Eighteen
What the bloody hell did you just do?” Acair snarled.
Nay, he didn’t snarl. That didn’t begin to describe the place of agony he’d spoken from. If he’d had any soul left to shred, he would have been crying out from a place in the midst of the tatters. He held a senseless Léirsinn of Sàraichte in his arms and wasn’t entirely sure she would survive what she’d just done.
She was still breathing, which he supposed was something, but she was as pale as death. Acair looked at her, then at the trees on fire around them, then glared at Soilléir of Cothromaiche, that empty-headed wielder of ridiculous magic.
“Put out the fire,” he snapped.
The trees returned to their unscorched state without even a single word being spoken, something that galled Acair to his very depths.
He was also exceedingly annoyed by the fire that appearedfrom nothing fifty paces in front of him in a clearing that also hadn’t been there before. He growled at his spell to follow him, shot Soilléir a look that should have had him scampering back to hide behind his grandfather’s ermine-trimmed skirts, then carefully carried Léirsinn over to warmth and what he could only hope was a bit of safety. He looked over his shoulder, but the glade in the distance was empty from what he could tell.
Empty of that mage, empty also of Mansourah of Neroche.
Worst of all, though, was the seemingly lifeless woman he held on to. He sat down on a stump, cradled her in his arms, and tried not to weep.
“She asked me to give her magic,” Soilléir said quietly.
Acair looked at the man who had sat down across the flames from him and wished he had the means to slay him, but then that would definitely end any hope of restoring Léirsinn to her proper state. He would slay him later, when he’d forced the damned worker of essence changes to put things to rights.
“You should have ignored her,” Acair said bitterly.
Soilléir looked at him. “As you’ve managed to do?”
Acair felt his mouth working, but could find nothing in his extensive collection of slurs dire, disgusting, or damning enough to use in cursing the man sitting across the fire from him.
That Soilléir didn’t mock him for it was even more alarming.
“I hate you,” Acair managed finally.
“I know.”
He supposed the bastard also knew that Acair never wept, ever. He couldn’t bring to mind a single moment in the whole of his ninety-and-eight years of moving from one piece of mischief to the next where he had so much as troubled himself with a sniffle of emotion.
That tears were streaming down his cheeks at the moment was quite possibly the most—
Nay. Nay, that wasn’t the truth. The most devastating moment of his life had been regaining his senses in time to watch the whoreson sitting across from him weaving one of his absolutely vile spells of essence changing over a red-haired gel who couldn’t possibly have understood what she was asking for.
That she had done it for him was the single worst thing he’d ever heard in a lifetime of hearing terrible things.
He gathered what was left of his wits and looked at Soilléir.
“I will slay you,” he said flatly.
“Do what you must.”
Acair suspected that if he spluttered any more, his tongue would simply fling itself out of his mouth to spare itself any more frustration.
“When I have my magic back to hand,” he said, “I will steep my worst spells in a mixture of loathing and bitterness until perfection is reached, then I will unleash the whole on you at a time and location when and where you cannot defend yourself. You will die a lingering, horrific death and I will stand over you the entire time and watch until the light fades from your eyes and you breathe your last.”
“I look forward to it—”
“Shut up!” Acair shouted. “Have you no idea of what you’vedoneto her?”
“I’m well aware of it,” Soilléir said quietly. “And I’m sorry for it.”
“Then why did you—never mind,” Acair finished bitterly. “Because she asked you to.”
