“I like to get right to the point.”
She shook her head. “You are an insufferable little clot, but very skilled at reading between the lines.”
“That’s because my mother neversaysanything,” he said pointedly.
“And where would be the sport in that?” she said with a smile that sent a shiver down his spine. “I would never see you atallif I didn’t give you some reason to pop in and out every now and again to remind me just how clever you are.”
He leaned his elbows on her table and looked at her seriously. “I am that insufferable, I’ll admit it.”
“Yet here you sit at my table, unpoisoned.” She shrugged. “You might want to consider the condition of the field before you march into the fray.”
“The field and my own stash of weapons?”
“As I said.”
He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her. “Mother, I don’t need to tell you that trying to even bring to mind all the places I’ve perpetrated mischief would be impossible.”
“Perhaps just the most egregious pieces of it, then.”
He was tempted to laugh, but it occurred to him that he could think of several places that would qualify for that. They happened to coincide quite nicely with places he didn’t want to go, peopled by rulers and whatnot he absolutely preferred to avoid encountering without his magic to hand.
He shot that damned spell leaning negligently against the hearth a dark look, just on principle.
“It seems very protective of you.”
Acair blinked. “What?”
“Your lanky companion there,” she clarified. “It tutted at me this morning when I considered dropping a gilded volume of Nerochian heroic lays on your head whilst you slept.”
“You could have killed me with that pompous trumpeting of their imaginary deeds.”
“Indeed I could have.” She picked her knitting back up and shot him a very brief smile. “But you’ve such a handsome face, I couldn’t bring myself to mar it.”
He grunted at her, because he hardly knew how to respond to that. He watched her knit for quite a while before he finally managed to chase down the thought that had scampered across his mind when she’d first brought up the business of the day. He had another sip of tea, then set his cup down before he dropped it.
“So,” he said slowly, “since we agree that the purpose of those spots of shadow is to steal souls—at least for the most part—am I to assume you believe there is a particular mage behind the laying of those spots about?”
She leveled a look at him that had him smiling in spite of himself.
“I’m wearing another man’s boots, Mother. I’m not at my best.”
“That shouldn’t affect your wits, Acair.”
He hoped it would be only boots he would lose before the entire thing was set to rights. “Then let me rephrase. Who do you have in mind for the starring role in this drama?”
She paused in the middle of her row, looked about her as if to make certain she was alone, then leaned forward. “It is rumored that to say his name is bad luck—”
“That’s Mochriadhemiach of Neroche,” Acair said promptly. “I say his name all the time and look at me.” He held open his arms. “Still breathing.”
“And incapable of using your magic.”
“That isn’t little Miach’s fault, but I digress. Go on.”
She had to knit a bit longer before she apparently found the wherewithal to voice her opinion. “I could be very mistaken about this, of course. This man dropped out of tales hundreds of years ago, though I’ve heard... well—”
“Please don’t hesitate on my account,” he said when it looked as if she might not finish.
She considered, then shook her head. “I could be daft.”
