Dreamspinner

  Aisling looked up to see the door open. Rùnach peeked inside.

  “It is safe?” he asked.

  Mistress Ceana laughed merrily. “Of course it is, my lad. Have you come to fetch your lady for supper?”

  “If she can be pried away from her art,” he said politely. “Just for an hour or two, if possible. We’ve had an invitation I think we should accept.”

  Aisling found that her cheeks were unusually hot. She put her hands to them, which seemed particularly foolish, but what else could she do? Rùnach was fetching her as if she’d been some sort of grand lady. It was utterly ridiculous, but he seemed to think nothing of it, so she supposed she shouldn’t either. She rose, then looked down at Mistress Ceana.

  “Thank you,” she said, “though thanks seem particularly inadequate for what you’ve taught me.”

  Mistress Ceana waved away her words gently. “It was my everlasting pleasure, my child. Come again tomorrow, if you have the chance, and we’ll begin your lessons in dyeing. Anything else you need to do with a wheel, you can learn on your own.”

  Aisling thanked her profusely, though, again, it seemed not enough. She allowed Rùnach to wrap her up in her cloak and fasten the catch under her chin. When he offered her his hand, she put hers into his without thinking. She smiled once more at Mistress Ceana, then walked with Rùnach out into the passageway. The door closed softly behind them.

  She looked up at him. “She has been very kind.”

  “You’re easy to be kind to.”

  She found that she couldn’t move, because he was wrong. She took a deep breath. “I have terrible thoughts about my parents,” she admitted, “and the Guildmistress.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I didn’t say you were perfect.”

  She looked up at him in surprise, then realized he was laughing a little at her. She pursed her lips but continued on with him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Miach managed to forage for supper, or so I understand. I thought we might pass a pleasant hour or two with him and my sister. Or, rather, with my sister.”

  She smiled. “You’re terrible to him.”

  “He expects it,” Rùnach said dryly. “We might even convince him to tell us a few tales. He’s not completely without merit as an entertainer.”

  “Does he know many tales?”

  “Scores, but then again, he’s done nothing useful with his life but memorize tales, so that’s understandable.”

  She followed him along passageways, up and down stairs, and finally up a dizzying set of circular steps to a tower chamber. She hesitated on the landing and put her hand on his arm to stop him before he knocked.

  “What does he do here?” she asked quietly. “It must be something important, to have these privileges. Wouldn’t you say?”

  He put his hand on the doorframe and looked at her seriously. “I’m not sure you want to know right now.”

  “Is he dangerous?” she managed.

  “Very,” he said honestly, “but noble.”

  “He bears Weger’s mark as well, doesn’t he?”

  Rùnach nodded.

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t think I want to know anything else about anyone,” she managed. “I definitely don’t want to see anything else.”

  “Then come sit next to me, keep your eyes on your supper, then you may use my shoulder as a fine resting place for your head whilst you close your eyes and enjoy all manner of tales to delight and astonish.” He smiled gravely. “Will that suit?”

  She almost looked down, but she decided that she was finished with that sort of business. She lifted her chin, though it cost her a great deal.

  “I have the feeling,” she said unwillingly, “that this is the calm before the storm.”

  He lifted one eyebrow briefly. “I would argue with you, but I cannot. I’ve been thinking the same thing.” He looked at her in silence for a moment or two, then opened his arm, the one that wasn’t resting against the doorframe.

  She walked into that embrace as if she’d been doing it the whole of her life.

  “I am becoming far too accustomed to this,” she said lightly.

  He wrapped both arms around her and rested his cheek against her hair. She didn’t know which one it was, so she reached up without looking and felt the other cheek. It was unscarred.

  “The scars are terrible,” he said very quietly.

  “I don’t see them.”

  He laughed a little, though it sounded quite a bit like a groan. He pulled back and looked down at her. “I think we should knock before I do something.”

  “What?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not going to enlighten you,” he said dryly. He kept his arm around her shoulders and knocked lightly. “Let’s see if Miach is in good form tonight. If not, we’ll throw things at him.”

  She didn’t particularly think they should, but she wasn’t going to argue. The door was opened and they were welcomed inside.

  The chamber was small, but she supposed that said nothing about it for it seemed very luxurious to her. She stood just inside the door and tried not to gape.

  There was a hearth set into the wall to her right, but the rest of the chamber was nothing but windows. The sun had set, but twilight left enough light to see by. She walked over to a window and looked down over the castle, then up and out to the sea. She supposed if she had tried hard enough, she might have been able to smell it as well.

  She watched the faint lights below her for a moment or two, then turned and looked at the chamber and its occupants. Miach and Morgan were sitting together on a sofa on one side of a low table placed there in front of the fire. There was enough food there to feed a dozen people. There was a spot left for her on the opposite couch, or so she dared assume since Rùnach was still standing, waiting for her to come and sit. She started to, then froze. She looked up, then frowned.

  There, pressed against the ceiling far above her head was…a spell. She stood in the middle of the chamber and turned around slowly. The spell was a diaphanous thing, scarce visible, that fell from the ceiling to the floor. It wasn’t under her feet, for there was another sort of spell there, something she couldn’t quite name, though it seemed to be woven into the very floorboards. It was very old, indeed.

  She looked at Rùnach. “There are spells here.”

  “For protection, no doubt,” Rùnach said promptly.

  Aisling walked over to the wall, smoothed her hand over the magic woven there, then smiled in spite of herself. It was beautiful and it was indeed for protection. She had no idea who had put it there, but she wasn’t going to complain. She walked back over to Rùnach, smiled at him, then sat down where she was invited to. Rùnach poured her a glass of wine and started to hand it to her.

  “What did you see?” he asked.

  “A spell of Fadaire.”

  She caught the glass before he dropped it.

  “It isn’t evil,” she added, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “Nay,” he managed, “nay, nothing worries me.”

  She looked at Miach and Morgan, but they were busily filling their plates, so she thought perhaps she should do the same. She served Rùnach, who seemed rather rattled, then helped herself.

  The meal was just as lovely as everything she’d eaten in the palace. She was terribly tempted to ask Miach how he’d managed it, but she just couldn’t bring herself to. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Rùnach she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a storm. She didn’t want to think that her days wouldn’t carry on as beautifully as they had been for the previous two days, but she knew better.

  She didn’t want to count, but had to. She had five days left, five days left to find a man to agree to her bargain. She knew she should have been looking since she’d arrived, but learning to spin had been…well, there had been only one other time over the course of her life in which she had felt such absolute peace.

  And that had been half an hour earlier, in Rùnach’s
arms.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She jumped a little when she realized he had leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Nothing useful.”

  He sat up and patted her shoulder. “One more night, Aisling, one more night of peace before we turn to more difficult things. Take your ease and let us see if Miach can demonstrate his raconteuring skills to our satisfaction.”

  Miach rubbed his hands together, then flexed his fingers. “What will you have tonight. The Two Swords?”

  Morgan groaned. “Not that one, not again. I don’t care how much I love you, there is simply too much romance in that tale for my tastes. Choose something else.”

  “And preferably without a lad from Neroche in the lead role,” Rùnach said with a snort. “There is only so much of that a man of taste and accomplishment such as myself can be prevailed upon to endure.”

  Aisling laughed a little before she could help herself. She jumped a little when the other three looked at her in surprise. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to give offense.”

  Miach only smiled. “I don’t think we’ve heard you laugh before. If this is what it takes to draw it from you, I’m happy to paint Nerochian lads in their most unflattering lights all evening.”

  “That won’t be hard,” Rùnach said with a snort. “Miach, choose something interesting.”

  “Something with bloodshed,” Morgan said firmly.

  Aisling found that Miach was looking at her expectantly.

  “Well?” he asked. “Have you an opinion?”

  She might have felt foolish at another time saying what was on the tip of her tongue, but she knew that Morgan at least wouldn’t think her so. She looked at Miach seriously.

  “Something about elves.”

  “Excellent choice,” Miach said, sounding pleased. “We’ll skip the lesser elves of Ainneamh and strike out for the most exclusive lot of them all, the inhabitants of Tòrr Dòrainn.”

  Aisling glanced at Morgan, but she didn’t seem to be rolling her eyes or making noises of disbelief, so Aisling thought she might manage the same.

  “Whilst there are many elves who have had many adventures,” Miach continued, “I believe we will begin with a young, strapping lad named Sìle. Of course he is not as young now, but in his youth he was a tremendous adventurer and more ready with a sword than you might suspect. Not to Weger’s standards, of course, but Gobhann did not exist when young Sìle was honing his skill in the lists, so we’ll just have to allow that he made do with what he had.”

  “Adventures?” Rùnach asked, sounding as if he might be choking.

  “You might be surprised, though how you could have missed them being such a lover of tales yourself, I don’t know,” Miach said. “Settle in, my friends, and prepare to be astonished.”

  Aisling realized at one point during Sìle’s adventures that her eyes were growing slightly heavy. She shifted, felt Rùnach take her hand and pull her closer, then made use of his proffered shoulder. She was convinced she would fall immediately asleep.

  But to her surprise, and though she closed her eyes, she made it through all of Miach’s stories. She supposed part of it was because Miach was, as promised, an excellent teller of tales. She felt as if she were standing next to Sìle as he plighted his troth with his beloved Brèagha after satisfying her father with deeds worthy of song. She delved beneath the earth and rock with the dwarves of Durial, wandered the halls of the schools of wizardry, sat at the table and watched a king of Meith risk everything in a single game of chance for the thing he wanted most.

  The other thing that kept her awake, she supposed, was Rùnach idly stroking the back of her hand. And where nothing else had induced her to open her eyes, that did.

  She looked down at her hand in his, then turned her hand over so his was visible. She supposed she should have thought better of it, or considered the consequences of her actions, but perhaps she had been too long out from under the Guildmistress’s iron rule. She looked at his hand, then reached out and traced the scars there.

  She supposed there was no point in trying to quantify them, for they were too innumerable for that. It was as if his hands had been caught under a hopelessly unforgiving weight and he’d had to pull them free by sheer determination alone. She lifted her head and looked at him, realizing only then that he was watching her. She smiled gravely.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head but said nothing.

  “It must have been painful.”

  “It was.”

  “Hmmm,” was all she could find to say. She smiled as best she could, then put her head back on his shoulder. She forced herself to pick up the thread of Miach’s current tale, but she couldn’t concentrate on it.

  She wondered what had happened to Rùnach’s hands.

  It was almost midnight when she found herself swathed in her usual, ridiculously luxurious dressing gown, and sitting in front of the fire in the chamber she’d been given. Rùnach had asked her that first day if she preferred to have a chamber of her own, but she’d found the thought rather unsettling. It was a little surprising how quickly she’d become accustomed to having him within sight, as he was at present, sitting across from her and working on fletching an arrow. She knew he was making more for her, which she found somehow quite overwhelming.

  “Rùnach?”

  He looked up and smiled. “Aye?”

  “Thank you,” she said, gesturing inelegantly at what he was doing. “That is very kind.”

  He smiled ruefully. “My brother would be appalled by my efforts, being as he is the far superior fletcher, but I’ll do what I can. I suppose you can blame me if your arrows go astray.”

  She smiled, because he made it easy to smile, then considered the truth that had been nagging at her for most of the evening.

  “Rùnach?”

  He looked up again from his work. “Aye?”

  “Miach didn’t tell us any tales about black mages.”

  “He didn’t,” Rùnach agreed.

  “Do you know any?”

  “The better question would be, do I want to tell you any?”

  She smiled. “Aye, that would be a better question.”

  He continued to work for some time in silence. He finally looked up, considered her, then sighed. “You’re not going to let me out of this, are you?”

  “I’m curious.”

  He smiled, as if the word had a particular meaning for him beyond the norm. He looked at the arrow in his hands, then set it and his knife aside. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, then looked at her.

  “Which black mage did you want to know about?”

  “Are there many?” she asked in surprise, then she scowled at his pained smile. “You realize, of course, that ’tis only the past pair of days that I’ve begun to believe they might exist. I haven’t had time to make a list of their names.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s a list I would care to make for you.”

  “The worst offenders, then.”

  “In truth, Aisling?” he asked, wincing. “There are so many other things we could discuss that would be a far better use of this lovely fire and our full stomachs.”

  She looked at him steadily. “I think I need to know.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face briefly, then sighed and looked at her. “Very well. There is Lothar of Wychweald, whom you already know,” he said wearily. “Droch of Saothair—”

  “His father was Dorchadas, wasn’t he?” she asked.

  Rùnach looked slightly startled. “Aye, he was. How did you know?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I’ve heard his name mentioned somewhere. But that isn’t important.” She waved him on. “I’m sure there are more.”

  “Wehr of Wrekin,” Rùnach said, sounding as if he would rather have been talking about anything else. “Gair of Ceangail, of course.”

  She shivered. “I have heard of him.”

  “Have you?” he as
ked in surprise. “Where?”

  She caught herself just in time before she revealed that Mistress Muinear had on an occasion or two been prevailed upon to terrify and unnerve a few select inmates with darker tales of myth and legend. Gair had been a particular favorite, though she had to admit she hadn’t thought about him in years.

  “I wasn’t able to read many books about legends and myths and that sort of thing, but there was one that, ah, spoke of…” She looked at Rùnach and simply shut her mouth. She couldn’t lie with any enthusiasm, so perhaps there was no point in lying at all.

  He smiled. “Keep your secrets, if you like. I’m sure I’ll pry them from you eventually.”

  And she was just as certain he wouldn’t, but perhaps they would leave that for later.

  “About whom shall you hear about from my very meager supply of lore?”

  “Gair.”

  He sighed, as if he hadn’t expected anything else. She knew Gair’s tale, of course, and had always thought it the unabashed work of fiction it had to be, but after seeing what she’d seen come out of Lothar of Wychweald’s mouth in the valley just outside the keep, she had begun to seriously doubt her thoughts.

  Rùnach recounted the bare minimum of details, as if he were reading from a text he didn’t particularly care to commit to memory. She heard many of the same things she’d heard before, that Gair had lived a thousand years before he’d wed himself the daughter of the king of the elves, had several children with her, then—

  She stopped Rùnach. “Wait, that isn’t how I heard it told. I was told that he wanted to take over the world and found a source to do so in a glade.”

  Rùnach looked at her seriously. “And what else did you hear?”

  “That it was a well of power,” she said, “which is, of course, ridiculous, but there you have it. Power does not exist in wells made for water, nor does it run through streams, or underground, or, well, anywhere.” She paused. “Does it?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a hesitant shrug. “Who is to say?”

  She certainly wasn’t the one to ask. She waved him on. “What happened then?”

  “As the tale goes,” he said slowly, “he opened a well of evil, found it too much for him to control, then lost his own life along with all his family members in an instant.”