He didn’t imagine that collection would be nearly as interesting—or as perilous—as what he currently held, but there was no sense in spurning something that might turn out to be useful. He recognized his guest as Eachdraidh, bard to King Uachdaran and guardian of the king’s most perilous tomes. Master Eachdraidh also kept a history of the dwarvish kingdom, though why Uachdaran needed someone to jot down the happenings of his realm when the very stones of his foundation couldn’t seem to shut up about the glory and riches of the same he didn’t know.
He wasn’t one to question those sorts of things, though—at least not within earshot of the local monarch—so he put on his most disarming smile and prepared to, as his mother would have said, make nice.
“Master Eachdraidh,” he said politely, “what an unexpected pleasure.”
The dwarf looked as though he considered the encounter anything but, though he held out a book just the same. Acair decided perhaps that rescuing it before it landed on the floor might count as his good deed for the day. He looked at the king’s bard.
“A loan, I assume?”
Eachdraidh shook his head. “’Tis a gift,” he said. “From the king.”
Acair supposed Eachdraidh wouldn’t make anything of his grandmother’s scribblings, so he tucked them under the new acquisition and opened the latter to find a rather pointed title.
Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish
or
When Bad Mages Come to a Worse End
He would have laughed, but he knew he was still swimming in deep waters where the king was concerned. He nodded thoughtfully.
“Very kind,” he noted.
“His Majesty thought you might find it, erm, instructive.”
Acair imagined the king had been substantially less restrained about what he thought might be gleaned from said offering, but that was also something likely better left unsaid.
“Please convey my deepest gratitude to the king,” he said. “I’m certain I will come away not only edified but properly warned.”
“I daresay,” Eachdraidh said nervously, “that such was His Majesty’s intention.”
Acair was utterly unoffended. He was, as it happened, free of the king’s dungeon and still breathing. He was willing to endure quite a bit of abuse for the privilege. He held the door open and looked at Master Eachdraidh.
“Do you care to come in and take your ease by the fire?”
The dwarf looked as if he’d just been invited to hobnob with a collection of lads who likely had taken up a fair bit of ink in the book he’d delivered. He squeaked, shook his head quickly, then turned and hoofed it back down the passageway. Acair sighed, nodded to his guardsmen, then shut the door.
He rested his hand against the wood and considered the rest of what was left of his afternoon. He supposed Master Ollamh wouldn’t return unless forced, which left him with nothing to do but stay out of trouble.
So difficult, truly.
He resumed his seat on the sofa, considered his reading choices, then opened the king’s book. A cursory glance left him encountering many of the usual suspects, which was unfortunately uninteresting enough that he simply sat there, staring at nothing for far longer than he likely should have. The sad truth was he was just too tired to muster up any sort of enthusiasm for what he held in his hands. His robust apology surely should have earned him something more substantial, shouldn’t it? It was almost as if that apology had been for naught—
He froze, then wondered what else might leave him dumbfounded that day.
He hadapologizedto the king. As noteworthy an occurrence as that surely was, it should have merited more than what would likely turn out to be a mere footnote in the record of the king’s daily doings. He thought back to a conversation he’d had with a pair of meddlers in a tavern several weeks earlier, a conversation that was unfortunately still all-too-clear in his memory.
The choice is yours…no magic, or a visit to the king of the dwarves.
It had been that damned Soilléir to casually drop that fly into their conversational stew. But if no magic had been the price for no apology, surely now that the apology had been offered, his magic should have been within the grasp of his greedy, outstretched hands.
Surely.
He considered what he might try to test his theory and found himself suddenly nose-to-nose with that damned spell of death that dogged his steps. He drew himself up.
“What are you still doing here?” he demanded.
The spell only moved to take up a spot near the end of Léirsinn’s bed, folded its arms over a spot where its scrawny chest should have been, and glared at him.
