He hoped Gair of Ainneamh, Camanaë, Ceangail, and half a dozen other places the man had claimed as home over the centuries had a perfect view of his shatteringly boring surroundings down there in that barren country of Shettlestoune, no matter the time of day.
He let out his breath slowly and pushed aside those thoughts. In truth, he tended not to think on his sire overmuch, mostly because it was a perfect waste of energy that could be better used being about his usual business of making the world a better place.
Which, as it happened, he was in the process of doing at that very moment. Léirsinn was safely ensconced in her chamber with Master Ollamh watching over her whilst the usual trio of the king’s guardsmen was standing post. The king was no doubt looking over his mounds of gems and heaps of vile spells and deciding which pile to count first. He himself had put on his best manners and most trustworthy expression to secure an hour of liberty in the king’s library, admittedly accompanied by the stern injunction not to let anything stray into his pockets.
That last bit he found rather insulting. As with most everything else in Léige, the king’s books were too large and heavy to be stuffed in any pocket he possessed.
He supposed he might have put the king’s mind at ease by assuring him that what he wanted to think about was not things that might topple thrones and ruin the peace of various Heroes, but rather the endless parade of horrors he’d seen in the king’s lists the night before—though he supposed those things weren’t mutually exclusive.
He was beginning to understand why Uachdaran of Léige was rarely invited to gatherings put on by workers of more fastidious magic.
He leaned against the window casement and thought back over the king’s spells. He’d memorized everything flung his way, of course, with an exactness that might have even impressed his admittedly impossible-to-impress sire. Cataloging the offerings presently was a bit more difficult.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t familiar in a general sense with Durialian magic. He had nicked a pair of the dwarf-king’s finest over the years, intriguing spells of forcing things to reveal what they didn’t want to and making light where light shouldn’t have been possible. After what he’d seen the night before, however, he was beginning to suspect that those spells had been deliberately left out in the open for any sticky-fingered guests whilst the true business of the kingdom had remained hidden.
The other truth he’d accepted, midway through fending off yet another volley of things that seemed to want to turn him into solid rock only after having smothered him by degrees, was that he’d been far too casual during his previous forays into Uachdaran of Léige’s solar. If the king had been brandishing the goods without his usual hesitation the night before, who knew what else might be found with a bit of digging?
As he had noted to himself more than once, dwarvish magic didn’t include any niceties or polite how-do-you-dos before smashing through defenses and dispensing whatever was necessary to do their business. Whilst he himself preferred a bit of finesse and refinement in his engagements, there were certainly times when it might be easier to simply come to the point of things right off. The king had shown him many tempting morsels. Spells of illumination, spells of containment, spells of stripping away all the dross to leave the true prize? Dazzling, truly. It might be time to have another look and see what the king had stuffed under his own sofa cushions.
The last thing that almost had him scratching his head was where that moody swain, Aonarach of Léige, had come by that spell of…he hardly knew what to call it. Not magic thievery, surely. He was very familiar with the peerless example of the same that his sire had created. It had been, if he dared venture into the darkness farther than even he might be comfortable going, a damned sight too close to what his grandmother had scribbled in Léirsinn’s book. Not essence changing in the traditional sense, as he’d decided earlier, but definitely essence meddling.
A terribly intoxicating if not perilous bit of business, to be sure.
If Aonarach had dug that up in Durial, though, heaven only knew what else was lying about the kingdom just waiting for the right mage to come along and have a wee rummage about the old campfire and see what was lingering there in the ashes—
“There’s something out there.”
He stopped himself before he pitched into the heavy glass window. That was something that was going to change right off, that business of being caught off guard. He looked to his left to find the thoroughly unlikable product of dwarvish royalty and elvish princess standing there, looking at him from half-lidded eyes.
“But I don’t imagine you need me to tell you that,” Aonarach added, resting his shoulder against the opposite side of the window and apparently settling in for a proper chat. “I’m curious about what you’ve seen.”
Acair would have told the lad tartly to mind his own affairs, but he simply couldn’t bring to mind an appropriately nasty way to do so. The truth was, the man standing next to him made him uncomfortable. That was saying something because there were just so few disreputable sorts that he didn’t care to rub shoulders with.
The why, however, was what caused him a rather significant amount of discomfort. It wasn’t the man’s arrogance, which he appreciated, or his stinging wit, which was admirable, or even his command of truly disgusting spells, which even Cruihniche of Fàs might have found worthy of a second look. It was that gaping hole he could see—metaphorically speaking, of course—lingering over Aonarach’s heart. It was all he could do at present not to reach out and give the lad a brusque embrace whilst assuring him everything would no doubt turn out for the best.
Appalling.
He pulled back from that abyss of do-gooding before he slipped over the edge yet again and turned his attention to a more pressing need which was to find out where the lad had been nosing about for tricks of the old trade.
“Let’s discuss spells instead,” he suggested. “Where did you come by the one you used last night?”
The king’s grandson lifted one of his shoulders in something of a shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Well, there was a word for that sort of horsing about and Acair used it without hesitation.
Aonarach smiled. “Language, my lord Acair. You’ll offend my delicate sensibilities and then where will we be?”
“Outside your grandfather’s gates where you’ll find me in a far less forgiving mood than you find me at present,” Acair said evenly.
“You can’t have what you want from me if I’m too dead to give it to you.”
Acair was fairly certain he’d had the same sort of thing spat his way more than once in the past, but that wasn’t enough to put him off the scent at present.
“You might be surprised,” Acair assured him.
Aonarach only shook his head, continuing to smile. “No need for threats. The truth is that I was scouting along our western border and eavesdropped on my grandfather and your grandmother having a chat.”
“Hurling spells at each other, you mean.”
