“Idon’t understand it,” Léirsinn said. She looked down at Acair and shrugged. “I don’t believe it either, but you already knew that.”
Acair did and at the moment, he had no time to attempt to convince her otherwise. He rose and looked down at Mansourah.
“I cannot heal you, nor can Léirsinn, so you’ll have to do it yourself. This is all I can think of on short notice.”
“You want me to take some of my power and put it on that strip of linen?” Mansourah asked blankly.
“Have you never done this before?” Acair asked, finding himself genuinely astonished.
“Why would I need to?”
Acair opened his mouth to make a list of several reasons why a man might want to keep a goodly amount of his treasure far from where he slept, then he reminded himself with whom he was dealing. Mansourah of Neroche had likely never had a subversive thought in his life, so why would he need to prepare for that sort of contingency?
“Because, my young friend,” Acair said, “there might come a day when you are skulking about where you shouldn’t be, keeping your magic under wraps to avoid detection, and the ability to fling a bit of distraction or mayhem in the direction of your enemies might save your life. Or heal your arrow-grasping arm, which I’m assuming is the one you shattered.”
Mansourah shut his mouth around whatever it was he had obviously planned to say—Acair couldn’t imagine it had been polite—then took a deep breath.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll attempt it.”
He wove a very sturdy, businesslike spell of healing over the cloth, then stopped short. He stared at the cloth at his feet for several moments, then looked up.
“I haven’t got a bloody clue what to do now. How do you do it?Whycan you do it?”
Acair looked at him evenly. “’Tis all that black magery, my boy,” he said. “I’m accustomed to leaving bits of my soul behind, or isn’t that common knowledge?”
Mansourah looked a bit unwell. “I didn’t think.”
“Most people don’t.” He blew out his breath, then realized he didn’t have a bloody clue how to explain to that man-child there how one went about trading parts of one’s essence for power. Soilléir likely could have waxed rhapsodic about the whole business for hours on end, but the thought of that was enough to leave Acair wanting to flee. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure how he did it either, something he might need to remedy if he were to leave behind important notes for the betterment of the world.
“I could set it,” Léirsinn offered quietly, “though I think it would be best if we could escape the city first.” She paused. “Just in case.”
Acair understood what she was getting at and thoroughly agreed. Mansourah looked as though he might soon become senseless, and they were, as it happened, still within a city full of mages who weren’t setting the table for a friendly evening of supper and cards.
He looked at the wounded prince of Neroche. “We’ll have to escape first. Your Highness, if you can stand?”
Mansourah might have been a fool, but he wasn’t stupid. He accepted a hand to his feet, then didn’t spurn the offer of a shoulder to use as a crutch. Acair looked at Léirsinn from around Mansourah’s chalky visage and nodded.
“We’ll make for the barn and collect my horse. After that, we’ll make do.”
“Where are we headed?” Mansourah wheezed.
“Somewhere safe.”
Mansourah grunted. “You’re off on the hunt for another book you can’t fetch, aren’t you?”
“Aye and this one is cunningly hidden in my mother’s library behindThe Noble History of Heroes from Neroche, which I imagine is covered with at least an inch of dust. My offering will have remained undisturbed, I assure you.”
“Your mother’s library,” Mansourah gasped. “I should slay you for suggesting the same. Save us all a great deal of trouble.”
“Your code forbids your slaying a defenseless man.”
“You aren’t a defenseless man, you’re a damned black mage with a reputation almost as vile as your sire’s—”
“Almost?” Acair huffed. “I’m insulted.”
“And still breathing, something I would like to remedy.”
“What surprises me is that you’re still talking,” Acair said, though he was rather relieved by that fact. Whatever else their failings might have been, those lads from Neroche were cut from sturdy cloth. Acair could bring to mind several very dangerous mages who would sit on the edge of the closest flowerpot and weep over a hangnail.
