“Then why does your sister have magic and you don’t?”
“My father took mine,” he said, as easily as if he spoke of losing a pair of socks. “It was no great loss, I assure you.”
She imagined it was, though given that just speaking of magic felt strange, she thought she might be better off not to comment. “Is that what that man was talking about?” she said, gesturing back the way they had come. “Taking magic?”
“’Tis what black mages do.”
She looked at him searchingly. “Did he try to do it to you? There in that glade?”
“Hmmm,” he said. “Passing unpleasant, that ransacking.”
“Oh, Rùnach,” she said quietly. She put her arms around him.
She felt his arms go around her and his breath catch.
“Damn you, woman,” he said with a miserable laugh, “you’re going to be the first person in a score of years to reduce me to tears.”
She held him tightly. “I never weep either.”
“Your eyes were red the other night.”
She pulled back and looked at him with a frown. “They were not.”
He smiled, took her face in his hands, then kissed the end of her nose. He released her, then staggered to his feet, as if he thought she might clip him again under the chin if he didn’t. He swayed once, steadied himself, then held down his hands for her.
“Let’s be off, wench, before we both wind up weeping. You’re maudlin enough, I daresay, for the both of us.”
She scowled at him. “You cad.”
He laughed as he pulled her up to her feet and into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered against her ear. “For holding me together.”
All she could do was return the embrace. It was impossible to tell him how often she had been comforted by his doing the same for her.
He released her, then very deliberately reached up and tucked her hair behind both ears. He studied her ears closely, then smiled into her eyes.
“I think I might see a smidgeon of pointy-ness there.”
She pursed her lips. “Fetch your sword, lad, before you think too hard about it and hurt yourself.”
He smiled in that particular way that showed off his dimple in its best light, fetched his sword, then looked at her. His smile faded. “We must decide on a destination, Aisling. And what to do.”
“I don’t know what to do now,” she said slowly.
“Stop poaching my horse would be my first suggestion,” he said, “for it makes it very difficult for me to follow you. As for where we go now, I think you might have a suggestion.”
“The library at Diarmailt?”
He nodded. “I assumed that was where you were headed.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “I have to know the truth. About—” She looked at him helplessly. “Well, about…you know.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you look.”
“I’m afraid the answers might get us both killed.”
“Well, what’s the use of a miserable fortnight spent in Gobhann if we can’t trot out our fierce fighting skills to fend off feisty librarians now and again?” He cocked an ear toward the hound in the trees, then looked at her. “What shape shall Iteach take? He wants to know your preference.”
She blinked. “Is he asking me?”
“He is asking you.”
She hadn’t but begun to imagine how he might look as…as a glittering black dragon, fierce and terrifying.
He was spectacular.
He scarce fit into the glade, which necessitated their backing up into the trees to give him room to properly spread out his wings. Aisling felt her mouth go dry. She looked up at Rùnach.
“Ah—”
He laughed. “Your choice, not mine.”
“He’ll terrify everyone we meet.”
“Which will suit him perfectly,” Rùnach said, “though Miach’s spell of Un-noticing will unfortunately rob our good steed of as many howls of terror as he might otherwise enjoy.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s be off. I think you may be holding me for a bit of this trip. I’m still feeling a little faint.”
She looked at him quickly, then felt her mouth fall open. “You liar.”
He smiled, a small, mischievous smile that she was quite certain had sent more than one woman to her swooning couch.
“Stop that,” she added.
“No,” he said cheerfully.
She turned away. She started toward Iteach, then stopped in mid-step. She stood next to that terrifying creature from myth and looked up at another creature she had thought could be found only in myth. She took an unsteady breath.
“You don’t believe in curses?”
He shook his head slowly.
“I was told I would die if I didn’t find a swordsman to save my country within three se’nnights.”
“And yet you breathe.”
“I thought perhaps I might have misheard it,” she said, watching his face closely, “but I don’t think so. It could have been three fortnights, though.”
“Which is finished when?”
“In four days.”
“What else were you told?”
“That if I crossed the border, I would die.”
“And yet you live.” He reached out and smoothed the hair back from her face. “And you spin. A capital offense that one, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
He turned her to him and put his hands on her shoulders. “You, love, have braved Weger’s gates, mythical steeds from legend, and two black mages with less than pleasant intentions, and you have survived them all. If you want my opinion, I think there is more to you than you suspect. And I don’t think your destiny calls for you to be felled by a curse. But if you want proof, let’s find answers.”
“In Diarmailt?”
“In Diarmailt.”
She paused. “And it would serve you as well?”
He shrugged. “As much as it wounds my pride, I won’t be unhappy to lose myself in a large city for a bit and enjoy the safety of anonymity. If that losing allows us to search for an answer or two, so much the better.”
“Because of that mage back there?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “He isn’t my worry. I have been given fair warning by someone else, and it behooves me to find out why.”
“Rùnach,” she said, finding she was rather more appalled than perhaps she should have been. “What are you talking about?”
“Where were you born, Aisling?”
She pursed her lips. “I can’t say.”
“Neither can I,” he said cheerfully. “I suppose we’ll both have to rely on the merits of King Simeon’s library.”
She gaped at him. He only winked and held out his hand.
“Let’s go.”
She supposed there was no point in putting off the inevitable any longer, either the ride or what awaited her at the end of the journey.
Rùnach had apparently been serious about her holding on to him, for she soon found herself sitting behind him. She supposed that was something of a boon, partly because she didn’t have to watch as Iteach leapt up into the air through that impossibly small space between the trees and climbed mercilessly toward the stars, and partly because Rùnach blocked the wind quite handily.
And she had to admit there was something almost peaceful about putting her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his shoulder. She was able, even in the strong light of late afternoon, to reach out her hand and trail her fingers through not only the spell they were covered with but the magic Iteach created as he flew.
It was nothing she’d ever expected.
She closed her eyes, finally, because she couldn’t see any longer for her tears. She had started her journey with loss, loss of what was known, loss of Mistress Muinear, loss of any hope for a life free of the Guild. And then, beyond all reason, she had found her life filled by other things, things more beautiful and magical than she would ever have dreamed. Letting go of that
life—
Well, she wasn’t about to have a curse take from her what she’d so recently found. For the first time in all her twenty-seven years, she looked forward to the future. No matter the peril, or the uncertainty, or the possibility for meeting other things from myth she hadn’t believed could exist, she was not going to surrender to a curse.
She had the feeling that she was going to find what she needed, and that had everything to do with the man in front of her who had done everything in his power to keep her safe.
Rùnach squeezed her hands. “There are always answers, Aisling,” he said over his shoulder. “Always.”
She had the feeling he might be right.
She only hoped she could bear the answers once she learned them.
Turn the page for a preview of Lynn Kurland’s
first Novel of the Nine Kingdoms
Star of the Morning
Now available from Berkley Sensation!
One
Morgan of Melksham walked along the road, cursing both autumn’s chill and her journey that caused her to be traipsing out in that chill instead of hunkering down next to a warm fire. This was not what she had planned. Her life had been proceeding quite nicely until she’d received the missive in the middle of a particularly muddy campaign in which she’d been trying to pry one of Melksham’s nobles from a keep that did not belong to him. The message from Lord Nicholas had been brief and pointed.
Come soon; time is short.
Morgan didn’t want to speculate on what that might mean, but she couldn’t help herself. Was the man suffering from life-threatening wounds? Was his home under siege from nobles he had exacted donations from once too often? Had he had a bountiful harvest and needed an extra pair of hands to bring that harvest to the cellar?
Was he dying?
She quickened her pace, forcing her thoughts away. She would know soon enough and then that uncomfortable, unwholesome pounding in her chest would cease and she actually might be able to eat again.
She reached the outer walls of the orphanage just as the sun was setting. Melksham Orphan’s Home at Lismòr had begun many years ago as a home for lads, but at some point it had also become a place of study that had brought together a collection of the finest scholars from all over the Nine Kingdoms. Nicholas, the lord of Lismòr, was the orphanage’s undisputed champion and the university’s chief procurer of funds.
Over the years, it had become different things to those who had experience with it. Many called it “the orphanage.” Others referred to it as “the university.” Nicholas simply called it “home.”
Morgan agreed with the latter, though she never would have admitted it.
The outer walls of Lismòr soon rose up before her, forbidding and unfriendly. It made her wonder, not for the first time, why a university merited anything more than a sturdy gate. It was rumored that Lismòr hid many things, including chests of marvelous treasure. Morgan supposed those rumors could have been referring to the offerings that appeared each night on Lord Nicholas’s supper table, but she couldn’t have said for certain.
There were rumors, though, of another sort that swirled around Lord Nicholas. It was said that he never aged, that he conversed with mysterious souls who slipped inside the gates after dark and left well before dawn, and that he even possessed magic.
Morgan snorted. She had never seen any display of otherworldliness at the orphanage, and she’d lived there for many years. No doubt Nicholas’s garden bloomed in the depth of winter because he was a damned fine gardener, not for any more magical reason. He was a man of great intelligence, quick wit, and an ability to convince others to fund his ventures. He possessed no magic beyond that.
Surely.
And surely his missive had nothing to do with his health.
She knocked on the heavy gate, then waited impatiently as a single square of metal was slowly pulled back and a weathered face appeared, looking out suspiciously.
“Hmmm,” he said doubtfully.
Morgan pursed her lips. “Aye, hmmm.”
The porthole was slammed shut and the gate opened without haste. Morgan tapped her foot impatiently until the moment she could slip inside. She shut the gate herself, then looked at the gatekeeper.
“Is he dying?”
“Morgan,” the gatekeeper said pleasantly. “You’ve been away long.”
“But I have returned, in haste, and my hope is that it is not to attend a wake. Master James, is he dying?”
“Who?”
“Lord Nicholas!”
Master James scratched his head. “Not that I know of. I think he’s holding court with the lads in his solar. Best to seek him out there, aye?”
Morgan could hardly believe her ears. Nicholas was well?
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved that he was apparently hale and hearty or furious that he’d tricked her into coming by means of such a cryptic, panic-inducing message. One thing was certain: they would have words about the wording of future missives.
What she wanted to do was sit down and catch the breath she realized she’d been holding for almost a se’nnight. Instead, she nodded to the gatekeeper and walked weakly away. She would sit when she reached Nicholas’s solar. And then once she recovered, she just might put him to the sword for her trouble.
She made her way across a rather large expanse of flat ground that the students and lads used to play games on, then continued on toward the inner walls that enclosed the heart of the university. Now, these were walls that offered protection against a foe. Morgan walked through the gate, casting a surreptitious look up at the heavy spikes of the portcullis gleaming dimly above her as she did so. Perhaps Nicholas was more concerned about the safety of his scholarly texts than he appeared.
Or perhaps he was concerned about the safety of his lads. She suspected she understood why. He had only mentioned once, in passing, that he’d had sons of his own at one time who had been slain. She supposed that since he hadn’t been able to protect them, he felt compelled to protect others who could not see to themselves. Whatever the true reason, there were many, many souls that had benefited from his altruism. She certainly counted herself as one of them.
She threaded her way through many buildings and along paths until she reached the heart of Lismòr. It was an enormous building, with chambers and apartments surrounding an inner courtyard. Nicholas’s chambers took up one half side of the building, and his solar happily resided in one of the corners. Morgan had spent many a pleasant hour there, conversing with an exceptional man who had made an exception in her case, allowing her to remain at the orphanage in spite of her being a girl.
Which was no doubt why she found herself standing not fifty paces away from his chambers, instead of at a siege that had been destined, thanks to much effort on her part, to yield quite a tidy sum. Her comrades had thought her mad for walking away; she had agreed, yet still she had packed her gear and left.
All because of a message from a man who had been like a father to her.
Morgan pursed her lips and continued on toward Nicholas’s private solar. She would contemplate her descent into madness later, perhaps when she was sitting before a hot fire with a mug of drinkable ale in her hand and Nicholas before her to answer a handful of very pointed questions.
She stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, turned the handle, and slipped inside. The chamber was an inviting one, luxuriously appointed yet not intimidating. A cheery fire burned in the hearth, fine tapestries lined the walls, and thick rugs were scattered over the floor to spare the lord’s feet the chill of cold stone. Candles in abundance drove the shadows back into their corners and sweet music filled the air.
Until she closed the door behind her, that is. The music faltered. The young man who plied his lute averted his eyes when she looked at him.
“Continue, Peter,” said a deep voice, roughened by the passage of many years. “Now, lads, I seem to remember one of you asking for a tale.”
The dozen or so lads strewn abo
ut the floor like so many shapeless garments were successful in varying degrees at tearing their gazes from her. Morgan was acutely aware of the filth of her clothing and the poor condition of her cloak. She looked about her for a place to sit. She settled for a corner and sank down onto the stool that had been handily placed there for just such a need as hers. She pulled the edges of her cloak closer around her and did her best to become part of the shadows.
Then she glared at the man holding court, for Lord Nicholas looked fit and strong and certainly in no need of anything from her.
He only winked at her and turned his attention back to his lads. “What will it be tonight?” he asked. “Romance? Adventure? Perilous escapades that should result in disaster but do not?”
“Peril,” Morgan said before she could stop herself. “Imminent death. Something that requires an immediate and drastic rescue. Something that might include missives sent and travels made when apparently there was no need.”
The lads again turned to look at her briefly, many of them slack-jawed, the rest looking quite confused.
“Oh, nothing so frightening,” Nicholas said smoothly. “Lads? Any suggestions?”
“The Tale of the Two Swords,” a young lad piped up.
Half the lads groaned. Morgan groaned right along with them. Too much romance in that one. Unfortunately, it was one of Nicholas’s favorites; he would never do the decent thing and refuse to retell it.
“The Two Swords,” Nicholas agreed readily. “So it will be.”
Morgan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall, preparing to completely ignore all she would hear. Obviously, she would have no answers out of the man before he was ready, and if he held true to form, his nightly tale-telling would last for at least an hour. It was his ritual, repeated as consistently as the sun rising and setting each day. It gave the lads a sense of security, or so he said.