The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(49)

“Everything that was familiar,” she said, glaring at him, “thanks to you.”

“Me?” he echoed in surprise. “Why me?”

She swore and turned away from the door. He watched her cross the chamber to stand in front of the fire and thought he might understand why none of his brothers had wed. Women were . . . well, he didn’t care to repeat what his father called them. His mother referred to the fairer sex as mysteries that only few men were clever enough to solve. That was his mother, though, and what she said about men was likely nothing useful to repeat at the moment, either. ’Twas a wonder he managed to converse with anyone at all with any success given his parental examples.

He leaned back against the door and watched Léirsinn of Sàraichte wring her hands a bit longer. As he watched her, it occurred to him what was wrong, something he hadn’t considered before.

She was truly afraid.

He felt something in him shift. To be honest, he didn’t like the place where that shifting had occurred—in the vicinity of his heart—and he knew exactly whom he would eventually repay for that, but there was no denying that something in him was moving about in an untoward way and affecting his good sense. For the worse, no doubt, but there you had it. He was being blown about by the winds of events he couldn’t control and now he was having feelings of . . . compassion? Sympathy?

Indigestion?

Hard on the heels of that unsettling development was the realization that he had never suspected the woman in front of him might be afraid of anything. She handled enormous, biting beasts without even pausing. She bit her tongue and took speech from her uncle he wouldn’t have listened to more than once without retaliating, all to save her grandfather who would likely never speak again.

She was, he had to admit, rather spectacular.

He took a deep breath and walked across the chamber. He pulled up a chair for Léirsinn and invited her to sit. He, the youngest natural son of the worst mage in recent memory and the beloved youngest brat of a woman who he was certain gave Soilléir of Cothromaiche nightmares, perched on a stool and attempted a soothing noise.

“Are you choking?” she asked.

Damnation, he was so much better at terrifying those he met. “Something like that,” he said quickly. He cleared his throat and tried another tack. “Léirsinn, you can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

Well, because they would slay her the moment she set foot inside that damned barn, that was why not. She knew as much, so why she was refusing to let that desire to stay alive be her guide, he couldn’t fathom. He hardly dared follow where his thoughts were now leading him, but he found he had little choice. Either she missed her grandfather, she missed her horses, or she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He could understand any of the three—well, perhaps not the last, but the woman was obviously not thinking clearly—but the truth was, they had to press on. He had business in Beinn òrain that needed to be seen to as quickly as possible and she needed to get as far away from her uncle as she could manage.

Once he had his magic back, he would rid the world of the lad who was putting those damned shadows on the ground, instruct her uncle in proper comportment when it came to nieces and servants, then see Léirsinn and her grandsire comfortably settled in a place far less tedious than Sàraichte. Then he could take up the reins of his own vile life again and turn his mind to things that horse gel there would laugh off whilst tossing that glorious red mane—

He drew his hand over his eyes. He had to find Soilléir and soon. He couldn’t take much more of looking at the woman in front of him.

“You’re afraid too.”

He blinked, realizing only then that she was studying him and he was likely babbling his idiotic thoughts aloud. “Ah,” he said, scrambling for anything to say that sounded reasonable. Of course he wasn’t afraid. He was never afraid. “I am afraid for you,” he said finally, because that was the truth. “I want to keep you safe.”

“Do you?” she whispered.

“Of course I do. Besides, if you leave, who will see to rescuing your little horse? He’ll just bite me if I try.”

“You were in earnest about that?” she asked, looking as if hope might just bloom in her with enough encouragement.

Bloody hell, his life was intolerable. He rubbed his chest in annoyance. That damned Fadairian spell of healing was like a worm, eating away at his flesh and his good sense.

“Well, no sense in not making the attempt at least,” he said. “He’s obviously very valuable, which might be of some use to you in the future. If the man who’s purchased him—Droch of Saothair—wants him, there must be a good reason. Perhaps he’s a magical pony.”

She looked at him in silence for a moment or two, then she smiled. “Thank you. A bit of humor was helpful.”

Good hell. He stole a look or two about the chamber, wondering where that shapechanging Cothromaichian whoreson had to be hiding, no doubt in a form that wouldn’t be readily spotted. Perhaps Soilléir and Rùnach both were lingering, as the saying went, as flies on the walls. Acair vowed that if he saw anything with wings, he would use the bottom of his boot to its best advantage.

He put on a smile and didn’t bother to set Léirsinn straight on matters of magic. She looked as if she might bolt at the slightest misstep as it was.