She turned away from the thought because it was maudlin and ridiculous and because she had things to do, secrets to uncover, and one terribly beautiful but impossibly reckless man to keep safe so he could save the world and rescue her grandfather.
All without magic.
She rolled her eyes and promised herself a full morning of work in whatever stables Acair’s mother might possess. It might be her only hope of regaining her good sense.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep to the song of the fire weaving its way into her dreams.
Eight
Acair woke to a kink in his neck and pain in his face. The latter he assumed came from the fact that he was sitting on the floor of his mother’s library with his face pressed against books placed on shelves he’d built for her during his youth. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but he had the feeling it had been somewhere between an extremely tedious treatise entitledMeithian Archers of Noteand a collection of rather bawdy tales about women of a certain profession from Gairn. That the books were written by the same author had obviously been enough to send him to seek refuge in sweet slumber.
In his defense, he had arisen at an appalling hour and that after a journey that had been beyond unpleasant. Running for leagues had been nothing out of the ordinary. Having his horse find him, refrain from biting him long enough for him to heave himself up onto its back, then subsequently turn itself into abitter, screaming wind that had left him on the verge of screaming himself had been another thing entirely.
Truly, things had to change in his life very soon.
That was precisely why he found himself where he was, trying to make a thorough search of books he had apparently preferred to use as a resting place for his visage. He was likely fortunate the lamp he’d lit earlier hadn’t burned the entire place to the ground. He supposed he’d been asleep long enough to render a lamp useless, which would no doubt save his eyes a decent amount of strain, but he didn’t imagine it would do anything to relieve the pains in his head. At least he’d managed to sleep in peace and security.
His choice of safe havens was, as he tended to tell anyone who would listen, rather limited. The odd armoire of one or two more notable wizardesses, a discreet guest chamber belonging to a rather feisty and morally questionable queen, and the wine cellar of a rather nearsighted king were the only places he could count on without fail. He had known his mother wouldn’t be any happier to see him than anyone else—something that he supposed would have hurt his feelings if he’d had any feelings to hurt—but he certainly would have engaged in a hefty bout of groveling—or shoveling, which would likely be the case and brought him back full circle to those rather unpleasant days spent in Léirsinn’s barn doing just that—to buy them all some peace. He suspected he might be engaging in that activity fairly soon, so there was no reason not to get it out of the way as soon as possible.
He sighed deeply, opened his eyes, then squeaked in spite of himself.
His mother, a woman who inspired that sort of squeaking inmost people she encountered, was sitting on a comfortable chair not a handful of paces away from him, watching him thoughtfully.
He looked up above his head on the off chance a spell was waiting there to fall upon him, checked both sides of the field, as it were, then straightened carefully.
“Mother,” he said politely. “Good morning.”
“What do you want?” she asked without preamble.
He shifted in a vain attempt to ease the unpleasant stiffness in his back, then heaved himself up and onto a stool that was mostly used to reach the upper shelves. He wondered if honesty or subterfuge would serve him better, then decided there was no point in not continuing on with his greatest of failings.
“I’m here for a list of evil mages.”
“List,” she said with a snort. “A list of several books full of that sort of thing, you mean.”
“Well,” he said, “aye, though I would settle for that volume of mine that contains all father’s enemies of note, as well as all the lads I’ve bothered to consider.”
She harrumphed, then reached over and pulled out a slim leather book just to the right of the one he’d stopped at. He looked at her.
“Mother,” he chided. “You put that there whilst I was napping.”
“You deserve it,” she said shortly. “You never write, never come to visit—”
“I’m visiting now,” he pointed out. “And I chopped wood for you last year.”
“Rùnachchopped wood for me last year,” she said, “whilst I was about the heavy labor of making certain his dreamspinning lady didn’t unravel me entire house.”
“Well, I must agree that Aisling of Bruadair is terrifying,” he said, suppressing the urge to shiver. He’d had more to do with Bruadairians over the past pair of years than he had ever wanted to. If he never saw another one, it would be too soon.
“Rùnach is up there on the same shelf with her, love.”
“Which is the only reason I didn’t slay him the last time I saw him. Not,” he added quickly, “because I feared his puny powers, but because I didn’t want to grieve his bride and upset the balance of the world.”
“Good of you.”
“I thought so.”
She handed him the book. “I don’t know what you think you’ll find, but there it is.”
