He took a deep breath. “When a mage uses black magic,” he said slowly, “he loses a part of his soul in the bargain.”
She poured herself a bit more tea, then held up the pot with a questioning look. He shook his head and waved her on to her libation. She sipped, then sat back.
“What a fascinating observation,” she said, looking at him as if she were sorely disappointed in his cleverness. She waited, then made a noise of impatience. “I can’t believe you don’t see the connection.”
He couldn’t either, but it had been a very long fall to which he suspected he would add an even longer winter. He was definitely not at his best.
“Connection?” he ventured.
She threw a tea towel at him. “Those damned spots, Acair! Have you forgotten so quickly what they do?”
“I hadn’t, but that doesn’t follow,” he said, grasping desperately for anything useful to say. “Léirsinn didn’t lose a part of her soul when she stepped in one.”
“Well, the feisty little wench certainly lost her peace, didn’t she?” She looked at him sharply. “Have you not talked to her about what happened that night?”
“I haven’t had the courage,” he said honestly. “Nor the time, actually. We’ve been too busy with fleeing from those who want me dead to have a proper chat about anything else.”
“You might want to make time for it.”
He stared at a biscuit hiding behind the teapot, not because he was hungry but because he was trying to give himself time to digest what she’d said. He finally gave up and looked at her.
“So,” he began carefully, “what you’re saying is that those spots are black magery?”
She lifted a shoulder slightly. “I’m not saying anything. I’m simply making an observation.”
He tried a different tack. “You said I needed to go find parts of my soul that I’ve traded for the glorious pieces of business I’ve seen to over the years. Why?”
She shrugged and sipped.
He shifted to another spot on the metaphorical chessboard for a different direction from which to attack. “Are you telling me that I don’t have enough soul to see to this quest?” he asked, trying to dredge up as much offended dignity as he could muster.
“I’m not saying anything,” she said with a snort. “You have an annoying habit of putting words in others’ mouths.”
“I like to get right to the point.”
She shook her head. “You are an insufferable little clot, but very skilled at reading between the lines.”
“That’s because my mother never says anything,” he said pointedly.
“And where would be the sport in that?” she said with a smile that sent a shiver down his spine. “I would never see you at all if I didn’t give you some reason to pop in and out every now and again to remind me just how clever you are.”
He leaned his elbows on her table and looked at her seriously. “I am that insufferable, I’ll admit it.”
“Yet here you sit at my table, unpoisoned.” She shrugged. “You might want to consider the condition of the field before you march into the fray.”
“The field and my own stash of weapons?”
“As I said.”
He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her. “Mother, I don’t need to tell you that trying to even bring to mind all the places I’ve perpetrated mischief would be impossible.”
“Perhaps just the most egregious pieces of it, then.”
He was tempted to laugh, but it occurred to him that he could think of several places that would qualify for that. They happened to coincide quite nicely with places he didn’t want to go, peopled by rulers and whatnot he absolutely preferred to avoid encountering without his magic to hand.
He shot that damned spell leaning negligently against the hearth a dark look, just on principle.
“It seems very protective of you.”
Acair blinked. “What?”
“Your lanky companion there,” she clarified. “It tutted at me this morning when I considered dropping a gilded volume of Nerochian heroic lays on your head whilst you slept.”
“You could have killed me with that pompous trumpeting of their imaginary deeds.”
“Indeed I could have.” She picked her knitting back up and shot him a very brief smile. “But you’ve such a handsome face, I couldn’t bring myself to mar it.”
He grunted at her, because he hardly knew how to respond to that. He watched her knit for quite a while before he finally managed to chase down the thought that had scampered across his mind when she’d first brought up the business of the day. He had another sip of tea, then set his cup down before he dropped it.
“So,” he said slowly, “since we agree that the purpose of those spots of shadow is to steal souls—at least for the most part—am I to assume you believe there is a particular mage behind the laying of those spots about?”
She leveled a look at him that had him smiling in spite of himself.
“I’m wearing another man’s boots, Mother. I’m not at my best.”
“That shouldn’t affect your wits, Acair.”
He hoped it would be only boots he would lose before the entire thing was set to rights. “Then let me rephrase. Who do you have in mind for the starring role in this drama?”
She paused in the middle of her row, looked about her as if to make certain she was alone, then leaned forward. “It is rumored that to say his name is bad luck—”
“That’s Mochriadhemiach of Neroche,” Acair said promptly. “I say his name all the time and look at me.” He held open his arms. “Still breathing.”
“And incapable of using your magic.”
“That isn’t little Miach’s fault, but I digress. Go on.”
She had to knit a bit longer before she apparently found the wherewithal to voice her opinion. “I could be very mistaken about this, of course. This man dropped out of tales hundreds of years ago, though I’ve heard . . . well—”
“Please don’t hesitate on my account,” he said when it looked as if she might not finish.
She considered, then shook her head. “I could be daft.”
“Mother, of all the things anyone might call you, daft is not on the list.” He tried to smile, but he feared it had come out as more of a grimace.
She sighed deeply. “Very well, if my memory hasn’t completely failed me, the mage I’m thinking of went by the name of Sladaiche. He was born, if the tales are accurate, in a place that once rivaled Bruadair for beauty. The country, small as it was, doesn’t exist any longer, but you could look for it in an archive perhaps.” She paused, then shook her head. “I think it best to keep the true placename to myself.”
He felt a shiver go down his spine. Even his spellish companion had sunk down on a stool there by the hearth, where it commenced gnawing on its fingernails in fright. Acair shot it a warning look, then turned back to his mother. He supposed it would take a decent amount of digging to find a name for that sort of place, though he wasn’t afraid to look. At the very least, he could bring to mind a pair of locales that might have spewed forth such a lad.
“His name means thief in his language,” she said absently, “though he has used different names through the centuries—”