“Pitiful,” Acair whispered. “No copies and no decent sense of subterfuge. ’Tis a wonder the whole damned place hasn’t been overrun before now!”
The words were scarce out of his mouth before he realized a rather unsettling fact.
They were not alone in their closet.
A faint ball of werelight appeared over their heads and he looked to his left to find none other than Soilléir of Cothromaiche, youngest son of the crown prince and possessor of a countenance that was just slightly green, standing there looking profoundly guilty.
“You!” he exclaimed, understanding at that moment why he was the recipient of that greeting so often.
“My lord Acair,” Soilléir said, inclining his head politely. “Mistress Léirsinn. We might want to forgo pleasantries for another moment or two.”
Acair clamped his lips shut simply to keep himself from wasting breath swearing. That was a welcome distraction, given the straitness of their quarters. He was himself not a small man. Soilléir, unfortunately, was not a slight fellow either. He supposed if either of them had tended to portliness like Sladaiche, the current arrangement might have been a bit more tolerable. At least that way they could have elbowed pudge instead of muscle.
The single thing that saved his annoying companion from death was the fact that he’d had the good sense to put Léirsinn on his right as they crowded into that bloody closet. If he’d had to contemplate that damned whoreson being closer to her than was polite…
“You’re growling,” Léirsinn breathed.
It could have been much worse, he supposed, but he decided that wasn’t worth mentioning at the moment, either. For all he knew, any breathing out threats, no matter how richly they might have been deserved, would leave them all suffocating before Seannair managed to finish complaining about his latest hunt and trundle off to bed.
“Death,” he mouthed at Soilléir.
Not so much as a snort in return. Perhaps the prince had heard that threat more than once.
Eventually, silence fell out in the library. Acair elbowed Soilléir with perhaps a bit more vigor than the moment called for.
“Go look.”
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“You live here!”
“Sshh,” Soilléir said, sounding more like a guilty youth than a man of mature years full of spells that gave the rest of the world nightmares.
“You cannot tell me you’re afeared of your grandsire,” Acair whispered furiously.
“He’ll cut me from his will.”
Acair heard Léirsinn laugh softly which was likely the only thing that saved the mage to his left from a proper throttling. He suspected Soilléir was vexing him on purpose, but there was no room to get his hands up and around the man’s throat, so perhaps there was nothing to be done but keep a tally of abuses to be repaid later.
He concentrated on simply breathing lightly until the silence had gone on for what felt like hours. He glared at Soilléir.
“Do you need a wee glass to scry the scene to make certain they’re gone or are your ears enough?”
Soilléir said nothing, but Acair flattered himself that if the werelight had been brighter, he would have been able to see a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes.
He was a dreamer, but there it was.
Soilléir eased the door open, listened for a bit longer, then pushed opened the door fully.
“All safe,” he said, stepping out and holding the tapestry away from the wall.
Acair invited Léirsinn to follow him as he made certain Soilléir’s ears weren’t failing him, then he saw her settled in her chair there by the fire. He set his burdens of the written word by her feet, then turned his attentions to the man who had caused him so much trouble. He folded his arms over his chest slowly, hoping to send the message that he was choosing not to commit murder right there on Seannair’s library hearthrug.
Soilléir sat down in his father’s recently vacated chair and smiled faintly. “I see you’ve made it this far.”
“No thanks to you.”
“You might be surprised.”
