Léirsinn waited until the doors had closed before she looked at the missive in her hand. She had never in her life seenanything so fine, but what did she know? She waved at the two exclusive lodgers still trying to kill each other, but they ignored her.
“I have a message from the king!” she finally shouted.
Acair caught the guard of Mansourah’s rapier with the tip of his blade and flung it up into the air. Léirsinn watched as it flipped hilt over blade several times, glinting in the last of the afternoon sunlight, before it clattered to the ground at her feet. She jumped to avoid having her toes sliced off through her boots, then watched Mansourah shove Acair out of his way before he crossed the garden to her.
Léirsinn jumped as the rapier in front of her simply disappeared. Acair seemingly lost his sword at the same time—and in the same manner—but he was obviously accustomed to that sort of thing. He only cursed at Mansourah and followed him across the garden to her. She held out the invitation to Mansourah.
“From the king,” she repeated. “Or so the innkeeper claimed.”
“Lovely,” Mansourah said, accepting it and popping the wax seal on one side.
“I’m not sure we have the time for supper at the palace,” Acair protested.
“Given that I doubt you were invited,” Mansourah said, “I’m not sure this is anything you need to worry about.” He glanced at the missive, then smiled. “Ah, a late, light tea in His Majesty’s private solar.” He looked at Acair. “No servants necessary.”
Acair snorted. “He is no longer the king, which you well know, so I’m not at all certain why you would want to humor him.”
“Hebelieves he is still the king, which is enough for any courtesy I, as a member of the royal house of Neroche, might feel disposed to show him.” Mansourah shrugged. “For all we know,he might take a stab at another game of cards and have his crown back, so what’s the harm in it?”
Acair levelled a look at him. “The harm is what might happen to Léirsinn whilst you are burrowing into a plate of sweet cakes.”
“I’ll eat beforehand,” Mansourah assured him. “As for anything else, she will be perfectly safe whilst being escorted there by a man with magic.”
Léirsinn stepped between the two of them before she realized she’d moved and she supposed she was fortunate that she was facing Mansourah and not Acair. She didn’t imagine, based on the way Mansourah took a step backward, that she would have wanted to see the look on Acair’s face.
“Here I am with an invitation and not a thing to wear,” she said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. She was fairly sure she’d heard more than one high-born lady exclaim that in similar tones of despair while shopping in Sàraichte, though she’d never understood it herself. She’d spent a lifetime wearing things worn by others before her. The only things she ever splashed out on were riding boots, but given that she’d only ever owned one pair at a time, there hadn’t been much call for worrying about making fashion choices.
As she’d said before, life was so much simpler in a barn.
“I’m sure a gown will be waiting for you in our chambers,” Mansourah said. “Master Acair, I’m assuming you can amuse yourself back here at the inn for a few hours?”
Acair let out a gusty sigh. “I’ll attempt the same.”
“I have boots that need polishing,” Mansourah said, examining his fingernails. “Seems a fitting task for someone of your birth.”
Léirsinn eased herself from between them carefully, not sureif she were more grateful for lack of spells or lack of steel. She looked at Acair who was obviously nurturing a very warm anger and marveled at his self-control. Then again, the spell that endlessly trailed after him was standing there at his elbow like a gentleman’s second, hissing insults at Mansourah that seemed more like echoes of something she might have heard in a dream.
She wondered if perhaps another nap was in order before she lost her wits completely.
Unfortunately, she suspected not even a peaceful sleep would alter what she was seeing. It was odd, that spell there. It was still nothing more than a shadow of something that resembled a tall, gangly youth, but even she could see that it shared Acair’s fury. If she had been Mansourah of Neroche, she might have been nervous.
“I do believe I feel a bit of heat in my right hock,” she said, wondering if she might distract the men with a clever lie. “Or pains in my head. I’m not sure which it is.”
Acair took a deep breath, let it out very slowly, then took a step backward. He looked at her and smiled, every inch the grandson of a prince.
“Prince Mansourah will keep you safe,” he said politely. “You should see the palace, I daresay, before our illustrious monarch loses that as well. Not to be missed.” He made her a bow, then inclined his head to Mansourah. “After you, Your Highness.”
Mansourah didn’t move. “Are you going to plunge a knife into my back?”
“And miss the future pleasure of watching terror cross your features as you realize my spell of death is falling upon you and there isn’t a damned thing you can do to stop it?” Acair asked mildly. “I think not.”
“An honorable black mage.”
“Hardly that,” Acair said seriously. “I’ll spare my lady the depths of my depravity. You, however, will see the full measure, I promise you.” He gestured elegantly toward the door to the inn. “After you, Your Highness.”
Léirsinn wouldn’t have blamed Mansourah for hanging back but the man was obviously not a coward. He was also apparently no fool, for he only gestured for her to go ahead of them without bothering to offer her his arm.
She was grateful to reach their chamber safely, relieved to sit and have something very ordinary to eat, and too tired to fight the appearance of a maid who was soon called to help her dress. She endured what was required to make her look presentable, then happily showed the girl out of their chambers and shut the door behind her. She went to stand close enough to the hearth to try to warm her hands without setting herself on fire. Acair was sitting in a high-backed chair nearby, staring so thoughtfully at the flames that she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him.
