Dreamspinner

  Rùnach had to admit there was part of him that wished desperately that he could take Aisling down and have her shout that over and over again outside Lothar’s door until the man went completely mad.

  “Ah, well, I suppose the man was a healer,” he conceded. “Call him what you will.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “But I am healed completely.”

  “Potent herbs, I imagine.”

  She looked at him and frowned again, as if she knew that couldn’t be possible but couldn’t possibly admit that anything else might be responsible. He decided that before she gave herself pains in the head by any more frowning, he would do well to change the subject. No sense in not prying a few answers from her whilst she was distracted.

  “Where were you raised?” he asked. “I mean, it was obviously a place without mages.”

  “Who don’t exist,” she said absently.

  “Of course not.”

  She seemed to be struggling to find the right words for heaven only knew what. She crawled to her feet, shunning his help, then began to pace slowly around the edge of the chamber. She stopped by the door and put her hand on the wood, much in the same way Weger had not half an hour beforehand. She looked at him bleakly.

  “I don’t know whom to trust.”

  “Don’t you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I have spent my life with persons who were…untrustworthy.”

  “Have you?”

  “Will you stop that?” she snapped, then she let out her breath slowly. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “I’m not trying to vex you.”

  She looked at him seriously. “Are you trustworthy?”

  He rubbed his chest, wondering how it was that mere words could leave him feeling as if he had been the one with a dagger recently plunged to the hilt in his flesh. It took him a moment or two to catch his breath.

  “I can keep a secret,” he managed, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  She considered him for several moments in silence. Rùnach looked at her by the light of a dozen orbs of rather decent-looking werelight and wondered what it was Weger had seen in her that had unsettled the hell out of him.

  “Does your mother trust you?”

  Had he agreed to go with this wench anywhere? He was quite sure he hadn’t, which was a good thing because he wasn’t going to spend but another quarter hour in her presence, long enough to get her back to their chamber, then see if he might find a scrap of floor in the kitchens. He took a deep breath then saw, to his shame, that his thoughts were reflected in her face, as if she’d seen them hanging in the air, drawn them to her, and wrapped them around her.

  She was opening the door before he realized what she was doing. He shoved himself to his feet, jumped across the chamber, and pushed the door shut before the wind whipped it so forcefully into her that it knocked her over. He took off the cloak he had borrowed from some disgusting pile of unwanted clothes and put it around her shoulders.

  “I have three and you none,” she managed.

  “And we have a fire,” he said, taking her by the elbow and tugging. “Come and sit.”

  She didn’t move. She simply looked at him with eyes that somehow saw far more than he was comfortable with. “You didn’t answer.”

  He blew out his breath, then dragged his hands through his hair. He leaned back against the door and looked at her.

  “My mother is dead,” he said quietly, “but when she was alive, aye, I believe she trusted me.” Only he had failed her, just as he’d failed his brothers and sister. If only he hadn’t been so concerned about magical fastidiousness, he might have lowered himself to use his father’s bloody spells against him—

  “I’m sorry.”

  He blinked, then pulled himself back to himself. He shook his head. “It was a long time ago, so no matter.” He nodded toward the fire. “We can at least be warm for a bit, I think. Come, lass, and sit.”

  “La—” She shut her mouth abruptly. “I am no lass.”

  He tried not to smile, but it was difficult. “Aisling, my hands may not work very well, but my eyes do.”

  “Losh thinks I’m a lad,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “Losh is a boy, which I am not.”

  She frowned at him, but didn’t argue. She put her hand hesitantly over her chest, then looked at him. “I don’t think herbs work this quickly. Do they?”

  “Generally not,” he conceded, “but ’tis possible this chamber has properties neither of us could possibly hope to understand. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “What else will there be that is not as I’ve been told it is?”

  There was something in her voice that, well, if he hadn’t been such a hard-hearted clod, it might have brought a tear to his eye. He had to fight the impulse to pull her into his arms and hold her until that look of utter betrayal disappeared from her eyes. He reached out and tucked a lock of her shorn hair behind her ear before he thought better of it.

  “I’m not sure I would ask,” he said quietly. “Come and sit, Aisling, closest to the fire. I don’t think Weger would begrudge you that.”

  She didn’t argue as he helped her sit next to the fire, then sat near her in a companionable sort of way. After all, he had no interest in her that extended past a passing curiosity, and he had no intention, no matter what bloody things Weger might say to him, of trotting off to some obscure village in a desolate part of the Nine Kingdoms and mediating what was sure to be a feud between two families fighting over grazing rights. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be pleasant whilst they were where they were.

  “Weger says you need a mercenary,” he asked, because it was the first thing that came out of his mouth. He supposed it was too late to take the words back, so he left them there, hanging in the air in front of them.

  She was silent for a moment or two, then she sighed. “My village has been taken over by, ah, someone.” She paused. “I was charged with finding someone to aid those who want to see him removed.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where your village is, will you?”

  “I don’t suppose I will.”

  He smiled, in spite of himself. “You are rather cheeky, you know, for a lass who can’t wield a blade.”

  She glanced at him. “I could poke my finger in your eye. Weger taught me how.”

  “There is that,” he agreed.

  She shivered. “After today, I think I might need to learn other things.”

  “I think you might want to,” he agreed. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have much time to learn.”

  He shifted so he could look at her more fully. “What does that mean?”

  She looked calm, but her knuckles where she was clutching her hands together were white. “I am simply in a fair bit of haste.”

  “Will your village lie in ruins if you don’t return to see to it?”

  “Nay, but I must find a man to aid them,” she said, “and time grows short.” She looked at him quickly. “That is all I can say.”

  He supposed she had said more than she’d cared to, though it was all he could do not to press her for more details. Why the haste? She had been so adamant about talking to Weger before midnight on two consecutive days, but now midnight seemed less important than very soon. Was destruction imminent or was there more to it than that?

  And why was she pretending to be a lad?

  He had his own share of secrets, but his weren’t nearly so interesting. He also hadn’t been stabbed by Lothar of Wychweald, though he imagined that had been nothing but Lothar happily trying to destroy something Rùnach appeared to have interest in.

  Weger’s reaction to her, however, had been less than random. And there was the language she’d murmured after Weger had healed her. He could say without any pride at all that he had learned the major languages of the Nine Kingdoms well enough to read them and all the languages of magic well enough to be able to cast a spell in any of them. She ha
d spoken nothing he’d recognized.

  “Shall we brave supper?” he asked, thinking that perhaps a change would suit them both.

  She nodded, though without enthusiasm. He couldn’t blame her for that.

  He pushed himself to his feet, held down his hand to pull her to hers, then took back his cloak when she handed it to him. He made certain he had Weger’s key, then opened the door and promptly lost his breath at the bitter wind that whipped him in the face. He crowded out onto the landing with Aisling, pulled the door to, then locked it and pocketed the key.

  “The fire?”

  “It will go out on its own,” he said loudly. “Not to worry.”

  She looked at him seriously. “That seems unusual.”

  “There are many unusual things in the world.”

  She made no comment, but she did take his hand as he descended the steps in front of her. He was fairly sure he hadn’t breathed until his foot touched the courtyard. Aisling’s sigh of relief was audible as well.

  “You won’t say anything.”

  He looked at her, knowing what she was asking. “Nay.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled briefly. “No need.”

  Nay, there was no need to thank him, because he wouldn’t tell her secrets to anyone. He wasn’t going to be close enough to her for that to be a possibility.

  Guard her? Fight in her village squabble? Put aside his own desires to take up the cause of a woman whose eyes laid his soul bare and whose smile left him wishing quite desperately for something sturdy beneath his backside?

  He would be damned if he would.

  Though he had the uncomfortable feeling he might be damned if he didn’t.

  Ten

  Aisling woke to a blinding pain in her eyes. At first, she thought it was that terrible man again, stabbing her not in the back but in the face, then she realized it was just torchlight. She tried to push it away but someone had hold of her arm and was pulling her up to her feet. She stood in the midst of the chamber, blinking, and tried to make sense of the madness that was swirling around her.

  Weger was standing just inside the chamber, handing off the torch to Losh, who was watching the goings-on with enormous eyes. Rùnach rolled up to his feet, rubbing his eyes then shaking his head to apparently clear it. Aisling caught the cloak Weger threw at her. She put it around her shoulders because he barked at her to do so. She had the distinct feeling he was not interested in whether or not she wanted to.

  “You must go now.”

  Rùnach was looking at him as if he’d never heard words before. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “He’s shouting your name to anyone who’ll listen,” Weger growled, “which, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I find to be a rather dangerous state of affairs.”

  “Who?” Aisling asked, but they weren’t listening to her. She pulled her boots on, yanked the strap of the leather satchel containing Ochadius of Riamh’s book over her head, then listened in astonishment to Weger and Rùnach argue in an increasingly acerbic manner. There was talk of a fortnight, a man who knew Rùnach—which seemed to bother Weger very much, though she couldn’t account for why—and other things she couldn’t quite catch. Then again, she was still having trouble breathing and had been from the moment that man had taken his knife and plunged it into her back…

  “I don’t give a damn what you want,” Weger snarled finally.

  “And I would have thought you judged a man on his merits, not—”

  Weger’s drawing of his sword almost left Rùnach without his head. Aisling felt her mouth fall open. They were mad, both of them. She scrambled back over the bed and flattened herself against the wall, trying to stay out of the way. At least Rùnach had managed to get his sword between his face and Weger’s blade. The screeching of metal on metal had her clapping her hands over her ears. She would have wondered how it was that Rùnach had his boots on, but perhaps he’d never taken them off the night before.

  “Bring his gear,” Weger snarled at her. “Follow me to the front gates.”

  “I’m not going—” Rùnach began, then apparently he lost the thread of his thought in the heat of battle.

  Aisling picked up his pack, because Weger had told her to do so, then shouldered it with difficulty. She picked up his cloaks as well because if Weger had his way, she suspected they wouldn’t be coming back to their chamber. If she had learned nothing over the past several days, she had learned that Weger never said anything he didn’t mean.

  The battle that raged was impressive. Weger was forcing Rùnach down the stairs, giving him no choice but to retreat. Aisling followed, slowly, watching them fight in and out of the shadows, spitting curses at each other in languages she couldn’t understand, promising all manner of retribution in languages she could. She was surprised to find that even though Rùnach’s hair looked as if he’d just rolled from bed and he was obviously furious, he was holding his own.

  Perhaps anger was a good thing for swordsmen.

  By the time the pair had reached the front gates, Aisling realized that Weger was very serious about throwing them out. The only thing she could say about that was at least they would be much closer to the ground when he did so, as opposed to being two hundred feet up. It would hurt much less.

  She stood on the lowest step of that long staircase for a few minutes, then finally set Rùnach’s pack down next to her. Several minutes later, she sat down next to the pack. She wondered why anyone would care who Rùnach was. Weger seemed to think having his name noised about was a disaster. Given how many disasters he dealt with over the course of any given day, she was a little surprised that mere babbling would have concerned him any at all.

  She found herself joined on her step by Losh, who didn’t so much sit as perch next to her. She glanced at him.

  “This is perplexing,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Have any idea what it all means?”

  “I wouldn’t dare ask,” he said faintly. “Don’t want to be tossed over the walls—and I daresay Weger would drag me upstairs so’s he could.”

  She had to agree that was quite possibly the case. She was happy to hope that might not be her fate. Then she realized she perhaps shouldn’t relax so soon.

  Because she hadn’t obtained a swordsman.

  She supposed, with a sick sort of feeling of fear, that she might manage to trot back up the stairs and look for one while Weger was otherwise occupied. There were men inside Gobhann, steely-eyed, fierce men. Surely one of them would be willing to travel all the way to Bruadair for the glory of it alone.

  Though it was not as simple as that, unfortunately. She had been told to send the man to Taigh Hall, but would the peddler truly be waiting for him there? And even if she managed to talk a mercenary into doing what needed to be done, how would the peddler manage to recognize the man she’d sent if she couldn’t tell that man what to look for at journey’s end?

  “It will have to be enough,” Weger said loudly. “You have no more time.”

  Aisling blinked and realized that the men in front of her were no longer fighting. Weger had put away his sword and was simply glaring at Rùnach. Or, actually, Weger’s sword was stuck like an arrow in the front wooden gate. Aisling looked quickly to see if Rùnach still retained his sword. She was surprised to find that he did, that Weger’s hands were the ones that were empty. She could hardly believe Rùnach could have rid him of his blade, but all signs pointed to it. Weger folded his arms over his chest.

  “You learned what you needed to,” he stated firmly.

  “And what was that?” Rùnach growled, resheathing his sword angrily.

  “That perhaps the world doesn’t revolve around you?”

  “I believe I at least had a vague notion about that before today, my lord.”

  “Very well,” Weger conceded, “there might have been a sliver more altruism in you than I’ve given you credit for. As for anything else, just what was I to teach you? Considering who
your swordmasters were in your youth—”

  “That was before.”

  “And you’ve forgotten nothing, if that soothes your enormous ego. You must improve the strength in your hands, but perhaps another bit of attention from your brother-in-law would aid you with that, if you could bear the pain of it.” Weger shrugged. “Otherwise, it will just take honest sweat and no small number of hours in the lists.”

  Rùnach looked at him in silence, as if he simply couldn’t find anything to say.

  Weger walked over to a small brazier burning near the gatekeeper’s hut that was in truth nothing more than a wooden roof standing on four wooden pillars and leaning against the rock wall. Master Odo was reclining on his stool, looking only slightly less bored than usual. Aisling wondered just what that meant, if anything.

  She looked at the long, slim rod Weger held in his gloved hand. The end of it was red hot. She fell off the step in surprise, her hands outstretched, when he started toward Rùnach with it.

  “Don’t!” she exclaimed, wondering how she was going to stop Weger from killing Rùnach.

  And wondering, exactly, why she was concerned.

  Weger shot her a look that froze her in mid-step, then pressed the rod against the flesh above Rùnach’s eyebrow.

  Aisling expected him to at least flinch in pain. What she didn’t expect was for Weger to peer at Rùnach’s forehead, then attempt his singeing again. He looked at Rùnach.

  “There’s something there.”

  Rùnach drew his hand over his eyes. “Don’t ask me what.”

  Weger tossed the metal rod back into the brazier. “Well, I can’t solve the problem.” He nodded to the gatekeeper. “Open the gates, Odo. These two are in a hurry to leave.”

  Aisling watched Rùnach remain exactly where he was, unmoving apart from his chest heaving. Weger noticed that, finally, then he stepped close to Rùnach and spoke in a low voice. Aisling didn’t want to listen, but she was right there and none of it made sense, so she supposed there was no harm in eavesdropping.

  “He can’t possibly know,” Rùnach was saying.