“I know.”
“I wasn’t sure what else to do.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. “His Majesty needs to retain better staff,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. “I vow my eyes haven’t stopped burning since I entered the hall.”
“You might have to write that missive after all.”
“I might,” he agreed. “But let’s go back to your attempting to burn the king’s stables to the ground. You were angry because he was no doubt going on about the horrible lengths he was willing to go to to inflict bodily harm on your humble servant.”
She attempted a smile and failed. “I’m afraid I forgot most of what you taught me below.”
“Well, what you remembered was a first-rate piece of work, my gel. That added to your insisting that I come pour your wine and King Uachdaran didn’t dare refuse you.”
She considered, then looked at him. “I’m not making a very good impression, am I?”
“I might not be the one to judge. There are impressions, of course, then there areimpressions. I prefer the latter, but I have a reputation to maintain. Before you attempt the same again, perhaps you should rest. A bit more tea?”
She nodded, though she wasn’t at all sure that would do anything for her parched throat. It was as if that spell had scorched her insides right along with the king’s beard and his stables.
She watched Acair push himself to his feet, sway, then walk over to the table. If his hands were unsteady as he poured from the pot he’d brought back with him, she wasn’t about to comment. She rescued the cup he held out to her before he dropped it on the bed. The tea was cold, but not even that did anything to soothe either her mouth or her nerves.
Magic was a dodgy business, indeed.
But she had it and there was nothing to be done about it. She would have to learn how to master it just as she’d learned to master what had come through her uncle’s stable doors. For all she knew, it was just that simple.
Perhaps if she continued to tell herself that while ignoring the fact that she felt as if she were on the back of a horse made directly from the fires of Hell, she might at least manage a few hours of sleep before she woke and had to face what her life had become.
“It will become easier.”
She looked at him. “Do I want it to?”
“I would imagine,” he said quietly, “that you don’t. If I might offer an apology that I actually mean for a change, I’m sorry for it. It was generously done.”
“Again, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Ah, now that I don’t believe,” he said, smiling wearily. “I believe your purpose was to break what’s left of my black heart, something you managed quite perfectly. I vow if I ever work a proper piece of mischief in the future, it will be nothing short of a miracle.”
“Do-gooding does seem to be becoming a habit with you.”
He snorted. “A habit I will cast aside like a cumbersome cloak the very instant I can. Then I’m back to the old business of wreaking havoc and terrifying everyone I meet. Now, before I find myself a patch of floor and have a nap, what can I do to make you more comfortable?”
“I’m the one with the soft bed,” she pointed out, “and I’ll bury my unease in sleep soon enough.”
“Throw something at me to wake me if that changes,” he said with a yawn, “or if you feel unsafe. I’ll trot out my harshest language to defend you.”
She watched him simply roll off the chair and stretch out on the floor next to her bed. She imagined it was an improvement over where he’d been sleeping for the past few days.
She stretched out and looked up at the canopy over her head. The wood was intricately carved, no doubt representing heroic scenes she knew nothing about. If that wasn’t a perfect reflection of her own life presently, she didn’t know what was.
What she should have done when her life had become something unrecognizable was scamper back inside whatever barn she’d been nearest to, saddle the first horse she’d come across, then escape through the nearest set of barn doors before anyone had been the wiser. With any luck it would have been a very unmagical pony who would have carried her off into an equally unmagical sunset where she might have found a different barn thoroughly free of mages where she could have settled in for a lifetime of very ordinary, pedestrian horse work.
Instead, not only had she asked for the ability to work spells, she had sat on the other side of an invisible doorway from a vile black mage and learned spells from him so she might sally forth and do damage with them. ’Twas only after that sallying that she realized that using those spells was a bit like riding a spooked horse that was bolting with her on its back, only this was a bolting horse that would never be outlasted.
She half wondered if she would spend the rest of her life simply trying to hold on and not be tossed aside to die a lingering, painful death from having dashed her head against a rock.
“Things will look better after a rest, Léirsinn.”
She would have answered him, but a quick look over the edge of her bed proved that Acair of Ceangail was either exhausted or had been talking in his sleep. She left him to it, then settled in for a bit of rest herself. To her surprise, she felt almost at ease. And all because a chivalrous black mage was within shouting distance.
