If he turned east and took more time than necessary to fling himself out across the expanse of water that separated his land from Bruadair, who would know? That dreamspinning bride of Rùnach’s might, but surely no one else.
He would have wept if he’d been the sort of lad to indulge. Never again would he ever take his magic for granted. The thought was so profound, he suspected he might have to pen a restrained thank-you to both Rùnach and Soilléir for that realization. He also might have to take them to supper and drop something in their stews just nasty enough to leave them indisposed for a day or two, then remain helpfully nearby and do nothing but watch them retch until they wept, but he could do nothing less. Altruism was, as usual, his watchword.
He looked behind him, but found no one there. That was another thing he might not have appreciated as thoroughly had he not spent the past several weeks being hunted. He couldn’t say he enjoyed that sensation very often—he tended to be the one on the prowl, as it happened—but perhaps that also needed change in the future.
There was also something useful about being near the sea and having brisk sea air blowing the cobwebs from one’s mind. His mother claimed too much time in his study had driven the illustrious and admittedly unreasonable Gair of Ceangail mad. Whilst he suspected his father’s madness had come from other sources, he couldn’t deny that he tended to become a bit testy when cooped up for too long.
So in honor of the absolute perfection of flying without worrying about his steed taking a bite out of him, he set aside thoughts of things that troubled him. He would enjoy the last of the day’s light by making a lazy journey back over to his side of the bay of Sealladh, having a little look at the ruin up the way that he’d never had the chance to investigate properly, then swooping up a bit higher to make note of the lay of the land for use in correcting his grandmother’s map. He was certain she would be gratified to know where she’d drawn amiss.
He might have to drop that note off at the front gates and be back over the border before her minion reached her solar door, but that was something to be considered later.
He didn’t hurry, even though there was a storm brewing and the winds were growing fierce. He also didn’t bother to fight the current as it drove him toward the shore.
He did pause in the air above that ruined keep. It left him wondering why he’d never bothered to take a closer look at it previously. Well, perhaps that was less true than he would have liked. There was nothing there, certainly no well-laid table or comfortable salon. Why would he have donned rough boots and tromped about a perfectly savage collection of stones?
He rose with a goodly on-shore breeze and checked the identifiable landmarks against his memory of the same. Bruadair lay across the bay to the east, cloaked in its usual shadows of things that discouraged a closer look. Over to the west lay his home, a handful of mountain ranges of various sizes, and many lakes and rivers.
He held himself in the same place for a bit, realizing then what struck him as odd. He hadn’t noticed what a short distance it was around the bay from his house to that ruin, or that there seemed to be a hint of a trail winding its way through the forest hugging the northern feet of the Sgùrrach mountains. He supposed that worn track would eventually become completely overcome by the trees, but he wondered just how many years ago that had been the thoroughfare linking the keep to his land.
He supposed the next time he found a place to build a house, he might do a better job of looking about to see what sort of neighbors he stood to inherit. He’d been so concerned about those damned nightmare creators to the east that he hadn’t thought to have a proper look to the north. Lesson learned, indeed.
He set that thought aside for contemplation with a stiff drink at his elbow and decided to simply accept that his house was downwind from a fascinating ruin. It was a haunting place, to be sure, especially with the sun heading toward the west and casting the ruined tower into deep shadows—
Shadows. Why did it always come back to that?
He would have shaken his head if he’d had a proper head to shake, but things were happily what they were. He turned toward home and let his thoughts wander right along with the evening breeze.
The one thing his father had taught him, perhaps the only useful thing, was that an enemy who was unnamed could not be bested. Knowing his father, weaving a mage’s name into his mighty spell of Diminishing had been not only vicious, but necessary. For himself, he simply wanted to put a name to the mage wanting an endless supply of souls so he might know where to go digging to determine just how the man was creating all those pools of shadow.
He swirled down just inside the edge of his spell, resumed his proper shape, then continued to wear his spell of un-noticing as he walked away from his house down to the shore. For some reason, he felt as though the places his thoughts were taking him required some sort of grounding.
Perhaps he couldn’t name that maker of shadows, but it occurred to him with a flash of something he might have called insight if he hadn’t been so damned tired, that he might be able to at least take the mage following him off his list.
He had to admit it hinged on the fact that that shard-spewing mage had made no move to assault him, not even in that glade on the other side of Durial. He would have considered that odd, but he himself had stalked several souls over the years, waiting for just the right time for the proper bit of revenge. His brothers and sundry relations might be able to speak to that with a fair bit of enthusiasm.
Perhaps he had run afoul of the man at some point in the past, the time had come for retribution, and a finely honed sense of vengeance demanded that he exact the final piece of it only after a lengthy stalking of his victim.
He paused in mid-step. What if the truth had been right there in front of him the entire time and he’d simply been too distracted to notice it?
What if the shard-spewing mage was indeed that orchardist whose spell he’d tossed in the fire all those years ago?
The idea wasn’t entirely farfetched. The man had, after all, been robbed and humiliated. What if he’d bided his time, nurturing his grievance until the chance came to get back a little of his own? Perhaps a hearty bit of terrorizing had been the only possible way to mollify the dignity of one who had been knocked off his ladder and left flailing on the ground in a flurry of cloak, half-rotten peaches, and rather unimpressive curses.
The timing was odd, to be sure, though it wasn’t as if the man could possibly have known that one day he himself would be placed under an injunction not to use his magic. Soilléir was a colossal bore at parties, but he was notorious for his ability to keep his mouth shut. Rùnach was even more tight-lipped, if possible.
Besides, they wanted him alive. Where would be the sport for them if he popped off before they’d had their full year of humiliation?
Odder still was how it had all come about. First he’d been chased by that cloud of mage, only for the herd to find itself thinned and the shard-spewing mage to be the last one left standing. Patience was one thing, but that sort of holding back from the fray was almost impolite.
He walked back up to his house, through his spell of protection, then paused to look up the way toward where he could see the faintest outline of the keep there. It was full dark and there was no moon, but the stars were bright enough, he supposed. That they were out and so clearly was a bit startling. He had been gone longer than he’d thought.
He frowned thoughtfully as he walked around to the back of his house, lost in thought. He paused at the back door, then looked off into the forest.
He was somehow unsurprised to find his enemy keeping watch.
Considering how rarely he came home and how few people—if any—knew where it was, how did that mage there come to find it?
There were very odd things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms, to be sure.
