The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(75)

Shapechanging.

He stood on the grass twenty paces from her, looked at her for a moment, then tossed his head and disappeared. Or, rather, he sprouted wings, snorted, then leapt up into the air.

And so began a display of, ah, shapechanging that left her gaping. Animals with four feet, things with wings, things with large, terrifying teeth, other creatures that she was perfectly confident came from myth. She climbed up onto the pier because she had to move. She thought better that way. She didn’t want to follow where her thoughts were leading, but she realized she simply couldn’t deny any longer what she was seeing.

Magic existed.

Perhaps she should have begun to think something was unusual about the fact that Falaire had sprouted wings just outside Beinn òrain. It might have made sense to admit that there were things beyond her ken when she’d come face-to-face with an elvish king. She could have set aside the last of her doubts when she’d listened to a very long list of Acair’s accomplishments.

But now, she was faced with unmistakable proof that things were just not as she’d believed them to be—

“You can blame Eulasaid for all that business,” a voice said.

She jumped a little, then realized it was simply Acair’s grandfather who had joined her. “Blame your wife?”

“I heard her out here very early this morning, chatting with him.” He tapped his forehead. “That way, you know how it’s done. My lady wife has an especial fondness for those of an equine persuasion. Given how sheltered your pony has been over the course of his life, she thought it might be interesting for him to consider a few things he might not have before.”

“Such as how bumblebees fly.”

He laughed. “Exactly that. He seems to have committed himself to a great deal of experimentation.”

“As long as he doesn’t do that while I’m on his back, I think I’ll just let him have his head.”

“Wise,” Sgath said. He watched Falaire for quite some time, then shook his head in admiration. “He is a magnificent animal.”

“He is,” she agreed. “Even with what I’ve seen come through my uncle’s stables over the years, I’ve never seen his equal.”

Sgath leaned back against the railing and looked at her. “If you don’t mind satisfying my curiosity, you’re Fuadain of Sàraichte’s niece through what line?”

“My father is his brother,” she said, “and we share a grandfather, though I suppose that’s obvious.”

“You might be surprised,” Sgath said with a smile. “The twistings and turnings of some family trees are enough to give pains in the head to even the most strong-stomached of souls. How is it you came to be working in his stables, not lounging in his finest salon?”

“My grandfather requires care,” she said, “and since it is so expensive, I . . .” She shrugged. “I was put to work at the stables immediately after I was sent to my uncle, and I never questioned why.”

“And you didn’t question because you want your grandfather to have the best,” Sgath said with a gentle smile. “As is right and proper.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a bit longer until she thought the questions burning in her mouth might just light on fire without any help. She turned to look at him.

“Ah, Lord . . . I mean, Prince . . . er—”

“’Tis just Sgath, Léirsinn,” he said with a smile. “My claim to any throne is so tenuous, I don’t think about it very often.”

She studied him. “You were raised in Ainneamh.”

“At the palace,” he agreed. “Lovely place, that.”

“Yet you’re here.”

“Quite happily. My bride and I aren’t much for fancy trappings.”

Léirsinn would have pointed out to him that his house was the size of a palace, but perhaps he knew that already. He also looked hardly any older than Acair, which she supposed he also knew.

Things were very odd in the world, she was discovering.

She took her courage in hand. “Might I ask you a question or two?”

“Anything.”

She could scarce believe she was going to ask what she intended to ask, but Sgath seemed a friendly, honest sort. Not that Acair wasn’t, of course, but her relationship with him was a bit complicated. His grandfather had no reason to tell her anything but the absolute truth, no matter what she might think of it.

“Do you believe in magic?” she asked gingerly.

He smiled. “I can’t say I’ve had much choice in that matter, given my parentage. So, aye, I do believe in magic, but likely because it’s all I’ve known in my life.”

“And you’re an elf,” she said. “With elven magic, whatever that is.”

“Ah, the magic of Ainneamh,” he said with a sigh. “Caoireach is strange, and I say that as one who grew to manhood using it. All magic has its own peculiarities, of course. Fadaire—the magic of Tòrr Dòrainn—is so beautiful, one runs the risk of losing one’s place in one’s spells simply because the words are so mesmerizing. The magic of my ancestors, though—” He considered. “I would call it hard and glittering, a bit like starlight on a cold winter’s night. The magic is powerful and the spells very useful, but I’ve often thought that my relatives have spent so much time over the centuries wrapped up in the admiration of their own magnificent skill that they’ve lost the knack of it.”