The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(123)

“Can’t he?”

“Not while he’s concentrating on other things.” She supposed Miach knew exactly what Acair could and couldn’t see for himself, so there was no reason not to be honest. “He doesn’t need me,” she admitted, “but I could be at least of that much use to him. As another pair of eyes.”

“I think you’re of far more value to him than just that, but perhaps we can argue that later.”

Léirsinn wasn’t sure there would be anything to argue over, but there was no point in saying as much. And as much as she thought well of the man standing across her horse from her, she couldn’t ask him to rid the world of those shadows, stop whoever was sending them, or rescue her grandfather. There were some things, she supposed, that she would simply have to see to herself.

She and Acair, rather.

“He’s in the pub a league up the way, if you’re curious.”

She looked at Miach in surprise. “He is?”

“I bought him breakfast an hour ago.” He shrugged. “He accepted, but only after he’d called me a meddler and several other unkind names.”

She wasn’t surprised. “Were you watching over him?”

“He is my brother-in-law, as it happens. I thought if he were going off on a mighty quest, he might as well put his foot to that path whilst well-fed.” He stroked Falaire’s nose. “I asked him why he wasn’t farther away.”

“What did he say?”

“Why don’t you go ask him?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “On the off chance that he doesn’t want me.”

“Perhaps the more important thing to find out is if you want him.”

“Him?” she scoffed. “Why, he’s . . . well, he is definitely . . .” She attempted a handful of other things that ended up getting stuck quite firmly in her throat. “He’s a bad mage. I have that on good authority.”

“Unfortunately, he’s a very good mage at bad magic,” Miach said with a smile, “but even that might change with the right inducement.”

“I think his mouth would catch on fire if he attempted anything like it.”

Miach laughed. “Probably.” He patted Falaire’s neck. “I could see your pony to Hearn’s stables, if you like.”

“I couldn’t ask it,” she demurred, though the saying of that almost killed her. His front right hock was warm, which had concerned her very much, but she had supposed a bit of shapechanging might keep it from worsening. But to send him off where he might be well cared-for? It was too much to hope for.

“I’ll trade Hearn a spell for your pony’s care,” Miach said, sounding as if he’d already made the decision for her. “That and a bit of gossip will likely suit.”

She nodded. “Droch paid for Falaire, just so you know.”

“All the more reason to leave a spell or two behind with Lord Hearn,” he said pleasantly. He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “And the opportunity to vex Droch of Saothair? I should be paying you for the privilege.”

She smiled, but she honestly didn’t want to know what Miach’s interactions with the man had been. She’d seen enough for herself. She nodded, unhooked her pack, then looked at him. “I will repay you someday.”

“Of course you won’t,” he said with a smile. “’Tis my pleasure. And my library is still open to you, remember. You can even bring your lad with you, if you like.” He pointed down the hill. “He’s that way.”

“I hope I don’t regret this.”

“I hope not, either.”

She slung her pack over her shoulder, then paused and rested her cheek against Falaire’s nose. Stallion though he might have been, he simply stood there and permitted it, as if he knew what was in her heart and didn’t want to disturb it. She stroked his nose a final time, then looked at Miach.

“Thank you.”

“I think I should be thanking you,” he said quietly. “I said this to Acair, but I’ll say as much to you as well. If you need aid, send word. I’ll do what I can for you.”

She nodded because she didn’t trust herself to speak. She took a deep breath, then turned and walked away from the gates into morning sunlight streaming onto her face.

She could only hope she wasn’t making the worst mistake of her life.





Twenty-four





It wasn’t often that Acair found himself a seedy, disgusting pub, surrounded by his sort of disreputable lads, and felt completely out of place. Uncomfortable. Ill-at-ease. Things were not as they should have been in his life.

That he was even wallowing in such maudlin sentiments was testament enough of the disaster that had become his very existence. He had been sitting in the same place for the whole of the morning, waiting for he knew not what. It was becoming apparent to him that he was going to be continuing to wait, alone.

He toyed with an almost drinkable mug of dark ale and examined all the reasons why he should have been thrilled with that. He was in a truly vile little village, in the worst part of that village, and a cursory glance about the pub in which he found himself told him that there were foul deeds going on. Indeed, he had every reason to kick up his heels and dance the proverbial jig. He had a dull dagger down his boot—something he definitely needed to remedy at his earliest opportunity—he had a fairly straight course laid out before him, and he has his health.