The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(118)

Acair approached the spell with the king of Neroche and tried not to spend more time than necessary thinking about how odd the whole situation was. He had never thought to stand on the same side of a battlefield with Mochriadhemiach of Neroche, never mind standing with the man in his own solar, accepting his aid.

His life had become very strange indeed.

The spell was standing in the corner—well, slouching there, actually, as seemed to be its habit. It straightened at Miach’s approach. Acair would have warned the king not to get too close to it, but decided the lad was wise enough to determine for himself where to draw the line, as it were. For himself, he decided that keeping a decent distance was the best course of action, lest his irritation prove to be more than he could reasonably control.

“What do you think?” Acair asked, after Miach had done nothing but stare at the bloody thing for far longer than Acair thought necessary.

Miach looked at him. “Have you looked at it closely?”

“I haven’t,” Acair said. “I was under the impression it had been created by Soilléir and I could see immediately what its purpose was. What was the point of poking it in the ribs, as it were, to see what it was made of?”

Miach leaned against the edge of his worktable and studied the spell that stood there, looking back at him with the belligerence of a cheeky ten-year-old lad. Acair wondered just who in the hell had possibly created such an obnoxious thing.

“Not Soilléir’s,” Miach said. He looked at Acair. “Nor Rùnach’s, aye?”

“So Soilléir claims, though I’m tempted to believe he’s lying.”

“’Tis an elegant thing,” Miach offered. “For a spell of such power. But it doesn’t look like something Soilléir would do. In truth, Acair, I have no idea who fashioned it.”

“But its purpose is to slay me if I use magic.”

“That seems to be the case.”

Acair dragged his hands through his hair, then sighed. “I’m not sure how to describe how much I despise the place in which I find myself.”

“No magic, mages with your death on their minds, and a lovely, defenseless woman to protect?”

“That sums it up nicely.” He looked at the spell in the corner. “And that thing there . . . if I could destroy it, I would, but in destroying it, I destroy myself.” He looked at Miach. “A bit of a tangle there, wouldn’t you say?”

Miach shook his head slowly. “I’ve a strong stomach, but I’m not above admitting it makes me a little uneasy.” He paused, then looked at Acair. “Since we’re speaking of things that make us uneasy, I have something for you.”

“An invitation from Rigaud to another duel? I believe I’ll pass.” He looked at his host. “But don’t think I don’t appreciate the rescue tonight.”

Miach smiled briefly. “My pleasure, of course.” He reached behind him, then handed Acair a folded sheaf of paper. “This was handed to a lad at the gates before dawn this morning.”

Acair took it, though he was the first to admit he suddenly didn’t think he wanted to read it. It was a single line.


I’m watching you.

He looked at Miach. “A poor jest,” he said dismissively.

“Which is why I pressed Cathar into watching my son so I could watch over you and Morgan earlier as you traveled to find Soilléir,” Miach said seriously, “then again tonight as you and Léirsinn walked in the garden. I don’t think it is a jest, Acair. Read it again.”

Acair didn’t want to tell his brother-in-law that he was mad, so he humored him.


I’m watching her.

He looked at Miach, more startled than he should have been. “What’s this rubbish?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t think I want to.”

“I think you should.”

Acair looked again.


I’m watching you both. Always.

“Droch,” Acair croaked, “at his least imaginative.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then one of the lads at Buidseachd,” Acair said, grasping for the first thing that came to mind. “Some lad with more time than sense.”

“Do you think so?” Miach asked seriously.

“’Tis a simple trick,” Acair said dismissively. “Overly theatrical, but there you have it. If I didn’t know better, I would say my spellish companion over there in the corner had written it just to vex me. Besides, ’tis in a woman’s hand.”

“Or a scholar’s hand,” Miach said.

“Or the hand of someone forced to write it whilst the creator—a student, I’m sure—slipped quite happily into his cups at the end of a long term at the schools of wizardry.”

“There is magic infused into the parchment,” Miach said slowly, “don’t you think?”

“Impossible,” Acair said immediately, then he paused. “A change of essence, perhaps?”

“I would agree, but ’tis impossible to animate something that has no soul.” Miach looked at him. “You can turn a living being into a rock, but not a rock into a living being, if you appreciate the difference which I’m sure you do.”