The White Spell (32 page)

“Léirsinn, this is my brother-in-law, Mansourah,” Morgan said. “Mansourah, leave her be before you ruin her appetite.”

Mansourah of Neroche was polite and gallant, Léirsinn would give him that. She knew she had made some bit of conversation that was probably not as lofty as it should have been given her surroundings, but she was profoundly uncomfortable with the attention Morgan's brother-in-law was paying her and she wasn't sure quite how to avoid it.

“Move.”

Léirsinn looked over her shoulder to find Acair standing behind her, his hand on her chair. Mansourah only looked at him coolly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You may find that necessary at some point,” Acair said in that posh accent he tended to use with royalty and other rich men. “As that might be unpleasant for you, I suggest you save yourself that pain and get up. Now.”

“So we can brawl before supper?”

“I wouldn't make a nuisance of myself in such a manner,” Acair said. “I assume you have the same level of decency.”

Mansourah pursed his lips, then looked at Léirsinn. “I forget who he is far too often.” He rose and inclined his head politely. “I concede the chair, but not the battle. Mistress Léirsinn, if you'll excuse me?”

Léirsinn kept her mouth shut and nodded, which she supposed was the best she could do under the circumstances. Acair exchanged places with the king's brother with a minimum of curses muttered, settled himself in the chair next to her, then looked at her.

“One skirmish won.”

She hoped that would be the worst of it, but she hardly dared hope for it. She smiled weakly, then turned and watched the rest of Miach's family seat themselves around the table. They might have been sitting in a grand chamber, but when it came to supper, they were very much as she remembered her family having been before they'd had to leave their home. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought herself in a place no more grand than some minor landholder's kitchen with a table built for his robust collection of children to gather around each night. Morgan and Miach of Neroche were very fortunate indeed.

She had no idea what she ate, though she supposed it had been tasty enough. She wanted to believe she had no reason to be nervous, but she couldn't help but wonder if they would manage to finish dessert without someone flinging his pudding at Acair, accompanied no doubt by a barbed spell or two.

Supper ended unremarkably, though, and she soon found herself sitting with the company in front of a fire in a private gathering chamber that was no less lovely than the dining hall but definitely smaller. She was exhausted, but she couldn't not struggle to keep her eyes open lest she miss something important.

There was a great deal of abuse heaped on Acair's head, which he took with more grace than she would have managed herself. Prince Rigaud even unbent far enough to sit with them, though he made up for that with the looks he was sending Acair. Acair glanced at him occasionally with a look of such utter boredom that Léirsinn
had to smile. That one there. She thought that he might deserve a few of the souls who didn't care for him.

“I think there is something going on.”

Léirsinn looked at the queen. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

“Morgan,” she said with a smile. “Call me Morgan. This whole business of crowns and such is a recent development. Most of my life, I've just been a soldier of fortune.”

Léirsinn looked at her in astonishment. “I can't believe that.”

“Sometimes the tales we hear about others don't tell the whole story,” Morgan mused. “If you know what I'm getting at.”

“I think I do.” Léirsinn looked at Acair who was currently ignoring Prince Rigaud in favor of sending Mansourah of Neroche a selection of very cool looks. “I've heard a great deal about Acair's adventures, but I find it still difficult to believe.” She looked at the queen. “Has he done all those things they claim, do you suppose?”

“I wouldn't be surprised, but you have to consider his past and what it contains.” Morgan shrugged. “I won't admit to the number of times I slipped inside a keep in the middle of the night and whispered
boo
into a lord's ear before I put a knife to his back and forced him to open his gates to a different lord who had paid me to do the like.”

Léirsinn looked at her in surprise. “Impossible.”

“'Tis all too true.” She glanced at Acair briefly. “I have only known him as someone to be avoided at all costs, but looking at him now, I wonder if perhaps the tales have been a bit exaggerated. He does clean up well, I suppose.”

“He didn't throw food or knives at supper.”

Morgan smiled at her. “I must admit that I did worry he and Mansourah would come to blows.”

“What did Acair do to him?”

“It would seem the rub concerns what Mansourah would like to do, which is spend a night dancing with you. I imagine he's already sent a message to the musicians to prepare.”

Léirsinn felt her mouth fall open. “But I don't dance.”

“My brother-in-law won't care.”

She couldn't imagine that, but she was hardly an authority on the doings of royalty. She decided it would be best to just leave Mansourah to his plans and Acair to his snarling. Perhaps she would escape to the stables and see how their horses were faring.

At the moment, that seemed like the safest place to be.

•   •   •

I
t was very late when she stumbled along with Acair behind a servant with the promise of her destination being a soft bed instead of a ballroom or a straw-filled stall. She wasn't one to keep royal hours, which seemed to include chatting far into the night, so she supposed she might not manage any presence at Tor Neroche's morning stables. Hopefully their ponies would forgive her.

She stopped in front of the door a young man indicated, listened to Acair thank and dismiss their escort, then looked blearily at the man who had survived supper and conversation.

“Where are they putting you?” she asked, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

“With any luck, somewhere besides the dungeons.”

She couldn't even muster up any concern over that possibility. “Prince Mansourah doesn't seem to like you. If that isn't too rude to point out.”

“It isn't, and the feeling is quite mutual.” He pursed his lips. “He's preparing some sort of ball for tomorrow evening, which seems to be the limit of what he can do. Dancing and preparing to dance, that is.”

“Can you dance?”

“Divinely.”

She couldn't help but laugh. “You are without a doubt the most arrogant show pony I've ever encountered.”

“One must keep up appearances.” He opened her door, looked
inside, then pulled back. “No ogres, trolls, or black mages that I can see. I think you're safe.”

She paused halfway across the threshold and looked at him. “They won't throw you in the dungeon in truth, will they?”

“Nay,” he said. “Thanks to my half-sister and her strong-stomached husband, it seems I have been given the chamber next to yours. Knock on the wall if you need me. If you hear frantic pounding coming from my side, feel free to come execute a timely rescue.”

“I would need something more than harsh language to use, I think,” she said.

He smiled briefly. “You'll be perfectly safe here and, with any luck, so will I. But I will find you a dagger, if you like, and show you how to use it.”

“Thank you, and for more than just that.”

“Oh, it has been a glorious adventure thus far,” he said with a wry smile. “I am breathless with anticipation over what lies around the corner.”

She walked inside, then turned and held on to the door. “What should I do when I wake? I'm not sure of the proper comportment for a woman who is completely out of her depth.”

“I would suggest a visit to the stables, if you like,” he said, “then do what pleases you. I imagine there will be no shortage of Nerochian princes willing to aid you in that, damn them all.”

“They seem very nice.”

“Looks are deceiving.”

She smiled. “And what will you be doing?”

“I'm going to hunt down that lazy mage who holds the key to my life,” he said. “I'll return as quickly as I can. I wouldn't want to miss those delightful entertainments we have to look forward to courtesy of that empty-headed Mansourah of Neroche.”

She started to shut the door, then paused. “Be careful.”

He looked at her with absolutely no expression on his face. “I
don't think another soul has ever said that to me before,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps 'tis past time someone did.”

He took a deep breath, then reached for her door. “Go to sleep, you red-haired vixen. Torment Mansourah properly whilst I'm away.”

She let him shut her door, then stood there for several minutes with her hand on the wood before she looked over the chamber and tried to decide if she dared lay her head there. She was half tempted to see if she couldn't find an empty stall instead, which she suspected Morgan the queen might have understood.

But the bed looked softer than any bed had the right to look, someone had thoughtfully provided nightclothes for her, and she suspected she might never again have such a chance as that to sleep in luxury. Traveling with a mage apparently had its advantages, though perhaps she and Acair had simply had the good fortune to fall in with lovely people.

She didn't want to think about how quickly that might change when they continued on their journey.

A
cair couldn't say he had ever been an early riser, but he also hadn't had a spell of death hounding him until he thought he would go mad. Getting an early start on seeing it consigned to the rubbish bin seemed only wise. Miach had sent him a message an hour ago telling him where Soilléir was to be found. No time like the present to make certain he had a future.

He walked out the front gates and into his, er, sister. Half-sister. The youngest legitimate child of his philandering father. Ah, rather.

“Mhorghain,” he managed. “I mean, Your Majesty.”

She looked at him seriously. “Call me Mhorghain if you like, Morgan if you care what I like, and Your Majesty only if you want me to stab you.”

He blinked, then had to take a deep breath. “Morgan, then.”

“Would our father hate that?”

“Profoundly, so I suppose Morgan it is.” He supposed if he was going to call her that, he might as well dispense with qualifying what she was to him. A sister she would be, because it was simpler and because he rather liked her. He paused. “I don't want to seem rude, but why are you here?”

She turned to face him. He had to admit that it was a little startling to look at her. She couldn't have resembled Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn any more if she had been Sarait herself. But there was
something in her eye that was different, as though she hadn't been raised in beauty so painful that it had left an indelible mark on her soul.

He paused. Perhaps 'twas time to give up the business of black magery, retire to some exotic locale, and become a poet. He could think of worse ways to pass the time.

“Acair?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I think too much.”

“You asked why I'm here,” she said, looking at him as if she very much doubted the quality of his wits. “I thought perhaps the youngest children of Gair's two broods should become better acquainted.”

“Broods that we know about,” he said before he stopped to consider that perhaps that wasn't the most politic thing to say.

She looked at him gravely. “I'm sorry that you saw so much.”

If she only knew. He cleared his throat. “I offer the same condolences to you. We have had rather unique pasts, I daresay.”

“My present is more than making up for it,” she said with a half-smile. “And yours?”

“I'm not enjoying mine terribly much at the moment, but I think others are finding it rather amusing.”

“If you only knew how true that is.”

He held open his arms. “They may do their worst.”

“You certainly have?”

“I wasn't going to admit that, but you're free to say what you like.”

She smiled. “I'm not sure I want to know any more than I already do about your exploits.”

“I suggest avoiding Prince Rigaud then.”

“What did you do to him?” she asked. “He can't stand you.”

“Ah, where to begin?” he asked with a light sigh. “I'm afraid our tastes run to a similar sort of brittle, unpleasant noblewoman, one dripping with jewels and highly skilled at cutting verbal repartee. 'Tis possible we might even have attempted to dance with the same woman on more than one occasion. Add to that the occasional argument over cards, differences of opinion on the proper way to tie
one's neckwear, and the odd invitation to duels I couldn't be bothered to arrive on time for, if at all, and it makes our relationship rather prickly, I daresay.”

She looked at him in disgust. “You're one of those, aren't you?”

“A well-dressed gentleman of modest means?”

“Aye, all but the last part,” she said. “I understand you haven't just pilfered spells.”

“Laboring with one's hands is so pedestrian.”

She shook her head, then laughed, apparently in spite of herself. “You're vile. Weger wouldn't let you on his front stoop, never mind inside his gates.”

“I loitered outside his gates for a bit last year,” Acair admitted, and admittedly it was one of the less pleasant experiences of that year. “Not for the first time, it should be noted. I can safely say that Gobhann is the very last place on earth I would ever willingly go.” He looked at her. “Magic sink and all that.”

“Pointy swords and all that.”

He shivered. “That as well.”

“Yet here you are without magic just the same.”

“Because I cannot use it at the moment doesn't mean I don't still have it,” he corrected. “A distinction Soilléir of that damned place on the other side of the mountains that I will definitely be giving a closer look to in the future knows very well.”

She pulled on a pair of gloves. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that.” She shot him a look. “Miach knows all his spells, you know.”

“Hence the idea I've been toying with for several months now of waylaying your husband some evening on his way home from the pub and torturing those spells out of him.”

She smiled. “They won't let him go to the pub by himself anymore.”

“Do you honestly believe his ministers frighten me?”

“Does Miach frighten you?”

He straightened the collar of his cloak and followed her away from the gates. “I don't want to answer that.”

“Should your magic frighten him?”

He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked, then looked at her. “Are we riding or walking?”

“I had horses prepared, but you might prefer to fly.”

“I would, but obviously I can't indulge.”

“I'll change your shape for you, if you like.”

“That would be terribly kind of you.”

She looked at him, then laughed. “You do this all day, don't you? And so you don't have to ask what I'm getting at, I mean you avoid questions you don't like and spew out courtly pleasantries without thinking.”

“Bad habit, I'm afraid.”

“No doubt.” She paused, then considered. “Dragonshape or something else?”

“Dragonshape,” he said, “and if you give me wee wings that leave me gasping for air as I flap along behind you like a fat little pig, I will never forgive you for it.”

She looked at him seriously. “Nothing more dire than that?”

“You are a woman, half-sister or not. I do not damage women.”

“Men?”

“Don't ask.”

She smiled and suddenly she was gone. In her place was a sleek, unadorned, black dragon. It was something he would have chosen for her himself if he'd been about the choosing, so he approved thoroughly of her taste in fire-breathing creatures.

He stretched his own wings out only to find they were approximately two feet long. The laughter at his expense from the gates was everything he'd expected it would be.

To his sister's credit, however, once he had attempted a pair of unsuccessful leaps up into the air—accompanied, of course, by more guffaws from lads he would have a year ago repaid with dire things indeed—on the third try, his wings stretched out to a proper length and he leapt up into the air as what he had to admit was one of the
most impressive beasts he had wished for a still lake in which to admire.

He contemplated taking a bit of a detour over the heads of those lads who had mocked him, but two things stopped him. One, they were quite suddenly all looking at him in slack-jawed astonishment; and two, Mhorghain's voice whispered over his mind with a very firm,
don't you dare
.

He sighed in resignation. If he snorted out a bit of fire that sent the more vocal lads scrambling for cover as he rose majestically into the sky, what could he do but vow to offer his most sincere regrets later?

You are incorrigible.

Indeed he was, but he was also off the ground under his own power and damned grateful for the pleasure. He followed after his sister and decided that she was rather a sterling lass in spite of her heritage of gilded elven magic. Her time had obviously been well spent in that pit of swords and terrible food on the Island of Melksham.

•   •   •

A
pair of hours later, he was standing on the edge of a road in his own shape, pushing his hair out of his eyes and hoping he looked as fierce and unyielding as he felt. He hoped Mhorghain wouldn't mind if he was a bit more rumpled in his dress than usual.

“He's waiting for us in the inn through those trees,” she said.

“Are you coming too?” he asked her in surprise.

“If you don't mind,” she said. “Miach thought I should keep the pair of you from killing each other.”

“Don't you have a bairn to see to?” he asked in an effort to get rid of her.

“Young Hearn is with his father,” she said, “so not to worry. I'm here to keep you company the entire time.”

That was exactly what he was trying to avoid. He tried another
tack. “I don't think you'll want to watch what I'm going to do to him,” he warned.

“I think I'll survive it.”

He imagined she would. He also imagined that she had spent her share of time intimidating the rich and powerful, so perhaps she had little room to criticize him.

Which she didn't seem to be doing, oddly enough.

He walked with her up the road and stopped her just before she reached for the door. “As for your question back at the palace, if I had any sense I would be afraid of your husband, especially on his own soil. His power is staggering.”

“And yours?”

“My father's blood runs through my veins,” he said, “just as it does yours. As does my mother's, which should give us all pause.” He considered, then shook his head. “I'm not sure I either can or want to answer your question. My magic is . . . dark.”

She studied him for a moment or two. “And yet you are not Gair.”

“Nay, but I would have every damned one of his spells in a heartbeat,” Acair said honestly. “More particularly, Diminishing, but what decent mage wouldn't say the same thing?”

“Ruith has them all.”

“I know.”

“And yet you haven't ransacked his solar.”

Acair started to speak, then shook his head. “I haven't.”

“Yet.”

“I didn't say that,” he said. “I didn't
not
say that, either, but what else can you expect from me?”

“More,” she said simply, then she reached for the door. “After you, brother.”

He caught the door over her head and nodded for her to go inside. “Don't think familial obligation or the sort of gentle guilting you're attempting will work on me. I'm a black-hearted bastard to my very innards. Dangerous. Merciless. Men cower and mages scamper when they know I'm coming through.”

She only smiled at him and ducked under his arm. He sighed and followed her inside. Obviously he had lost his touch. She should have been weeping with fear, not looking at him as if she might at some point in the future experience a fond feeling or two for him.

The inn was rather nice as inns in Neroche went, though he supposed he was less concerned about the accommodations than he was the souls taking advantage of them. He spotted Soilléir immediately, relaxing in a choice spot by the fire, looking as if he didn't have a damned thing to do besides enjoy a decent mug of ale. He reminded himself that he needed that one alive, so he swallowed all the nasty threats he wanted to blurt out, fixed a pleasant expression to his face, and followed Mhorghain across the gathering chamber.

Soilléir rose as they approached, but that was obviously strictly for Mhorghain's benefit.

“Morgan,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “How are you?”

“Exactly as I was two days ago,” she said with a smile. “You?”

Soilléir saw her seated, then resumed his lazy pose on his own chair. “Ah, one does what one must to keep busy.” He looked at Acair from languid eyes. “As you would say, that is.”

Acair drew out a chair and sat down because it gave him something to do besides leap across the table and wrap his hands around Soilléir's throat. He was further distracted by the mug of ale Soilléir pushed across the table to him.

“Poisoned?” Acair asked suspiciously.

“Not by me,” Soilléir said, “which is all I can guarantee.”

“Your guarantees mean nothing,” Acair groused. He paused for a sip of only marginally drinkable ale, then fixed Soilléir with a steely look. “Permit me to get right to the business of the morning. Take off that damned spell and do it now.”

Soilléir looked at him blankly. “What spell?”

Acair didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that his constant companion was standing post by the door. “
That
spell. The one you put on me that promises death should I use any sort of magic.”

Soilléir looked across the gathering room, frowned as if he struggled to find a useful thought, then finally looked at Mhorghain. “Would it bother you, my dear, if I were to draw a spell of un-noticing over us? I believe we have serious matters to discuss.”