàraichte. Well, there was no time to go back to get them, which he hoped wouldn't come back to haunt him in the future.

“You cannot go back,” he said with another attempt at sounding reasonable. “Remember what lies in wait.”

“My uncle making a bad jest,” she said dismissively.

“And those mages who tried to slay me?”

“Lads with the right idea,” she said shortly. “I should have let them have at you.”

“We can argue that point later if you like,” he said carefully, “but let's look at the bigger picture—”

“Aye, the one in which I push you off the back of my horse and ride back home!”

He looked at her standing in the last rays of sunlight that streamed over the plains of Ailean and had to pause to wonder at her hair. Whilst he was wondering, he wondered how it was he'd missed the true nature of its color for so long. He realized that for the most part, she had worn it tucked up under a knitted cap, no doubt to keep it out of her way, or perhaps so all the lads in the barn didn't stare at her as stupidly as he was doing at present, trying to decide what to call her hair.

He settled on red.

It wasn't a deep red, like fine port viewed by firelight in perfect crystal. It wasn't a pale red that could have charitably been called blonde. Her hair was red, simply red, like the depths of a fire on a bitterly cold night when a man could appreciate that sort of thing whilst warming his hands against it.

Apparently with that red came a temper.

“What in the blazes are you doing?” she demanded.

“Trying to decide what to call your hair. What are you doing?”

“Looking for a rock to use—nay, let's do this.” She looked at him purposefully. “Show me what you did to that lad in Falaire's barn, the thing where you rendered him senseless but not dead.”

“Why?”

“So I can do it to you!”

He found himself, surprisingly enough, rather glad that she had
no magic. If she had, he suspected she would have turned him into something small, then squished him under her boot.

He cast about for something useful to say. He was accustomed to foul-tempered mages, angry monarchs, and outraged wizards with spells and finely honed senses of justice. A flame-haired barn gel in a towering temper?

He hadn't a clue.

“And look,” she said, pointing to Falaire with a shaking hand. “What is
that
?”

“That,” he began carefully, “is a horse.”

“He has wings!”

“He's masquerading as a pegasus,” he offered. “They generally have those sorts of appendages.”

He suspected wings weren't all that pony could conjure up given the right incentive, but he supposed that might not be anything to put on a list of useful things to say at present. 'Twas no wonder Droch had wanted him.

The question that had nagged at him over the past several hours was how Droch had known what he could do and where to find him. Very curious, that.

“Wings!” Léirsinn repeated. “Wings that aren't merely for decoration!”

“So it would seem,” Acair ventured. “Would it ease you any and perhaps leave things seeming a bit more familiar if I bent over and let him take a generous bite from my arse?”

She looked at him for a moment or two, then she went very still. To his horror, she started to weep in truth. It wasn't the loud, boisterous sort of thing most women he knew indulged in order to garner the maximum attention possible. It wasn't the sort of weeping he was accustomed to from mages who generally found themselves on their knees in front of him, begging him for mercy.

He sighed. He was not a pleasant sort.

Nay, this was a different sort of weeping entirely. Léirsinn stood there as still as stone with tears simply rolling down her cheeks.
There weren't very many tears, but he suspected each one cost her a great deal.

He took a deep breath—and his life in his hands, no doubt—and walked over to her slowly. She didn't move; she simply watched him with those bright green eyes that were seemingly dry except for the tears they continued to produce. He stopped in front of her, then considered. She didn't have a dagger, so he thought he could safely assume his gut would remain unpierced. Her hands were down by her side and clenched, which he supposed boded well for her not having a rock to bean him with. That didn't address all the other things she might try, which gave him pause.

“You look like
I
might bite you.”

He smiled. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“I don't need comfort,” she whispered. “I need a sharp something so I can be rid of you and your schemes. I don't like either of you.”

He could only hope she wasn't entirely serious. He took a deep breath, then reached out and put his arms around her.

It was badly done, he would be the first to admit it. His experience with women, which included the aforementioned terrifying creatures, was limited to courtly activities, dancing, and battles with spells. He wasn't sure that he had ever, in his long and illustrious career as black mage extraordinaire, offered one of those women comfort. Wine, a coveted seat at table, and perhaps an elegantly wrapped spell, but comfort?

Never.

He patted Léirsinn's back. He patted her hair, once, then ceased immediately when she growled. Or at least he thought she had growled. The truth was, he had no idea what she was doing until she let out a shuddering breath, then leaned her forehead against his shoulder.

Well, he was going to catch his death from the damp, obviously, but perhaps it would count as his good deed for the day.

He patted a bit more, avoiding commenting on the color of her hair, then waited until she had stopped weeping, if that's what it
could have been called. And once she was simply standing there, breathing raggedly, he thought he might attempt a bit of speech.

“Here is the most of the truth I can give you,” he said finally. “Would you prefer to sit as you listen?”

“I'd rather stand,” she said, her words muffled against his cloak. “Easier to run that way.”

“Very well,” he said. He looked around briefly to make certain they were still alone, then considered what he could say without causing that spell of death that had seemingly come along with them, no doubt clinging to Falaire's tail, to fall upon him and slay him. “The truth is,” he said gingerly, “I fear that somehow my stepping in that spot of darkness alerted someone to my presence.”

“You being an important mage and all.”

He didn't miss the mockery in her tone and wondered that she managed it whilst still sniffling into his shoulder. “Aye, that. You saw the results, which left me feeling less than comfortable in Sàraichte. Hence our journey to Beinn òrain.”

“And since you didn't find your friend, you want to continue on looking for him.” She pulled away and looked at him. “Is that it?”

“I must,” Acair said. “I can't believe these words are leaving my lips, but he is the only one who can save me.”

“In Tor Neroche.”

“Aye, in Tor Neroche. 'Tis a bit of a slog on the best of days, which is why I need your horse.”

“I don't want to go with you.”

He understood that. He didn't particularly want to go with himself either. The last time he had been in that corner of the Nine Kingdoms, he'd been the guest of one Lothar of Wychweald—an unwilling guest, it had to be said—and he'd barely escaped with his life. He had most definitely left his dignity behind in the haste and unpleasant nature of his leave-taking. But that was a tale better left for a different day and then only after a substantial amount of very strong drink. At the moment, necessity left him little choice
in his selection of places to visit and his current straits dictated how quickly he needed to travel there.

He put his hands on Léirsinn's shoulders, which she didn't seem to care for, so he fussed instead with her cloak that was completely inadequate to the chill that he could already feel settling into the air. If he'd had magic to hand, he would have conjured up something very luxurious and wrapped it around her. As it was, all he could do was hope to eventually beg a cloak from someone else.

He paused, then an idea struck him. “I could leave you somewhere safe, with people who have sterling reputations. That way, you could remain in comfort whilst I see to my business.”

“
If
I loan you my horse so you can go off to find this Master Soilléir.”

“Aye.”

She walked a few paces away from him, then turned to look at him. “I don't think I believe in magic.”

“You just rode a pegasus partway across the Nine Kingdoms.”

She shivered. “I'm not sure I didn't dream that.”

“Well, you were in a bit of a faint for most of the journey.”

“I'm tempted to indulge again.”

“The rest of the journey might pass more comfortably that way,” he offered, “though I think you would miss a delightful view. One way or another, the sooner we're gone, the better.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and looked thoroughly miserable. “I don't know what to do. I don't think I can go back to Sàraichte.”

“I don't think so, either,” he said as gently as he could manage. “But that doesn't mean we won't pop in and out to liberate your grandfather when the time comes for it. But there are things we—I, rather—must do first.”

She took a deep breath. “I feel like I'm trapped in a nightmare. Or a very bad faery tale.” She looked at him. “It seems very foolish at my age to wish for a Hero to come rescue me.”

“Not foolish,” he said, though he knew several of the lads those tales had been patterned after and had always found them to be far more priggish than the tales told. “A rescue might be perhaps a bit out of reach at the moment. You are, poor gel, left with just me and your flying horse.”

She looked as if she couldn't decide which was worse, but he thought it might be best to not press her for a decision on that. He was more relieved than he likely should have been when she nodded, then walked with him over to Falaire. A few days of travel, a few games of cards to win them supper, then a very pointed conversation with the man he needed to see. Things would then return to normal. He would see her off to somewhere safe, then he would be back to the business of magic and mischief.