“Then my companion—”
“I know who she is as well.”
Léirsinn had no idea what one was supposed to do when making the acquaintance of a reputed witch, but she decided a brief curtsey couldn’t go wrong. Acair’s mother lifted her eyebrows briefly, then looked her over from head to toe.
“Hmmm,” was apparently the result of that looking.
“That’s your son’s horse,” Léirsinn said quickly, hoping that might help them curry a bit of favor. “Your son, Acair.”
The witchwoman of Fàs made a noise of disgust. “The littlerotter. He never writes, never comes to visit. I’m left to gather tales of his mischief-making from other, less reliable sources.”
“That must be a terrible disappointment,” Mansourah managed. “I can assure you, Mistress Fionne, that he has done you proud out in the great wide world. He has left a trail of vile deeds and terrible spells from one end of the Nine Kingdoms to the other.”
The witchwoman of Fàs considered that for a moment or two, then nodded. “I’m interested in the more notable escapades as always, even given secondhand.” She turned toward her house. “Bring in the young prince of Neroche, my wee horse miss. We’ll see to his arm by the fire.”
Léirsinn didn’t bother to ask the woman how she had any idea where she’d passed the greater part of her life, mostly because she didn’t want to know. Acair’s mother was welcome to her speculations and their uncanny accuracy.
She squeezed Mansourah’s arm. “Don’t faint.”
“I’m very near to it,” he said, looking as if that might be the case. “Keep your fingers crossed that she doesn’t slay us the moment we cross her threshold.”
“At the moment, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a relief,” Léirsinn said half under her breath. She smiled briefly at Mansourah. “I don’t mean it, of course. I’m happy to clip you under the chin, if you’d rather face the rest of the evening senseless.”
“It would be the kindest thing you could do—and I have to assume you didn’t learn that from me.”
“Life in a barn has its perils.”
She didn’t care to describe them and he didn’t ask her what they were. That might have been because he was trying to stay on his feet. She followed Acair’s mother into her house, tryingnot to look around as desperately as she wanted to, and stopped at the entrance to a modest but comfortably appointed kitchen. There was a round table precisely in the center of the room, with a large hearth to one side of it and cupboards and other things to the right. The witchwoman of Fàs pulled out a chair at the table and nodded.
“Over here, lad, and let’s have a look at what ails you. Léirsinn, there’s drink on the sideboard. Let’s have something very strong.”
Léirsinn wasn’t sure when Acair’s mother had learned her name, but she set that aside as something she likely wouldn’t ask about later. She helped Mansourah sit, then went to look through the bottles huddling a healthy distance away from bowls, platters, and a collection of shiny knives.
Ye gads, as Acair would have said, what had she gotten herself into?
“Nay, gel, don’t linger at the task,” the witchwoman of Fàs said briskly. “Bring me that amber bottle. ’Twas a gift from the current ruler of An-uallach. Not the best-tasting whisky in the world, but very efficient for our current business.”
Léirsinn found the correct bottle, fetched a glass, then poured a substantial amount. She set it in front of Mansourah and supposed he would drink it when he thought best.
“You should sit as well, dearie,” the witchwoman of Fàs said absently. “Don’t want you falling into the fire.”
Léirsinn sat, because it seemed like a very sensible thing to do. She didn’t argue when Mansourah pushed his glass toward her. She had a healthy sip, then wished she hadn’t. The whisky burned all the way down her throat to then set up a robust bonfire in her gut. She had to admit, though, that she felt slightly less anxious than she had but a moment before, so perhaps that wasall she could ask for. She handed the glass back to Mansourah with a shrug. He closed his eyes briefly, drank, then gasped for a bit until he could apparently breathe again.
“You’re handsome,” the witchwoman of Fàs observed, “but a bit of a gel when it comes to strong drink.”
“Have you tasted that bilge?” Mansourah wheezed.
“I take only discreet, ladylike sips,” she said archly. “I’ve appearances to keep up. Now, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself, ye wee babe.”
Léirsinn wasn’t weak-stomached, but the sight of Mansourah’s forearm bent at a spot where it shouldn’t have been was unsettling, to say the least. The witchwoman of Fàs clucked her tongue at him.
“The follies of youth, obviously.”
“Of course, Mistress Fionne,” Mansourah managed. “If I might call you that.”
“You might call me several things, my wee princeling,” Acair’s mother said, “and that would be the least of them.” She considered, then looked at Léirsinn. “No magic, eh?”
Léirsinn shook her head. “Not a drop.”
