“Horses?” Léirsinn managed.
The witchwoman of Fàs laughed a little. “I suppose there is that, but my riding days are over. I’m not opposed to a turn about the old place as an icy wind or a terrifying dream, but for the most part I’m happy to stay in my own shape and make mischief as I can. Miserable people put a spring in my step, so I like to help that sort of thing along whenever possible. As for the rest, the world continues to turn and I continue to watch.” She shrugged. “Trees seem to enjoy that, don’t you think?”
“What I think isn’t worth trying to repeat,” Léirsinn said, feeling a little faint. “How did you know what I saw?”
“You aren’t the only one who sees,” Mistress Fionne said archly, “and I do have a polished glass, gel.”
“You frighten me.”
“And we’re back to where we started,” Acair’s mother said pleasantly. “What do you see in my son?”
“Good manners and a flawless face.”
“You know from where he gets those, but that wasn’t what I was talking about. Have you peered into his soul?”
“Unwillingly,” Léirsinn admitted. She thought about how she’d seen Acair in the king of Neroche’s garden, standing in the moonlight in all his terrible beauty, with his soul so perfectly balanced between light and dark she half feared the slightest breath would destroy him. She looked at his mother. “I saw him in the gardens of Tor Neroche as I stepped in one of those spots—or after, perhaps. I can’t remember. I’m not sure I can adequately describe the vision.”
“I’m not sure he would care to hear it,” Mistress Fionne said frankly, “but you might tell him just the same to vex him.” She took the book about Gair and rose. “You’re new at all this business, so I wouldn’t worry.”
“I’m not sure this is anything I want to be involved in, even if I knew what this was,” Léirsinn said seriously.
“A quest, lass,” Mistress Fionne said, “or weren’t you told?”
Léirsinn wasn’t sure she could adequately respond to that, so she settled for simply gaping at Acair’s mother.
Mistress Fionne rested her elbow atop a stall door and looked at her seriously. “Gel, I would hazard a guess that there’s been a lad or two from the noble rabble who’s marched off into the darkness whilst wondering why they were where they were.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Most of those Heroes you read about have their heads full of rocks. Pretty, but not all that bright, if you know what I’m getting at. As to your purpose, I’d say you’re not here by chance, but I’m not much of a believer in coincidence.” She paused. “Speaking of things to look at, I’d like a peek at the charm you wear.”
Léirsinn put her hand over her heart before she thought better of it. “How do you know?”
“Because I can see it burning through your tunic, that’s how.” Acair’s mother paused. “That and I had a wee chat with my aunt Cailleach recently and she said she’d given it to you. Her gifts are very powerful.”
Léirsinn decided abruptly that she didn’t particularly want to know how and when those two women had met over tea. She pulled the charm out from under her shirt and started to ease the leather cord over her head, but Mistress Fionne stopped her.
“No need for me to get too close to that.”
Léirsinn didn’t want to admit that her hand was trembling, so she ignored it. “Why not?”
Acair’s mother looked at her with eyes that were so clear and knowing, Léirsinn almost flinched.
“Because it would likely burn me to cinders.” She peered at it, then pulled back. “Cailleach never gives anything away, as you know by now. That she gave you this is unusual.”
“It was very kind.”
Mistress Fionne snorted. “That isn’t the word I would use, but I’m more cynical than most.” She looked at the charm once more, then shook her head. “’Tis true that you have no magic, girl, but you will breathe fire.”
“With respect, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“If I told you what I saw . . . well, in your case, you’d likely just march on ahead without taking my advice, so why should I offer it?”
Because she was a witch, apparently, and likely knew all sorts of things that might be useful to know. Léirsinn would have asked her to divulge a tidbit or two, but it was too late. The woman reached out and stroked Sianach’s nose, complimenting him lavishly on his propensity to nibble on her son, then walked off humming something that was so terribly out of tune, Léirsinn almost flinched.
She followed more slowly, then paused by Acair’s horse. She stroked his face as well, then found herself completely overtaken by the memory of another hand on a different horse’s forelock. That hand had belonged to the king of the elves—one group of them, actually—who had healed her stallion Falaire of an arrow wound that she was certain had slain him.
Acair’s mother had used a different sort of magic the night before on Mansourah’s arm, but it seemed to have worked equally well.
It was odd, that healing magic.
She leaned against the stall door and allowed herself to consider other things she hadn’t wanted to before. Her grandfather’s illness, for instance. It had come upon him suddenly and left him nothing more than a shell of his former self. It had been so devastating to her as a girl that she’d accepted it without looking for a possible cause, but when she’d told the tale to Acair, he had been convinced a foul magic had been to blame.
She wondered if a less-foul magic might reverse that.
She suspected she might be in the right place to find that out. The witchwoman of Fàs couldn’t be heard any longer, but she had no doubt stridden off to do something Léirsinn was certain she wouldn’t want to know about. She stroked Sianach’s cheek, reminded him to behave himself, then took herself off to see if there might be anyone else with answers for her.
What she found instead was the son of a witch leaning negligently against a sturdy fence post, his nose buried in a small book and a frown marring his perfect brow. She stopped in the middle of the yard partly because for the first time ever she was wearing boots that completely repelled the snow, but mostly because seeing Acair of Ceangail generally resulted in that sort of stopping.
Bad mage he might have been, the sunlight didn’t seem to mind him. It fell from the sky, lightly touched his hair on the way down, then lovingly wrapped itself around him.
She wondered if stepping in that pool of shadow had not only ruined her sight but damaged any last vestiges of her good sense as well. She had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to snort, mostly because she could hear Sianach indulging in a bit of equine laughter behind her and she suspected that pony could read her thoughts.