He spared the briefest of moments to be gratified that his mother would have expected nothing less of him, then permitted himself a shudder at the memory.
“I felt as if a part of my soul had been torn from me,” he said. “I managed to wrench myself free, but it was absolutely excruciating.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t repeat the experience for anything, though I think it’s been different for others. I’ve heard there are those who seem to crave a tussle with the damned things.”
She studied him. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who told you that.”
“I vowed I wouldn’t.”
“And I vow I don’t recognize you. You’d best get through this year quickly lest you lose yourself entirely.” She tapped her pencil against her notebook thoughtfully. “So, lest you sully your vaunted code by a bit of dishing with your mum, let me state it for you: you’re here to try to find out who might have created both the spots and that thing in the corner.”
“That was my plan,” he agreed.
“You also needed a place to hide for a bit.”
“I’m not above accepting aid,” he conceded.
She studied him for a lengthy moment. “I have wood that needs chopping.”
“Done.”
“And a roof that needs to be patched.”
He took a deep breath. “I’ll put a whip to Mansourah.”
“That delightful prince of Neroche will be too busy for that sort of rough labor, so I’ll find a hammer for you.” She stuck her pencil back in her hair, slipped her notebook into her pocket, and pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll give your tangle a bit of thought.” She hesitated, then looked at him seriously. “I wouldn’t step in any more of those spots, were I you.”
“Excellent advice.”
She continued to chew on her words before she finally shook her head as she headed for the door. “I’d keep my companions out of them as well, but that’s just me. Giving, always giving, am I.”
“Indeed, you are,” he agreed.
He watched her go, then considered that last piece of advice. He hadn’t asked the particulars, but he wondered what Léirsinn had experienced when she’d backed into one of the damned things in Miach of Neroche’s kitchen garden. Well, he knew what he’d heard, which was the sound of her screams, as terror-filled as if she’d peered into the pit of hell itself. She hadn’t volunteered details and he’d honestly been too weak-kneed to ask her.
That had to stop, truly. He was a damned fine black mage, ruthless in his schemes, and absolutely relentless in pursuing the delights provided by stirring up trouble. Too much more time spent looking out for others and he would completely lose himself in that vat of stickiness labeled Do-Gooding.
He opened the book his mother had handed him and had another, more leisurely look at it. He imagined she’d kept it under her pillow simply because she’d known he would come looking for it—it was something he would have done, which meant he’d likely learned it from her—but now that he had it in his hands, he honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to see what it contained.
Then again, as he’d had to recently remind himself, he wasn’t a coward. He was hungry, however, and he’d apparently spent most of the morning unconscious on his mother’s library floor, so it was obviously past time he went to see if Léirsinn was safe and whole. Surely, though, he would be forgiven a quick visit to his mother’s stewpot first.
He tucked his book under his arm and made his way back toward the Greater Parlor, a room that was hardly ever used for anyone less than those of royal blood. It was tempting to trot right on past so as not to be privy to the carnage, but unfortunately his curiosity was simply too strong to be resisted. He peered around the corner and assessed the situation.
Mansourah of Neroche was currently sitting on the fancy divan that his mother reserved for the use of those she truly wanted to impress. He was flanked by none other than Acair’s own cousins, Mòday and Mùirne of Cael. Acair didn’t like to speak ill of women, but those two there were trouble. They singly had a cache of spells that should have given that prissy prince pause, but together? Acair would have hesitated to meet them both in a deserted ballroom.
Mansourah shot him a look of pure pleading. Acair was momentarily moved by it, but alas, he had things on his plate that demanded his attention. He shrugged helplessly, held up his hands in a further gesture of helplessness lest the first have been lost on that dolt there trembling into his teacup, then made a hasty exit stage left before either tears or spells erupted.
He paused in the middle of his mother’s main passageway, though perhaps terming it that was giving it a grander title than it deserved. The house was modest, cluttered, and simply saturated with spells. Then again, it was his mother and she tended to get a bit distracted whilst about her work of keeping a detailed and completely disinterested history of the world. He couldn’t say he blamed her for setting spells of ward to keep herself safe. The spells of death she collected like others might collect figurines were, he knew, just for the amusement of watching powerful mages squawk and beg for mercy when they ran afoul of them.
He was beginning to suspect he had inherited quite a bit of her less savoury side.
He nipped into the kitchen for a quick bite and a drink of something he hoped wouldn’t kill him. He then managed to elude what was at her front door only because he tossed a coat out first to test the waters, as it were. His mother’s spell fell upon it, giving him the chance to duck out to the side. His own spellish companion exited with him, then paused to face off with his mother’s spell. Surprising, that, but nothing he wanted to investigate further. He left them to it and darted around the side of the house.
He noted the enormous nature of the woodpile there in the distance, then promptly ignored it in favor of carrying on toward his mother’s modest set of stalls. That she didn’t own horses had never deterred her from always being prepared for them. He suspected Léirsinn was likely there, conspiring with his pony. He paused and considered the possibility that perhaps she was teaching the beast a few manners, something that definitely needed to be seen to. Perhaps leaving them to it for a bit wouldn’t be unthinkable.
He leaned against a part of his mother’s house that didn’t look as if it had been plastered with faery sugar, then decided the shadows of her house were too much like the shadows he was trying to avoid. He found a spot in a goodly bit of sunshine, leaned against a fence post, then took his book and considered things he hadn’t before it.