Dreamer's Daughter (20 page)

It had been fashioned of sunshine and moonlight and deep rivers of cold water that ran beneath the earth, hardened into a substance that couldn't possibly be wood but had the appearance of it. She took a deep breath, then realized that she knew exactly what she would be committing to if she reached out and touched that wheel. She knew what the First Dreamspinner's responsibilities were because Bruadair had been teaching them to her slowly and patiently for weeks, first reaching out after her as she'd been standing in an old granny's house on Melksham Island, daring to risk death by touching a simple wooden wheel.

A throat cleared itself softly from her right.

She looked up in surprise to find a man standing there. He was impossibly thin, rather tall, with a long, beaked nose and hands that fluttered like a pair of restless butterflies.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head, “if I could make a suggestion.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Freasdail, my lady. Steward to the First.”

“Oh,” she said, unable to put any sound behind the word. “I see.”

“I think that perhaps it might be a handsome gesture to those who've come to watch the ceremony if we were to perhaps move behind the wheel where they can watch the events proceed.”

“Is that what we should do?” she asked faintly.

“I think it would be meaningful to them,” he said, inclining his head again.

She supposed that if anyone wanted to watch her be struck down for her cheek, they were welcome to it. She looked at Freasdail. “And what do I do once I've stepped behind the wheel?”

“Lady Muinear will instruct you.”

Aisling supposed she couldn't go wrong there, so she walked around the wheel and placed herself where Freasdail indicated with a series of lifted eyebrows and slight nods. Muinear smiled at her, then stepped to her side and looked out over the company gathered there.

“You are all come to witness the beginning of a new First,” she said in a clear, unwavering voice. “My great-granddaughter, Aisling of Bruadair, whose right this is.”

Aisling saw Rùnach standing at the doors of the hall with her father. His hands were still clasped behind his back but tears were rolling down his cheeks. He still breathed, which she supposed was all she could ask for. She looked at her great-grandmother, who was still facing the crowd.

“The history of the wheel is long and illustrious,” Muinear said, “but not necessary for understanding the significance of the moment. Suffice it to say, the wheel stopped spinning as my daughter breathed her last and it has not spun since. Bruadair locked its revolutions partly in mourning for Cuilidh, partly as the final test for the lad or lass with magic enough to become the First.”

Aisling felt her mouth go dry. She looked at Muinear as she turned and smiled.

“Have others tried?” she whispered.

“Do you really want to know that right now?” Muinear murmured.

Aisling closed her eyes briefly, then looked for Rùnach again. He was only still watching her, steadily. She realized she had nothing to lose at the moment besides her life, so perhaps there was no reason not to plunge ahead and cast her fate to the wind.

She reached out and put her hand on the flywheel. She looked up quickly at the faint sound, then realized it had been Bruadair to sigh lightly. The wood was cold under her hand, but that seemed to be from nothing more than the chill in the hall. She closed her eyes briefly, then gave the flywheel a firm spin.

Bruadair paused.

And then the world burst into song.

She supposed she might not have noticed that if it hadn't been so loud right next to her. The hall had erupted in applause and a few undignified cheers. But the world?

It sang a melody she was certain she'd heard before, but she couldn't for the life of her remember where. She found her hand taken and subsequently shaken heartily by the tall man who had been standing several feet behind her—perhaps to catch her if she fell. Muinear embraced her.

“Ah, my darling,” she said, hugging Aisling. “A long road to this place, aye?”

“I thought you were dead!” Aisling said, before she thought better of blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

Muinear laughed. “Not yet, love.” She pulled away. “Let me release you to those who have come to greet you. And I think there might be a lad at the back of the hall who has an especial interest in your future.”

Aisling wasn't sure where to begin, but fortunately Freasdail seemed to know the most appropriate way to greet the souls who had come to witness what she was very happy to find wasn't her death.

She had the feeling it was going to be a very long morning.

•   •   •

S
he realized, several hours later, that
long
wasn't exactly the right word for it.
Endless
was likely a better choice, but she had survived it well enough thanks mostly to Freasdail, who always seemed to know exactly when to hand her something to eat or drink, or find her a chair, or clear his throat politely if a well-wisher carried on too long. She wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't received the odd gift or two, but she had lost track of them. She was quite certain that Freasdail hadn't.

A reception was announced outside in the garden and the flock of spinners deserted the hall with alacrity. Aisling found herself standing in the middle of the hall with her great-grandmother. It was then that she realized they weren't exactly alone. Rùnach and her father had apparently been holding up the wall nearest the front doors.

“Ah, a creature from myth,” Muinear said, smiling in Rùnach's direction.

“You know that's what I thought elves were for the longest time,” Aisling admitted.

Her great-grandmother winked at her. “I'm well aware of that, darling.”

“I was surprised to find that his ears were perfectly normal.”

“Well, we all make do sometimes with less.” She linked arms with Aisling. “We'll wait for them to come to us, I daresay. It's good for them to make the effort.”

Aisling thought Rùnach's reputation might benefit from a recounting of all the efforts he had made for her, but perhaps later when she felt a bit more grounded. At present, she felt as if she were not quite where she was.

“Prince Rùnach,” Muinear said extending her hand to him. “A pleasure.”

Rùnach took her hand and bowed low over it. “Lady Muinear, it is an honor.”

“You've taken very good care of my great-granddaughter, I see.”

“That, my lady, has been not only an honor, but a pleasure.”

Muinear smiled. “Such lovely manners. Your mother would be gratified and no doubt your grandmother Brèagha is unsurprised.” She looked at Aisling's father. “Bristeadh, love. I'm not surprised to see you here.”

“My lady Muinear, nothing you've ever said has surprised me less.”

Muinear laughed merrily. “I've no doubt of that, laddie.” She looked at Aisling and her eyes were bright. “Perhaps the moment demands a bit more soberness, but I am so happy to see you that I can hardly muster up an appropriate amount.”

“How did you survive?” Aisling asked, because she couldn't sit on the question any longer.

“Iochdmhor is not as clever as she thinks she is,” Muinear said conspiratorially, “and I am, if I might say as much, a wonderful actress. I'll give you the particulars when we're at our leisure. For now, you need something to eat, then perhaps a day spent resting in peace and safety. Tomorrow is soon enough to lay our plans and see what's to be done about the mischief Sglaimir has combined. Bristeadh, if you would care to escort me outside? We'll leave these two a bit of privacy before guests start to wander back inside, looking for their First.”

Aisling watched her father escort his late wife's grandmother from the hall, then took a deep breath before she turned to look at Rùnach.

He was only watching her with a small smile, the same smile he'd been giving her for weeks. It was a smile that said he loved her, she knew, only this one was slightly bemused, as if he were seeing her for the first time after a long absence.

“What?” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

He shook his head, unwrapped her arms, then wrapped them instead around his waist. He drew her close and rested his cheek against her hair. “I love you.”

She smiled. “I love you back.”

“Thank heavens. Does Bruadair approve of us, do you think?”

“We're both still breathing.”

“I suppose that's endorsement enough,” he agreed. “How are you?”

“I'm not sure,” she admitted. She pulled back and looked up at him. “Staggered, perhaps.”

“That, I can understand perfectly,” he said. He bent his head, then paused. “Will I be struck down for stealing a kiss, do you think?”

“I'll keep you safe.”

He smiled. “I believe, Aisling my love, that you will. I'll return the favor as often as possible.”

She was happily distracted for several minutes until he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I don't think the danger is over for me today, so I'd best keep my wits about me.”

“Danger?” she asked in surprise.

“Your great-grandmother wants to talk to me later.” He paused. “I think I should be afraid.”

“I think perhaps you should be.”

He laughed a little, then released her and took her hand. “Let's go have something strengthening, then perhaps a nap in a sunny corner. I actually think your great-grandmother has challenged me to a duel, but I'm not exactly sure. And here I thought it would be your father I would need to keep an eye on.”

She nodded and walked with him. She glanced at the floor as they walked, seeing how their footprints became part of the history of the palace. Rùnach's were, unsurprisingly, adorned here and there with hints of Fadairian runes. She saw that hers were more than just footprints as well, but wasn't sure how to describe what she saw.

She paused at the door to what was apparently the garden, then looked at the wheel sitting there on the dais, unattended—

Or, perhaps not so unattended. She watched spells shimmering around it and decided that the world was in no danger of having any stray twelve-year-old lads coming along to give an irreplaceable spinning wheel a go.

If only the rest of the world could be so protected from things that might either intentionally or unintentionally do it harm.

“We'll make plans later,” Rùnach said quietly. “A pair of hours, Aisling, of peace and quiet. The world won't be destroyed in that time.”

She nodded and hoped he was right.

T
here were several things, Rùnach conceded, that he had never thought to find himself doing over the course of what he knew would be a very long life. Becoming a black mage was one of them. Living out his life in a palace surrounded by servants and having nothing better to do with his time than eat, drink, and dance his endless evenings away had been another.

Facing a diminutive, Bruadairian great-granny who had just told him to stop being such a woman had honestly never entered his mind.

He supposed it had just been that sort of day so far. The journey to the dreamspinners' palace, Ciaradh, had been long and not precisely restful. He'd spent an anxious half hour mentally walking with Aisling up a path the floor seemed to demarcate for her without reservation, only to watch her put her hand on a spinning wheel and hope the bloody thing wouldn't kill her. He'd hobnobbed with spinners from all over the world, many surprisingly not spinning for those rulers sitting on the Council of Kings, and eaten perhaps more than he should have in preparation for any other activity besides a robust nap.

He'd watched Aisling go off to what he hoped was a very soft bed. The use of a different chamber where he might avail himself of the same was what he'd hoped for. What he'd found was himself getting the opportunity to face a woman who should have been undertaking nothing more vile than the scolding of a servant.

He paused. Perhaps trying to exercise chivalry by telling her that had not endeared him to her.

He set that aside as something to be examined—and potentially apologized for—later, then considered further where he'd gone wrong that morning. After he'd apparently obnoxiously, though inadvertently, patronized Mistress Muinear to his own satisfaction but obviously past hers, he'd been invited to take a stroll with her where she thought he might not need his sword, but he was welcome to bring it if it made him feel more secure.

That should have been a warning.

All of which had left him where he was, facing a woman who had just told him to engage with her in a bit of light exercise before supper. He looked at her, then shook his head.

“Mistress Muinear, I just don't think I can do this.”

“What, my boy,” she asked with a smile that made him very nervous. “Find the courage to raise a sword against me?”

“It isn't courage that concerns me,” he said honestly. “I just have never . . . I don't . . . I can't imagine—” He took a deep breath. “You're a woman.”

“No weapon you have, my lad, will harm me. Not Sìle's dagger, not Uachdaran's sword, not even your mighty magic.”

“But—”

“Not even your spells made to counter less pleasant ones created by your father. Those spells won't hold here, no matter what you might think.”

He didn't want to be rude, but he'd seen what his father's magic could do. “I hate to contradict you,” he said carefully, “but my father's spells—”

“Brutal,” she conceded, “but not insurmountable.”

He looked at her in surprise. “But, my lady, how would you know?”

“Lad, I am as old as your father,” she said frankly. “If you think I haven't faced him, think again.”

Rùnach blinked. “I can't begin to imagine that.”

“Neither could he,” she said with a merry laugh, “which is why I managed to crawl away from that encounter with my life.” She shivered. “A very powerful, clever mage, your father.”

“As well as a man who would fight a woman,” Rùnach said firmly, “which I am not.”

Muinear sighed and looked at Bristeadh. “What am I to do with him?”

“Be grateful he wants to wed Aisling, I suppose,” Bristeadh said with a shrug from where he leaned against a low wall with his arms folded over his chest. “You know I can't help you with him.”

“I suppose we could bring all the Council together and attack him simultaneously,” she said thoughtfully. She eyed Rùnach. “What do you think of that, my boy?”

“If it means I won't have to face you over spells, my lady,” Rùnach said, “I think I would prefer it.”

It was amazing how quickly a group of spinners could gather, huddle together, and apparently invent a strategy. Rùnach took the opportunity to accept a cup of wine from Aisling's father, who it had to be said looked far too comfortable in his role as sommelier.

“You aren't going to help me?” Rùnach said.

“Didn't I tell you I had no magic?”

Rùnach rolled his eyes. “Use your influence with your granny-in-law and convince her to just watch someone take me to pieces instead of being the instigator of the devastation. She's brought all her helpers and some of them are women as well.”

Bristeadh smiled. “You have no idea who any of them are, do you?”

“I see women,” Rùnach said grimly, “and I do not fight women.”

“Because you fear they'll best you?”

Rùnach shot his future father-in-law a dark look. “Because I am a gentleman.”

Bristeadh clapped a hand on Rùnach's shoulder briefly. “Indeed you are, Rùnach, but consider the women in your family. Your paternal grandmother is Eulasaid of Camanaë. She was, and still is I imagine, no wilting wallflower. Her battles fought against Lothar of Wychweald are legendary.”

“I'm not Lothar,” Rùnach said evenly, “and I can't raise a hand against a woman.”

“Consider Muinear a diminutive troll, then. She can be passing unpleasant when she hasn't had her four o'clock libations.”

Rùnach eyed him narrowly. “I can see why they hesitated in giving Aisling's mother to you.”

Bristeadh only laughed. “Son, you are only scratching the surface of my unsuitability. Someday I will tell you all, but until then, I suggest you gather up your best spells and bring them to the battlefield. Nothing else will do, I fear.”

Rùnach drained his cup, thanked Aisling's father for the drink and the utterly useless advice, then supposed there was no point in bringing his sword. He had the feeling he wasn't going to have the chance to use it anyway. He left it propped up against a bench and considered the very short walk back onto the battlefield.

That Ciaradh even had lists of any sort was a bit surprising. Then again, he'd seen guards roaming through the forests surrounding the palace, so they would obviously need somewhere to train. He wondered if those lads might be prevailed upon to rescue him if things went awry.

He watched Muinear invite the rest of the mob to make themselves comfortable on quite lovely benches set against that low wall that was holding up Aisling's father, then walk out into the midst of the field with a spring to her step that made him rather uneasy. He made himself a mental note never, ever to take her invitations at face value again.

That was the last useful thought he had for some time.

He hardly had time to gather his wits about him before he was being assaulted by spells. Perhaps there was no reason not to note that initially they weren't terribly complicated or intimidating spells. He countered them easily enough with whatever magic seemed to come to hand. Perhaps there was also no reason not to reassure himself that his store of spells was rather extensive, so digging up the odd thing to use for something he hadn't expected caused him no great amount of exertion.

Or at least it didn't until the sun began to turn for home, as it were, at which time things took a decided turn for the worse.

He suspected, as a volley of unpleasant things came at him from not only Muinear but a few of the dreamspinners who had apparently decided to stretch their legs a bit, that he might have been wise to have a wee chat with
all
the players on the field before he agreed to engage in anything with them besides a late lunch. It was too late at the moment, though, and he was left with increasingly complicated magic fashioned into increasingly complex spells, which required ever more difficult countermeasures.

He spent a good deal of his time fighting the urge to reach for something of his father's. He revisited the necessity of sending a thank-you to whoever had gifted him with his father's book of spells and insisted that he rememorize them. He wasn't altogether certain that hadn't been the witchwoman of Fàs, which he supposed didn't reflect particularly well on her character.

And then Muinear stepped out again in front of her companions.

Rùnach wondered how long he would last against her before she slew him, and he realized almost immediately that that span of time was too small to be measured. He found himself flat on his back, thoroughly winded, staring up at the sky above him before he could open his mouth to blurt out a protest. His love's great-grandmother was soon peering down at him.

“That didn't go so well for you, my boy, did it?”

“I cannot lift a hand . . . against . . . a woman,” he wheezed.

“Pray that little wretch Acair doesn't shapechange into one, then.”

He started to argue with her, but two things stopped him. One, he had no breath for arguing, and two, she was right. He studied the late-afternoon sky as his wind returned, then finally heaved himself back up to his feet. He looked at Muinear, who was standing in front of him, watching him with a smile.

“You are asking almost more of me than I can stand,” he said frankly.

“And if your father's youngest bastard—and I'm only saying he's the youngest from Fionne of Fàs, mind you, not anyone else—were a girl, what would you do?”

He dragged his hand through his hair. “Weep, I suppose.”

Muinear smiled again. “Your chivalry does you credit, Rùnach, and yet more credit to your lovely mother who raised you so well. But you cannot hurt me.”

“I don't want to try.”

“Then pretend I am your schoolmistress and you may only have your supper if you can show me all the proper and correct answers to the puzzles I put to you.”

He studied her. “You're painting a very lovely picture of it now, but I have the feeling you may suddenly discover you've changed your mind once I'm so deep in the mire of my father's spells that I can't escape.”

“Or your own, I daresay,” she said mildly.

He wasn't quite sure how to answer that, but he supposed if there were anyone to ask about the state of his own magic, it would be the woman in front of him. The rest of the rabble had resumed their comfortable seats by the wall so perhaps he would have privacy for questions he didn't particularly want to ask.

“Do you see the darkness?” he asked very quietly. “In me?”

She looked at him gravely. “Rùnach, there is darkness in each of us.”

“Not in my magic,” he said. “Not before.”

“Are you sure of that?”

He opened his mouth to tell her he was most assuredly convinced of that but something stopped him. Good sense, perhaps. An uncomfortable encounter with self-reflection, definitely.

“I'm not entirely certain,” he admitted. “The last time I had magic to hand, I was young and arrogant.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don't know.”

“Then consider that your father is a prince of Ainneamh,” she said mildly, “and he was not always as he is now.”

Rùnach felt a little winded. “I'm not sure I wanted to hear that.”

“Perhaps not, but we don't always want to hear about the less appealing parts of ourselves. Your father comes from a long line of noble souls. You have aunts and an uncle, I believe, who didn't choose darkness, and their heritage is the same as his. The choice is always yours, Rùnach. As for anything else, I think you had best be prepared for whatever comes your way, hadn't you?”

He considered, then sighed. “Very well, then. Another spell or two.”

It turned out to be far more than a spell or two and at one point he realized that he was using far more serious spells than he likely should have been using. Muinear didn't seem to be at all surprised by anything he countered with. She also didn't seem to be working very hard to counter anything he was using.

Yet another thing to set aside for examination later.

He couldn't say Bruadair was particularly happy with him and what he was spewing out—at one point he wasn't entirely sure a cloud hadn't sprung up just over him and drenched him out of spite—but it seemed resigned to allowing him time to learn what he perhaps needed to.

It took time, but he realized as he continued to spar with Muinear that he was actually learning to manage what he was doing. Not fully, not even partly, but marginally. Not enough for it to perhaps make a difference, but perhaps enough to keep him from killing himself.

It was so completely foreign to anything he'd ever done that he felt as though he was standing outside his body, watching someone who looked like him doing things he certainly wouldn't have thought up on his own. The spells he was using required a lightness of touch that reminded him so damned much of Soilléir of Cothromaiche with his single words and happy thoughts that it was no wonder Sìle hadn't been able to do anything inside Bruadair's borders. His grandfather would have been left cursing furiously hours earlier.