Dreamer's Daughter (5 page)

Rùnach retrieved his sword and walked with Astar back to the palace. He paused at the doors leading inside and looked at Soilléir's cousin.

“It was actually never lost,” he said carefully. “Apparently, my mother hid it beneath scars on my hands and face.”

“Your mother was exceptionally beautiful,” Astar said, “and obviously exceptionally clever. I'm assuming you knew what she'd done.”

“Hadn't a clue,” Rùnach said. “I thought magic was lost to me forever.”

Astar blinked in surprise. “How dreadful.”

“That's one way to put it.”

“So how was it recovered?”

Rùnach looked at him seriously. “It was spun out of me, strung on a loom of fire, and dropped back into my barely breathing form by Uachdaran of Léige.”

“Uachdaran of Léige spun your magic out of you?” Astar asked, clearly stunned. “As if such a thing is possible to begin with—”

“Nay, he's the one who enspelled it back into me.”

“Who spun it, then?”

Rùnach looked at Astar steadily.

Astar blinked several times, then his mouth fell open. “You jest.
Aisling
?”

Rùnach nodded.

Astar gestured inelegantly toward the field. “And what of that ugly display? This ethereal woman certainly didn't gift you with any of that.”

“Nay, nor did the king of Durial, I daresay,” Rùnach said. He shrugged helplessly. “Too many of my father's spells rattling around in my head, I suppose.”

Though he supposed that wasn't at all what was going on. His father's spells he knew, aye, but those he could control. His magic he could sense sparkling in his veins and there was no evil there. It wasn't anything Aisling had done, nor King Uachdaran. He couldn't believe that his mother would have created such a thing in him either.

But there was something there.

He looked at Astar and forced himself to smile. “I should bathe, I suppose, and dress for supper. Better that than more time on the field.”

Astar shot him a look. “Lesser of two evils, Rùnach?”

“Something like that.”

“If you're choosing my sister over more time with me, you're choosing the wrong thing.”

Rùnach laughed in spite of himself. “That's your sister you're disparaging.”

“I know of what I speak. But not to worry. I'll keep watch over our Aisling tonight whilst you're about the heavy labor of negotiating your escape from Anna's clutches.”

“She's not your Aisling,” Rùnach said, opening the doors and walking inside. “How many times must I say it?”

“A few more at least. The day is young.”

Rùnach had to agree that it was, though he supposed he wished it had been otherwise. He wanted to find Aisling, see how she fared, survive supper, then send Annastashia of Cothromaiche off to contemplate her numerous offers of marriage, all of which hadn't come from him.

And then perhaps he would have the courage to face what he knew he wasn't going to want to.

That darkness on the field hadn't come from his father's spells.

It had come from his own.

A
isling wandered about the chamber that reputedly belonged to Cothromaiche's chief spinner and found herself too restless to sit but utterly unsure about what to do next. She walked over to the window and looked out. That window overlooked the garden, which she appreciated. Spring was obviously hard upon them even so far north and early flowers had awakened to welcome it.

Cothromaiche was an odd place, she had to admit. She had seen other gardens in other places that had seemed unusual, but in a fairly predictable way. The gardens in Tòrr Dòrainn boasted flowers that were full of pleasure at being of use to the king and queen of the elves. She'd listened to trees in the dwarf king's garden sing half-sleepy dirges with strains of sparkling harmonies running through them, a perfect reflection of the souls who looked inside the earth for their treasures.

King Seannair's gardens were much different. She'd walked in them an hour ago but the stone pathway beneath her feet had been simply stone, the trees and flowers welcoming but not volunteering any conversation past a soft good morning and an invitation to sit amongst them and be at peace. Then again, after watching Rùnach be enveloped in a passionate embrace by a woman who frightened the hell out of her, Aisling supposed peace had been the best the garden could offer.

Soilléir had shown her back to the chamber where she was currently standing, repeating the offer of free rein over its contents that he'd made a pair of days earlier. She found waiting for her on her stool an empty little purse made of marvelous fabric, silent yet somehow quite sentient. She had fished about in her pocket for the thread she'd picked up previously, then put it in that bag. That thread joined something she found earlier, dangling from the flywheel of the spinning wheel set there near the window.

Those tasks seen to, she now had nothing to do but either think too much or make yarn. She looked at the baskets at her feet, baskets full of deliciously soft roving that was nothing more than wool, and decided she would make yarn. It was less complicated that way.

She sat down at her wheel and began to spin a soft cream-colored wool shot through with almost imperceptible strands of gold. It was terribly regal, that bit of business, though she had to wonder what anyone would make with what she was able to spin. But it was lovely under her hands so she kept on with it. Perhaps she would spin gossamer threads and make a shawl for the queen of Tòrr Dòrainn should she ever see her again.

The door to her left opened softly and a throat cleared itself. She looked over, half expecting to see a guard there come to tell her she was lingering where she shouldn't, but it was only Rùnach.

Only Rùnach.

She started to rise but the look of disbelief he gave her had her sitting back down again. He made her a small bow.

“May I?”

“If you like.”

“I like,” he said, coming in and shutting the door behind him. He found a chair, then set it a discreet distance away from her and sat down.

She had no idea what she was to say to him, so she said nothing. When last she'd seen him, he'd been in the library being inundated with complaints by that woman in the hideously expensive gown. Perhaps he only wanted a bit of peace and quiet for himself.

That, she had in abundance. The only sounds at the moment were the whir of her wheel and the faint squeak of the treadle, but those were soothing sounds, so she didn't complain. She also didn't dare look at Rùnach.

He had stretched his legs out and crossed his booted feet at the ankles as if he had nothing better to do with his time than simply sit there. She waited him out until she thought she would go mad from spinning under his scrutiny.

“So,” she said finally, because she couldn't bear it any longer, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“For what?”

She looked at him then. “Your marriage to Princess Annastashia, of course.”

He blinked, then his mouth fell open. “Are you daft?”

“I'm trying to be
polite
.” There was no point in saying that she would have preferred to be impolite and heave something heavy in his direction. Perhaps he would sense that without her having to say anything. “What else am I supposed to be?”

He shifted, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. “I'm sorry she knocked you over. I should have rescued you immediately.”

“Don't think anything of it,” she said. “The carpet and I commiserated about her choice of footwear, then Prince Soilléir took me to the gardens for a bit of bracing fresh air.”

He smiled faintly, but said nothing. If only he hadn't been so . . . she sighed. So himself. Familiar and safe and far too beautiful for her peace of mind.

She started up her flywheel and spun for a bit longer until she had to stop again. She looked at him frankly.

“I won't blame you if you want to remain here.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So you could wed her,” she said, gesturing vaguely behind her. “The princess, that is. And nay, I'm not daft.”

He straightened, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Aisling, I have no desire to wed Annastashia of Cothromaiche.”

“She seems to disagree,” she said slowly.

He rubbed his hands over his face and looked at her. “Will you have the entire tale?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “Do I want it?”

“It paints me in a very unflattering light. Does that help?”

She smiled reluctantly. “I can't believe that's possible, but feel free to try to convince me otherwise.”

“I don't think it will take much effort,” he said dryly. He rubbed his hands, gingerly, as if he'd done too much with them recently and they pained him. “In my youth, I was a bit of a prat from time to time.”

“Surely not.”

“Unfortunately, 'tis all too true. Along with my colossal ego, I must admit that I was not, shall we say, unaware of my effect on those of the gentler sex. How I found time for it all, I don't know, but even during my search for terrible spells to use on my father, I managed to attend my share of balls and parties in various locales.”

“Here?” she asked carefully.

He nodded. “My mother and Soilléir were very close, which granted us an access we might not have otherwise had. Uachdaran of Léige is fairly choosey about his guests, but he will at least allow the rabble into his great hall. King Seannair is substantially less hospitable. I'm not sure if he fears a guest might elbow him aside at the supper table or nick one of his spells.”

“The spells of essence changing?”

“Aye, though why he worries, I don't know.” He shrugged. “It isn't as if an enemy could possibly pin any of his progeny down and wrest the spells from them before being turned into something unpleasant.”

She didn't like to think about those spells. “Do they all know them, do you suppose?”

“Not to my knowledge. And thankfully so,” he added, “else I would have likely found myself turned into a toad this morning by Annastashia. Seannair knows them all, I would guess, as does his son, and Soilléir. What any of the others know, I wouldn't presume to guess. They have magic of their own, to be sure, but its nature is capricious. I'm not even sure how to describe it.” He looked at her suddenly. “How does Cothromaiche strike you?”

“Ordinary,” she said without hesitation, “though I don't mean any disrespect by that.” She paused, then shrugged. “It's just a very quiet place.”

“No being kept awake at night by dwarvish stone telling you a millennia's worth of tales?” he asked with a smile.

She shook her head. “Thankfully, nay. Things seem to be polite, but not effusive.”

“Soilléir would be impressed with the description, I'm sure.”

She waited, but he seemed content to simply sit there and look at the floor below his hands. Perhaps he was contemplating dwarvish tales. Or perhaps he was still looking for a good way to tell her he wasn't going to continue with her on her quest.

She supposed the kindest thing she could do was put him out of his misery. She pushed her stool away from her wheel and rose.

“Well, that's that,” she said with a cheerfulness she most certainly didn't feel. “I think I'll beg another meal or two from Prince Soilléir, then be on my way in the morning. Best wishes, of course, for your nuptials.”

He looked up at her, seemed to consider for a moment or two, then rose. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Aisling,” he said seriously, “I have no intention of wedding Annastashia of Cothromaiche. I suppose it should have occurred to me that she would be here and our paths would cross, but I hadn't intended that that path run right over you.”

“You couldn't have known.”

“I could have used my wits and considered the possibility,” he said, “something for which I apologize. But now that we have that settled properly, let's turn to other things such as discussing what my heart truly desires.”

“Supper?” she asked.

He smiled, then held out his hand toward her. “You know that isn't what I'm talking about. Unless Astar has caught your eye and you're hesitant to break my heart over the fact.”

“Break your heart?” she said quietly.

“Shatter it,” he said. “Please don't.”

She took a deep breath, then sighed. Because in spite of the events of the morning, she knew the man standing in front of her loved her and she felt the same way about him. But there was no point in giving in too quickly. “Prince Astar is handsome,” she said thoughtfully. “If one is looking for that sort of thing in a man.”

“But like Mansourah of Neroche, sadly lacking in familiarity with soap and brush. I'd steer clear of him were I you.”

She put her hand in his. “As usual, you aren't serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he said. He drew her over to a bench set fully under the window and pulled her down to sit with him. “Let's revisit that moment in that bloody stream full of icy water and Bruadairian magic when you agreed to wed me.” He tilted his head and studied her. “Does an aye from you given whilst you were under duress count?”

She considered. “I would say that death looming does tend to leave one perhaps a bit friendlier with honesty than not.”

He smiled. “Which is why I'm so damned grateful I wrung an aye out of you whilst you were otherwise distracted. The thought of potentially having to put your father to the sword in order to have the same from him gives me pause, but I'm working up to that.”

“I don't think he'll have a say in anything,” she said firmly.

“Bruadair, then.” He smiled. “Your country may have an opinion. Or at least the magic might. It seems to already have an opinion about several things.”

She suppressed a shiver at the memory of being in that underground river with Rùnach, knowing she was about to drown, and finding that Bruadairian magic not only knew her but seemed to . . . well, care for her. She had taken the spell it had given her, used it, and found it responsive to her pleas.

She wasn't sure she would ever forget that moment.

“I suppose we must discuss our plans,” Rùnach said quietly. “And come to terms with our magic.”

She heard something in his voice she hadn't before. It wasn't so much doubt as it was perhaps unease. She shifted to look at him. “Did something happen to you this morning? Well, besides being deafened in the library.”

“Nothing terribly important. I took the opportunity to try out a few spells with Astar in Seannair's lists.” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Let's just say that it didn't go particularly well.”

“Are you going to give me details?”

“When I'm sure they won't turn your stomach.” He smiled wearily. “It was either too many of my father's spells lurking in darkened corners of my soul or perhaps just being here. For all the peace and quiet, there is something about this country that is . . .”

“Unusual?”

He nodded. “Don't you think? In spite of its façade of ordinariness.”

“Absolutely.”

“I'm not sure what that means for the remainder of our journey.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about. If his magic didn't work as it should have in Cothromaiche, what would happen inside Bruadair's borders? Rùnach's grandfather had, when pressed, admitted that even his magic hadn't worked as it should have within Bruadair's borders. That Rùnach's would likely suffer the same difficulty wasn't something she wanted to think about.

She met his very lovely green eyes. “But we should solve that before too much longer, is that what you're saying?”

“I don't think we have a choice,” he agreed. “Perhaps we would do well to make ourselves a bit of a test here. I'm sure no one will notice us at it.”

“If Her Highness catches us together, you know she'll turn me into a toad.”