The White Spell (34 page)

She smiled. “What's your pleasure? Wind? Hummingbirds? An evil intention?”

“Heaven preserve me should I teach you that shape,” he said faintly. “But a brisk wind? Aye, that might do. Just don't leave me strewn about the plains, if you don't mind.”

“I won't—”

“Acair, wait.”

He shut his mouth around the spell he was going to give Mhorghain when he found that Soilléir had come to stand next to them. He had appeared rather suddenly, which Acair supposed should have left him wanting to curse the man for his ability to change his shape into a swift thought, but in truth, he was simply too frustrated to do anything but snap at him.

“What do
you
want?” he demanded.

Soilléir looked hesitant. Of all the things Acair had seen and heard in the past pair of hours, that was the thing that unsettled him the most.

“I may have details you should hear,” Soilléir said.

Acair realized that Mhorghain had come to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. He would have told her he didn't need protection, but the truth was, he wasn't sure he didn't. He raised an eyebrow at her briefly, then looked at the mage in front of him.

“Do tell,” he said coolly.

Soilléir looked at Mhorghain. “You may not want to hear this.”

“She's a strong-stomached wench,” Acair said promptly. That and he thought he might want to use her shoulder as a handy place
to lay his head and weep when he heard what he was certain would be Soilléir admitting that that damned spell of death was his but he'd forgotten how to destroy it. “She needn't leave on my account.”

“Very well, if she likes,” Soilléir said slowly. He seemed to gather his thoughts for far longer than it should have taken him before he spoke. “Why do you think we sent you to Sàraichte?” he asked.

“To shovel manure,” Acair said without hesitation, then he rolled his eyes at the look of disbelief on Soilléir's face. “How the bloody hell should I know why you sent . . . me . . .”

He stopped speaking because he had to.

A stillness had descended over their little tableau there in the clearing, a stillness unlike anything he'd ever experienced before and his life was not without its memorable moments. Those had been confined generally to his irrevocably changing the lives of those he had chosen to vex, but there it was. He was not an elven prince, sprinkling his sparkling spells over everything in sight like so much faery dust. He was a ruthless, powerful mage, wreaking havoc and altering the course of kingdoms.

He didn't like thinking that his
own
life was about to be changed past all recognition.

A numbness started at the top of his head and spread rapidly downward. He was afraid he might be fainting. Perhaps that was more obvious than he cared it to be because Mhorghain had quite suddenly pulled his arm over her shoulders. The wench was strong, he would give her that, and ignored him when he made a sound of protest.

He forced himself to take a deep, even breath. “Why did you send me to Sàraichte?” he managed.

“To walk where I cannot.”

“Walk?” Acair echoed with as much disdain as he could drape over the word. “Aye, all I can do is walk because I can't bloody shapechange—and apparently you can't make that any different for me!”

The faintest of smiles crossed the man's face. “You know what I mean.”

Acair looked at him and felt as though he were looking at him for the first time. He leaned on his sister for a moment or two, then felt some of his old enthusiasm and strength return. He ceased holding on to her as if she were the only thing keeping him on his feet—which she had been, he had to admit—and simply kept his arm around her shoulders in a casual sort of brotherly way. “I vow I haven't a clue what you're talking about,” he said, attempting a yawn.

If he'd sounded as if he were choking, so be it. He was not at his best and he was hearing things he didn't like.

“You will.”

“Without putting too fine a point on it, Your Highness, I don't
want
to know what you're talking about. That, and I would very much like to take my sharpest spell of death and plunge it into your chest.”

“I don't doubt that.”

He considered several things, wished more desperately than he had ever in the whole of his life for a spell of Diminishing so he could have rid Soilléir of all his magic and schemes, then stepped away from the proverbial edge of the abyss and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.

He could walk where that one there could not?

“Are you saying,” he began slowly and very quietly, “that you sent me on a quest?”

Soilléir nodded.

“To places you can't go . . . or you won't go?”

Soilléir only looked at him in that way he had, as if he could see things that truly should remain unseen.

“You underestimate who you are,” he said quietly, “and what you can do. Discovering that is your work, not mine.”

Soilléir then flipped a coin up in the air. Acair realized he was meant to catch it only because he was forced to stop it from clouting him on the nose. He looked at it, expecting it to be a sovereign, only to find it was something else entirely. He gaped at it for a moment or two, then looked at the man standing there.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Tòrr Dòrainn isn't the only place with magic and Sìle not the only one with runes to dole out,” Soilléir said quietly. “That, my friend, is something of mine, fashioned from my own magic.”

“And what in the bloody hell am I to do with it?” Acair said, holding it gingerly between his thumb and pointer finger. “Well, besides try to pull it apart and see what sort of spell you used to fashion it.”

“Put it in your purse for the moment. When you need aid that only I can offer, use it.”

Acair would have protested that the damned thing would surely collapse under the weight of all the coppers in the purse at his belt, but he could see already that it wasn't so fragile. What it was made of, he couldn't have said, but he would certainly do everything within his power to find out.

He watched Soilléir embrace Mhorghain briefly, shoot him one more look full of meanings he didn't want to try to identify, then turn himself into a bit of swirling wind that didn't waste any time scampering off.

Acair stood there in that bit of clearing near the inn and considered what he'd heard. It had rocked him to his very foundations, truth be told, but he would be damned if he let anyone see as much. He took a deep breath and looked at his sister.

“What a ridiculous bit of drama that was,” he said patting her on the shoulder before he settled his cloak. “I vow I don't know what he was getting at with that business.”

“Don't you?” she asked.

He considered, then shook his head. “It's not coming to me and I've no interest in investigating. Let's turn for your castle. I fancy a journey as a bit of brisk autumn wind. What say you?”

“As you will.”

He could scarce believe he was trusting another soul with such a change in his own sweet self, but he thought he might almost be past surprise where his own actions were concerned. He gave his sister the spell and hoped he would remember to thank her for not
simply slamming the words into him and leaving him in pieces. If she added a few Fadairian sparkles to him, well, what could he do?

Well, he could face the fact that those bits of heart-stoppingly beautiful glamour hadn't come from Mhorghain, they had come from inside him. Damn that Rùnach of Tòrr Dòrainn. That spell was going to be the death of him.

He spared one final thought for things that made him uncomfortable. So, Soilléir had sent him south because he hadn't wanted to send himself. Obviously, he'd had business that needed to be seen to that he hadn't bloody wanted to face, no matter the reason he'd given, and he'd tasked Acair with seeing to that business whilst not having the common courtesy to tell him what he was walking into.

Literally, apparently.

He didn't want to admit it, but he was absolutely shattered by the thought. There were things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms that were past evil and he'd just been told how unwittingly embroiled he was in those things. Dangerous things. Things he absolutely wasn't going to allow Léirsinn of Sàraichte to be any closer to than she had been already.

He turned his mind away from that unhappy thought and forced himself to concentrate on following his sister back to Tor Neroche instead of getting lost in all that glittering elven rot.

It was harder than he'd thought it would be.

L
éirsinn held a dagger in her hand and wondered if that might be what landed her in a dungeon for good.

Of course, the potential for that had everything to do with the fact that the man she was facing over daggers was Mansourah of Neroche. She didn't imagine stabbing a prince of a royal house was looked upon with any sort of leniency. Then again, the whole morning of madness had been his idea, so perhaps if he walked away bloodied, he had no one to blame but himself.

It wasn't as if she'd woken that morning with the intention of facing a prince over daggers. Her day had started out in a fairly normal fashion with a trip to the barn, a bit of exercising not only her horse but Acair's, and a happy discussion with the stable master about the excellent accommodations enjoyed by a collection of horses she could readily see contained a handful of beasts from Hearn's stables. Falaire's right front leg was giving him a bit of trouble, but the king's horse master promised him all the healing they could put into him in the time they had. She had known that wasn't much more than she could have done herself and she'd left her horse to his care.

She'd then had a late breakfast with a pair of Miach's older brothers, Cathar and Turah, during which she'd been told more about the state of the world than she'd wanted to hear. She'd made her escape at noon after having been assured she was at liberty to
wander where she cared to. She hadn't been sure she would ever accustom herself to scores of servants, a handful of whom had seemingly been assigned to see to her needs, but she'd supposed she would never have to.

It had been as she'd been wandering the passageways, trying not to gape at her surroundings as she was trailed by a handful of pages and maidservants, that she had encountered Mansourah of Neroche. He had wondered if she might care to learn to use the dagger he had found for her in the armory that morning.

“On Acair?” she'd asked.

“Now that you mention it,” he had replied, “aye.”

That had been at least a pair of hours ago. Since then, she had learned how to use a knife for more than cutting the string that held bales of hay together. Whether or not she could use a blade on another person was something else entirely.

She looked at the knife in her hand, then looked at Miach's older brother. He was as handsome as the rest of the litter, though she sensed a restlessness in him that made her wonder what he was still doing at the palace instead of wandering the Nine Kingdoms. If he'd been a horse, she would have sold him to an adventurer in need of a fearless pony not prone to shying at the unexpected.

“Mistress Léirsinn?”

“Just Léirsinn,” she said, “and as such, I must be honest with you. I'm just not sure I could ever stab someone.”

“Not even if they were trying to kill you?” he asked.

“Who would want to kill me?”

Mansourah only looked at her pointedly.

She returned his look. “Acair wouldn't, no matter what you think of him. And anyone else would likely have magic, which would be far more deadly than any knife I could use.”

He sighed, then nodded reluctantly. “I must admit that is likely true,” he agreed. “Why don't we then try something less sharp? You never know when a well-placed elbow or a judicious use of a curled fist will be what saves the day.”

She smiled. “You have brothers, obviously.”

“Each more irritating than the last,” he agreed. “Save Miach, unfortunately. He's a lovely wee fellow.”

“I'm sure he appreciates the compliment,” she said dryly, handing him her knife.

“What he appreciates more, I imagine, is my ability to guard his back when the need arises. Let me show you what might be useful for you in such a situation.”

She looked at him and shook her head. “I appreciate it, truly I do, but I'm just not sure I can do this.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two, then tossed her knife and his onto a chair near the fire. He returned to stand before her.

“I vex Acair of Ceangail because I can,” he said slowly, “and because he deserves it. He has a terrible reputation, one he's earned, and he uses magic that most shy away from out of simple good taste if nothing else. But whatever else his failings, he is a gentleman and if he were able, he would protect you, I daresay, with his life.”

“But?” she asked.

He looked at her seriously. “But there may come a time when he is not there to keep you safe and you must protect yourself by yourself. If you can at least give yourself time to flee, you should learn how to do so. And for all you know, you might be able to aid him, ruthless bastard that he is. For your sake, of course, not his.”

She didn't have to give it any more thought. “Very well. Thank you.”

“You might feel differently in an hour.”

“So might you.”

He only smiled. “Let's begin, then.”

•   •   •

I
t wasn't an hour later, but several hours later that she had left Mansourah of Neroche limping off to dress for supper and found herself standing in her chamber, a chamber that was far larger than
even her uncle's study, looking at herself in a polished glass and wondering how she had come to be where she was. She had wished for a change.

She thought she might want to be more careful what she wished for in the future.

It was odd to be in the midst of a flock of maidservants who were attending to things she didn't normally think about, such as her fingernails and whether or not her hair curled to the right or the left, never mind all the rest of the fussing and arranging of her person that was going on.

Her hair. She looked at it and wondered if it could possibly be called anything but red.

“Nay, you silly gel, not yellow. Let's hold up the red again.”

Léirsinn identified the woman speaking with such authority as the Mistress of the Wardrobe. She would rather have been facing a dozen stallions with tempers than that one, but that was obviously not going to be her lot that night.

“What do you think, Your Majesty? This one, or shall it be the emerald green that I have already suggested?”

“I do believe, Mistress Wardrobe,” Morgan said, nodding slowly, “that you have yet again made the right choice. The green is spectacular.”

Léirsinn looked at the queen and had a sly wink as her reward. It might have cheered her, but she was still standing there in underclothing she was fairly certain had been fashioned by some black mage for a former lover he intended to torment. She allowed herself to be dressed in the aforementioned emerald gown, opened her eyes when her head had emerged from the neckline, then looked at herself in the mirror.

“Oh,” she said weakly.

Mistress Wardrobe directed her assistants to put on the finishing touches, as it were, then clapped her hands and beamed. “Perfect. We're finished here.” She made Morgan a crisp bow. “My duty is accomplished and quite successfully, as always.” She shot Léirsinn a look. “Don't spill anything on your gown and leave your hair alone.”

Léirsinn nodded and suspected she wouldn't dare do anything else. She watched the Mistress of the Wardrobe herd her flock of helpers out the door, then found herself vastly relieved to be left with just the queen of Neroche. She looked at Morgan.

“Well.”

“She terrifies most,” Morgan agreed with a half laugh. “The boys scamper when they see her coming. She and I, however, have come to an understanding: She leaves off with commenting on my training clothes and I wear whatever she tells me to for state events. An uneasy truce, but hard won. You look lovely, by the way.”

“But my hair—”

“Is absolutely stunning,” Morgan said seriously. “Don't change it.”

“How would I change it?”

Morgan looked at her and sighed. “That is a sorry comment on the state of my life, isn't it? I've become all too used to having magic. Life is simpler without it, I think.”

“Is it?” Léirsinn asked. She shrugged at the look Morgan sent her way. “I'm just curious. Acair seems to miss it. I've never had it, so I have nothing to miss. I just wonder what it feels like to have it.”

Morgan paused, then nodded at the little table that had been placed a distance from the fire that Léirsinn supposed was the right distance to keep her from becoming too hot. “Let's rest for a moment or two and I'll tell you.”

Léirsinn followed the queen over to a chair, sat, and happily accepted a glass of wine. Whatever else went on at the keep, they certainly had a decent lad manning the cellars.

“When I first realized I had it, I would have cut it from my very veins if I'd been able,” Morgan said with a sigh. “Miach was the one who showed me that it could be a beautiful thing, but he does that.” She shrugged. “I have what Acair has from my father and I have elven magic from my mother. Sometimes I feel as though it wars within me, though I suppose Gair's magic comes from elven sources as well doesn't it?”

“From his father, I gather,” Léirsinn agreed. She had given up
trying to deny what she had seen or found difficult to believe. She still felt a little as if she were in a play where she was just repeating lines about magic and elves and other unbelievable things, but she wasn't sure what else to do. No sense in wasting energy trying to deny what she couldn't any longer. “Very lovely, Prince Sgath and the lady Eulasaid.”

“They are,” Morgan said. “And so are you. Acair will be gobsmacked, I'll tell you that.”

“He won't notice me.”

Morgan looked at her, laughed, then shook her head with a final smile. “If you don't
want
him to notice you, then that's one thing. But I think the choice will be yours. He won't have a bloody thing to say about it.”

Léirsinn sipped her wine, then set it aside. “And what do you think of him?”

“He is not our father,” Morgan said. “Anything else? I think he's handsome, charming, and has too much time on his hands. He should spend more time mucking out stalls and less time at the gaming table.”

“But evil?”

“I've seen evil,” Morgan said quietly, “and he is not it. Whether or not he believes that is something I wouldn't presume to guess. What do you think?”

“He makes me laugh.”

“Many marriages were begun with less.”

“Marriage,” Léirsinn echoed, choking. “To me? Surely not.”

“Miach fell in love with me when he thought I was a soldier of fortune,” Morgan said with a smile, then she laughed again. “Listen to me. Motherhood has turned my mind in directions it doesn't usually go.” She set her own glass aside and rose. “Enjoy the evening, Léirsinn, and leave the rest for the morning. For all we know, Sourah and Acair will fight a duel over you and we'll be rid of them both.”

“Would that be a good thing?” Léirsinn asked, trying not to
wipe her hands on her dress. She had never in her life been nervous. She wasn't sure how she should feel about experiencing the same at the moment.

“Rigaud would happily be rid of them both, but he's not overly fond of Acair. I suppose the best we can hope for tonight is avoiding bloodshed.” She smiled. “I'll go see that my wee son is settled, then see you for supper, aye?”

Léirsinn nodded because it was expected. She would have preferred to have been looking around her for somewhere to hide, but she suspected Morgan knew that. The queen gave her another encouraging smile, then left the chamber.

She wondered how long she could reasonably stay behind before she was missed, or if it might be possible to plead a headache and miss the evening altogether. She stopped in front of the polished glass and looked at herself reflected there. It was difficult to believe what she was seeing, but then again, she had only seen herself a pair of times in her uncle's house and that mirror hadn't been nearly so fine. Perhaps a horse trough full of still water was of less use than she'd believed.

She took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirts that didn't need smoothing, then turned and faced the door. It was simply supper and dancing. She could plead ignorance about the latter and ignore the fact that Mansourah of Neroche had taken the time to teach her a pair of patterns so she wouldn't look the fool. Supper, she thought she could manage all on her own.

She left her chamber and pulled the door shut behind her. A page stood across from her chamber door, apparently waiting for her. He made her a polite bow, then smiled.

“After me, if you will, my lady.”

She didn't bother to correct his form of address and instead simply followed him down the passageway, around a corner, and into disaster.

Prince Mansourah was standing there. So was Acair. Léirsinn skidded to a halt, almost twisting her ankle in the damned shoes
Mistress Wardrobe had insisted that she wear. She would have fallen on her face if she hadn't latched onto the first arm thrust out in front of her.