Dreamer's Daughter (11 page)

Aisling nodded and forced herself to continue on. Rùnach's hand was warm, which was helpful, and she didn't feel even so much as a twitch of unease in his fingers, which was comforting. Or at least it was until she realized she could no longer claim that she didn't recognize her surroundings.

She had to force herself to walk with Rùnach up a path to a house. Biggest in the area, of course, and the finest, though Aisling couldn't see that exactly. To her mind, it was a poorly constructed thing set in the midst of an untended garden through which ran an uninspired path of cracked grey stone.

“Saplings and seeds,” Rùnach murmured under his breath. “I promise.”

She would have smiled at him, but she was too sick to. She nodded, barely, then spent the rest of the trip to the front door fighting to keep herself from turning and vomiting into the weeds.

Rùnach reached out to knock on the door. Before he could manage it, the door was wrenched open and a woman stood there, wearing the sort of welcoming smile a body puts on when preparing to greet someone very rich indeed. Obviously Rùnach's clothing had done its job.

The woman—Aisling couldn't bring herself to call her
mother
—only glanced at Rùnach before her gaze fixed upon Aisling herself. And then Dallag of Malcte took a step back as if she'd been slapped very hard, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fainted.

Aisling didn't move to catch her. Surprisingly enough, neither did Rùnach. She looked at him but he only shrugged.

“Happened too quickly,” he said, then turned back to his bland contemplation of the woman lying unconscious there in the entryway of a house that was just as shabby as the rest of the town.

A little girl appeared in the vestibule, gaped at her mother, turned that openmouthed look on them before she shrieked for her father. Aisling didn't recognize the child, but that perhaps wasn't surprising given how long she'd been away from the family seat. She could only assume by the way the girl was dressed that she was one of the brood.

A man appeared in short order, glanced at the woman lying there at his feet, then looked out the doorway to investigate the cause of the mishap. Aisling watched him look at them both, freeze, then close his eyes briefly. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“I wondered when you'd come.”

“Did you?” Aisling returned. “I wonder at that, given that you knew where you'd imprisoned me.”

She listened to the words come out of her mouth and was slightly surprised at their venom. Perhaps too much time spent in the unrelenting chill of Gobhann's exposed courtyards had sharpened her tongue past where she would have suspected.

Riochdair's mouth had fallen open slightly, but he seemed to regain his composure after a moment or two. He held the door open fully, then welcomed them inside.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Come take your ease.”

“That'll be the day,” Aisling muttered, perhaps not as under her breath as she should have. She looked up quickly at Rùnach but he only lifted his eyebrows briefly, then waited for her to go ahead of him. She was rather glad, all things considered, to know he was standing behind her in all his terrible beauty. Soilléir might have helped him bury his magic, but that had done little to take the edge off what he obviously was. There was a part of her that almost wished he'd still been wearing his scars. Her former parents, who were apparently neither surprised nor pleased to see her depending on which one was being asked, might have been more intimidated by those than his non-pointy ears.

She followed her—well, she certainly couldn't call him her father, because she simply couldn't believe she could be related to that person. She followed their host into what proved to be a salon of some sort. She was invited to sit upon a sofa, which she did. Rùnach joined her there, froze, then shifted a bit.

“I'll see to my wife, then return,” Riochdair said.

Aisling waited until he was gone before she leaned closer to Rùnach. “Are you unwell?”

“There is a spring poking me quite vigorously in the arse,” he whispered. He shot her a quick smile. “Put bluntly, that is.”

She sympathized with him, for she wasn't entirely sure she wasn't enjoying the same sort of treatment from the furniture. She shifted a little, perhaps a little more relieved than she should have been that she was dressed well, albeit in lads' clothing. At least she had washed her face that morning. Best that they see her in something besides rags.

She waited with Rùnach as various souls she could only assume were children belonging to the family came into the salon to gape at them. Or, rather, at Rùnach. She couldn't blame them, for she had a hard time not gaping at him as well. She supposed the only time she would look at him and not wince would be when her eyes were too dim to see anything. He was handsome enough on his own, true, but that coupled with the faint echo of elven glamour that came not only from the magic shimmering in his veins but the runes on his hands and brow made him almost difficult to look at.

Loud voices were suddenly raised in the kitchen, which lent an air of distinction to the place. She was slightly unnerved to find she knew where that kitchen lay, but she supposed that wasn't the first thing she would be surprised by in Bruadair.

She looked at the children, young and not so young, who had gathered to observe them. She studied the oldest first only because she wondered if she might recognize her. She didn't, though she supposed that shouldn't have surprised her. She had been almost eight when she'd been sent to the Guild. If that child had existed at the time, she had been a wee thing.

She tried not to think about how that girl's life had been spent in contrast to hers.

There were five children there, four girls ranging in age from perhaps ten and four to a score and a bit, then a lad of about ten summers who looked thoroughly spoilt.

It occurred to her that perhaps she should be grateful she hadn't grown up with them.

The young lad looked at Rùnach and stuck out his chin. “You have a sword.”

Rùnach nodded. “So I do.”

“I bet you haven't a clue how to use it.”

The eldest girl hissed at him to be silent, but the lad was apparently beyond any mending of his manners. If that little lad only knew whom he was attempting to insult.

“I suppose that's up for debate,” Rùnach said. He considered the child standing in front of him. “I would guess by your stance that you have trained.”

“Obviously,” the lad said scornfully, “but not with a heavy, ugly blade like that. I use a rapier.”

“A very elegant weapon,” Rùnach conceded. “You're fortunate that your father has seen to your education so thoughtfully.”

The boy seemed not to know how to take that. He gestured clumsily at Rùnach's sword. “Where'd you get that?”

“It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“I'll tell you if you can best me in the garden later.” He stood up. “Here are your parents.”

Aisling would have crawled to her feet, but Rùnach shot her a look that told her two things: she should most definitely keep her seat on her uncomfortable sofa spring, and that he would handle her, ah,
parents
if they got out of hand. She supposed he also wanted to make a point that the people walking into the salon were not worthy of her notice.

She didn't lean back—no sense in ruining her spine as well as her backside—but she did relax just the slightest bit. Dallag swept into the salon as if she were entertaining important guests; Riochdair followed more slowly, looking as if he would rather have been anywhere else.

Dallag sat, then apparently had a proper look at Rùnach. Her mouth fell open and she came close to pitching forward out of her chair again. Riochdair put his hand out but she waved him away impatiently.

“I am well,” she snapped at him before she turned a much more polite look on Rùnach. “Welcome to our home, good sir.”

Rùnach sat, almost without wincing. “Very kind of you to offer us hospitality.”

Dallag looked from him to Aisling and back, obviously confused. “Of course,” she said. “I'm curious about who you are and where you met our, ah, beloved Aisling.”

Aisling suppressed the urge to snort. Beloved, indeed.

“The tale is long and very interesting,” Rùnach said smoothly. “I will naturally be happy to share it with you in detail. And as you might imagine, we have questions for you as well.”

Aisling wasn't sure whom she found more fascinating, Dallag or Riochdair. Dallag looked as if she were torn between a desire to murder and the need to fawn, while Riochdair simply looked as if he wanted to disappear. Aisling supposed if she were to be caught alone with either of them, she would have chosen Riochdair. With Dallag, she had no trouble imagining just how things would end for her.

She studied the man who was possibly her father. He looked as if he had been carrying a heavy load for years and it had suddenly become too much for him. Aisling would have felt some small bit of sympathy for him, but she'd spent the whole of her life she could remember feeling impossibly tired. That he should finally have a taste of that himself was likely nothing more than he deserved.

The children seemed to find him more accessible than their mother for they gravitated to him. The girls continued to look at Rùnach as if they'd never seen a man before and the little lad was still eyeing Rùnach's sword with undisguised envy. That dwarvish sword had somehow taken on a sheen that she imagined it was producing itself. Rùnach was, of course, his usual self, mesmerizing and very hard to look away from. She knew she shouldn't have cared that he had taken her hand in his, but she couldn't deny that she did. Her sisters, if that's what they were, were shooting her looks of furious disbelief.

It was terribly satisfying.

She turned her attention back to the matriarch of the clan, mostly because it seemed foolhardy not to keep an eye on her. Dallag had recovered well enough and was now watching Rùnach calculatingly. Aisling wished her well in her endeavors, for she knew that Rùnach wouldn't share more with them than he had to.

But then Dallag looked at her and she had the feeling things were about to take a turn for the worse.

“I believe perhaps some refreshment is in order,” Dallag said suddenly, rising. “Aisling, darling, surely you wouldn't mind helping me in the kitchen?”

Aisling had the feeling more would be going on than the brewing of tea, but she hadn't spent several days under the tutelage of Scrymgeour Weger without having learned a thing or two about defending herself against an enemy. If Dallag proved feisty, she would have absolutely no trouble at all trotting those skills out for the benefit of the woman in front of her.

A woman who had obviously never loved her.

She wondered who the hell Dallag of Malcte was.

Rùnach rose immediately and held down his hand to help her to her feet as if she'd been a grand lady. She smiled politely at him, then followed Dallag into her kitchen. She had only the most vague of memories of the place. Actually, the truth was, she had one less-than-vague memory and it had to do with the last time she'd seen that chamber on the morning when she'd been handed her cloak and told she was going on a special journey with her parents to Beul. Little had she known what lay in store for her.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen and watched her erstwhile guardian boil water and prepare a pitcher and cups. Aisling found herself easing toward the back door only because she wasn't entirely sure Dallag wouldn't throw that kettle full of boiling water at her.

“You do realize,” Dallag said, idly stirring tea in a glass pitcher, “that we can make arrangements for the Guildmistress to come and fetch you.”

Aisling found herself horribly tempted to unravel Dallag's gown, then wrap her up in it, accompanied by a spell that would make her itch for the rest of her natural life. The impulse was so strong, she had to take a physical step backward from the seductiveness of the thought.

“I suppose you might try,” Aisling said, “but I don't think you'll succeed.”

“Oh, your elvish lad in there could be overcome easily enough.”

Aisling didn't bother with a response, though she had to wonder briefly how Dallag could possibly be that stupid. Perhaps she had no means of sensing any magic at all.

“As you say,” Aisling said with a shrug. “As for the other, why would you?”

“Send you back?” Dallag spat, whirling on her. “So you wouldn't be here of course, you stupid girl.”

“And you think I have any intention of remaining here?” Aisling asked, finding it not as difficult as she thought to toss off a disbelieving laugh. “Surely not.”

“Then why are you here?” Dallag demanded. “To remind me of those first horrible years when I was forced to look at you each and every day and know that you'd been foisted off on me as a babe I was required to care for against my will?”

Aisling leaned back against the door because it seemed a handy way to rest her feet a bit. She'd suspected, of course, that her mother had never loved her. She knew it shouldn't have come as a surprise that her mother had never even
been
her mother. At the very least that made the events of her youth seem much less terrible and quite a bit more logical.

Logical, but brutal nonetheless.

She folded her arms over her chest because it was less tempting that way to use magic she wasn't sure she could either call upon or control. “Was it so terrible then? To care for a helpless babe who wasn't yours?”

“Every moment of every day until I was able to rid myself of you,” Dallag said coldly. “You with your spooky eyes and mindless stare.”

“Your compassion astounds me,” Aisling said flatly.

“Why would I have affection for a child who wasn't mine?”

Aisling said nothing, because there was nothing to say. She simply stood there and watched as Dallag slapped spoons onto the tray, looking as if she'd suddenly been vindicated in an opinion she hadn't been all that sure of to that point. Explaining to the woman that she understood her actions because it was obvious she was a person with no heart would likely be a waste of breath.