He gave her the same very small, mischievous smile she’d watched him attempt with his grandmother. Unlike Cruihniche of Fàs, however, she was anything but immune. She was rather thankful, all things considered, that she was sitting down.
“The better question is,” he said, “did the king catch me pinching any of his spells? The answer is, nay, he did not, though I’ll admit I ruthlessly took advantage of his having temporarily handed off his kingly topper to his eldest son for a bit whilst about the genteel work of recovering from some mighty piece of magic or other. That son, Prince Làidir, is loyal, conscientious, and never saw me hopping over his father’s proverbial garden fence to rummage about in the old rutabaga patch.”
She could just imagine. “Did you know his daughter?”
“Princess Sarait?” he asked. “Only well enough to say that she was far too good for my sire. I’m not sure why she wed him, though I suppose he can be charming when he needs to be. More than one mage has succumbed to his chumminess over supper only to regret it before sunrise as he was sent on his way without either his pocket money or his magic.”
She wished she could have dismissed it all, but unfortunately she knew better. “So, your father stole magic, and the mage you’re looking for steals souls, but is it the same thing?”
He looked up from what he’d been absently sketching in the margins of his map. “What a thought,” he said faintly. He looked off into nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t put one’s power and one’s soul into the same pot, so to speak, though in theory I suppose the end result is somewhat the same. I suppose the most we can be grateful for is that whilst my sire’s spell is perfected, this mage’s is not. Otherwise, as we’ve discussed before, we’d all be nothing but soulless husks.”
She watched him continue to draw mythical beasts along the edge of his map and wondered how many of them came from his imagination and how many he’d actually seen. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Your spell of death seems to have rounded up a few pieces of you.” she offered. “Funny that your mother suggested the same thing, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure that’s the word I would use, but aye, the whole thing is unnerving. I understand why she suggested it, but why is that damned thing trapped in the spell over my house when I’m able to walk through that same spell as if it weren’t there?”
“Not enough of your soul in its possession?”
“Does that sound as daft to you as it does to me?”
“I might not be the best person to ask about anything to do with magic,” she said honestly. “It all sounds daft to me.”
He set his pencil aside and rubbed his hands together. “Answer me this, then: Why are we seeing so many spots in so many locales and none in others?”
“Because there’s something there that he wants?”
“Agreed, but what? I’ve been looking at this damned map all morning and can’t find a single pattern that isn’t utter rubbish.”
She decided that he reminded her of a feisty, frustrated stallion who had spent too many days locked in a stall. What he needed, she suspected, was to get out and run, though she supposed he wouldn’t manage that. A distraction, though, wasn’t unthinkable.
“Let’s speak of something else,” she suggested. “Tell me the difference between essence changing and your grandmother’s spell. And remember that I think ’tis all foolishness.”
He rubbed the spot between his eyes, looking as if it pained him. “The changing of an essence is permanent whilst her spells are more like a flirtation with a change. Not permanent, though for a time the results are eerily similar.”
“Why have such a thing?” she asked.
“So you might pin a mage down and rifle through his pockets whilst he can only remain there, mute and furious?”
She laughed a little in spite of herself. “You’re an awful man. Do you never work for your gold?”
“I’m offended,” he said, sounding anything but. “I’ll have you know that the funds for the glorious hovel you’re sitting in came from a series of days full of honest labor. You might be surprised how much gold desperate monarchs are willing to pay for a finely crafted spell.”
“Is that true?” she asked skeptically.
“I never lie, as you know. The spells I created for my royal clients were, if I might say so, absolutely spectacular, even if they may or may not have come with an expiry date.”
She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. “You’re vile.”
“But charming, which you have to admit. There were no complaints and several offers of more commerce should I decide to take up the pitchfork down the road, if you know what I’m getting at. ’Tis tempting, given the location of this luxurious perch, to add a bit to my empire.”
“Where are we exactly?” she asked.
“The land was part of Wychweald, though I’m not sure that’s where it originated,” he said with a shrug. “There is a ruined shell of a hall up the way, so perhaps this belonged to that kingdom in times past. As to how I came by it, I went to King Stefan and bought it from him for an eye-watering price.”
“In spells or gold?”
He looked at her knowingly. “Both, and clever you for considering that. I was perhaps more fastidious than I needed to be about this place, but the gold was earned fairly and from less unsavory things than I might have otherwise created.”
