“What madness is that?” Mansourah croaked.
Acair squatted down in front of him because he thought it might terrify the lad less if he did so. “Enspell that with whatever rot you use for healing, wrap it around yourself, and let’s be off.”
Mansourah looked utterly confused. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Take a spell,” Acair said slowly, “infuse it into this piece of rather fine weave my sister gifted me, then add a bit of your own power so it stands on its own. Put it over your arm and there you have your cure. Unless you haven’t any idea how to do the same, which is what I suspect.”
Mansourah glared at him. “I’m no neophyte.”
“You’re worse,” Acair said briskly, “because you’ve no idea just how much you don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand it,” Léirsinn said. She looked down at Acair and shrugged. “I don’t believe it either, but you already knew that.”
Acair did and at the moment, he had no time to attempt to convince her otherwise. He rose and looked down at Mansourah.
“I cannot heal you, nor can Léirsinn, so you’ll have to do it yourself. This is all I can think of on short notice.”
“You want me to take some of my power and put it on that strip of linen?” Mansourah asked blankly.
“Have you never done this before?” Acair asked, finding himself genuinely astonished.
“Why would I need to?”
Acair opened his mouth to make a list of several reasons why a man might want to keep a goodly amount of his treasure far from where he slept, then he reminded himself with whom he was dealing. Mansourah of Neroche had likely never had a subversive thought in his life, so why would he need to prepare for that sort of contingency?
“Because, my young friend,” Acair said, “there might come a day when you are skulking about where you shouldn’t be, keeping your magic under wraps to avoid detection, and the ability to fling a bit of distraction or mayhem in the direction of your enemies might save your life. Or heal your arrow-grasping arm, which I’m assuming is the one you shattered.”
Mansourah shut his mouth around whatever it was he had obviously planned to say—Acair couldn’t imagine it had been polite—then took a deep breath.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll attempt it.”
He wove a very sturdy, businesslike spell of healing over the cloth, then stopped short. He stared at the cloth at his feet for several moments, then looked up.
“I haven’t got a bloody clue what to do now. How do you do it? Why can you do it?”
Acair looked at him evenly. “’Tis all that black magery, my boy,” he said. “I’m accustomed to leaving bits of my soul behind, or isn’t that common knowledge?”
Mansourah looked a bit unwell. “I didn’t think.”
“Most people don’t.” He blew out his breath, then realized he didn’t have a bloody clue how to explain to that man-child there how one went about trading parts of one’s essence for power. Soilléir likely could have waxed rhapsodic about the whole business for hours on end, but the thought of that was enough to leave Acair wanting to flee. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure how he did it either, something he might need to remedy if he were to leave behind important notes for the betterment of the world.
“I could set it,” Léirsinn offered quietly, “though I think it would be best if we could escape the city first.” She paused. “Just in case.”
Acair understood what she was getting at and thoroughly agreed. Mansourah looked as though he might soon become senseless, and they were, as it happened, still within a city full of mages who weren’t setting the table for a friendly evening of supper and cards.
He looked at the wounded prince of Neroche. “We’ll have to escape first. Your Highness, if you can stand?”
Mansourah might have been a fool, but he wasn’t stupid. He accepted a hand to his feet, then didn’t spurn the offer of a shoulder to use as a crutch. Acair looked at Léirsinn from around Mansourah’s chalky visage and nodded.
“We’ll make for the barn and collect my horse. After that, we’ll make do.”
“Where are we headed?” Mansourah wheezed.
“Somewhere safe.”
Mansourah grunted. “You’re off on the hunt for another book you can’t fetch, aren’t you?”
“Aye and this one is cunningly hidden in my mother’s library behind The Noble History of Heroes from Neroche, which I imagine is covered with at least an inch of dust. My offering will have remained undisturbed, I assure you.”
“Your mother’s library,” Mansourah gasped. “I should slay you for suggesting the same. Save us all a great deal of trouble.”
“Your code forbids your slaying a defenseless man.”
“You aren’t a defenseless man, you’re a damned black mage with a reputation almost as vile as your sire’s—”
“Almost?” Acair huffed. “I’m insulted.”
“And still breathing, something I would like to remedy.”
“What surprises me is that you’re still talking,” Acair said, though he was rather relieved by that fact. Whatever else their failings might have been, those lads from Neroche were cut from sturdy cloth. Acair could bring to mind several very dangerous mages who would sit on the edge of the closest flowerpot and weep over a hangnail.
He pulled up short at the sight of the gates squatting there in front of him, sooner than he’d expected. He propped Mansourah up against a wall, then peered around the corner at the stables. Léirsinn looked over his shoulder and caught her breath.
“Mages,” she said.
He smiled in spite of himself. “You’ve become suspicious.”
“At any other time,” she murmured, “I would have thought them only ordinary travelers. Tonight, I find myself looking at any man hiding behind the shadows of a hood with a jaundiced eye and an immediate suspicion of their potential for magic-making.”
“Very wise,” Acair agreed, then hardly managed to catch himself before Mansourah’s hand on his shoulder almost sent him sprawling.
“Your sort of lads?” Mansourah said hoarsely.
“They could only dream of it,” Acair said without hesitation. “It does present something of a problem for me at the moment, however, given that I’m not at liberty to engage them.”
“I could try to attract their notice, then lead them astray.”
“Subversion,” Acair said approvingly. “Look at you, lad, walking in less than fastidious paths.”
“Crawling along them, you mean,” Mansourah said faintly. “I’m not sure what would be left of me if I shapechanged at the moment.” He leaned heavily on Acair’s shoulder. “You certainly disturbed a few unpleasant sorts here.”
“I’m beginning to think so,” Acair agreed. More interesting still would be finding out who those men were, but he supposed that pleasure would need to wait for a bit.
“How fast can your pony go?” Mansourah asked.
Acair glanced at his wounded companion. “Faster than a princess of Meith running from tidings of your arrival to court her.”