The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(104)

“Perhaps ’tis past time someone did.”

He took a deep breath, then reached for her door. “Go to sleep, you red-haired vixen. Torment Mansourah properly whilst I’m away.”

She let him shut her door, then stood there for several minutes with her hand on the wood before she looked over the chamber and tried to decide if she dared lay her head there. She was half tempted to see if she couldn’t find an empty stall instead, which she suspected Morgan the queen might have understood.

But the bed looked softer than any bed had the right to look, someone had thoughtfully provided nightclothes for her, and she suspected she might never again have such a chance as that to sleep in luxury. Traveling with a mage apparently had its advantages, though perhaps she and Acair had simply had the good fortune to fall in with lovely people.

She didn’t want to think about how quickly that might change when they continued on their journey.





Twenty





Acair couldn’t say he had ever been an early riser, but he also hadn’t had a spell of death hounding him until he thought he would go mad. Getting an early start on seeing it consigned to the rubbish bin seemed only wise. Miach had sent him a message an hour ago telling him where Soilléir was to be found. No time like the present to make certain he had a future.

He walked out the front gates and into his, er, sister. Half-sister. The youngest legitimate child of his philandering father. Ah, rather.

“Mhorghain,” he managed. “I mean, Your Majesty.”

She looked at him seriously. “Call me Mhorghain if you like, Morgan if you care what I like, and Your Majesty only if you want me to stab you.”

He blinked, then had to take a deep breath. “Morgan, then.”

“Would our father hate that?”

“Profoundly, so I suppose Morgan it is.” He supposed if he was going to call her that, he might as well dispense with qualifying what she was to him. A sister she would be, because it was simpler and because he rather liked her. He paused. “I don’t want to seem rude, but why are you here?”

She turned to face him. He had to admit that it was a little startling to look at her. She couldn’t have resembled Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn any more if she had been Sarait herself. But there was something in her eye that was different, as though she hadn’t been raised in beauty so painful that it had left an indelible mark on her soul.

He paused. Perhaps ’twas time to give up the business of black magery, retire to some exotic locale, and become a poet. He could think of worse ways to pass the time.

“Acair?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I think too much.”

“You asked why I’m here,” she said, looking at him as if she very much doubted the quality of his wits. “I thought perhaps the youngest children of Gair’s two broods should become better acquainted.”

“Broods that we know about,” he said before he stopped to consider that perhaps that wasn’t the most politic thing to say.

She looked at him gravely. “I’m sorry that you saw so much.”

If she only knew. He cleared his throat. “I offer the same condolences to you. We have had rather unique pasts, I daresay.”

“My present is more than making up for it,” she said with a half-smile. “And yours?”

“I’m not enjoying mine terribly much at the moment, but I think others are finding it rather amusing.”

“If you only knew how true that is.”

He held open his arms. “They may do their worst.”

“You certainly have?”

“I wasn’t going to admit that, but you’re free to say what you like.”

She smiled. “I’m not sure I want to know any more than I already do about your exploits.”

“I suggest avoiding Prince Rigaud then.”

“What did you do to him?” she asked. “He can’t stand you.”

“Ah, where to begin?” he asked with a light sigh. “I’m afraid our tastes run to a similar sort of brittle, unpleasant noblewoman, one dripping with jewels and highly skilled at cutting verbal repartee. ’Tis possible we might even have attempted to dance with the same woman on more than one occasion. Add to that the occasional argument over cards, differences of opinion on the proper way to tie one’s neckwear, and the odd invitation to duels I couldn’t be bothered to arrive on time for, if at all, and it makes our relationship rather prickly, I daresay.”

She looked at him in disgust. “You’re one of those, aren’t you?”

“A well-dressed gentleman of modest means?”

“Aye, all but the last part,” she said. “I understand you haven’t just pilfered spells.”

“Laboring with one’s hands is so pedestrian.”

She shook her head, then laughed, apparently in spite of herself. “You’re vile. Weger wouldn’t let you on his front stoop, never mind inside his gates.”

“I loitered outside his gates for a bit last year,” Acair admitted, and admittedly it was one of the less pleasant experiences of that year. “Not for the first time, it should be noted. I can safely say that Gobhann is the very last place on earth I would ever willingly go.” He looked at her. “Magic sink and all that.”