Mistress Fionne laughed, a sound that was reminiscent of Mistress Cailleach’s booming fishwife’s voice. “Can’t say I blame you, but not to worry. I won’t turn you into a shrubbery if I don’t like what I hear. Again, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”
Léirsinn wasn’t going to lay odds on that because it was a bet she didn’t want to lose, but it didn’t look as if Acair’s mother was going anywhere until she’d been properly looked at.
It was true that she hadn’t seen anything unusual since that terrible moment in the garden at Tor Neroche, not even in Eòlas, which was a bit strange. She didn’t fancy looking about presently for a pool of shadow to step in to rekindle her unwholesome ability, but she supposed if she were going to try something absolutely daft, there was no better place to try it.
“Well?” Fionne prompted.
“I’m not sure how to make the attempt,” Léirsinn admitted.
“Just look,” Fionne said with a shrug. “Unless you want me to make my own pool of shadow for you.”
Léirsinn didn’t want to think about where that might lead, so she shook her head before Acair’s dam trotted off with that idea. She wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t still imagining it all, but perhaps that could be debated later. She had, after all, watched the woman in front of her drop magic on Mansourah of Neroche’s arm and restore it to its original perfection. Hard not to suspect other things were possible in her presence.
She closed her eyes, then opened them and looked at Acair’s mother.
It was as if she’d had a heavy woolen blanket of sorts pulled from where it had lain over her eyes. The witchwoman of Fàs was still sitting there, only at the moment, Léirsinn could see who she was in truth.
Acair’s mother was . . . well, the woman was a tree. Not a straight, majestic pine or a supple, rustling aspen. She was an ancient, twisting oak that bore leaves that Léirsinn was certain fell when commanded and only landed where permitted. There were nooks and crannies and sinewy branches that likely should have given any unwary traveler pause. It was a mighty tree that Léirsinn suspected didn’t care what wind howled around it or how much snow fell atop it. If unusual birds, misshapen sprites, and assorted other creatures from myth and legend nested in those branches, neither the creatures nor the tree seemed inclined to complain.
She blinked, and the vision was gone. She took a deep, unsteady breath.
“I see.”
Mistress Fionne tilted her head to one side. “Do you?”
“Do you care if I do?”
Mistress Fionne smiled faintly. “Not a bit, lass, but you don’t expect anything else, do you? That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t pull you out of the way of a bolting horse if necessary, but you’ve strong opinions yourself and no need of my approval.” She shrugged. “My life’s work is to make records of happenings. Hard to make good ones if you’re too caught up in those happenings.”
Léirsinn was absolutely thrilled to talk about something else. “Have you always kept records?”
Acair’s mother sat up a bit straighter and patted her hair. “Of course not. I’ve had loves and losses and ruined more than my fair share of dinner parties. After a few centuries, though, stirring the proverbial cauldron becomes a bit commonplace. I now have a steady stream of visitors, which keeps my mind sharp, and I live to torture my sons, which warms my black heart. What else is there?”
“Horses?” Léirsinn managed.
The witchwoman of Fàs laughed a little. “I suppose there is that, but my riding days are over. I’m not opposed to a turn about the old place as an icy wind or a terrifying dream, but for the most part I’m happy to stay in my own shape and make mischief as I can. Miserable people put a spring in my step, so I like to help that sort of thing along whenever possible. As for the rest, the world continues to turn and I continue to watch.” She shrugged. “Trees seem to enjoy that, don’t you think?”
“What I think isn’t worth trying to repeat,” Léirsinn said, feeling a little faint. “How did you know what I saw?”
“You aren’t the only one who sees,” Mistress Fionne said archly, “and I do have a polished glass, gel.”
“You frighten me.”
“And we’re back to where we started,” Acair’s mother said pleasantly. “What do you see in my son?”
“Good manners and a flawless face.”
“You know from where he gets those, but that wasn’t what I was talking about. Have you peered into his soul?”
“Unwillingly,” Léirsinn admitted. She thought about how she’d seen Acair in the king of Neroche’s garden, standing in the moonlight in all his terrible beauty, with his soul so perfectly balanced between light and dark she half feared the slightest breath would destroy him. She looked at his mother. “I saw him in the gardens of Tor Neroche as I stepped in one of those spots—or after, perhaps. I can’t remember. I’m not sure I can adequately describe the vision.”
“I’m not sure he would care to hear it,” Mistress Fionne said frankly, “but you might tell him just the same to vex him.” She took the book about Gair and rose. “You’re new at all this business, so I wouldn’t worry.”
“I’m not sure this is anything I want to be involved in, even if I knew what this was,” Léirsinn said seriously.
“A quest, lass,” Mistress Fionne said, “or weren’t you told?”
Léirsinn wasn’t sure she could adequately respond to that, so she settled for simply gaping at Acair’s mother.
Mistress Fionne rested her elbow atop a stall door and looked at her seriously. “Gel, I would hazard a guess that there’s been a lad or two from the noble rabble who’s marched off into the darkness whilst wondering why they were where they were.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Most of those Heroes you read about have their heads full of rocks. Pretty, but not all that bright, if you know what I’m getting at. As to your purpose, I’d say you’re not here by chance, but I’m not much of a believer in coincidence.” She paused. “Speaking of things to look at, I’d like a peek at the charm you wear.”
Léirsinn put her hand over her heart before she thought better of it. “How do you know?”
“Because I can see it burning through your tunic, that’s how.” Acair’s mother paused. “That and I had a wee chat with my aunt Cailleach recently and she said she’d given it to you. Her gifts are very powerful.”
Léirsinn decided abruptly that she didn’t particularly want to know how and when those two women had met over tea. She pulled the charm out from under her shirt and started to ease the leather cord over her head, but Mistress Fionne stopped her.
“No need for me to get too close to that.”
Léirsinn didn’t want to admit that her hand was trembling, so she ignored it. “Why not?”
Acair’s mother looked at her with eyes that were so clear and knowing, Léirsinn almost flinched.
“Because it would likely burn me to cinders.” She peered at it, then pulled back. “Cailleach never gives anything away, as you know by now. That she gave you this is unusual.”
“It was very kind.”
Mistress Fionne snorted. “That isn’t the word I would use, but I’m more cynical than most.” She looked at the charm once more, then shook her head. “’Tis true that you have no magic, girl, but you will breathe fire.”
“With respect, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“If I told you what I saw . . . well, in your case, you’d likely just march on ahead without taking my advice, so why should I offer it?”
Because she was a witch, apparently, and likely knew all sorts of things that might be useful to know. Léirsinn would have asked her to divulge a tidbit or two, but it was too late. The woman reached out and stroked Sianach’s nose, complimenting him lavishly on his propensity to nibble on her son, then walked off humming something that was so
terribly out of tune, Léirsinn almost flinched.
She followed more slowly, then paused by Acair’s horse. She stroked his face as well, then found herself completely overtaken by the memory of another hand on a different horse’s forelock. That hand had belonged to the king of the elves—one group of them, actually—who had healed her stallion Falaire of an arrow wound that she was certain had slain him.
Acair’s mother had used a different sort of magic the night before on Mansourah’s arm, but it seemed to have worked equally well.
It was odd, that healing magic.
She leaned against the stall door and allowed herself to consider other things she hadn’t wanted to before. Her grandfather’s illness, for instance. It had come upon him suddenly and left him nothing more than a shell of his former self. It had been so devastating to her as a girl that she’d accepted it without looking for a possible cause, but when she’d told the tale to Acair, he had been convinced a foul magic had been to blame.
She wondered if a less-foul magic might reverse that.
She suspected she might be in the right place to find that out. The witchwoman of Fàs couldn’t be heard any longer, but she had no doubt stridden off to do something Léirsinn was certain she wouldn’t want to know about. She stroked Sianach’s cheek, reminded him to behave himself, then took herself off to see if there might be anyone else with answers for her.
What she found instead was the son of a witch leaning negligently against a sturdy fence post, his nose buried in a small book and a frown marring his perfect brow. She stopped in the middle of the yard partly because for the first time ever she was wearing boots that completely repelled the snow, but mostly because seeing Acair of Ceangail generally resulted in that sort of stopping.
Bad mage he might have been, the sunlight didn’t seem to mind him. It fell from the sky, lightly touched his hair on the way down, then lovingly wrapped itself around him.
She wondered if stepping in that pool of shadow had not only ruined her sight but damaged any last vestiges of her good sense as well. She had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to snort, mostly because she could hear Sianach indulging in a bit of equine laughter behind her and she suspected that pony could read her thoughts.
Acair, however, seemed incapable of doing anything past reading his book. She could have beaned him with a tree branch and he likely wouldn’t have noticed. Perhaps she was more valuable to him on their quest than she’d suspected.
A quest, she reminded herself, that she had found herself unwittingly and unwillingly pulled into, a quest that seemed to have an equal amount to do with righting wrongs and getting rid of that spell she knew without looking was lurking in the shadows of a tree not ten paces from the mage in question. She was still trying to come to terms with anyone being able to use magic, never mind anyone in particular being trailed by a spell that didn’t want him to use any of that magic.
Magic, she reminded herself, that quite possibly could be used for good.
She jumped a little when she realized Acair was currently watching her instead of his book. He pushed away from his post and crossed the yard to her.
“I was coming to find you,” he said, tucking his book under his arm, “but I became distracted.”
“I was chatting with your mother in the barn.”
“Did Sianach bite her?”
“I don’t think he dared,” she said.
“Did she bite you?”
She smiled slightly. “Thankfully, nay.”
“I’m not sure why I don’t inspire that same deference in either of them, but the day is still young.” He smiled and offered her his arm. “A seat by the fire?”
“It would definitely be a step up from a seat in a dungeon,” she said.
“We can only hope. With my mother, one never knows.”
She took his arm and walked back toward the front door with him. She thought she might make it inside before she asked the question that burned in her heart, but realized she wasn’t going to manage it. She stopped him.
“Do you think my grandfather is truly afflicted by a—” She tried, but she couldn’t force herself to use the word.
“A spell?” he finished.
“Or something that looks like that but seems more reasonable.”
He smiled briefly, then sighed. “I don’t know what to think about your grandfather,” he said slowly. “I find it curious that, as you say, he was fine in the evening, yet so different the next morning. I can’t bring to mind a commonplace, unmagical malady that would have rendered him so thoroughly incapacitated. Something that dire would have simply killed him.”
She nodded, then met his gaze. “Can you heal him?”
He hardly looked surprised, which left her wondering if he might have considered the same before.
“My bent lies more toward dismantling things,” he said carefully, “but I could attempt something a bit more, ah, altruistic, if you like.”
She tried to smile but found she couldn’t. “Would you?”
He looked suddenly quite winded. “Of course, Léirsinn,” he said very quietly.
“That would be very kind.”
“Just this once, though,” he said seriously, “then I’m back to my usual business of trying to overthrow kingdoms and rid the world of monarchs sporting curly toed slippers. I will also, of course, deny any involvement in your grandfather’s rehabilitation.”
“I’ll only admit to watching you at your worst.”
“I would appreciate that.”
She turned toward him and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment or two, not because she didn’t want him to watch her weep but because she was resting up for all the questing they still had in front of them. If he reached up and smoothed his hand over her hair, just once, well, she wasn’t going to make a fuss over it.
She finally stepped back. “I suppose I’ll need to carry on with you for a bit longer, just to hold you to your word.”
“Or you could come along because you’re safest with me,” he said.
“That seems unlikely,” she said before she thought better of it. “What with all those black mages who seem to be following you everywhere.”
“I’ll concede that, but nothing else.” He looked at her gravely. “I would appreciate your company, actually. My heart is ashes, Léirsinn, and you breathe fire.” He shrugged helplessly. “I have no more answer for you than that.”
She stopped just short of gaping at him. “You say the damndest things.”
“You said you wanted a lad—if you were in the market for such a thing, which you insisted you weren’t—who expressed sentiments of some maudlin sort. Daily, if memory serves.”
“That wasn’t just maudlin.”
“Definitely don’t spread that about.” He eyed the door behind her. “There’s a spell sitting on the roof there that I believe my mother set specifically to vex me should I try to enter the house. I’m not sure the back door is any safer.” He looked at her. “Are you willing to try a window?”
She supposed that might be the least of the things awaiting her, so she nodded and followed him around the side of the house. The thought of his perhaps being able to heal her grandfather, though . . . that was almost more than she dared hope for.
Besides, that was so far in the future that even she with her newfound clarity of sight couldn’t begin to see how it might come about. She was hundreds of leagues away from the only home she remembered, keeping company with two lads of royal blood who wanted to kill each other, and trying to avoid dying thanks to any of the numerous souls who apparently wanted to kill Acair but might miss and snuff out her life by mistake.
She put her hand over the dragon charm she wore and wondered if there might be anything to Mistress Fionne’s unwillingness to even touch it.
She just wasn’t sure she was ready to know.
&nbs
p; Ten
The witchwoman of Fàs wasn’t humming any longer.
Acair reshelved a rather tattered copy of Scenic Byways in Durial, shuddering over the content as he did so, and realized that not only had his mother stopped humming, she had deserted him entirely. He looked about himself in her rather substantial library only to find himself quite alone.
He leaned his shoulder against bookshelves that would likely remain standing long after the world had ended—his mother had her priorities, to be sure—and wondered when she had abandoned him to his own devices.
He had started his search for the obscure and perilous directly after luncheon. He had been joined by his mother and Léirsinn whilst leaving Mansourah of Neroche the unenviable task of trying to entertain two women who would likely wind up brawling over him.
He was fairly sure that after a pair of hours, Léirsinn had pled the excuse of more barn work as a means of escape, something for which he absolutely couldn’t blame her. His mother, however, had remained in the trenches with him. She had entertained him with an admittedly impressive repertoire of Durialian drinking songs for the better part of the afternoon, most of the time merely humming the tune, pausing now and again to burst forth into a verse or two before descending into wheezing laughter over the lyrics.
His mother was, he had to admit, a woman of extremely eclectic tastes.
He wasn’t sure when she’d left him or, more to the point, where she’d gone, which meant he needed to find her before she said or did something untoward and sent Léirsinn fleeing off into the gloom. His horse-mad miss had refused to divulge what she and his dam had spoken of in the barn, but he was certain it couldn’t have been good.
He made his way to the parlor, but it was full of prince and rapacious cousin multiplied by two, so he withdrew silently before he was noticed. The passageways were distressingly free of any red-haired vixens, so he settled for a hasty trip to the kitchen.
It was unfortunately lacking the woman he lo—er, was rather fond of, but his mother was definitely there, sitting in her rocker near the hearth. She was knitting heaven only knew what, but he didn’t see shards of glass sparkling in her yarn by light of the fire so he supposed it might be something as innocuous as a scarf.