But as he’d discovered, plans went awry at the most inconvenient times. He had the feeling he was running up hard against just such a time and that had everything to do with the look of that fourth soul there up the way. He put on his most useful look of utter boredom and strolled back over the dunes, prepared for the worst.
He presented himself to them with nary a fission of unease, gallantly kissed his wife’s hand, made her grandfather a polite bow, then saluted Doghail with a hearty compliment on the state of the stables. He looked at the messenger and was rather more relieved than he should have been not to recognize the lad.
“Your business, good sir?” he asked.
The child couldn’t have been more than a score if he were a day. He held out a gilt-edged missive with a hand that trembled badly.
“For your p-p-p-pleasure, my l-l-l-lord,” he said, his teeth chattering. He dropped to his knees. “Please don’t slay me, milord,” he blurted out as if all the sundry demons of Hell had sniffed him and only him out and decided he would make a fine luncheon. Added to that, the poor fool looked as if he might soon burst into tears. “I’m only the messenger.”
Acair took the missive gingerly. At least things were being delivered via humans instead of birds, though he wasn’t entirely sure that instead of his boots being soiled with pigeon droppings, they wouldn’t soon wear the contents of that lad’s stomach.
Still, the written word had done him dirty in the past and he wasn’t entirely sure that trend wasn’t about to continue.
He pulled the boy to his feet and patted him on the shoulder.
“Not to worry,” he said soothingly. “My best spell of death needed a wash and is now drying on the line. I imagine you’ll manage to bolt off my land before I can reach it, don’t you think?”
The lad wasted no time doing just that. Acair watched him flap off frantically, then turned to his companions.
Doghail rolled his eyes and walked off. Léirsinn’s grandfather laughed and left to join him. That left just that red-haired vixen standing there, watching him with amusement.
“What of you, lady?” he asked archly. “No pleas for mercy?”
She snorted at him. “I have no fear of you.”
“My plans for you went completely awry at some point,” he said, reaching for her hand and tucking it under his elbow, “but I’ll be damned if I can lay my finger on when or where.”
“Too many maudlin sentiments, I imagine,” she said mildly. “You’ve become tamed.”
“Perish the thought.”
“The truth can be painful, Acair.”
He smiled in spite of himself because she was right. He looked at the missive in his hands, then at her.
“Do I dare open this?”
“It could be an invitation to a house party of some sort.”
“After the last one we attended, I can see why such a thing would top our list of things to do right off.”
She pulled her hand away and held it open. “Shall I read it for you?”
He handed the missive over without hesitation. “Please.”
She broke the seal, then read. Her expression gave nothing away, but she was one of those horse people who managed great, biting, flying steeds without so much as a pucker marring their brows. That, and she lived with him. Her ability to simply watch, then shrug off the most appalling things was unmatched.
“An invitation?” he asked lightly.
She looked at him. “I’m not sure I would call it that.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“A quest.”
He could scarce believe his ears. “A what?”
“A quest,” she repeated. She handed the missive to him. “I don’t think this is a jest.”
