River of Dreams

  She rose, tip-toed past their hostess, and sat down on a stump near where Rùnach was standing. He was finished with the enormous pile of wood he’d been given, so she supposed she was in no danger of flying splinters.

  “Does it bother you?” she asked. “In truth?”

  “To know my father loathed me?”

  “Did she use the word loathe?”

  “I believe she did.” He shrugged and propped a foot up on his chopping block. “Gair of Ceangail is not the sort I think you want having a good opinion of your character. If he had approved of me, I think I might be worried.” He looked at her. “What do you think?”

  “About you or about her?”

  “Me, of course.”

  She smiled at him. “I think Mistress Fionne hasn’t damaged your ego.”

  “I saved her plants; she can’t be too hard on me.” He drove the corner of the axe blade into the stump, then sat down in front of it and looked at her. “And?”

  “You chop a very fine pile of wood.”

  “Prissily?”

  She smiled. “Of course not.”

  “My cousins are very delicate, just so you know.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones who slobbered all over you at Seanagarra.”

  “Còir wasn’t prissy,” she said. “He gave me a handkerchief, you know.”

  “And I’ve given you all kinds of perilous adventures,” Rùnach said. “Far better than a handkerchief, I’d say, if you know what I mean.”

  “And what he means,” said a voice that sounded as if it had just woken from a satisfying nap, “is that he doesn’t want you thinking his cousins are worth looking at a second time, whilst he himself most certainly is. Arrogant thing, isn’t he?”

  Aisling looked at the witchwoman of Fàs. “His cousins aren’t interested in me. Whyever would they be?”

  “He is interested in you, which is what he wants you to think about instead of those prancing lads from Tòrr Dòrainn.” The witchwoman of Fàs rolled her eyes. “My girl, you need a few lessons in the art of flirtation.”

  “From you?” Aisling asked, realizing only after she’d already said it how horrified she’d sounded.

  The witchwoman of Fàs pursed her lips. “Well, of course not from me. I’ve no patience for that sort of thing, and I certainly have no experience with the elves of Tòrr Dòrainn. An exclusive lot, those, though even I’ll admit one of the best is there beside you.” She paused. “Well, before he ruined his looks trying to rid himself of his sire. I suppose he’s still handsome enough from the proper side.”

  Aisling wasn’t sure if she should laugh or gasp. The woman could say the most appalling things without so much as a flinch.

  “I don’t see his scars,” she managed finally.

  “So you said before. I didn’t believe you before, but I’m slightly disappointed to find you’re in earnest now. I wouldn’t manage the like, but perhaps I have a more discriminating eye than you do.” She dragged her sleeve over her eyes, smacked her lips a time or two, then nodded at Rùnach. “Bring your wee tome, laddie, and let’s have a look. It seems as if you’ve done a proper day’s labor.”

  “I haven’t stacked it yet,” Rùnach pointed out.

  “Not to worry,” she said dismissively. “I’ll have one of my sons do that, whether he wants to or not. I think Acair will be here later this afternoon.” She looked at Rùnach blandly. “Did I forget to mention that?”

  Rùnach cursed fluently, which only left the witchwoman of Fàs smirking. Aisling found herself too busy trying to breathe to make any noise. Rùnach cursed a bit more as he walked over to his pack, dug about in it, and pulled out the book that Aisling hadn’t dared look in after that first time. He sat down on a stool at the witchwoman’s feet, then handed it to her.

  “Your book of spells,” she said mildly.

  “Which I left here, if memory serves.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked, remarkably enough, slightly sheepish. “I believe it was, as the young hooligans say these days, nicked whilst I was napping.”

  Rùnach looked at her sternly. “You knew it was gone?”

  Aisling watched them lock gazes and engage in what even she could tell from where she sat was a fairly serious battle of wills. She had to admit she was slightly surprised when the witchwoman of Fàs broke first.

  “Well, of course I knew it was gone,” she muttered, sitting back. “Saw someone leaving with it out the back door before I could wake my feet up enough to give chase. I couldn’t say for sure who it was. Didn’t have my spectacles on, you know.”

  “Did you know where it had been taken?”

  Mistress Fionne shrugged. “It’s possible someone might have tossed a chipper I’m off to Diarmailt, Mother! over his shoulder as he skipped merrily away, but I’m a bit foggy on the whole episode.” She looked at Rùnach with wide eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s where you found it.”

  Rùnach pursed his lips. “What I am going to tell you is that I’m disappointed in you that you didn’t keep it behind a boring collection of herbals.”

  “You wound me, Rùnach my boy, truly you do. I thought you were dead—very well, I knew you weren’t, but I wasn’t about to spill your secret for you. And if you must know, I knew exactly which little demon was in here, rifling through my books. I assumed you had actually managed the spell to keep the innards locked as you’d claimed—very well, I knew you had because I tried my damndest to unlock it myself and failed. I thought it might keep the little wretch occupied for a few decades.” She shrugged. “Overly altruistic of me, as you can see, which goes to show where that sort of thing generally leads.”

  “Acair?”

  “Well, of course Acair,” she grumbled. “Who else would bother with anything of yours?” She paused, then rolled her eyes. “Very well, there is a very long list of mages who would have sold their souls to bother with your book of spells, but I knew Acair would suffer the most from not being able to have them, the heartless worm. It’s kept him busy for the past twenty years, hasn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Rùnach said grimly. “What I do know is that my spells are no longer in this book.”

  “A pity, though perhaps they’ll turn up. What is inside instead?”

  “Open the cover and see.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked at the book in her hands, then a stillness fell over the glade. Aisling would have found it peaceful in perhaps another location, but not where she was at present. She watched Mistress Fionne open the cover of Rùnach’s book, then she began to frown.

  Aisling looked at Rùnach to see what he was thinking, but his expression gave nothing away. He glanced at her briefly, lifted an eyebrow just as briefly, then went back to watching their hostess.

  The old woman flipped through the pages without haste, frowning every now and again and finally resorting to a steady stream of muttering under her breath.

  She reached the end of the book, then turned back to the first page. She looked at Rùnach.

  “Hmmm.”

  “Acair knows I have this. He also said he had the notes I lost over the plains of Ailean, though I’m not sure of what use they would be to him.”

  “What sorts of tidbits were in your notes?”

  “The sources for my father’s spells,” Rùnach said with a sigh. “Or what I could find in the library at Buidseachd.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs shuddered delicately. “That place is crawling with terrible things.”

  “I would have to agree,” Rùnach said, “and most of them are slithering out from underneath Droch’s chamber door.”

  “Bah, Droch of Saothair,” the witchwoman of Fàs said dismissively. “A neophyte.”

  “And what would you do if he came knocking at your door?” Rùnach asked politely.

  “Invite him in to tea and poison him.”

  “He’s merciless.”

  She shot Rùnach a look. “And you think I’m not?”

  “I think, Mother Fà
s, that you’re far more charming than you would like anyone to believe, and I’m desperately curious to know your opinion of that book.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs puffed up a little with pleasure. “Don’t you be spreading that about, young Rùnach, or I will be simply overrun with guests clamoring for my company. As for the book, I’m not sure I care for it. I daresay it will spoil my dreams, but it wouldn’t be the first thing to do so.”

  “Are they spells, do you think?”

  Aisling watched Mistress Fionne’s face, though she supposed the woman had too many years of practice in not giving anything away to reveal aught but what she cared to.

  “Symbols, rather,” she said slowly.

  “Representing spells?”

  Mistress Fionne considered the book in her hands for several moments without speaking, then looked at Rùnach. “That, my lad, is something not even I can tell.” She shot him a look. “You have a bit of a mystery on your hands here.”

  “So it seems.”

  She handed him the book, then sat back. “It galls me not to have a better answer for you than that, but there it is.” She considered, then shook her head. “Symbols, as you well know, can represent many things. Spells, the effect a spell might have on a body, the proper time of year for the use of a particular spell.” She looked at him casually. “Landmarks on a map, even.”

  He blinked. “A map?”

  “Stranger things have been drawn, haven’t they? Your sire was famous for his scribblings that meant nothing except to him.”

  “Was he?” Rùnach asked. “I don’t remember that.”

  “That’s because he never let you see anything that wasn’t perfect. Works in progress were those scribblings, which may be what you have there.” She looked at him blandly. “You know he came here that first night.”

  “My father? After the well?”

  “Aye.” She looked off into the distance. “I called him a dozen kinds of fool, but I could see why he’d done what he’d done.”

  “And why was that?”

  She looked at Rùnach. “You didn’t goad him into it, if that worries you, nor did your dam. The blame lies entirely at his feet—or, rather, at the feet of his walloping ego. He had been, if you can fathom this, desperate to show the lot of you that he was a mage without peer.”

  Aisling watched Rùnach consider, then shake his head.

  “That is the part I suppose I’ll never understand. Why us? Why not take a collection of mages of consequence there?”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked at Rùnach seriously. “I believe he thought he had.”

  Rùnach closed his eyes briefly, then rubbed his hands over his face. “Hell,” he said finally.

  “I understand that’s where he is now, courtesy of that little fiend Ruithneadh.” She smiled. “Always had a soft spot for that one I did, though I can’t say he holds me in any esteem.”

  “He’s terrified of you,” Rùnach said seriously.

  “Well, then perhaps all is as it should be,” she said, sounding pleased. She shot Rùnach a look. “You don’t look particularly terrified.”

  “I rebuilt your greenhouse for you. That grants me some sort of immunity, doesn’t it?”

  “You know, lad, that excuse is only good for the first five hundred years. You may have bought yourself another century with that decent chopping, but after that you’ll need to refill the well, as it were.”

  Aisling listened to the woman—and she really had no idea how old she was—talk about Rùnach in terms of centuries and realized something she hadn’t been able to face to that point.

  He was an elf who would live hundreds of years whilst she would be dead in less than sixty if she lived to be an old, bent crone, hunched in front of her spinning wheel and complaining about her joints.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  Aisling realized the witchwoman of Fàs was speaking to her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t measure your life in years, girl, measure it in memories.” She paused, then smiled smugly. “That was poetic, wasn’t it? I believe I shall become a philosopher when my magic runs dry.”

  “Will it?” Rùnach asked in surprise.

  “Of course not, dimwit, but one must make contingency plans.” She looked at him sharply. “The reason I was telling you about your sire is that I convinced him to make a copy of his spells and leave it here with me.”

  “Why in the hell would I care about that?” Rùnach asked.

  “I suppose that depends on whether or not you have them all still memorized, or did all that time at Buidseachd drive their superior structure and elegance from your wee brain?”

  Rùnach pursed his lips. “I struck my head—”

  “Face, rather,” the witchwoman of Fàs said mildly.

  “Very well, I struck my face against the side of the well, which seems to have blotted out several pertinent memories,” Rùnach said grimly.

  “I would say it was Gair taking your power that did the like, but we could argue the point and never restore what was lost.” She nodded toward the house. “Go fetch the book and memorize the spells.”

  “Thank you, but nay.”

  “Don’t be so fastidious,” the witchwoman of Fàs said sharply. “How will you ever fight Acair without them?”

  “Does he know them?” Rùnach asked, looking slightly winded.

  “Of course not,” the witchwoman of Fàs snorted. “How colossally stupid do you think I am? I wouldn’t trust my youngest son with the key to my front door, much less anything of import. But if he’s found your notes, he might accidentally put something together. He’s certainly had the time over the years to attempt a bit of purposeful thought.” She pointed to the house. “Go.”

  He looked at her evenly. “I don’t want them.”

  Aisling found herself being pinned to the spot by the witchwoman of Fàs’s surprisingly piercing gaze.

  “The book’s down the side of my comfortable chair near where you found my spectacles. Go get it and put it in your satchel with the other two.”

  “No,” Rùnach said.

  Aisling looked first at Rùnach, who was adamant, then at the witchwoman of Fàs, who was insistent. She took a deep breath.

  “Why would you want to keep those spells here?” she managed.

  “Because I am a keeper of important records,” the witchwoman of Fàs said sharply, “which Rùnach of all people should understand.”

  “But if they fell into the wrong hands—” Rùnach protested.

  “I believe you forget, my boy, just whom you’re dealing with,” she said frankly. “Do you think my sons have their power only from your father?”

  “Nay, Mother Fàs, I don’t,” Rùnach said quietly.

  “If I die or if the book is stolen, there is a spell attached to both copies that will blot them out of existence.”

  “Both?” Rùnach echoed faintly.

  “Both,” the witchwoman of Fàs said firmly. “The other one will be perfectly safe here.”

  Aisling glanced at Rùnach and had the feeling she knew exactly what he was thinking. The witchwoman of Fàs hadn’t done a smashing job of keeping his book under wraps, as it were, so what was to say she would do any better with a copy of his father’s spells?

  “Aisling, go fetch the book. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Aisling looked at Rùnach but didn’t speak. He merely looked at her as if he had seen something he knew he had to do but couldn’t bring himself to say how badly he wanted to avoid it.

  “I don’t think he wants me to do this,” she ventured.

  “What he wants and what he needs may be two entirely different things,” the witchwoman of Fàs said briskly. She looked at Rùnach. “My son he might be, but even I won’t sacrifice the world for his ambitions. If you ever hope to face Acair and come away the victor, you had best have weapons of your own.”

  “I will not use Gair’s spells,” Rùnach said flatly.

  “Didn’t say you ha
d to, did I?” she asked tartly. “But you’d best have something on hand to counter them with, and you won’t have that unless you know what the originals were.”

  “I have no magic.”

  “Well, I can’t solve everything for you, can I?”

  Rùnach chewed on that for a bit, looking as if he didn’t care at all for the taste, then looked at Aisling. “You stay here. I’ll go.”

  She had no intention of arguing with him over that. She watched him go into the house, then looked at the witchwoman of Fàs. “I’m not sure we can keep them safe. You realize that neither of us has any magic.”

  “I’d suggest you find a way,” Mistress Fionne said.

  “I’m not sure I understand why you would force them on him,” Aisling said slowly. “You have to know that your son will hunt him down for them.”

  The witchwoman of Fàs shrugged. “It is as I said. He’ll need to have the originals to counter Acair. And if he can’t keep Acair at bay, then I’ve sadly misjudged his cleverness. As for the book, you’ll find a way to destroy it after it’s outlived its usefulness. If you want my suggestion, you’ll keep it in that little satchel you have along with the two books—nay, it’s three, isn’t it?—already there.”

  “How did you know that?”

  The witchwoman of Fàs looked at her, clear-eyed and unrepentant. “I would tell you that I know many things, but actually I just snooped when you went to use the loo and Rùnach was inspecting his work in my greenhouse. Doesn’t look as if you’ve cracked open that tome from Nicholas, though.”

  “Do you know him?” Aisling asked faintly.

  “I know everyone,” she said smugly. “And I’ll tell you this much: that Nicholas of Diarmailt was quite the looker in his youth. ’Twas no wonder Lismòrian of Tòrr Dòrainn couldn’t resist him.” She patted her hair into place. “Don’t know that I wouldn’t have set my cap for him myself if I hadn’t already had my sights on that handsome rogue from down the way.”

  Aisling couldn’t imagine King Nicholas being pursued by the woman in front of her. She considered, then shook her head. It made her head hurt just thinking about thinking about it.

  “Why haven’t you read his book?”