The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(66)

“You don’t look any older than I am, but I’m rather old at almost score and ten. I was going to be impressed that you had squeezed so much bad behavior into so few years.”

“I’m a pair of years shy of a century,” he said grimly. “Very old indeed.”

She blinked, then she smiled. “You said you always told the truth.”

“It is the truth and today I feel every one of those years, believe me.”

She couldn’t help a bit of a laugh. She looked at him and shook her head. “I’m not sure how many more fanciful imaginings I can stomach today, but continue if you like. If you think that—” she could hardly call that thing in the corner a spell but she had nothing else to name it “that spell won’t slay you for it.”

He smiled wearily. “We’ll see, I suppose.” He rubbed his hands together. “I suppose we should start at the beginning.”

She pulled his cloak closer around her and smiled. “And thus have always begun my favorite bedtime tales.”

He shot her a dark look. “To begin at the beginning,” he said pointedly, “we must discuss magic.”

“Am I going to fall asleep soon?”

He made a sound of exasperation. “Woman, you . . . you have a very bad habit of making light of very serious things.”

“And you don’t, which is why my perspective is so valuable to you. Say on, lad. I’ll try to stay awake.”

“I will elbow you if you nod off,” he said. “Now, as I was saying, there is magic and then there is magic. Even a village alewife is familiar with the former, for every time she seeks out a potion or a charm or a harmless little spell from the local witchwoman, she is using the first.”

“Like Mistress Cailleach?”

“Mistress Cailleach isn’t exactly a harmless village alewife,” he said. He shifted. “She’s my great-aunt.”

She looked at him in surprise. “She isn’t.”

“She is, and believe me when I say I was no more surprised to find her in Sàraichte than you are to hear of my connection to her, a connection I’m not entirely sure she’s pleased about. She cuffed me so hard when I saw her, I think she may have permanently damaged the hearing in my left ear.”

She felt a little faint. “And she is a . . .”

“Witch,” he said.

“Which means your mother is a witch.”

“My mother is most definitely a witch.”

She hoped she would soon be able to stop shaking her head. “I think this just might be a bridge too far for me. Mistress Cailleach sells fish and keeps my box of coins, nothing more.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to trade you a spell or a charm for some of your coins,” he said, “but she likes you so perhaps she wouldn’t. I would hazard a guess she’s collected plenty of gold from others in Sàraichte.”

Léirsinn put her hand over her heart, then realized what she was doing. She coughed discreetly and patted her chest, lest she have given anything away. A charm lay there, a tiny figure of a mythical beast. Mistress Cailleach had given it to her almost five years ago.

’Tis time you had this, dearie, she had said. Remember what it does.

Léirsinn had tried to pay for it, but Mistress Cailleach had refused to hear of it. It had seemed a pleasant gift, something to keep her courage up. Now, she wondered if it might be something more—

Nay ’twas impossible.

She put her hands back in her lap, then decided they were too cold for that, so she tucked them under her arms. It hid their trembling a bit better that way.

“So, what sort of magic does your great-aunt dabble in?”

“The dangerous kind,” he said, “but perhaps not as of late. Who knows? I wasn’t about to ask her. The woman is terrifying.”

“Must be why I like her.”

He smiled briefly. “I daresay.” He glanced at the corner, then continued. “We’ll leave those little magics alone, for they’re unimportant. The bigger magics are what we’ll concern ourselves with now.”

“Oh, please, let’s.”

He pursed his lips. “I’ll ignore that, because I’m that sort of lad.” He paused, then seemed to be looking for the right words. “Most magic, well, all magic actually, is blood magic.”

“Blood magic,” she echoed, trying not to sound as skeptical as she felt.

He nodded. “It runs through your veins by virtue of your parents, or occasionally the country of your birth, or now and again because of something untoward hiding in the unexamined lives of your progenitors. Taken Ehrne, for instance. He is the king of Ainneamh, of course, but the magic he uses, the magic that is slathered over this place like a vile fog, comes to him through his father and his father’s father and so on.”

“Where did it start?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps in the beginning, a group of the first souls to inhabit the Nine Kingdoms sat about a table playing cards and the winner took the best stuff available whilst leaving the rest for the others.”

“I don’t think I would be surprised.” If she were going to allow for things of a supernatural nature, why not allow for a ridiculous beginning to them? “So, all this magic has come down through the ages, then what?”