The White Spell (6 page)

“Her grandfather lives up at the big house,” the lad whispered.
“'Tis said he can't move or speak. She works for his keep, so they say.”

Ah, altruism. Acair would have pointed out to anyone who would listen that this was where that sort of thing led, but he supposed the present moment wasn't the proper one for that sort of instruction.

Interesting, though, the twistings and turnings of Mistress Léirsinn's family tree. If she was Fuadain's niece, why was she in the barn? If her grandfather was up at the house, why wasn't Fuadain seeing to his care? Unless the man was not a father but a father-in-law and Fuadain was absolutely without any sort of conscience.

“Oh, you are useless,” Fuadain snapped suddenly. “Slaidear, take this horse away from her!”

Acair watched as who he had come to learn was the stable master walked out onto the field and took the rope away from Léirsinn.

“'E gives me cold chills and no mistake.”

Acair had to agree with his rustic companion that that was indeed the case, but he did so silently. There was something about Slaidear that was . . . unusual. It was obvious he wasn't in his position because of any affinity with horses—something Acair could understand rather well at present—which begged the question of just why he was there.

It didn't take a Cothromaichian lad's powers of observation to see that there were foul things afoot—and that wasn't just the pile of manure Acair realized he was standing in. He rolled his eyes. Would the indignities never end?

Slaidear continued to make a great hash of working that mare and Fuadain continued to berate Léirsinn for things she wasn't doing. A first-rate bastard, that one, far beyond the behavior a petty lord in an insignificant port town might allow himself. Léirsinn was good at swallowing all manner of insults, perhaps either because she was too stupid to know she'd been insulted or perhaps she was simply too accustomed to being treated like a slave.

In time, Fuadain seemed to grow bored with his sport, Lord
Cuirteil announced the need for sustenance, and Slaidear apparently realized he was about to be trampled if he didn't find someone else to see to that horse. Léirsinn led the mare out of sight until the men had left the arena, then she brought the horse back into the arena to work it herself.

Acair remained in the shadows for quite some time, listening with half an ear to the whispered babbling of his new friend and mulling over what he'd seen.

Intrigue and the possibility of mayhem. He had a nose for that kind of thing and what he was smelling at present was rank indeed.

“We're headed to the pub up the way,” the lad said suddenly. “Comin' along, are ye?”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Acair said. “You go ahead and I'll catch up.”

That seemed to be answer enough. The lad departed for more promising locales, leaving Acair to his thoughts. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, settling in for a proper rumination.

Doghail took the mare away and soon brought Léirsinn that damned stallion she seemed to think was so marvelous. Acair thought the beast was a demon, and he'd had experience enough with the latter that he thought he might not be overestimating his ability to recognize the same.

There was a bit of a battle of wills, it seemed, before Léirsinn reasserted her authority and the stallion did as he was told. He was, Acair had to admit, a handsome beast as far as horses went. He trotted, he pranced, he raced about as if he would have preferred to be flying. And all the while, Léirsinn stood in the center of his world, turning with an almost imperceptible motion, demanding the horse change gaits with a whistle or a click.

Corr, indeed.

He continued to watch until he grew tired and thought he might like to sit down somewhere. Unfortunately, the only ones who seemed to get any rest in the place were the horses. He wasn't sure if he envied them for it or loathed them for the same. He didn't
particularly like horses, which he imagined Soilléir and Rùnach were still giggling over, but he had to admit the past se'nnight had given him a different view of them.

Fortunately for them all, Doghail came to lead the horse away. Léirsinn waved him off, but Acair supposed he should have expected that. She seemed like the sort of lass who liked to do things herself. He followed her at a safe distance—
safe
meaning, of course, too far away to be called on to do any labor—then found himself a bale of hay to sit on. Congratulating whatever enterprising soul had determined hay was best used as a seat by gathering it together in a cube, he then sat, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep.

He woke only because he had spent decades honing the ability to know when his quarry had escaped. He pushed himself to his feet, suppressing the urge to groan, then looked for his missing horse gel.

“She went that way.”

He shot Doghail a look. “Never know what sorts of lads might mimic their master's ways, would you agree?”

“Protective.”

“Looking for better ale than you serve, actually.”

Doghail smiled briefly. “She won't appreciate it, but I've done it as well. Off you go. And as repayment, I'll see to your stalls for you.”

Acair blinked, not exactly sure what he should say. “Well,” he managed finally.

Doghail shook his head and walked off.

Now he was certain Soilléir and Rùnach were sipping sour wine from Penrhyn and laughing their arses off at him, no doubt having scryed the entire scene in whatever bloody glass ball Soilléir was using these days for the conjuring up of his visions.

He shrugged off the vague feeling that he should have said something polite, then set about his normal work of poking his nose where it absolutely shouldn't go.

It took him far more time to catch Léirsinn up than it would have normally, leading him to believe he hadn't had nearly as much
rest as he should have. He followed her without thinking until he realized she was headed toward the manor house. She kept to lesser paths that skirted substantial gardens, obviously something she did regularly because she seemed to know where she was going. He did spare the energy to wonder if she hadn't had perhaps a cup too many of Doghail's brew given the way she would walk in a perfectly straight line, then suddenly stop, step around something, then continue on. It only happened a pair of times, but he wondered what in the hell she was doing. Practicing dance steps?

Had she been enspelled?

He considered, then decided against that latter idea. He couldn't use his magic, of course, but he damned well had all of it to hand and along with that power came the ability to recognize magic in all its forms so he didn't walk straight into a web of spells without realizing it. Nay, she wasn't enspelled.

But she was turning to look behind her, giving him hardly the time to leap off the path and duck behind a shrubbery before he should be discovered. Something poked him—as usual—in the arse so painfully he almost yelped. He was made of sterner stuff than that, however, so he bit back a very vile curse and peeked over the greenery.

'Twas a pity, to be sure, that a woman that beautiful should be wasted in a barn. Worse still that she should have lost her wits at such a young age. To look at her, one would have thought she was a fair-faced, mild-mannered wench with money and pedigree enough to secure a fairly well-heeled husband to take care of her properly for the rest of her days.

He considered.
Mild-mannered
was likely not the right thing to call her. He'd watched her manage that stallion and he'd listened to her call him a fool for not knowing how to tend a horse. Acid-tongued and daft as a duck was likely closer to the mark. But she was indeed lovely in a way that was mesmerizing enough to leave him crouching stupidly behind a bush that he realized with a start contained a hive full of angry bees, one of whom had obviously
decided the horses were right in their choice of locations on his poor person to abuse.

He jumped back out onto the path and trotted off after his quarry, hoping he was moving quickly enough to allow his former winged companions to find something else to torment. His handful of coppers were clinking in his purse along with what remained of the meager funds he'd extorted from Soilléir and Rùnach, damn them both to hell. If things continued on the way they seemed to be going, he was going to arrive back home in a year much thinner than he was at present because he would never manage to afford a decent pub meal.

The only positive thing he could see was that he was so far out of any sort of decent civilization that no one would recognize him. Considering that he had absolutely no way to protect himself save his fists, that wasn't something to be taken lightly. He wondered how Léirsinn kept herself safe and what it would be like to know that the only thing you had standing between you and death was some sort of barn implement.

He had the feeling he was going to become much more familiar with that than he cared to.

He was tempted to stop, turn himself back toward the barn, and go find a horse trough in which to soak his head. He couldn't protect himself in his usual fashion, he had a very light purse, and there were some very unusual things going on in Sàraichte. If he'd had the modicum of good sense the gods had given a slug, as his father would have said, he would have abandoned his current path and trotted back to his closet.

But that lass there in front of him was walking into the gloom without anyone to guard her back, her uncle seemed perfectly content to treat her very poorly, and Acair was beginning to wonder if she might have red hair. He didn't know any flame-haired wenches, but he'd heard tales of their tempers. If there was anything he found hard to resist, it was a feisty woman in a temper.

Perhaps he would buy her supper and count that as yet another good deed for the day.

He shoved aside memories of a certain dwarvish princess of uncommon feistiness who hadn't been all that receptive to his offer of a fine meal, reminded himself that there were quite a few women who had accepted his invitations to supper, and strode off into the twilight. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Even with a stable lass who controlled horses he hardly dared come close to.

L
éirsinn walked quickly toward town, knowing she would likely arrive too late for what business she wanted to accomplish but unable to do anything else. She needed advice and the one reliable place to get that was from Cailleach the fishwife.

There were numerous sellers of fish in town, that was true, but there was something about Mistress Cailleach that hinted of her knowing things that others might not. Unusual things. Just the sorts of things Léirsinn thought she might need to know, such as how the hell she was going to take two decades of the meanest of wages and turn that into enough money to spirit her grandfather away from a man she feared she could no longer call benign.

Trolls. Léirsinn nodded to herself over that idea. Her store of knowledge about things that lurked in forests and assaulted unwary travelers was extensive thanks to the tales her parents had told her during her childhood. In spite of whatever other sorts of mischief they combined, trolls were famous for having hoards of gold—

Nay, that was dwarves. She stopped and looked up at the darkening sky. Trolls hoarded all sorts of things, or so she thought, but dwarves collected gold. She considered that for a moment or two, then conceded she wasn't entirely sure of that either. Perhaps dwarves collected mountains of gems.

Well, whoever collected what, she thought she might have to
make a visit to one group or another, her grandfather in tow, and offer to trade her services as stable master in return for a safe haven. Barring that, she would have to stifle her doubts, take a barge to Beinn òrain, and indulge in the always reliable activity of stealing a wizard's purse. And if she couldn't manage that, she would simply help herself to the loose coins of the next rich man who walked into her barn.

She ignored the fact that she'd never stolen anything in her life and wasn't sure she could begin at the ripe old age of almost a score and ten, but dire circumstances called for desperate measures. She would do what she had to in order to keep her grandfather safe. She was beginning to wonder if she might have to be about that sooner rather than later and with fewer coins than she might need.

Why had her uncle been watching her from his window?

She shivered in spite of herself. There was something afoot inside the manor, something not right. She continued on, walking briskly. Even if she couldn't find the answers to her problems in some mythical forest, she could ask Mistress Cailleach for her thoughts on an inexpensive haven within running distance and where she could possibly find someone willing to transport her grandfather there for only a handful of poor coins.

Perhaps she might even be able to get away from those spots of shadow she had encountered not once but three times in the previous se'nnight. It was enough to make her wonder if she might be losing her mind.

She didn't entertain that thought very often, if ever. Her life was made up of very sensible things: horses, leather, and sweet-smelling hay. Those were things that made perfect sense, never changed, never did what was unexpected or untoward. Those shadows, though, were things she didn't understand at all—

Nor did she understand how she had walked for so long without realizing she was being followed.

Unfortunately she was on the outskirts of town, so there was no shop window to aid her in determining who was on her heels.
She supposed the only thing to be done was stop at a pub and hope her potential attacker would find himself distracted by the thought of food.

She bypassed the first place she came to because it was disgusting even by Sàraichte's very low standards. She continued on her way, realizing she had acquired not just one but a handful of shadows. Fortunately, she was no more than a quarter mile from
The Preening Pelican
. Indeed, she thought she might gain the doors if she bolted, but before she could make up her mind exactly what she should do, she felt a hand on her arm.

“Blimey, mates, look at what we 'ave 'ere.”

Léirsinn peeled his fingers from her arm and turned to face him. “What? My boot in your arse,
mate
?”

The trio of lads there seemed to find that amusing enough, though the fourth, obviously their leader, did not. His smile left his face as if it had been struck from it and he stepped closer.

“You stupid—”

That was the last thing he said unless she was to count curses that were quickly reduced to a single groan that accompanied his journey into senselessness. A cloak was thrown in her face, which was more alarming than a hand on her arm. She pulled it off from half over her head, fully prepared to throw it back, only to realize it was Acair's and he was busy doing what could have been considered defending her honor. He might not have known how to use a pitchfork, but he apparently knew how to use his fists.

He was outnumbered, but that didn't seem to bother him. In fact, he paused at one point to ask one of the three remaining lads if he had any companions who might want to come join the fray to make things more interesting. Léirsinn would have smiled at that, but she was too busy being surprised that anyone would make the effort to rescue her.

It took but a few minutes before only the burliest lad was left standing. Acair pulled him close and said something she didn't quite catch. The lad looked at Acair as if he had just peered into the pit of
Hell and seen himself at the bottom of it, then turned tail and fled. Acair smoothed his hair back from his face, then turned to face her.

She thought she might understand what had frightened that last bloke.

There was something in Acair's eye, something that wasn't at all pleasant. She didn't know how to name it, but she thought she wouldn't care for having that look turned on her. It wasn't the same look he had given Falaire. That look had been a warning. His current look was something else entirely.

She held out his cloak. “Thank you,” she said simply. “And don't say to me what you said to that last lad.”

He took his cloak back and snorted. “I simply suggested that he find his sport elsewhere. He was a coward.”

She didn't doubt that. “What are you doing here?”

“I was hoping you would buy me a drink.”

“There's a horse trough over there,” she said because she was suddenly quite chilled, “and I wasn't talking about that. Why are you following me? And what of your stalls?”

“Already done.”

“Did you do them well?”

“I didn't hear any horses complaining.” He paused. “If you must know the truth, Doghail promised to finish my stalls for me so I could follow you.” He looked at her seriously. “As for the reason why, you might call it chivalry if you like.”

“I usually don't attract much attention.”

“I find that very difficult to believe.” He tossed his cloak over one shoulder, then looked at her. “You should have a dagger. It isn't safe for a woman to go about without one.”

“I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had one,” she said frankly.

“The general idea is to bury it to the hilt into the gut of whoever is threatening you,” he said. “I'll show you how later. For now, let's go find something to eat, unless you're off to do nefarious deeds. I wouldn't want to get in the way of that.”

She looked at the sky, then sighed. “I had hoped to be to town
before dark, but I don't think I'll manage it. I suppose all I can do is turn for home and look for supper.”

“Not if you value the condition of your tum, you won't,” he said. He nodded up the way. “What of that place there?”

“The food isn't terrible and the ale is better than what Doghail serves, but I haven't enough coin for myself, much less the two of us.”

He shot her a look. “As if I would allow a woman to pay for a meal for me.”

“Wouldn't you?”

He paused. “Well, I would actually, but not recently. I've turned over some sort of new leaf.”

“And found vermin under it?”

He smiled. “Exactly that.” He nodded toward the pub. “Let's go, woman. I'll see if I can't parlay my excessive earnings into at least a mug or two of ale and some crusts of bread.”

“And just how do you intend to do that?”

“Cards,” he said easily. He glanced at her. “Ever seen any?”

“Ever had a boot up your—”

He tsk-tsked her. “You shouldn't use that sort of inflammatory rhetoric unless you have the ability to follow it up with physical damage. I see no dagger in your hand nor sword strapped to your back which leads me to believe that you are merely bluffing with your threats.”

She didn't bother to respond, mostly because he was right. She generally relied on the fact that she had a stallion in tow to keep herself safe. That didn't help her all that much in town, but since she went there only during the daytime, she had never truly considered her lack of protection to be a problem. That looked to have changed recently.

She didn't like change.

“Let's be off before this refuse awakes,” he said, nodding toward the road. “Also, I fear the stench of that pub behind us is making me queasy.”

She had to agree with that, so she nodded and walked away
from the lads Acair had left in a tidy heap. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked because it was difficult not to look at him. His hair was mussed, but other than that, there was no sign that he had just been in a brawl with four men who hadn't been shy about throwing their fists.

“Do you have brothers?” she asked.

“Several,” he said, “and each more vile and reprehensible than the last.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “How many?”

He shot her a brief look. “Let's just say my father was not unwilling to sire the occasional bastard. My mother bore him seven sons, of which I am the youngest. After gazing for quite some time on my admittedly superior self, he decided he had done all he could with my dam and cast his eye elsewhere. I am also unhappily aware that my mother was not his first encounter with the fairer sex given that I seem to never be able to turn a corner at home without running into yet another of his early forays into fatherhood.”

“A busy man, your father.”

“Extremely.”

“Do you have large suppers together with the extended relations?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You're very cheeky.”

“And you're a terrible stable lad.”

“Which is obviously what makes you curious about my true skills,” he said. “A pity I am unable at the moment to enlighten you. Rest assured, the list is very long.”

She could only imagine and she suspected that
stable hand
was definitely not on that list. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what
was
on that list. She'd had watched too many things over the past few days turn out to be something other than what she'd expected them to be.

That thought was unsettling enough that she decided perhaps a change of plans was in order. She would indulge in a quick, cheap mug of ale only because she'd come too far to refuse it without
looking like a fool, then she would turn around and go back to where she belonged before she found herself embroiled in things she had the feeling she wouldn't like at all.

“Do you have brothers?”

She looked at him in surprise. No one ever asked her about her family, as a rule. Doghail had, when they'd first met, but she hadn't cared to talk about them so he'd never brought it up again. Of course Acair couldn't have known the particulars of her past, so she supposed that was reason enough not to give him the look she generally reserved for lads too stupid to know when to keep their mouths shut.

“One,” she said. “And a younger sister. Both gone now.”

He studied her casually for longer than she liked, but he was apparently wise enough to know when not to pursue forbidden topics of conversation.

“I'm sorry,” he said simply.

She nodded briskly, then continued on with him toward
The
Preening
Pelican
, congratulating him silently on his good sense. That task accomplished—and far too quickly—she turned to wondering just who he was and why it was he found himself in Sàraichte. It was truly the last place she would have chosen to live if she'd had a choice.

Perhaps she did have a choice. If there were any way to increase her funds, surely Mistress Cailleach would know. If all else failed, perhaps Acair, if he proved adept with cards, could teach her how to make a decent living at it. She could imagine worse occupations. Well, perhaps not very many, but a few—

She pulled up short, putting her hand out to stop Acair before he walked into a patch of shadow. He stopped, then looked at her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Let's, ah, go over there. Better to admire the signage from a different angle, wouldn't you agree?”

She didn't dare look at him. It was enough to think herself daft. Seeing irrefutable proof that someone else thought the same might
be more than she could take at the moment. She stood well away from the spot she had seen and looked at it without trying to appear as if she were looking at it. Unfortunately, she couldn't deny that she was seeing what she
couldn't
be seeing because there was simply no possible way that shadows that weren't shadows could be lingering on the ground in odd, random places—