“You talk a great deal,” she whispered.
He shot her a quick smile he was certain she hadn’t seen, then bent to his work. He did indeed know several spells of healing, though it probably said more about him than he wanted it to that he didn’t use them all that often. He also knew more Fadaire than Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn would have been happy with, but he would offer an apology for that later.
Or not, more than likely. He suspected he might have used up a millennia’s worth of fawning words of regret in just the past half year alone.
He began the spell carefully, partly because he wasn’t entirely sure how much of the pain the spell would take away whilst doing its goodly work, and partly because the magic was beautiful and brought an undeniable peace along with it. He had used it before for a thing or two and found it coming reluctantly to his call. Perhaps that had something to do with his bloodright to Ehrne of Ainneamh’s magic, but he’d never cared to investigate that overmuch.
At the moment, however, Fadaire seemed to feel that having a few of its relatives lingering in the vicinity of his own black heart was reason enough to do his bidding. He spoke the final words and watched them fall softly onto Léirsinn’s arm. He could hear the faint echo of her bones knitting together, then watched as that elvish business worked its way out through her flesh and up not only her arm, but his. He sighed in spite of himself. Whatever King Sìle’s faults might have been, he was at least the guardian of a truly lovely magic.
He looked at Léirsinn to find her watching him with tears streaming down her face. He cleared his throat to cover his own emotion, only surprised that he didn’t cough out a handful of Fadairian sparkles as a result. Never mind any of his previously complimentary thoughts, the damned stuff was going to be the death of him some day.
Léirsinn moved her fingers, then pulled her arm from under his hand and held it up. She looked at him in astonishment.
“That’s healed,” she said faintly.
“You stepped between me and death,” he said easily. “Again, I wish you wouldn’t.”
“It has become a bad habit,” she agreed. “And look at what it got you. Your shirt is in shreds as well.”
“I’ll go find something else.” He rose. “Make as at home, of course.”
He decided to ignore the expression she was wearing, as if the words simply didn’t have any meaning for her.
Her uncle had many things to answer for.
He fetched something from the armoire in his bedchamber, then returned to the kitchens to find them empty. He ruthlessly ignored the panic that flashed through him and decided that the sooner he had food and a decent night’s sleep, the better.
He found Léirsinn by his front door. She hadn’t opened it; she was simply standing there, staring at it as if she couldn’t decide whether she should stay or go. He moved to lean against the wall opposite her.
“Thinking of bolting?” he asked mildly.
She looked at him in surprise. “I wasn’t, actually. I was just wondering why you had no lock. Then it occurred to me that you aren’t afraid someone will come in because you have…you know.”
“Magic?” he asked. “Aye. But it is what I do, isn’t it?”
She didn’t look particularly comforted. “What about the spell over your house?”
He considered what he might say to reassure her, but supposed none of it would matter. He knew what the spell was capable of because he’d made it so he might have one place in the wide, terrible world where he could sleep in peace. He also suspected that hearing about the inner workings of the magic involved would interest her as much as knowing the precise ingredients in Sianach’s supper might interest him.
“Oh,” he said with a shrug, “’tis just a little mixture of this and that. The frame is a spell I found lying about in, as irony would have it, Uachdaran of Léige’s forge, but the rest is just pedestrian stuff I’m not sure I could bring to mind.”
She only watched him, silently.
He suppressed the urge to shift uncomfortably. In the interest of continuing his slide into that warmish pile of virtue entitled Honesty, he had to admit he knew exactly what he’d put into the damned thing and could likely point out where each layer began and ended. What covered his house was elegant, direct, and fatal to anyone who thought to try to best it. It had occurred to him, no doubt during that same bit of thinking about how useful it would be to leave pieces of his power under various thrones and sofa cushions, that he might someday find himself with a need for a refuge. He’d constructed his spell with the caveat being that he would always be allowed through it with only his sweet self as the key.
Léirsinn’s having managed to contain that mysterious spell of death long enough for him to pull her through his arguably best piece of work was something he was going to have to think through a bit more. That said piece of foul magic now found itself trapped in the web of his own spell was something he would face after he’d poured himself something very strong to drink.
“Let’s just say it will hold,” he said finally.
“Not even Soilléir could breach it?”
“Well, now isn’t that an interesting question,” he said, reaching for her hand, “and one for which the answer is far more entertaining than you might expect. I’ll tell you all about it over supper.”
“A lock first?”
He realized quite suddenly that she was afraid. Hard on the heels of that came a terrible suspicion that she might be afraid ofhim. Perhaps what she’d seen in Uachdaran’s cavernous chamber had…well, he should have insisted that she leave.
He hadn’t, though, and there was nothing to be done but press on. He stood there for a moment or two, finding himself with a new appreciation for her ability to approach any horse no matter how skittish and leave it not bolting the other way. He carefully took a step closer to her and held out his hand toward her.
