Last on the list but perhaps the most pressing item there was the mage who stood outside his house, that uninspired worker of pedestrian magic who spoke in shards and seemed to be waiting for something. He hadn’t robbed anyone recently, nor had he rifled through any chests of spells. The only thing that made any sense at all was that he had crossed paths with the fool at some point in the past, done him dirty—and given the quality of the man’s spells, he had likely done him a great favor there—and now the mage so slighted had decided the time was ripe for a bit of revenge.
Unpleasant, but not life-threatening. If he had to keep a step ahead of the man for the next year until he had his magic under his hands again, so be it. He was capable of biding his time as well.
There was a blank space on that large page and he watched his hand as it wrote down what he realized he had been avoiding thinking about seriously. It was perhaps the least of the things that should have vexed him, but he found it was the one that left him with the most discomfort in the vicinity of his heart.
Who had slain Odhran of Eòlas and had that same man then stolen the spell he himself had hidden in his tailor’s workroom?
He sat back and looked up at the ceiling. He considered himself fairly discreet, but he was the first to admit that boasting of his mighty magic had been a failing he’d engaged in more than once.
Had some enterprising soul overheard him trumpeting his own magnificence at supper in Eòlas, then made inquiries about the establishments he frequented or where he bestowed his coveted commerce? And if the latter had intrigued anyone, would there have been any trouble discovering Master Odhran at the top of his list of sartorial destinations?
He shook his head at his own stupidity. There he’d been, not a trio of weeks earlier, heedlessly sending a message to that self-same tailor, advising him to expect a visit at some point during his stay. He had then made that promised visit only to find his tailor dead.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to look again at that evening with detachment. His tailor had borne no marks from a commonplace weapon, so the likelihood of a spell having been what finished him was very high. The goods in his workroom hadn’t been tossed about, which suggested that it hadn’t been a random burglary. That his own spell of distraction had been stolen suggested that someone had either known beforehand it was there or suspected it might be there and forced Odhran to reveal its location.
He supposed a third possibility was that finding that spell could have been simply good fortune, though it would have taken a mage with decent abilities to have recognized it for what it was.
Then there was that damned note Léirsinn had found that had announced,I’m watching you, but you knew that.Unoriginal and uninspired, but he was, sadly, accustomed to lesser offerings.
He supposed those words could have been dashed off by any noblewoman within a hundred-league radius of the city, but the uncomfortable truth was that they were almost identical to the missive he’d received whilst he and Léirsinn had been taking refuge in Tor Neroche. There had been no doubt in his mind thatthosewords had been penned by a man with magic.
Nay, the author had been the same, which likely meant that they had been written by the mage who had stolen his spell.
Whywas the question he simply couldn’t answer.
He rubbed his hands over his face, aching for the freedom of flight in a way that left him almost unable to draw breath.
“Acair?”
A soft knock startled him, but he managed not to fling anything in the air or knock over any of what he could see had become a rather alarmingly large collection of cups and glasses.
“Come in,” he called.
Léirsinn leaned in past the door. “Supper?”
He blinked and turned toward her. “Is it that late already?”
“I’d call it a very late lunch,” she conceded. “I’m just not sure you’ve eaten anything today. And if you make any untoward remarks about my cooking, I will throw something heavy at you.”
He heaved himself up out of his chair, gathered up half a dozen cups and glasses, and crossed over to her. “I’m still unsure where it was I went wrong with you. No one dares speak to me so carelessly.”
She only smiled and went to fetch the rest of the evidence of how long he’d been at his current slog. He staved off the impulse to ask her to carry him as well and followed her to his kitchen where she had set up a very respectable collection of edible things.
He ate without tasting anything and had no idea if he’d made decent conversation or not. His head was full of impossible questions and his eyes were full of mountain ranges and coastlines and the courses that rivers took through plains and valleys.
What he needed was a better vantage point.
He came to himself to find he was holding a knife in his hand and staring at nothing. He blinked and focused on Léirsinn sitting around the table from him. She was simply sitting back in her chair, watching him thoughtfully.
“Forgive me,” he said, the words feeling, unsurprisingly, as familiar as a pair of well-worn slippers. “My mind is elsewhere.”
“I’m sorry you can’t, you know.” She made flapping motions with her hands.
“As am I,” he agreed. “I would very much like—”
He stopped speaking because the possibility that occurred to him suddenly was almost enough to still even the continual stream of terrible thoughts that ran through his mind like a mighty Durialian river.
Hecouldshapechange.
