The White Spell (24 page)

“Your grandparents,” she interrupted.

He looked as unnerved as she felt. “Aye, my, er, grandparents. They would apparently like to see us fed at least one more time in a decent fashion, though I think I'll forgo any walks in the garden with the lord of the house. His ale is delightful, but I think I need a clear head on the morrow.”

“Where will we go?”

“I'll consider our route over supper. As I said before, my list of welcoming harbors is quite short.”

“I don't suppose announcing you're on a mission of good would change any minds?”

“Change is, I'm finding, difficult,” he said. “Allowing someone else to change even more so. Not,” he added, “that I want to change. When I have my magic back at my fingertips, the world had best tremble in fear.”

“Well, you're certainly dressed for it.”

He tucked her hand more securely under his arm. “I don't think
you have anything approaching the least amount of respect you should have for my truly appalling ability to make mischief. Ehrne didn't begin to plumb the depths of my foul deeds. I suspect I frighten the hell out of him.”

“I hear he's an ass.”

“He is, which is why he's never invited to supper here. We, on the other hand, are apparently still in the good graces of the lord and lady of the house, which is fortunate. Better to face death on a full stomach, I always say.”

She walked with him out of the barn. “Do you always say that?”

“Always. I find 'tis embarrassing to have an entire keep of mages on their faces in front of me, quivering in fear, and then have my belly betray me by a discreet growl. One must maintain one's reputation, you know.”

She looked up at him. “In truth?”

“In truth, I am everything they say I am,” he said seriously. “And what I'm finding is no one wants me to be anything else than that.”

“I might.”

“Ah, a red-haired wench with a shapechanging horse,” he said with a faint smile. “'Tis a start, isn't it?”

“I think it might be.”

He took a deep breath. “I think we'll make for Angesand. I'll hide behind you as we approach Aherin and you can talk our way inside the gates.”

“Aherin?” she echoed. She found herself feeling a little breathless. “Do you think so?”

“I would like Hearn to look at your horse,” he said with a shrug, “and 'tis on our road north. If you fold a map in a crumply sort of way and twist it around.”

“You're going there for yourself, aren't you?” she said, because she couldn't believe anything else.

“Of course. Why would I go for you?”

Because the man had absolutely no affinity for horses and she couldn't imagine that the thought of frequenting a keep full of them
was anything but unpleasant. She looked at him knowingly. “You're taking me along as your shield, obviously.”

“As I said.”

She walked with him through the garden. “How crumpled?” she asked finally.

“More crumpled than I'm willing to admit—oh, look you here. Someone come to direct us to table.”

She had to admit she was rather grateful for the distraction. It had been a difficult few days full of things she hadn't expected and wasn't entirely sure she'd enjoyed. The thought of an unremarkable supper in a beautiful spot was very welcome indeed.

She would face other things later.

•   •   •

A
pair of hours later, she sat across from Acair at a worn, farmhouse table and watched him with his grandparents. He was a perfect guest. He seemed genuinely interested in his grandmother's gardening projects, more particularly things that flowered at night and under unusual lunar conditions, and he discussed at length the making of tasty brews with his grandfather as if he truly cared about the man's experiments with various grains and fruits of the vine.

She watched him mostly because he was hard to look away from. She supposed he was capable of all those things he'd been accused of only because she'd seen a look in his eye once or twice that she had been happy had been turned elsewhere. Then again, she'd enjoyed that sort of look from more than one horse, so it didn't trouble her overmuch.

“You're going to see Hearn?” Sgath asked in surprise.

“Thought we would,” Acair said, sipping his wine. “Just to put our feet up for a moment or two.”

Léirsinn looked at Sgath. “He says it's on the way, if you crumple up a map properly and give it a bit of a twist.”

“The twists and turns of my grandson's life are truly something
to behold,” Sgath said. “I believe he's accustomed to that kind of thing.”

He was smiling, though, which she supposed should have left her feeling a bit more at ease. Unfortunately, she hadn't missed the look Sgath had sent Acair or the look Acair had sent back his grandfather's way. There was something else afoot, though she couldn't have said what. If Sgath wanted to have a serious conversation with his grandson, she was absolutely going to get out of his way sooner rather than later.

She pled weariness after a bit and excused herself, and she honestly wasn't surprised to listen to Sgath invite Acair for a stroll in the garden. She was simply happy she didn't have to listen to what they might discuss.

She would go along, because she could see the darkness and because of Falaire. She could only hope that taking care of those two things would be the extent of what she would be called on to do.

But Angesand . . .

The world was truly a magical place.

A
cair had always expected that death would catch him up at some point. He had spent the past several decades dodging it, eluding it, ducking under it as it shot its poisoned darts over his head. He had honestly expected it would find him as he was hiding in the shadows of some powerful black mage's personal solar, having poached that mage's favorite spell and perhaps a glass of port to enjoy along with it.

He hadn't anticipated it would come outside the front gates of a horse lord's rather rustic and utilitarian keep whilst he very bravely hid behind a red-headed stable lass.

The hiding wasn't going as well as he might have liked. Léirsinn was tall, but not nearly as tall as he himself was, and she certainly wasn't broad enough to do anything but block the smallest amount of wind that accompanied the curses being spewed their way by the lord of the keep.

Or at least there had been curses at first. Now, there was only a lord surrounded by a dozen burly guardsmen boasting either nocked arrows or well-loved swords.

Acair was beginning to wonder if they'd made a very serious mistake.

Hearn of Angesand was not a small man. Acair wasn't either, though he supposed that whilst he and Hearn shared the same
respectably intimidating height, the lord of Aherin had a good two stone advantage. If it came down to a wrestle, Acair felt confident he would lose. Badly.

Hearn was currently having a long look at Léirsinn. “So,” he said slowly, stroking his chin, “you're from Sàraichte.”

“Aye, my lord,” Léirsinn said breathlessly. “And it is an honor to even stand at your gates and imagine what finds home inside.”

Hearn grunted. Acair suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Good heavens, if she complimented the man any more, he would likely roll over and beg her to scratch his belly. If purring ensued, Acair vowed . . . well, he didn't dare vow anything. He was still wondering what in the hell he'd been thinking to come anywhere near his current locale.

Again, a perfect example of what altruism got a man. Bring a horse gel to a horse lord's stronghold? Pay the price in peace of mind and quite possibly the ability to breathe.

“Who is that you have attempting to cower behind you?”

Acair did roll his eyes then. Hearn knew damned well who he was. If the fact that he hadn't looked so much like his sire—admittedly an extremely handsome man, particularly when in his prime—hadn't given him away, the fact that Acair had once slipped over the walls and poked around Hearn's solar on the off chance he might find something useful surely would have.

“This is my escort,” Léirsinn said, stepping aside. “You may know him already.”

Acair shot her a dark look, then dredged up his most pleasant smile. He knew what it looked like because he had practiced it in a large square of polished glass in his youth. He used it when he wanted to put others at ease. He decided that thinking that he generally put others at ease before he robbed them, terrified them, or generally made a terrible nuisance of himself was likely not useful at the moment.

“You,” Hearn said without any inflection in his voice.

“Me,” Acair agreed.

“I don't care for your kind,” Hearn said.

“My lord Hearn—”

A low rumble started. “I almost lost a horse to a monster Lothar of Wychweald created.”

“In my defense, I've never fashioned any marginally sentient beings sent specifically to hunt down certain types of people and slay them as did that particularly vile mage of whom you speak.”

The rumble increased to a modest roar. “Nay, you went around to the most powerful people in the world and tried to steal their magic!”

“Well, one does what one must to keep busy,” Acair managed.

Hearn didn't smile. “How do you have the cheek to show your face in polite society?” he thundered.

“I'm a brazen bastard,” Acair admitted, hoping a little honesty would keep him from whatever painful death Hearn reserved for rustlers of horses and poachers of, well, nothing out of solars.

“You are a bastard in every sense of the word.” Hearn scowled fiercely and folded his arms over his chest. “I hear you've recently been trotting off to various locales to apologize for your past misdeeds.”

“'Tis true.”

“Avoiding places where dwarvish kings might be found, or so I understand.”

“I could add
cowardly
to brazen, if you like.”

Hearn looked at him narrowly. “Why have you come here? And you had best be speaking the truth.”

Acair took a deep breath. “We are on our way north and I thought Léirsinn might want to see your stables since she's so fond of horses and you have so many horses to be fond of.” He supposed he could save questions about horses Léirsinn might be in possession of and shadows that seemed to be following her wherever she went for when they actually were inside the gates.

Hearn frowned again, but it seemed to be a frown that reflected less a contemplation of all the ways a black mage without his magic
could be put to death and more a consideration of the usefulness of that compliment. He looked at Léirsinn.

“Is that true?”

“This is,” she said breathlessly, “an honor I never would have dared dream of. The truth is there was a part of me that thought you were naught but legend. Your horses? Merely beasts, nay, the images of beasts someone had pulled from a dream.”

Acair struggled to mask his surprise. When had that one turned into such a flatterer? And damn the woman if she didn't look as if someone had just told her she could try on each of the crowns of those on the Council of Kings and decide which one she liked best before she took it home with her.

Well, that was something that would have had him perking his ears up as well, even though he'd spent a pair of years slipping into throne rooms country by country and doing just that.

Hearn chortled a bit in pleasure. Acair suppressed the urge to throw up his hands. The two of them deserved each other, truly. He caught the dark look Hearn cast at him and sobered immediately. He attempted a look of contrition, but he wasn't sure he'd succeeded very well.

Hearn offered Léirsinn his arm and escorted her inside the gates. Acair darted in behind them the very moment before the gates banged closed, almost crushing him between themselves, no doubt on purpose. He bit his tongue, though, because he and Léirsinn were inside gates guarded by powerful spells and he was nothing if not practical. That he had to be grateful for someone else's spells to keep him from dying left him grinding his teeth, but what else could be done? That damned Soilléir—nay, Rùnach had no doubt had the idea first. He wasn't sure which of the two to blame for his current straits, but he thought it might be perhaps more equitable to simply blame them both. The only trouble he could see that causing him would be the necessity of trying to decide whose neck to wring first when he next saw them.

He attempted a pleasant, benign expression as he followed the
lord of the hall and his guest about the keep. He made certain to nod and make the appropriate noises of appreciation until at a certain point he realized there was no need to feign admiration. There was a reason Angesand steeds were so coveted and it had everything to do with the tall man striding about his domain, his eyes missing nothing, his sharp tongue keeping his lads in line. Fuadain of Sàraichte couldn't possibly have dreamed of anything like it.

Acair was torn between watching Hearn watch Léirsinn and watching Léirsinn stare, openmouthed, at the horses that seemed to be everywhere. He could have sworn he saw her fingers twitch a time or two as if she were almost unable to suppress the urge to take reins, swing up onto the back of something, and ride off into a glorious sunset.

“Don't suppose you ride,” Hearn said casually to her at one point.

Acair supposed that was a reasonable question to ask given that Falaire had deserted them half a mile from the front gates, flitting off in some shape Acair hadn't cared to pay much heed to.

“I do,” Léirsinn said faintly. “As it happens.”

Acair looked at the outdoor arena to his left and suppressed the urge to cover his backside with whatever he might find. There was a stallion out there in the middle of that arena who was giving his handler a towering amount of trouble. The man was obviously well skilled in his equine sort of business, but that horse out there . . . Acair wouldn't have come within a hundred paces of the thing. He looked quickly at Léirsinn to find her assessing the horse with her usual unforgiving brutality. She considered, then looked at Hearn.

“I can ride that one there, I daresay.”

Hearn nodded to one of his lads who ran off, then returned very quickly with a pair of leather gloves. Hearn took them, then held them out to Léirsinn.

“Wouldn't want you to lose your grip.”

She took the gloves, looked at them for a moment or two, then looked up at Hearn.

“What's his name?”

“We call him Garg.”

“What a horrible name,” Acair said before he thought better of it.

“He's a horrible horse,” Hearn said, grinning. “He has another name of course, you fool. That's just what we call him. Maybe our little miss here will find out from him what he prefers. Off you go, lass.”

Acair leaned against the railing, next to the lord of Aherin, and suppressed the urge to fret. The gate was unlatched and Léirsinn was invited inside. She was fairly tall, true, but so willowy and lovely and . . .

Mad. The woman was absolutely mad.

“He'll kill her,” Acair protested.

“Have a little faith, you coward.”

“This isn't a matter of faith, my lord,” Acair managed, “'tis a matter of maths. He outweighs her and—”

“Shut up, Acair, and let me see what she can do.”

Acair would have huffed out an insult in return, but he lost track of that thought for a pair of reasons. One, that damned Falaire had landed on his shoulder and had bitten his ear with a beak that was entirely too sharp for the innocent-looking bird he was carrying on as. Second, Léirsinn had taken that monster's lunge line in one hand, a whip in the other, and was engaging in a battle of wills that Acair wasn't at all sure she would win.

There was rearing and snorting and quite a bit of whinnying coming from that thing that should have been contained in some sort of stall with several locks on the door. Léirsinn ignored it all. Acair had watched her do that sort of thing before, of course, but that horse out there was something else entirely.

“He's a beast,” Acair said when he could bear it no more.

“And he's not even the worst I have,” Hearn said cheerfully. “She's good.”

“I'll tell her you said so.”

“Don't bother. I'll nod briskly as she leaves the arena. That'll be enough for her.” He shot Acair a look. “Don't you know
anything
about horses and their keepers?”

“I don't like horses.”

“I imagine the feeling is mutual.”

“I prefer dragons, actually,” Acair said, because he thought he should make it clear that he wasn't opposed to everything going about on four feet. “They possess a certain elegance that is unmatched in other things.”

“You are a terrible snob.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn't a compliment,” Hearn said, before he turned back to the display going on in his arena.

Acair understood. He, as Hearn had so rightly pointed out, knew nothing about horses save which end tended to bite, but even he could see that Léirsinn was a master at her craft. He realized that whilst Falaire was magnificent, he was simply a reflection of one facet of what Léirsinn could do.

He wasn't sure how long it took—it felt like hours and left him wishing for a stool of some sort to rest on—but Léirsinn finally convinced Garg that he was not going to push her about. Lead horse and all that, he supposed. He'd thought that sort of business daft at the time, but could see the wisdom of it at present. The horse, a stunning yellowish thing that looked quite a bit like sunlight as he trotted around her, was suddenly utterly obedient to her command. He trotted, he walked, he cantered, and generally behaved himself like a proper gentleman. When she stopped him, handed off the whip, and walked toward him, he merely watched her.

He reared once she was on his back. Once. After that, she kept him so busy, he didn't have time for any mischief.

“I would worry,” Hearn mused.

“You would?” Acair managed.

“Nay,
you
. If I were you, I would worry.”

Acair looked at him then. “About what?”

“That she'll do to you exactly what she just did to that pony.”

Acair had something run down his spine at the sight of Hearn's smile. “I am not a horse.”

“You know what I'm getting at.”

“I am master of my fate,” Acair said, grasping for just the right amount of conviction with which to tinge that statement. He wasn't sure he'd succeeded very well.