She nodded, but could only hope it wouldn’t be the place that finishedthem.
Twelve
Acair stood near the fire in his mother’s kitchen and contemplated the dregs of something in his cup that might have risen to the level of poison with a goodly nudge. He had been at the activity for longer than he should have, but he was having thoughts that he wasn’t sure he cared for, he who had never backed away from any unpleasant thought before. He had been up before dawn—an alarming trend he would put a stop to just as soon as his life was again his to call his own—pacing and wringing his hands.
Chasing after bits of his lost soul? Looking for a mage who collected souls like he himself collected spells? Yet another indeterminate number of leagues spent with that pampered puss, Mansourah of Neroche?
Appalling.
He noted something out of the corner of his eye and wasrelieved to find it was his mother, not some new spell of death bent on his destruction. She was watching him far too closely for his peace of mind, which should have been unsettling all on its own, but there you had it. His mother was terrifying.
He rather liked that about her, truth be told.
“Aye?” he asked warily.
“Just watching the wheels turn,” she said with a shrug.
Well, if she was going to do that, there was no reason in not clearing up a few last-minute things with her. “There is something that still puzzles me,” he admitted.
“Why that red-haired vixen tolerates you?” she asked. “Me too, but perhaps she took a blow to the head recently and lost all sense.”
He pursed his lips. “I try not to discuss it with her.”
“Wouldn’t want to scare her off.” She walked into her kitchen, took the cup from him, then refilled it before she sat it and herself down at the table. She pushed it into an empty spot and nodded. “Tell Mother about your confusion, lad, and we’ll see if superior wit and wisdom can carry the day.”
“And if not?”
“Well, I’ll make a note of it and rejoice after you’re gone, of course.” She patted her hair. “I’m on my best behavior for the moment. Never know when that luscious piece of goodness from Neroche might stumble into me kitchen for coffee and a biscuit or two.” She lifted her eyebrows briefly. “I have a reputation for hospitality to maintain, you know.”
Her reputation included mostly tales of what—and who—she buried in her garden, but he supposed that wasn’t a useful thing to bring up at the moment. He sat down, sipped, gasped, then leaned his elbows on the table to avoid falling off his chair. The woman’s coffee rivaled the king of Durial’s ale for its vileness. Infact, he wasn’t entirely certain the two of them didn’t have some sort of foul contest going to see who could brew the most undrinkable swill possible. It took him a moment or two to regain his composure, but when he thought he could speak with any success, he looked at his dam.
“Let us concede the point that a mage loses a part of his soul when he works black magic.”
“Not all dark spells, of course. Just the truly vile ones.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve made a list of those.”
“Didn’t suppose I needed to, especially where you’re concerned,” she said, “but we’ll discuss that later. Go on. You’re having thoughts and I don’t want to interrupt such a monumental event.”
He would have scowled at her, but he was too unsettled to—an unsettling turn of events in and of itself.
“Let’s agree on more dire pieces of magic,” he said. “We could argue spells of death, surely, but I say we concentrate on Diminishing.”
His mother leaned forward, obviously ready to dish. Bless the woman, she had always been willing to get her hands dirty discussing things that would have made another witch swoon into her cauldron.
“Shall we discuss what’s left of the victim, or what the working of that spell does to the mage?” she asked. “Well, to your sire, actually, given that he used it so often that the effects might be more readily examined.”
“Exactly that,” Acair agreed. “We can say without quibbling what was left of those he plied his trade upon, which wasn’t much.”
“Lumps of sorrow and misery,” she agreed. “Just my sorts of lads, but you know me.”
Indeed, he did. He looked at her thoughtfully. “So, what is your opinion on what the working of that spell did to him? Did he lose parts of his soul in the bargain?”
She shrugged again. “There was so little of his black soul left by the time I met him, I don’t know if I could answer that properly. Did he have no soul to start with, or did Diminishing cost him what he had left?” She looked at him with eyes that saw far too clearly. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what Ruamharaiche’s well took of him when he lost control of himself there, if he had so little soul left. I understand he certainly didn’t lose any of his power, but there had to have been a cost of some kind.”
“I’m not traipsing to Shettlestoune to ask him,” Acair said grimly.
“Don’t look at me for that answer,” she said. “I’m not even sure knowing the particulars would aid you, not that he would admit what it had cost him. If you want my advice, think on that name I gave you.”
