“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To find Doghail.” She shot him a look. “Be prepared for an insufferably smug look.”
“Did he predict our love match?” he asked politely.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Smart man, that Doghail.”
She supposed he might have been.
She walked with Acair through the house, back down the stairs, and out through the kitchen. She nodded to Fuadain’s butler, thanked a chambermaid she recognized for her kindness, then walked out into the morning air and took the first decent breath she’d had in weeks.
She looked at Acair. “Thank you,” she said simply.
He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed it quickly, then smiled. “Let’s go see a man about a horse.”
She smiled and walked with him to the barn.
Twenty-three
Acair walked along the dusty road that led from the manor house at Briàghde toward the port town of Sàraichte. He supposed he might eventually see his great-aunt, which would give him the chance to tell her that she was right about numerous things.
That he was trailing after Léirsinn of Sàraichte like a love-sick pup would assuredly be first on that list.
He watched his lady with her siblings walk in front of her grandfather who was sitting rather comfortably on a marginally well-behaved Sianach. Doghail had the pony well in hand, though Acair supposed that shouldn’t have been surprising. He himself was bringing up the rear with an unusually taciturn Soilléir of Cothromaiche, but perhaps the man was simply enjoying his last few breaths of easily obtained fresh air. That wouldn’t last for long after he himself had recovered from the rather taxing amounts of spell-casting he’d done over the previous pair of days.
“You’ll never manage it, you realize.”
Acair would have slid the man a warning look, but he thought that might indicate that he had made even the slightest note of that protest, which he hadn’t. He might not manage it, but that certainly wouldn’t be for a lack of trying.
“Besides, you can’t have answers if I’m dead.”
“Stop stealing my best sayings,” Acair grumbled, keenly aware of how often he’d said the same thing whilst in a tight spot, never mind how often others had said it to him, also whilst in tight spots. “You might be surprised what a body is willing to divulge on their way off stage, if you know what I mean.”
Soilléir only refrained from comment. Too terrified to respond, more than likely.
“Very well,” Acair said, setting aside thoughts of murder for the moment, “I’ll have the entire truth now that I’m at my leisure to hear it. Let’s start with that damned spell you sent to dog my steps. You remember, the one that almost slew me near Durial?”
“I remember.”
“You said you didn’t know who’d made it.”
“I said the spell wasn’t mine,” Soilléir corrected. “I never said I didn’t know who’d fashioned it.”
Acair decided it was too early in the day to start gasping with outrage, so he forced himself to take a deep, even breath instead. “Whose was it, then?”
“Iseabail’s.”
Acair suspected that if he continued to take in the number of deep breaths the conversation was looking as though it might require, he would faint from too much breathing. He instead wriggled his jaw to keep from clenching it too tightly and nodded. “I see. Did she fashion this spell all on her own?”
“She might have had a suggestion or two from someone else.”
“Of course. What was the magic?”
Soilléir took a deep breath of his own. Acair didn’t hope for any fainting on the man’s part, but he did spare a wish for a chair. He had the feeling he might need one.
“I won’t bother suggesting that you might find it an amusing diversion to search for that answer yourself,” Soilléir said.
