Dreamspinner

  “Of course, he knows,” Weger whispered furiously. “He’s been shouting at the top of his bloody lungs for hours now, or didn’t you hear him?”

  “I was busy sleeping.”

  “I hope you had enough of that,” Weger said sharply, “for you’ll not have any in the near future. You must go and you must go now.”

  Rùnach looked at him evenly. “I do not fear death.”

  “Then perhaps, my dear Rùnach, you might, again, think of others besides yourself. Your sister, for one.”

  “She wouldn’t need my protection even if I were able to offer it.”

  “Then perhaps you might consider those who cannot protect themselves, those who might be harmed—or might have been recently harmed—just to see if your glorious chivalry would leap to the fore. Will you put them in harm’s way?”

  “A coincidence.”

  “You fool,” Weger growled, “you know there are no coincidences where he is concerned!”

  “He is restless—”

  “He’s centuries old, damn you, and not even my gates will hold him forever. If you have even a single useful thought in that pretty head of yours, that thought will tell you to bolt whilst you have the chance and not stop running until you’ve reached somewhere safe.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Besides, didn’t you promise to take that gel there to Tor Neroche and find her a mercenary?”

  Aisling watched Rùnach look at Weger for several eternal moments, then turn his head and look at her.

  She felt her mouth go dry. “I don’t need aid,” she managed. She attempted to swallow several times, but it didn’t go very well for her. “Tor Neroche?”

  “Head straight to the palace,” Weger advised. “They’re less interested in gold than they are immortalizing themselves in legend, unlike this rabble here in my keep. You’ll find what you need right off, I imagine.”

  She hardly dared hope as much. She took a deep breath, then looked at Weger. “Can you guarantee it? My life depends on it.”

  He reached out and put his hand very briefly on her shoulder. “There is a lad there, Mansourah, who is unimportant in the grander scheme of things, but a right proper swordsman when the inducement is enough. Ask for him, trust him with your details, then watch him hurry off into the sunset to do what you need to have done.” He nodded firmly. “I guarantee it.”

  Aisling calculated furiously. It was perhaps five days to Bere if she ran, a pair of days to Istaur by ship, then…well, she supposed if she managed to reach Tor Neroche in less than a month, she would be fortunate indeed.

  She looked at Weger. “It would take a miracle to get there in time,” she managed.

  Weger beamed on her. “And how fortunate you are that a miracle stands here before you. Rùnach, take this child to Tor Neroche. You can find the way, can’t you? And introduce her to little Mansourah?”

  “But, I have no intention of going to—”

  Weger backhanded him.

  Aisling was so shocked, she could only stand there and gape. Rùnach faced Weger again, then put the back of his hand to his mouth. It came away bloody. He looked at his hand, then at Weger, then took a deep breath.

  But he said nothing. He simply went to fetch his pack, shouldered it, then nodded at Weger. The next thing Aisling knew, he had taken her hand and was pulling her out of the front gates. She went, because he gave her no choice, heard the gates bang shut behind them, then realized they were missing something.

  “Your horse.”

  He shrugged. “He’ll find us eventually, I imagine. Or not. He has a mind of his own.”

  She pulled on his hand until he stopped, then she pulled her hand away. “I don’t need aid.”

  “Don’t be—”

  “I am not ridiculous,” she said shortly. “And I don’t need your aid. I don’t think I would accept it if you offered it.”

  He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck for a moment or two, then looked at her.

  “I apologize,” he said quietly. “I did that…badly.”

  “No need,” she said promptly. “I appreciate the passage. I’m sorry I cannot repay your kindness for that, nor for the tending when I was ill inside.” She held on to the strap of the satchel Weger had given her. “I only have this—”

  “Nay,” he said quickly, reaching out to stop her from pulling it over her head. “You keep it.”

  She pulled her forearm away from his hand, then nodded and stepped backward. She pulled her cloak closer around her, because it was cold, then nodded at him. “A good journey to you, then.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  “Tor Neroche.”

  “But you can’t be serious,” he protested.

  “I have no choice. Now, please get out of my way.”

  “But—”

  She held up her hand, cutting him off. “Aren’t there ships that travel from Sgioba to Tor Neroche?”

  He looked at her for several minutes by the very faint light of the torchlight atop the walls flanking the front gate, then he sighed.

  “Freight ships, I suppose,” he conceded slowly, “but the sea is very rough and the hands rougher. Nothing as luxurious as what brought us from Bere.”

  She suppressed the urge to sigh. “And by land?”

  “On foot?” he asked. “You would need at least a month if you ran, longer if you walked. You might manage a fortnight from Istaur with a very fast horse and good weather, but the horse would need wings on his hooves.” He looked at her in surprise. “Are you making for Tor Neroche in truth?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “But of course you have a choice. There are soldiers aplenty in the world who could see to your troubles.”

  “But I must have a particular sort of man,” she said, then she found she couldn’t say anything else. She had been sent to Gobhann to find a mercenary, yet she had left without one. Weger had sent her off to Tor Neroche, which left her still, for the moment, without a mercenary.

  She looked off into the distance and considered curses and quests. The first thing she examined was the condition of her poor form. She wasn’t feverish, didn’t feel faint, didn’t have her heart racing as if it wanted to accomplish a few more beats before it was stilled. In fact, apart from the ache in her chest, she felt fine.

  You have three se’nnights. The bargain must be struck before midnight of the last day or your life will be the forfeit.

  The peddler’s words came back to her as if they’d been the deep, throbbing tolling of the village green bell she could remember from her childhood. He had said three se’nnights, not three fortnights. He’d been terribly specific about everything, warning her so direly of the consequences she would face if she didn’t fulfill her quest.

  He couldn’t have been mistaken about the length of time allotted her.

  She didn’t protest as Rùnach took her by the elbow and tugged her away from the gates. Walking helped. She had walked at the Guild, around and around the buildings, under the watchful eye of the guards, of course, whenever she was allowed to. It cleared her mind, left her feeling grounded.

  It served her just as well now. She walked and let the peddler’s words resonate in her mind. He had said what he’d said. There was no doubt of that. He was a careful man, of that she was certain. He wouldn’t have made a mistake, not when so much depended on his being completely accurate in his instructions.

  She continued along with Rùnach for another few minutes until a thought occurred to her that she had never before considered.

  What if the peddler had lied?

  She stopped so abruptly, Rùnach had to turn around and walk back to her. He looked at her, then apparently saw something in her face that surprised him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She looked up at him searchingly. “Are things different from what they seem, do you think?”

  He looked slightly winded. Perhaps he was still unsettled from having been torn from his very comfortabl
e sleep. Perhaps he was still reeling from the ferocious battle he had just fought with the lord of Gobhann. A battle he had won, as it happened, but perhaps he had found it somehow unsatisfying.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that sometimes they are. Why?”

  She considered just blurting everything out to him right there, but too many years of keeping things to herself prevented that. Well, that and the curse that would fell her on the spot did she dare divulge anything about Bruadair or its inhabitants.

  Unless that curse was a lie as well.

  She blew her shorn hair out of her eyes. “I’m not sure what to believe. And I have no idea what to do now.”

  “Walk.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I’m sure of it,” he said confidently. “Weger will begin raining arrows down on us if we don’t move soon, so perhaps that is all we need think about at the moment.”

  “How do you know?”

  He reached over and plucked an arrow from a spot of ground near his foot. “The first volley.”

  She blinked in surprise. “He is a skilled archer.”

  Rùnach snorted. “’Tis more dumb luck, I imagine, though he’ll hit us eventually.” He shouldered his pack and handed her the arrow. “Let’s trot off into the distance and see if we can’t get beyond the reach of his good fortune.”

  She would have told him she didn’t want to go with him, that he was unkind, ill-mannered, ill-tempered, and difficult to look at, but an arrow landed at her feet, almost tearing through her boot. She jumped back, then looked at him.

  “Which road to Bere?”

  He pointed to the road they’d come from before they’d entered Gobhann.

  “Thank you,” she said briskly. She nodded to him, then strode away. He would either follow or not. She honestly didn’t care.

  But she did run.

  Three days later, she was bone weary, hungry, and tired of Rùnach following her. She was angry with him but couldn’t decide why. He had had his own reasons for entering Gobhann and he’d left it not having accomplished what he’d set out to do. She could understand that. What she couldn’t understand was why Weger had been so concerned that someone knew Rùnach. He was handsome, to be sure, and an excellent swordsman, but surely his importance in the world was limited to that.

  What she wanted was to sit down somewhere and think until she had sifted through all the thoughts plaguing her. She didn’t want to be responsible for Rùnach’s having been tossed out of Weger’s gates. She didn’t want Rùnach feeling responsible for her. She didn’t want to be responsible for the future of Bruadair.

  But mostly she wanted to know why she was still alive.

  It was a terrible feeling, that of being under a curse she hadn’t asked for and didn’t want. The sword of that doom hung over her constantly, interfering with every thought, making her jump every time she was startled by a noise or a twinge or a thought. It was made all the worse by knowing that there was no possible way she would reach Tor Neroche in time to stave off the effects of that doom—not even if the peddler had meant three fortnights in spite of what he’d said.

  Which left her less than ten days to get to the king of Neroche’s palace.

  She shivered almost uncontrollably. The very cold spring rain that had begun an hour ago hadn’t helped either. In addition to everything else, she was soaked to the skin and feverish. What she wanted to do was find somewhere to get out of the wet, but that didn’t look to be a possibility anytime soon—

  Or, perhaps it would be. She suddenly smelled smoke in the air. She saw it rising from the chimney of a house well off the road, which she realized only because she had wandered well off the road. It was a pleasant-looking house, cozy, small enough for a man and his wife, or a widow trying to keep herself safe and fed.

  She wasn’t sure who reached the door first, but she suspected it hadn’t been her. She stood looking at Rùnach’s back as he knocked softly. It took quite a while for the door to open, but open it did eventually.

  “Aye?” came the worn voice, warily.

  “Good e’en to you, good woman,” Rùnach said politely. “We are two weary travelers seeking refuge from the storm. If there is labor I can offer in return for shelter, you need only name it and ’tis done.”

  Aisling wondered how it was that that tall, solemn man could say more to a complete stranger in one sitting than he’d said to her in the past three days. Then again, she hadn’t been interested in speaking to him, so perhaps she deserved what she got.

  His offer won them entrance. Aisling stood just inside the door and was extremely grateful for the chance to at least get out of the rain. Rùnach stepped aside to introduce her—

  She gasped.

  There, ten paces away from the door, was a hearth. That in itself wasn’t noteworthy, she supposed. It was a simple thing fashioned from rock no doubt gathered from a nearby river. A wooden plank had been set into the stone for use as a mantel, perhaps crafted lovingly by a husband at some point in the past. On it were several modest but no doubt cherished items: a pair of candlesticks; a small painting of a man dressed in fine clothes; a simple vase that stood empty at the moment but Aisling imagined would be filled during the late spring and summer when flowers were abundant. On the near side of the fire was a stack of wood, chopped and ready for use. On the far side of the hearth was a woven basket full of snowy white fluff.

  And a spinning wheel.

  “Aisling?”

  She realized her breath was coming in gasps, but she couldn’t seem to find enough air in the small house to satisfy her burning lungs. She took a step backward, because she had to.

  “Aisling!”

  She realized Rùnach was speaking to her. It occurred to her that he sounded rather unsettled, but given that she felt equally as unsettled, she couldn’t blame him for it. She felt for his arm until she found it and could clutch it. “That’s a spinning wheel.”

  “Well, yes, I believe it is,” he said, his voice sounding very faint thanks to the rushing in her ears.

  “I’m not to touch it.”

  “Why not?”

  She dragged her attention away from the wheel and looked up at him. “Because I’ll die.”

  “Of course ye won’t, dearie,” said the old woman. “There’s no magic to it. Just a wheel and some wool I carded myself last year. Very lovely stuff it is.”

  Aisling looked at their host. She was unremarkable, that old, wrinkled granny dressed in homespun. Aisling supposed that at another time she might have been happy to sit with her in front of her hearth and talk to her about the things she had woven over the course of her life, things Aisling could only hope had been some other color besides dingy grey.

  But at the moment, all she could do was look at the woman in horror and wish she’d put her spinning wheel in a different room.

  Then again, from the look of things, the house didn’t have a different room.

  Aisling felt Rùnach put his hand over hers, but it wasn’t enough to anchor her in the world. Her hand slipped from underneath his as if it had been water slipping down the face of the slick stone in Weger’s upper courtyard. She found herself standing in front of the wheel without knowing quite how she’d gotten there. She stopped because she could go no further.

  The wheel was old and weathered and so beautiful she couldn’t look away from it. She brushed her hand over the flywheel, not touching it.

  It spun just the same.

  She heard gasps behind her, but she could do nothing about that. She reached out and touched the wheel as it revolved—

  And her world exploded.

  She was no longer standing in a humble cottage, touching the worn wooden wheel of a simple village spinner. She was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring out over the ocean. In front of her the sky had exploded into a thousand colors, a thousand scenes of battle, of reunion, of delight and beauty. She stood there struggling to draw in a normal breath, struggling to understand what she was looking at, wh
ere she was, how she was going to find her way back into herself—

  And then her world went black.

  Eleven

  Rùnach managed to catch Aisling as she fell only because he’d been halfway to her before she’d started to sway. He lifted her up into his arms. She was utterly senseless, which surprised him. She’d also just been babbling in that tongue he had never heard before, that same tongue she’d been murmuring in Weger’s tower chamber. A handful of the words had been the same, which he supposed might be useful at another time in determining just what language it was. He wondered if perhaps she had been calling for help.

  She had cause.

  “Get out,” said a voice from behind him. “And take your witch with you.”

  He turned around and found himself facing an old woman brandishing a very large boning knife.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked in surprise.

  The woman gestured with her knife. “Her, befouling my wheel with her magic. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  He didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to argue with that very well-tended blade. He eased around his erstwhile hostess, exited as expediently as possible, then continued on out into the rain. The door slammed shut behind him and the bolt was thrown home.

  Rùnach stood ten paces from the house with Aisling in his arms and wondered several things, beginning and ending with just who the hell she was.

  He considered his options and decided that he had only one and that was to find shelter as quickly as possible and see if Aisling was merely senseless or if she was dead. She was absolutely motionless, but the rain so driving and the wind so fierce, he wasn’t sure he would be able to hear her breathing if he tried. He started to walk forward, then almost dropped Aisling in his surprise.

  His horse stood there in front of him, watching him silently.

  Rùnach rolled his eyes. That was all he needed, to have that granny behind him start throwing boiling oil at him for being a sorcerer. Horses appearing from nowhere would do nothing to enhance his already tarnished reputation.

  Rùnach pursed his lips. “How did you escape—nay, never mind. I don’t want to know. I don’t suppose you saw an inn—nay, never mind that, either.” He hadn’t intended to make any uninvited visits to other locales on Melksham, but then again, he hadn’t given much thought to where he would go after he earned Weger’s mark—which he hadn’t done even though the spot over his brow burned like hellfire. He looked at Iteach. “Well, any ideas, you irascible pony?”