Feeling that things were likely as peaceful as they were going to get, she ventured a look around. There was a house to her right; that much she could tell by the light streaming out the open front door. A woman who looked remarkably like a slightly younger incarnation of Cailleach of Cael stood there, apparently waiting for company to arrive.
Léirsinn left Sianach to his own devices, then helped Mansourah up into a sitting position. He cradled his arm against his gut and shivered.
“We’ve arrived,” he said.
Léirsinn didn’t dare ask any details, so she kept her hand on his back and wondered if it might leave her looking cowardly if she used him as something to hide behind.
“I understand the witchwoman of Fàs has spells at all her doorways,” he murmured, sounding as if he very much wished to avoid encountering any of them. “I suppose if I offer to share secrets of state with her, she won’t slay us.”
Léirsinn found that her mouth was suddenly quite dry and it had nothing to do with hours of, er, flying. “Do you think so?” she managed.
“I have no idea, actually,” he said. “The rumors of her magic are many and terrifying.”
“Worse than her son’s?”
He glanced at her. “I’m not sure I’m equal to comparing the two, actually, but I would say they are definitely cut from the same cloth.”
That’s what she was afraid of. “Then how do we proceed?”
“I’ll make introductions and we’ll hope for the best.”
Léirsinn wasn’t sure there was anything else to be done, so she nodded and helped Mansourah get to his feet. She hardly flinched at all as their dragon jumped up in the shape of his own surly equine self, but it had been that sort of day so far. She pulled Mansourah’s good arm over her shoulders, then walked with him across the front yard toward a woman who was watching them with only mild interest.
Acair’s mother had no witchly wand to hand, but perhaps she didn’t need sticks to do her business with.
The resemblance to Mistress Cailleach, the fishwife she knew in Sàraichte, was uncanny. To learn that Cailleach was not the ordinary old woman selling her wares Léirsinn had believed her to be but instead a witch had been ridiculous.
That Acair’s mother was Cailleach’s niece and therefore possessed a full complement of otherworldly skills was absolutely believable.
Mansourah made the woman a low bow and almost went pitching forward onto his face for his trouble. Léirsinn hauled him back upright and steadied him. Mansourah coughed a time or two, then carefully inclined his head.
“Mistress Fionne of Fàs,” he said faintly, “if I might introduce myself—”
“No need for that, young prince of Neroche,” the woman said. “I know who you are.”
“Then my companion—”
“I know who she is as well.”
Léirsinn had no idea what one was supposed to do when making the acquaintance of a reputed witch, but she decided a brief curtsey couldn’t go wrong. Acair’s mother lifted her eyebrows briefly, then looked her over from head to toe.
“Hmmm,” was apparently the result of that looking.
“That’s your son’s horse,” Léirsinn said quickly, hoping that might help them curry a bit of favor. “Your son, Acair.”
The witchwoman of Fàs made a noise of disgust. “The little rotter. He never writes, never comes to visit. I’m left to gather tales of his mischief-making from other, less reliable sources.”
“That must be a terrible disappointment,” Mansourah managed. “I can assure you, Mistress Fionne, that he has done you proud out in the great wide world. He has left a trail of vile deeds and terrible spells from one end of the Nine Kingdoms to the other.”
The witchwoman of Fàs considered that for a moment or two, then nodded. “I’m interested in the more notable escapades as always, even given secondhand.” She turned toward her house. “Bring in the young prince of Neroche, my wee horse miss. We’ll see to his arm by the fire.”
Léirsinn didn’t bother to ask the woman how she had any idea where she’d passed the greater part of her life, mostly because she didn’t want to know. Acair’s mother was welcome to her speculations and their uncanny accuracy.
She squeezed Mansourah’s arm. “Don’t faint.”
“I’m very near to it,” he said, looking as if that might be the case. “Keep your fingers crossed that she doesn’t slay us the moment we cross her threshold.”
“At the moment, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a relief,” Léirsinn said half under her breath. She smiled briefly at Mansourah. “I don’t mean it, of course. I’m happy to clip you under the chin, if you’d rather face the rest of the evening senseless.”
“It would be the kindest thing you could do—and I have to assume you didn’t learn that from me.”
“Life in a barn has its perils.”
She didn’t care to describe them and he didn’t ask her what they were. That might have been because he was trying to stay on his feet. She followed Acair’s mother into her house, trying not to look around as desperately as she wanted to, and stopped at the entrance to a modest but comfortably appointed kitchen. There was a round table precisely in the center of the room, with a large hearth to one side of it and cupboards and other things to the right. The witchwoman of Fàs pulled out a chair at the table and nodded.
“Over here, lad, and let’s have a look at what ails you. Léirsinn, there’s drink on the sideboard. Let’s have something very strong.”
Léirsinn wasn’t sure when Acair’s mother had learned her name, but she set that aside as something she likely wouldn’t ask about later. She helped Mansourah sit, then went to look through the bottles huddling a healthy distance away from bowls, platters, and a collection of shiny knives.
Ye gads, as Acair would have said, what had she gotten herself into?
“Nay, gel, don’t linger at the task,” the witchwoman of Fàs said briskly. “Bring me that amber bottle. ’Twas a gift from the current ruler of An-uallach. Not the best-tasting whisky in the world, but very efficient for our current business.”
Léirsinn found the correct bottle, fetched a glass, then poured a substantial amount. She set it in front of Mansourah and supposed he would drink it when he thought best.
“You should sit as well, dearie,” the witchwoman of Fàs said absently. “Don’t want you falling into the fire.”
Léirsinn sat, because it seemed like a very sensible thing to do. She didn’t argue when Mansourah pushed his glass toward her. She had a healthy sip, then wished she hadn’t. The whisky burned all the way down her throat to then set up a robust bonfire in her gut. She had to admit, though, that she felt slightly less anxious than she had but a moment before, so perhaps that was all she could ask for. She handed the glass back to Mansourah with a shrug. He closed his eyes briefly, drank, then gasped for a bit until he could apparently breathe again.
“You’re handsome,” the witchwoman of Fàs observed, “but a bit of a gel when it comes to strong drink.”
“Have you tasted that bilge?” Mansourah wheezed.