The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(96)
And almost fell off backward from that hint of horse.
He clung with one hand to the reins, which looked as if they were attached to nothing more than a fond wish, clutched Léirsinn to him with the other arm, and tried to distract himself.
It was impossible. The truth was, he’d been watching Léirsinn ride that grey beast and he’d seen the speed that one had achieved. He’d been rather relieved it had been her riding the wind, as it were, and not him. But what Sianach was managing at the moment was much more than that. It was as if he’d become the bitterest of winter winds screaming across the plains of Ailean.
Acair laughed before he could stop himself. It shouldn’t have been possible that he had forgotten so quickly what true flying felt like, but apparently it was.
It was, in a word, glorious.
“You’re mad!” Léirsinn shouted.
Most likely was half torn from his mouth before he realized that his pleasure was going to be short-lived. The black cloud behind him that had become a terrible, terrifying storm was so close to them, he could feel the cold reaching for him. Sianach could obviously sense it as well for he suddenly fell from the sky like a bolt of lightning.
“We’re going to die!”
Acair wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t have that right, but they were within Neroche’s borders, which was something of a relief. He supposed he could point that out to Léirsinn later and tell her how it was he always kept a weather eye out for that silver-blue line that separated their soil from everyone else’s, but at the moment, he was too busy being grateful for the spell that accompanied that thin line of border. He suspected most people came and went across that line and under the canopy of that spell without having any idea either existed. He knew, though, and he was, for a change, damned grateful for it.
Even so, the land north of the border was still an endless stretch of farmland, dotted with little hamlets and farms and other pedestrian though no doubt quite useful dwellings. Sianach was hurtling toward an enormous field that looked as if it might be just the right sort of place for a horse to wander over, eating its bloody head off.
In the midst of that expanse of prairie stood a lone figure.
Acair could only hope it was who he hoped it was and not his sire escaped from his prison in Shettlestoune.
The spell guarding Neroche parted long enough for them to scamper through. Acair supposed he should have discussed with Sianach the need to slow down before he drove them straight into the ground, but thankfully that horse was as intelligent as he was deviously creative. He skidded through the air as he slowed, then he made a rather lazy, impudent circle around the figure in the field before he came to ground in front of the man standing there, simply watching.
Acair squawked as his mount dipped his head in something of a bow, went rolling arse over teakettle over the damned horse’s neck, then landed with Léirsinn in an untidy heap in front of a lad who looked far too young to be wearing that hint of a massive crown atop his head.
Acair attempted to untangle himself from his companion, but he found himself too distracted to do more than push himself up far enough to sit, wrap his arms around Léirsinn, and watch as Mochriadhemiach of Neroche did what he did best. Acair had never faced him over spells, but he’d heard tales. He had to admit what he was seeing did the lad credit.
The spells that guarded Neroche kept out some of the rabble, but half a dozen very disreputable sorts had somehow managed to slip through the gates, as it were, and had taken up temporary residence fifty paces away. Acair watched in a good deal of surprise as Sianach turned himself into a barrier covered with a rather substantial spell of protection and set himself in front of them in an advantageous fashion.
Well, if that was how things were going to be, there was no point in not enjoying the rest of the entertainment.
Miach of Neroche was young, true, but the lad was nothing if not inventive and he obviously had a collection of spells that Acair realized he should have taken note of much sooner. Perhaps they could discuss that list over tea at their earliest opportunity.
He kept a running tally of the magics Miach used—one never knew when that sort of thing might come in handy when a spot of extortion was called for—but had to admit that the earliness of his hour of departure from Aherin was beginning to take its toll. He yawned, patted his mouth discreetly, then finally rested his chin on Léirsinn’s shoulder. He suspected he might have closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, but he thought it wise not to admit to anything.
Léirsinn elbowed him at one point. “You’re snoring.”
“I never snore,” he said, suspecting that might not be as true as he would have liked. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one of his wrists, then assessed the field of battle.
There was a pair of black mages still putting up a bit of resistance, but they soon gave in and departed with howls of outrage. He imagined they were rather glad to have preserved their anonymity in light of their ignominious defeat. All that was left was to collect the spoils.
Acair shifted a bit to look at Léirsinn, who was gaping at the man who had just, literally, saved their collective arses. She twisted around to look at Acair.
“Who is that?” she wheezed.
Acair heaved himself to his feet, helped her to hers, then made the other man a decent bow. No sense in not getting things off to a good start. He dusted off his best courtly manners and gestured where appropriate.