“You did.”
He gaped at the man next to him. “What?”
“Tell her after the entire tale is finished,” Soilléir advised.
He found himself distracted mostly because the king of the elves—the only ones who mattered, as Sìle himself would have said—had turned his sights away from that glorious woman and her siblings over there and had come to stand in front of him. He wasn’t at all certain he wouldn’t meet his end in a terribly uncomfortable way, but when a gentleman was facing the prospect of either bolting or remaining with the woman he loved, he didn’t run.
Well, he might run later, when he was back to his old self and could swoop Léirsinn up and nip off the battlefield in dragonshape, but—
He straightened only to deeply regret it. He would have toppled over if he hadn’t suddenly found a glorious horse miss at his side, pulling his arm over her shoulders and keeping him upright. Soilléir exerted himself to give him a shove when he almost lost his balance in that direction, but no more. He added that to the list of things he wouldn’t be thanking the worthless whoreson for, then glanced at his love.
Her cheeks were wet, but her eyes were full of wonder. He smiled in spite of himself.
“Brother and sister, I assume?”
“Can you believe it?”
“Tonight, darling, I think I can believe quite a few things. Ah, and you remember His Majesty, the king of Tòrr Dòrainn?”
He wanted to listen to Léirsinn introduce His Maj to her brother and sister and he supposed he should have made note of their names, but all he could do was breathe and hope he wouldn’t faint. Sladaiche was no more, apparently, and he supposed they now knew what the spell was he’d been looking for, but there was still the mystery of the shadows on the ground that perhaps might never be solved.
He had also lost something in the process, more than even a spell of death would have taken out of him.
There were odd things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms.
He realized that Sìle had taken Léirsinn’s hand and gently placed a rune there, telling her that it would give her comfort and strength when she had a need for the same. He watched it glow with a golden hue so fiery that he wasn’t entirely certain the damned thing wasn’t made of fire.
Fitting.
Sìle glared at him. “Your hand as well.”
All the tortures the elven king could place upon him sprang immediately to mind, tortures he imagined would reach new heights of misery thanks to that damned spell still lodged in his black heart.
“Ah,” he managed, “thank you just the same—”
“Your hand, damn you!”
Acair studied the king and wondered how he might extricate himself from his current conundrum without either bolting or feigning an artful swoon. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any hope of escape. He held out his hand, not entirely certain Sìle wouldn’t just lop it off for the sport of it.
Sìle looked at him from under bushy eyebrows. “I know what you did.”
The possibilities were endless there, weren’t they? If he felt rather than heard Soilléir snort, well, he supposed he deserved it.
“For my Mhorghain,” Sìle clarified.
Damnation, the pollen was never ending in the south. Far past time to get himself back north where the chill might keep the damned trees and flowers from troubling him overmuch.
Acair cleared his throat. “It was, Your Majesty,” he managed, “the least I could do.”
Sìle grunted. “I daresay it was, but still. And so you know, she’s the one who told me about it. Perhaps she thought I might encounter you on some deserted byway and decide the world might be a better place without you.”
“Very kind of her—”
“Shut up,” Sìle growled, “and hold still.”
Acair found quite suddenly that there were still stars enough in the world to set up a wild and chaotic swirling about his head. The pain in his hand was blinding, but mercifully brief. He looked down at his hand—his skin was red as hellfire, to be honest—and watched as three separate runes flashed silver and gold, then faded. The skin on the back of his hand returned to its normal perfect coloration, albeit with those runes still faintly visible. He could still pinch the odd, priceless knick-knack without impertinent remarks about his grooming, thankfully.
He looked at the king. “Your Majesty?”
