“How long have you known?”
“A day or two.”
She sighed deeply and walked into his embrace. She closed her eyes and decided that perhaps comfort and safety were things that might not be so terrible after all.
She supposed those things might be lasting a bit longer than she’d expected.
“Wed me?” he murmured.
“I might.”
“I deserve that,” he said with a bit of a laugh.
She smiled and turned to look out over the lake, realizing that she had stood in almost the same place several weeks earlier when she’d been trying to come to terms with what Falaire had been able to do. So much had changed, yet so much hadn’t. Her life was full of horses and magic, Acair’s life was full of magic and horses, and somehow, she imagined they might manage to meet somewhere in the middle and live out their lives together in bliss.
Very long lives, apparently.
“My grandparents offered us the use of their garden for a wedding, if you’re interested.”
She pulled back and looked at him. “I’m interested.”
“Then let’s go make a guest list. I promise to keep my hands in my own pockets.”
“For the wedding.”
“I think I might manage it that long.”
She walked with him back toward his grandparents’ house, supposing he just might.
Epilogue
Life was very strange when one was a black mage extraordinaire on extended holiday from evil-doing.
Acair had come to that conclusion over a handful of months spent walking along the shore with his shoes off. More often than not, he’d been joined by his wife—something he had honestly never thought to have, though she was the first to remind him that he was, as they saying went, robbing the proverbial cradle. His response was usually to remindherthat she owned a decent bit of his soul which perhaps canceled any cradle-robbing on his part. If that was a discussion they would likely be having for centuries to come, he wasn’t going to argue.
That such a thing would be possible was almost enough, he supposed, to allow Soilléir of Cothromaiche to sleep easily at night.
As far as others sleeping peacefully beneath his own roof went, he had been surprised to find himself entertaining the occasional guest. The first had been his grandmother who had arrived bearing her yearly Beltane letter. He had figured prominently in the space reserved for Relatives of Note, which he’d supposed was a far better location than where he usually found himself appearing. He had delivered the doily he’d secured, managed to keep her out of his private stash of port, and extracted a promise that she wouldn’t slay him if he and Léirsinn made a visit later in the year to discuss spells and such. He couldn’t have asked for more.
He and Léirsinn were fairly permanent residents, of course, as was her grandfather. Doghail refused a spot in the ‘fancy hall,’ as he termed it, but his quarters in the stables were almost as fine as what housed Sianach and that beautiful gray horse of Léirsinn’s.
Léirsinn’s sister had her own bedchamber, which she used more often than not. Her brother had come to visit exactly once thus far, but perhaps they could expect no more.
In the end, his life was full of things he had never expected and do-gooding had taken root in his soul. It was a sickness he would likely suffer from for the rest of his very long life.
He ignored the runes on the back of his hand given to him by an elven king which, he was damned certain, had mischief on their minds. That was likely the only mischief he would find himself enjoying any time soon, but a gentleman didn’t complain overmuch.
He turned his back to the sea and surveyed his domain. The house he had already eyed with satisfaction. The stables, he had to admit, were equally spectacular, but perhaps he could have allowed nothing less. When one housed a steed or two—or perhaps more, he never could keep count and Léirsinn tended to offer rather vague and distracted answers when asked—with Angesand blood in its veins, well, one needed to make allowances. When one had already hosted the good lord of Angesand not a month earlier, one personally made damned sure the stalls were cleaned, the tack polished to perfection, and the floors were something one could eat from if necessary.
He frowned at the sight of that quartet of souls gathered near the house. That was Doghail, to be sure, and Léirsinn’s grandfather. He was fairly certain that was his wife there as well.
The fourth was a mystery.
But given that Léirsinn had a spell or two in her pocket, Acair didn’t worry.
Much.
He was who he was, though, and he’d accepted his fate as Second Most Loathed Mage in the Nine Kingdoms, directly behind his father. ’Twas vexing not to be First Horse, as the saying went, but there was little to be done about it. Perhaps in the fall he might give thought to knocking his father off his vaunted perch, but then again, perhaps not. An autumn spent admiring his very lovely wife whilst toasting his toes in front of the fire, penning the odd philosophical essay on the merits of doing good, drinking a respectable amount of various libations, aye, that might be just the sort of work for him.
