Dreamer's Daughter

  “What?” Sglaimir exclaimed. He turned and glared at the Guildmistress. “You want my throne?”

  “Well, why do you think I was allowing you to use my bloody garden?” the Guildmistress demanded. “Out of the goodness of my heart?”

  Aisling wondered if it would take all day for the three in front of her to wear each other out so she and Rùnach could go have a rest. That the battle seemed to be limited to arguing, though, made her a little nervous.

  Aisling leaned closer to Rùnach. “Does this seem too easy to you?”

  “I hate to say it, but it does,” he murmured. “Sglaimir’s a fool and Acair hot-tempered.” He shook his head. “The Guildmistress is the one I don’t understand. It doesn’t seem as if she has any spells, yet here she is in the company of these two.”

  Aisling started to agree, then realized that the Guildmistress was watching them as if she had heard everything they’d said. She felt suddenly quite cold, but that could have been from simply being where she was.

  Rùnach cleared his throat. “And what do you want, Guildmistress,” he asked politely. “We know what the lads want and you seem to want the throne as well, but surely that isn’t all.”

  The Guildmistress’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I want power,” she said. “As do all good mages.”

  “A mage,” Rùnach said with an indulgent smile. “Is that what you call yourself?”

  Well, whatever she called herself, she apparently wasn’t without spells. Aisling was surprised enough to watch her spew one out to be caught unawares. She almost didn’t stop it from wrapping itself around not Rùnach, but she herself. She took the first cut of thread, turned it back toward the Guildmistress, and let the spell itself do the work. She was a little surprised to find that Bruadair was only standing by, watching, if she could put a name to what her country was doing. Fortunately, the Guildmistress was also soon standing there, merely watching. Aisling supposed that as long as the woman wasn’t moving or speaking, she could be safely ignored for a moment or two.

  Aisling looked at the other two in time to watch Sglaimir suddenly strike Acair full in the mouth, sending him sprawling backward. Acair’s head made a terrible noise as it struck against a rock. He groaned, then was silent. Sglaimir then turned to Rùnach, his chest heaving.

  “Shall I do the same to your little wench there,” he panted, “or should she just sit to the side and let us be about our business?”

  “And what business it that?” Rùnach asked politely.

  “Why, the business of your father’s most famous spell,” Sglaimir said. “What else?”

  Rùnach rolled his eyes. “I wish the damned thing had never been created.”

  “Well, it was and I intend to have it,” Sglaimir said angrily, “so you can either hand it over easily or less easily. Your choice.”

  Aisling felt herself be suddenly robbed of air and only Rùnach’s quick hands caught her from toppling back into the bottom of a fountain that she realized with alarm had no bottom. Rùnach jerked the spell off her—she didn’t bother to identify what it was—and pulled her behind him.

  “Go, when his attention is on me.”

  “I—”

  “Just out of his sights.”

  She supposed that since her alternative was to stand behind Rùnach and perhaps find herself knocked into that magic sink, shifting off to the side wasn’t unthinkable. Besides, if she was out of the way, she might be able to aid in ways she couldn’t otherwise.

  But it made her uncomfortable to slither off the field, as it were. She stopped next to a pillar, out of the midst of the battle, but didn’t care for standing along the sidelines and watching. She wasn’t sure how she could possibly help Rùnach short of simply standing behind him and adding power to his as Uachdaran had done for her when they had dropped Rùnach’s magic back into him.

  Rùnach caught a spell before it struck her, then flung it back at Sglaimir who stumbled backward into the Guildmistress. That seemed to be enough to break her free of what had been binding her. She angrily shoved him away from her.

  “Not her,” she snarled. “Just kill him.”

  Sglaimir stopped in mid-spell and looked at the Guildmistress. “What is it with that one? She makes me nervous, but what’s the point of her?”

  “She ran away from me,” the Guildmistress said flatly, “and no one runs away from me.”

  Aisling supposed that might be enough to send the woman into a frenzy, but she didn’t dare hope that was the extent of her interest.

  “That’s all?” Sglaimir asked incredulously. “That’s the only reason you wanted her?”

  “I was told to watch her,” the Guildmistress conceded. “That she was important, though I wasn’t given the reason why.”

  “What idiot told you that?” he demanded.

  “I did,” Acair said, cursing as he sat up. He clutched his head and looked blearily at Sglaimir. “Can you possibly be any more stupid? She’s important because people want her! Why do you think we marched out into the wilds of this ridiculous country to look for her? Didn’t you see the spell that guarded her house? She must have something someone wants and if people want her, I want to get to her first.”

  Aisling exchanged a look with Rùnach. He sighed lightly, then shook his head. She couldn’t believe that such a trio had managed to strip Bruadair of its magic, but perhaps they’d been aided by dumb luck.

  Sglaimir blinked. “Which people?”

  Acair hauled himself to his feet, then leaned heavily against a pillar. “I do business with many, too many to remember ridiculous details such as this. All I know is someone at some point told me to look for a weaver in your guild with odd eyes. She’s the only one who fits that description.”

  “So you’re telling me that I’ve turned my country into this ugly wreck because you thought you found someone important,” Sglaimir said slowly.

  “Nay, I had you turn this country which was never yours into an ugly wreck because I wanted its magic,” Acair said briskly. “That silly wench there is another matter entirely, but since we have her here, I think we should discover who she is.”

  Aisling found three pairs of eyes fixed on her. She had the first moment of regret she’d ever experienced over not having learned to use her magic in any meaningful fashion. She was tempted to run, but a voice stopped her.

  “I know who she is.”

  She looked past Sglaimir and watched a tall, grey-haired man step out of the shadows. She wondered how long he’d been standing there.

  Sglaimir whirled around, then stumbled backward in surprise. “You—”

  Aisling almost said the same thing because she recognized the man as well. He was the border guard she and Rùnach had given money to on their way into Bruadair. He was also the border guard she had given money to on her way out of Bruadair however many fortnights ago it had been.

  The man waved his hand and Sglaimir crumpled to the ground. Aisling didn’t bother to look to see if he breathed still. There was something about the older man standing there that made her extremely uneasy.

  He looked at the Guildmistress and smiled. “She’s the First Dreamspinner, Iochdmhor, and you’re a fool.”

  “The what?” the Guildmistress echoed, looking down her nose at him. “And who are you to insult me that way?”

  “I know who he is,” Rùnach said. “He’s Carach of Mùig. Unless I’m mistaken.”

  “Never said you weren’t clever, lad,” the man said. “But powerful? You are nothing compared to your father.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Who are you,” the Guildmistress demanded, “and why have you come to disturb our parley?”

  “Oh, I suppose you might call it that,” Carach said with a smile, “but I wouldn’t bother. To introduce myself, I’ll just say that I’m young Sglaimir’s grandfather.”

  “Oh,” the Guildmistress said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course yo
u didn’t know,” Carach said, looking at her as if she possessed no wits whatsoever. “Why would I want you to know?”

  “Familial affection?” Acair offered.

  Acair went flying, landing on his back in an undignified sprawl. Aisling felt very cold all of the sudden. She supposed that was terror. It wasn’t just an angry bastard of Gair’s they were dealing with. She could look at Carach and see the layers of his life built up over centuries, only the layers weren’t haphazard or unkempt. They were the layers of a man who had methodically and deliberately chosen evil every single time when a choice was offered him. She wasn’t even sure what to call the magic she could see running through his veins, but whatever it was, it was very dark.

  “I didn’t ask for you to come here,” the Guildmistress said stiffly, “so if you’ll be off—”

  “Oh, I don’t think ’tis me who’ll be off, my dear,” Carach said. “I have come for that girl there because she will spin the world’s power out of the very earth on which we stand, then hand it over to me because I tell her to. You were instructed to keep her safely captive in your guild, which you have done fairly well until recently. But now that I have her and unlimited power at my fingertips, I have no more need of you.”

  Aisling realized her mouth had fallen open only because she heard some sort of noise come from within herself. She thought it might have been a scream, but she wasn’t sure she was equal to identifying it. All she could do was watch the Guildmistress go rushing across the garden, absolutely not under her own power, and fling herself into the fountain.

  She disappeared with a long wail.

  Sglaimir heaved himself to his feet and started to run, but he met the same fate. Aisling would have run as well but before she could force herself to move, she found herself in Carach’s sights—

  Until Rùnach stepped in front of her.

  “Why don’t you dispatch me first,” Rùnach said quietly. “If you have the courage to.”

  Aisling was still looking for the courage to do something, anything, when she found her hand taken. She didn’t have the time to even protest that before she was stumbling along the portico and being pulled down behind what looked remarkably like a crypt. She realized her rescuer was none other than Acair of Ceangail.

  “You,” she managed.

  “I know,” he said, looking thoroughly unsettled. “It must be something I ate for breakfast, which I actually didn’t have because you and Rùnach—damn you both to hell—were at this business too early for my stomach.”

  Aisling felt a shudder run through her and she wasn’t sure if it was for herself or Rùnach. She eased up to peek over the edge of the stone but Acair jerked her back down.

  “Are you mad?” he whispered. “Don’t let him see us. He’ll suck us dry and leave us as husks if he can.”

  “Can he?” she managed. “Take our magic, I mean. Does he have that spell?”

  “Diminishing? No idea, though I imagine he has something very much like it.”

  “Why does everyone want that horrible spell?”

  “Power,” Acair said distinctly.

  “Is there never enough for you black mages?”

  “Never,” he said grimly, “which is why we’ll let Rùnach distract him long enough for me to clunk him over the head and render him senseless. Then I’ll take his power. Yours, too, if I can manage it. I imagine by that time, Rùnach will be so exhausted, he’ll hand his over freely.”

  She very much doubted that, but supposed there was no reason to say as much. She looked at Acair skeptically. “I thought you didn’t have that spell.”

  “Oh, I do.” He paused, then shifted. “Mostly.”

  “I don’t think it works with just mostly. Why don’t you go help instead? I think you can do that with only part of a heart and a full tally of rudeness.”

  “You have a point there,” he conceded. “My mother has no manners and my father was—is, rather—an arrogant whoreson. I’m operating under reduced circumstances, if you will.”

  She frowned at him because in spite of everything, she had the feeling he wasn’t completely without the odd redeeming quality. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Very wise.”

  “Don’t make any sudden moves,” she whispered sharply. “You won’t like what happens to you otherwise.”

  He blew out his breath. “Trust me, I’ve seen your handiwork on my older brother. I’ll just sit here like a powerless lad and let your lover there die for us. And as to the old bastard who’ll be killing him, if you weren’t paying attention, that’s Carach of Mùig. A very nasty sort, old as death. I’m not entirely sure my father didn’t steal a few of his spells.” He nodded. “There’s a bit of revenge here, I daresay.”

  “Then go help!”

  Acair looked torn. “I might sally forth and step on what’s left of the victor’s neck. We’ll see.”

  He stopped speaking, at least to her, which she supposed was a good thing. Then again, perhaps that was because Carach of Mùig had tossed a spell of death their way and Acair apparently had a keen sense of self-preservation. He drew a spell of protection over them, which Bruadair protested with a screech. He glared at her.

  “You do it.”

  She drew a net of loveliness over them that Carach’s spell didn’t care for in the least.

  To her dismay, neither did Rùnach’s.

  She realized that he was using magic that wasn’t at all pleasant and spells that he couldn’t possibly have learned anywhere but from his father’s book. She watched in horror for far too long before she couldn’t let him continue. She stood up to stop him, but Acair pulled her back down in spite of her protests.

  “He’s Gair’s son,” Acair said coolly. “What did you expect?”

  “For him not to destroy himself with your father’s spells,” she said, shaking off his hand. “I’m not sure he sees—”

  “Aye,” Acair said quietly, “he does. Look.”

  She watched Rùnach stop, then take a deep breath. Acair cursed him, but Aisling felt a sigh come from deep inside her. Rùnach continued to counter Carach’s spells, but he was no longer using things that were causing Bruadair to shrink from him. Unfortunately, even with her country’s attempts at shoring up his strength, Aisling could see that he was weakening.

  And Carach’s spells were unyielding, as if they had come from the deepest mines of the dwarf king’s palace.

  “That’s a nice blade.”

  She blinked and looked at Rùnach’s half brother. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m looking for spoils,” he said philosophically. “Rùnach’s sword. Where’d he get that?”

  Sword. Aisling leaped to her feet. “Rùnach, your sword!”

  He looked at her blankly, as if he’d heard her words but simply couldn’t understand their meaning. Aisling shook off Acair’s hand and rushed out from behind the crypt. If she could just get to his sword, or convince him to draw it, or perhaps even use the knife stuck down the side of his boot—

  Without warning, Carach of Mùig backhanded Rùnach, sending him stumbling to one side. Before Aisling could rush forward or Rùnach regain his balance, Carach had pulled the knife from Rùnach’s boot and turned.

  Aisling watched that spell-laced blade coming toward her, accompanied as it was by Carach’s spells she could scarce bear to look at, and knew she was going to die.

  And still the blade came.

  Twenty

  Rùnach spun around to the sound of a slap. He realized only then that it hadn’t been Carach of Mùig’s fist across his face to make that noise, it had been his knife going into Aisling’s chest—

  Nay, not Aisling’s.

  Acair’s.

  He could hardly believe his bastard brother had taken a blade meant for Aisling, but there was no other conclusion to come to. He realized at that instant that he had less than a heartbeat to decide what to do and do it before Carach made his next move.

  He didn’t even attempt a breath. He simply t
ook the first thing that came to hand, a spell of elven glamour as it happened, and wove it over his foe. He slammed the edges of it into the ground, anchoring it without apology to the faintest hint of Bruadarian magic, then covered it with a spell of containment.

  Carach whirled around and looked at the spell in surprise. Then he shot Rùnach a look of disbelief before he laughed.

  “You have no idea who I am, do you, boy?”

  “You might be surprised,” Rùnach said.

  Carach ripped aside the spells as if they’d been threadbare cloth. Rùnach refused to be baited. Mockery had been one of his father’s favorite weapons against him and his brothers. It was difficult to ignore, but not impossible. He steeled himself for the next wave of terrible things and wasn’t at all disappointed.

  The only thing that aided him, he decided after an eternity had passed, was that he had spent an afternoon with Uachdaran of Léige having Carach’s own spells thrown at him. At least he wasn’t surprised by anything he saw presently.

  He was surprised, however, by the things that he found himself reaching for. Again. He had already used half a dozen things of his father’s, terrible spells that should have had the mage facing him backing up a pace, at least.

  Bruadair was silent, as if it understood what he had to do.

  He wished he’d had another choice. He didn’t want to think about what the cost to his soul would be if he didn’t do something besides use vile magic to fight vile magic.

  And then something happened that he hadn’t expected at all. He realized abruptly that Carach had lost his hold on his own magic, as if it had been a dream he’d been able to cling to for only a few minutes after he’d woken.

  The look on Carach’s face once he realized he was reaching for dreams was almost worth the time he himself had spent in Uachdaran of Léige’s lists.

  Aisling was spinning his power out of him. Rùnach might have considered pointing out to her that even Diminishing couldn’t compare to what she was doing, but he thought it was best that he just keep his damned mouth shut. Besides, it wasn’t only Aisling manning the tiller, as it were. He could see Bruadair’s magic swirling around her just as it had when she’d first encountered it in an underground river where they had been on the verge of drowning. Now, Bruadair seemed to aiding her, however faintly, in rescuing itself.