“Kitchens,” the king said shortly. “You’ve interrupted my slumberagainand I need something soothing to allay the irritation. I’ll consider a final spot for you after I’ve eaten.”
“Your Majesty,” Acair began carefully, “if I might—”
“Or you might not,” the king said. “Dangerous to ask too many questions.”
Léirsinn had to agree, though she didn’t say as much. Acair sighed lightly, then started toward the hall doors, reaching for her hand on his way. She saw him hesitate and imagined he realized that he was holding the hand he’d put the spell into, but the spell was no longer there.
“Other pocket,” she murmured.
He smiled at her very briefly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll keep it close.”
“And unused, if I might offer an opinion.”
She would have told him what he could do with his opinion, but she realized she’d been fingering the damn thing with something that might have charitably been termed preoccupation.
“Verydangerous,” he added.
Well, if anyone would know, it would be him. She kept hold of utter destruction and walked into slippers that had somehow been placed in her path. Master Ollamh hard at work, no doubt. She accepted the cloak the king handed her with equal gratitude. His hall was warm enough near any sort of fire, but damned chilly everywhere else.
She glanced around herself as unobtrusively as possible but saw no one but the king striding on ahead of them. She leaned closer to Acair.
“No guards?”
“He doesn’t need them.”
She imagined that was true. She walked next to Acair, his spell trailing along behind them, and followed the king through passageways until they reached what she had to assume were the kitchens. If the king kept his distance from Acair, she understood. The dungeon had not been kind to him.
The king nodded to an older woman who came to stand in front of him. “Take this stinking lad here outside and throw water on him. He’ll likely need something else to wear, but rags will do. I’m mostly concerned about his stench.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the woman said crisply. She looked Acair up and down, then nodded briskly to him. “Come along, my lord. We’ll have you smelling less foul in no time.”
Léirsinn watched Acair turn a tremendously charming smile on the king’s chatelaine and thought she might understand how he managed to have exactly what he wanted so often, no pilfering or spells needed. He made both her and the king a low bow, then marched off to meet his fate.
She followed the king as he led the way to a large wooden table set there before an enormous hearth. Perhaps he was a frequent visitor because apart from a trio of kitchen lads and lassies who gaped at him in awe, anyone else still awake paid him no special heed. His cook, if that’s what the man was, seemed particularly unsurprised to see him.
“Ah, Your Majesty,” the man said, wiping his hands on his apron, “what shall it be tonight?”
“Simple fare for three,” the king said. “Hearty, though. The lad who’ll join us will likely die tonight from the chill if luck is with me, so best send him off with a full belly. What have you left on the fire?”
“Beef stew, a loaf or two tucked back behind the oven to stay warm, a fine cobbler for dessert,” the cook said, ticking those items off on his fingers. “Ale or wine?”
“Ale for three, if you please.”
Léirsinn had heard rumors of the king’s ale, but thought it best not to give offense by refusing a cup of it as it was set in front of her. She braced herself for something truly vile and wasn’t disappointed. She also didn’t attempt to look at the king until she was certain what she’d imbibed wouldn’t come right back up and leave her spewing it all over the king’s tunic. Then again, given her recent history with the monarch, perhaps that would have been an improvement.
The dwarf-king glanced at his cook.
“Wine instead for the child,” he said mildly.
Léirsinn didn’t argue with either the term or the drink. She was happy to have something that might help her rid herself of the memory of the ale she’d forced down. Unfortunately, it did nothing to alleviate the discomfort she was feeling—and not just from the two liquids that had set up a sort of war in her belly. She made a valiant effort to avoid meeting the king’s gaze, she who had never once shied away from facing the fiercest of horses. The kitchen was full of interesting things to look at, thankfully, which gave her a moment or two to gather her reins and assess her situation.
She was out of her depth. It was less painful to admit than she feared. She was an ordinary woman with a good eye for horseflesh and a steady hand to use in training them. Her encounters with powerful men had been limited to the peers of her uncle, which likely said most everything needful about the character of those souls. The king of Durial would have sent her uncle into a faint simply by scowling at him.
But she would make a better showing, if possible, so she ventured a glance at the king. He seemed to be sizing her up as if she were a wall he thought he might like to chip away at and see what lay behind it. She supposed things could have been much worse, so she left him to it.
What was worse, however, was noticing the way that the magic frolicking in her veins called to the spell of death in her pocket. It also seemed to wrap itself around the charm lying against her breastbone in a way that made her wonder if the damned thing might burst into flames before long. Her only comfort was supposing that it would consume her as well and she might at least have some peace as a result.
