The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(48)
He glanced at Léirsinn, but she was doing nothing past watching their surroundings with wide eyes. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d said all that much on the journey north, a horrific, interminable amount of time spent upon a barge that only spared itself from being called a raft by the fact that it had two-foot-high sides all around. It had been powered by magic, but that magic had been so feeble, he’d been tempted to volunteer to take up a set of oars. As it was, he’d sat with Léirsinn at the back of that damned raft and counted the hours until the torment would end.
The only good thing to emerge from the journey had been knowing that they had arrived before Droch’s man, which meant they wouldn’t be encountering the master of Olc anytime soon. If there was one thing Acair was sure of, it was that Droch of Saothair never would have lowered himself to meet anyone at the dock.
That was just as well given that he didn’t particularly care for an encounter with him whilst he was in his current state. Any other time? Droch wouldn’t have elicited more than a yawn. But now, when he had no magic he could use and Droch had a very long list of insults to repay him for, aye, he would be happy to get in and out of Beinn òrain as quickly as possible.
He had every intention of doing just that. He needed to find Soilléir, inform the man curtly that the current situation was absolutely unacceptable, then demand that that bloody spell of death be sent speedily on its way to the nearest rubbish heap. It was one thing to be shuffled off to arguably the most tedious spot in the whole of the Nine Kingdoms and be required to labor with his hands, it was another thing entirely to be leaving bits of his soul behind whilst being stalked by lesser mages he couldn’t fight off with even the mildest display of annoyance.
He was finished with the ridiculous business he was embroiled in. Soilléir had best agree or he would be finished too. There was still a country full of Cothromaichian magic just ripe for the poaching and Acair had far more experience with how to fail at that sort of thing than he’d had a pair of years before. If there was anything he thought he could do better with practice, it was the acquisition of unlimited power.
But until that happy moment arrived, he would find a decent place to sleep, eat something that hopefully wasn’t infested with vermin, then present himself at Buidseachd’s gates at first light. He was finished.
He stopped at the first reasonable-looking place he could find—The Uneasy Dragon—and took a chamber under the first innocuous name that came to mind. He shepherded Léirsinn up the stairs to a decently clean if not sparsely furnished chamber that at least had no spots of shadows. It was full of the echoes of centuries of magic made within its confines, but he wasn’t unaccustomed to that sort of thing. It was safe enough for the moment.
“I can’t do this.”
He let the curtain drop—no sense in not having a look at the garden below to make certain there weren’t mages with evil intentions lurking there—and looked at his companion.
She was wringing her hands. He’d never seen anyone do it—well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d watched a few grown men wring their hands when faced with his mighty magic. He wanted to feel guilty about that, but—well, he likely should have felt terrible about the terror he had inflicted, but there was nothing to be done to change the past. Yet another thing to add to the list.
“You can’t do what?” he asked, dredging up as much patience as possible. He hadn’t eaten and he hadn’t slept. Both tended to make him short-tempered, but he supposed that was nothing he should apologize for.
Apologize? He shook his head. Truly he was beginning to feel like his underpinnings were eroding. What next? Voluntarily traipsing all over the Nine Kingdoms, looking for things to do to better the lives of those he encountered?
“This,” she said, waving her hand about. Her hand was trembling badly. “I can’t do this. I want to go home.”
He sat down on a chest near the window and looked at her. She was standing in the middle of the chamber with her arms wrapped around herself. He suspected she was as weary as he was, for she certainly hadn’t slept on the boat. She looked like a country miss who had just seen her first sight of a large city and hadn’t liked it one bit.
“Have you ever been away from Sàraichte?” he asked.
“Not since I arrived,” she said, then she turned and walked to the door.
He leapt up, reached it first, and put his hand on the wood. He had business to see to and no time to be chasing women who could apparently scarce bear the sight of their own village square, never mind anywhere more sophisticated. He paused and frowned. Of all the things he could call Beinn òrain, sophisticated was the very last.
Truly, he needed to be back to his accustomed way of living.
He looked at the woman standing not a pace away from him, shaking, and thought she looked like nothing more than a poor, terrified filly, being asked to do more than her heart could bear. Something welled up in him that left him profoundly uncomfortable. Pity, perhaps. A strong desire for even stronger drink, no doubt.
“Why don’t we have supper first?” he offered, latching onto the first reasonable thing that came to mind. “I find things always look better after a decent meal.”
She didn’t release the door latch. “Let me go. I’m going home.”
He tried another tack. “I won’t stop you if you truly want to go,” he said—and he could scarce believe he was being so conciliatory—“but I will remind you of what you left behind.”