“Rigaud of Neroche is an ass who careens from one fashion disaster to another, apparently unable to find a polished looking glass,” Acair said without hesitation. “I’m far more interested in all the lovely things you’ll say about me.”
She would have thought he had begun to take himself just a bit too seriously, but he had taken her hand in both his own and was stroking the back of it in much the same way she would have soothed a frightened pony.
She strove to match his light tone. “Your ruthlessness was terrifying.”
“And all is right with the world,” he said in satisfaction. “What else?”
“I’ve forgotten,” she lied.
He looked a bit startled. “Is my power failing? Am I rusting from the innards out?”
“Nay, you seemed to be in perfectly foul condition, but what do I know? Now, if you had thrush, I might be able to discuss that with you for hours on end.”
He shot her a disgruntled look, which she appreciated. He obviously knew she wasn’t telling him the entire tale, but he didn’t press her and she didn’t volunteer anything. She wasn’t going to be responsible for sending him in a direction he might regret. If he didn’t already realize what was hiding in his own soul, she would have been surprised.
“I think my feet are fine,” he said slowly, “but I thank you for the consideration. As long as my power seemed to be not leaching out of me, I’m content.”
She nodded, then looked at her hand in his for longer than perhaps she needed to. It was better that than remembering how he had looked in the garden at Tor Neroche, standing there in all his terrible, undeniable power.
She was no coward, however, and she couldn’t put off any longer facing the things she needed to. If that meant acknowledging things that made her uncomfortable, so be it. “Do you see?” she asked him.
He looked at her reluctantly. “See?”
“You know.” She waved her hand negligently, gesturing at she hadn’t a clue what. “Things.”
He sighed. “I can see those damnable spots of shadow, as well as spells and whatnot that others feel compelled to send my way. I’m not as skilled at seeing things about people, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He looked at her. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
She groped for a way to avoid answering that, but in the end all she could do was return his look. “I’m admitting to nothing.”
“And why would you? Surely it is enough to be rendered speechless by the perfection of my form and visage and that is definitely all you should admit to lest you cause a stampede of angry misses and mavens, come to trample you for delights they are sadly denied.”
“Acair, please stop.”
“Ah, how I love to hear my name said in such dulcet tones.” He squeezed her hand briefly. “I’ll humor you in this and we’ll carry on with less interesting things. As for what we’re discussing but not discussing, the ability to See is something that comes as a bloodright.” He nodded at her. “We discussed that sort of business in Ehrne of Ainneamh’s dungeon, if you remember.”
“I’m trying to forget,” she said.
“I can’t say I blame you,” he agreed. He looked out over his mother’s backyard, then shook his head. “To be honest, I’m not sure bloodright applies as neatly with this. Normally, magic that finds home in your blood allows you to use spells that are your reward for putting up with your vexatious relations—”
“But with enough power, you can use whatever suits you,” she finished skeptically. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“By a very wise man,” he agreed. “With Seeing, though, you could have all the power in the world and you still wouldn’t do so properly unless it came from your own blood. There are those who possess the ability to see, of course—elves, dwarves, the odd local sorceress with something unusual sitting perched in her family tree—but that’s a quotidian sort of business. Those who actually See, well, that’s something else.”
“Is there that much difference?”
“Do you want to know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I understand that for those who have it as their bloodright,” he continued mercilessly, “’tis heady stuff. Dreamspinners can see the fabric of the world, or so I hear. Those lads and lassies from Cothromaiche are the most cheeky of all, for they can see what a soul’s made of.”
“Can you do this Seeing?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not in the purest sense of it. My father is the son of an elven prince and wizardess of terrible power, both of whom you’ve met. Toss my mother’s heritage onto the pile and there you have what I’m capable of. Nothing to rival that busybody from Cothromaiche, I’m sorry to admit, but enough to get by.”
“Meaning you can pick bugs out of your veg in the dark?”
He smiled. “Something like that.” He looked at her. “I understand for some ’tis a bit like having a layer of wool removed from over one’s eyes. You might have an opinion on that.”
“I’m too refined to voice it.” If she were too unnerved to swallow properly as well, that was her business.
“And so you are. For all I know, ’tis all rubbish and I know nothing of it.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Why do you ask?”
“I didn’t see any spots of shadow in Eòlas.”
He choked. Léirsinn would have enjoyed that, but she wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t choke himself to death. She pounded him on the back until he held up his hand in surrender.
“I am well,” he wheezed. He took several tentative breaths, then looked at her in astonishment. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What did you see, then?”
“Nothing,” she said.
He stared off into the distance for a moment or two, then turned back to her. “I don’t suppose you would want to remain behind here.”
“Are you mad?”
He looked, for the first time since she’d first seen him, rather rattled. “I wish you would.”
She studied him. “Why? What have you discovered?”
“Worse than what we already knew?”
“I don’t know,” she said uneasily. “Is it?”
“Much.” He heaved himself to his feet, then held down his hand for her. “I need to walk.”
She would have suggested a quick run to somewhere safe, but she wasn’t sure such a place existed. She walked with him through what served as a path around his mother’s house until she at least no longer felt chilled to the bone. Acair finally stopped and looked at her. She had seen him look bored, angry, dismissive, and impossibly arrogant. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen him look that unnerved.
“Too late to run?” she asked.
“For me? Aye. For you?” He looked at her seriously. “It is never too late, Léirsinn, for you to remain in a safe haven.”
“I cannot,” she said lightly. “I breathe fire, you know. Your mother said as much. For all you know, you might require that sort of thing at some point in the future.”