The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(109)

“Unfortunately, it is. ’Tis a very elegant thing, though. I’ve never seen its like before.” Soilléir shrugged. “I have no idea—”

“Stop saying that!” Acair exclaimed. “Good hell, Soilléir, what am I to do now?”

“Be careful?”

He exchanged a look with Mhorghain, which resulted in his not bothering to lean over the table and strangle that damned mage sitting there. He blew out his breath, then tossed a pair of coins on the table.

“For myself and the feisty one there,” he said. “You can pay for your own drink, you useless whoreson.”

“I think I should—”

“Consider how greatly you’ll mourn the loss of your spells?” Acair finished for him, bitterly. “Aye, you should, for when I have my magic back to hand, you will find yourself missing them.” He rose. “Come along, Morgan, and we’ll leave this fool to his excuses.”

He walked out of the door, snarling at his spellish companion as it left the inn with them. He walked a goodly distance away—no sense in terrifying the locals with a robust bit of shapechanging—then looked at his sister. “Well.”

“I’m sorry, Acair,” she said quietly. “I’m not sure what else to say. There is dancing to look forward to tonight, if that helps.”

He shot her a look, but realized immediately that she was only trying to distract him out of pity. “Perfect,” he said, trying to match her light tone. “And perhaps I’ll kill Mansourah before supper, just to pass the time.”

“I’m sure he would enjoy that.” She paused, considered, then looked at him gravely. “We could fly for a bit, if you think better that way.”

He looked at her in a fair bit of surprise. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“I’m not an inventive shapechanger,” she admitted, “but if you give me a spell you like, I’ll see what I can do.”

He wasn’t one given to astonishment, but he could hardly believe what he’d just heard. “You would trust me that far,” he said, almost unable to spew the words out. “To use one of my spells.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“That isn’t an answer, I don’t think. I’m too off balance to properly judge, though.”

She smiled. “What’s your pleasure? Wind? Hummingbirds? An evil intention?”

“Heaven preserve me should I teach you that shape,” he said faintly. “But a brisk wind? Aye, that might do. Just don’t leave me strewn about the plains, if you don’t mind.”

“I won’t—”

“Acair, wait.”

He shut his mouth around the spell he was going to give Mhorghain when he found that Soilléir had come to stand next to them. He had appeared rather suddenly, which Acair supposed should have left him wanting to curse the man for his ability to change his shape into a swift thought, but in truth, he was simply too frustrated to do anything but snap at him.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Soilléir looked hesitant. Of all the things Acair had seen and heard in the past pair of hours, that was the thing that unsettled him the most.

“I may have details you should hear,” Soilléir said.

Acair realized that Mhorghain had come to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. He would have told her he didn’t need protection, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure he didn’t. He raised an eyebrow at her briefly, then looked at the mage in front of him.

“Do tell,” he said coolly.

Soilléir looked at Mhorghain. “You may not want to hear this.”

“She’s a strong-stomached wench,” Acair said promptly. That and he thought he might want to use her shoulder as a handy place to lay his head and weep when he heard what he was certain would be Soilléir admitting that that damned spell of death was his but he’d forgotten how to destroy it. “She needn’t leave on my account.”

“Very well, if she likes,” Soilléir said slowly. He seemed to gather his thoughts for far longer than it should have taken him before he spoke. “Why do you think we sent you to Sàraichte?” he asked.

“To shovel manure,” Acair said without hesitation, then he rolled his eyes at the look of disbelief on Soilléir’s face. “How the bloody hell should I know why you sent . . . me . . .”

He stopped speaking because he had to.

A stillness had descended over their little tableau there in the clearing, a stillness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before and his life was not without its memorable moments. Those had been confined generally to his irrevocably changing the lives of those he had chosen to vex, but there it was. He was not an elven prince, sprinkling his sparkling spells over everything in sight like so much faery dust. He was a ruthless, powerful mage, wreaking havoc and altering the course of kingdoms.

He didn’t like thinking that his own life was about to be changed past all recognition.

A numbness started at the top of his head and spread rapidly downward. He was afraid he might be fainting. Perhaps that was more obvious than he cared it to be because Mhorghain had quite suddenly pulled his arm over her shoulders. The wench was strong, he would give her that, and ignored him when he made a sound of protest.