He leaned his shoulder against bookshelves that would likely remain standing long after the world had ended—his mother had her priorities, to be sure—and wondered when she had abandoned him to his own devices.
He had started his search for the obscure and perilous directly after luncheon. He had been joined by his mother and Léirsinn whilst leaving Mansourah of Neroche the unenviable task of trying to entertain two women who would likely wind up brawling over him.
He was fairly sure that after a pair of hours, Léirsinn had pled the excuse of more barn work as a means of escape, something for which he absolutely couldn’t blame her. His mother, however, had remained in the trenches with him. She had entertained him with an admittedly impressive repertoire of Durialian drinking songs for the better part of the afternoon, most of the time merely humming the tune, pausing now and again to burst forth into a verse or two before descending into wheezing laughter over the lyrics.
His mother was, he had to admit, a woman of extremely eclectic tastes.
He wasn’t sure when she’d left him or, more to the point, where she’d gone, which meant he needed to find her before she said or did something untoward and sent Léirsinn fleeing off into the gloom. His horse-mad miss had refused to divulge what she and his dam had spoken of in the barn, but he was certain it couldn’t have been good.
He made his way to the parlor, but it was full of prince and rapacious cousin multiplied by two, so he withdrew silently before he was noticed. The passageways were distressingly free of any red-haired vixens, so he settled for a hasty trip to the kitchen.
It was unfortunately lacking the woman he lo—er, was rather fond of, but his mother was definitely there, sitting in her rocker near the hearth. She was knitting heaven only knew what, but he didn’t see shards of glass sparkling in her yarn by light of the fire so he supposed it might be something as innocuous as a scarf.
His spellish companion was slouched in a chair—actually, it was slouched in what Acair noted was the chair he’d always sat in as a lad. That thing there was looking more like a surly youthwith every day that passed, which he supposed he should have found damned unnerving.
He needed to bumpfind maker of that bloody thingup on his list of things to attend to.
He leaned against a bit of wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house and allowed himself to entertain memories he hadn’t in decades, maudlin fool that he was. He would have to share them with Léirsinn later, perhaps as his good deed for the day.
His mother had never lived at the keep, something he’d never thought to question as a child then never had the heart to question as an adult. His father had been a cold, particular man and perhaps the thought of bringing his lover into his home had simply not been to his taste. His mother’s house was roomy enough, but he couldn’t deny that he had rejoiced when each of his brothers in turn had packed up their things and moved on to the keep to live with their sire.
He supposed it could be said that he’d lingered at his mother’s fire longer than he should have, but she hadn’t complained—well, she’d complained endlessly about his cluttering up her salon and eating all her veg. Somehow, he’d still managed to spend an inordinate amount of time at that very table, poring over this grimoire or that collection of magelike scratches. It was a little startling, actually, to see how comfortable that damned spell seemed to be, sitting there as if it wasn’t full of death and destruction.
If he’d been a more superstitious soul, he might have thought he was looking at himself.
He cleared his throat carefully to alert his dam that conversation was coming her way. It wouldn’t have been the first timecatching her by surprise had resulted in her flinging a knitting needle and leaving a mark.
“Mother?” he said politely. “Knitting anything interesting?”
“I don’t know,” she said absently. “I’m thinking and it keeps me hands busy.” She shot him a look. “Come and sit. I’ve almost rounded out a few thoughts you might be interested in.”
He imagined she had. He pushed away from the wall, then walked over to the table, yanked his chair out from under that spindly fingered piece of mischief, then sat down. If he stepped on its sorry self as he did so, so much the better.
The spell picked itself up, hissed something foul at him, then went to stand by the fire, silent and watchful. Acair did his best to ignore it, though it was a powerful reminder of just how impossible were his straits.
He waited for his mother to finish her row. She set her knitting aside, then reached for the teapot. She pushed a cup toward him, then paused before she poured. “Tea?”
“If you drink it first.”
She poured him a generous amount, then helped herself to the same. “You still have wood to stack and a roof to tend. I’ll kill you a different time when I don’t need your labor.”
“The gods weep with relief, no doubt,” Acair said.
He waited for his mother to lift her cup before he lifted his, then he waited a bit more before she smiled very briefly and applied herself to her brew. It didn’t fell her immediately, which he supposed was reassurance enough for him.
“What have you discovered?” he asked politely.
She set her cup down and looked at him seriously. “You need to go find pieces of your lost soul.”
He felt his mouth fall open. He was fairly sure that wasn’tattractive, but damnation, the woman said the most appalling things without any warning at all.
“Do what?” he managed.
“You need to revisit the places of your worst deeds and look for the pieces of your soul you’ve left there. You’ll never manage what you need to against what hunts you otherwise.”
“What absolute rot,” he managed. “Rubbish.”
“You came here for answers—”
